My life on Xeloda

The first cycle of Xeloda went swimmingly insofar as I experienced few side effects. However, I did not think it was working. I still felt like I was drowning. The fluid pushing against my heart wall would wake me at night as I struggled awake, gasping for breath. So I asked for more. And I got it.

The first week of cycle 2 was fine. Day 6, I went for my usual 5-mile run/walk (more walking than running now as I was so short of breath) and came back with a 2-inch diameter blister on my right foot, around the toe area. That area was easily bandaged so I went for another 5 miles on Sunday. This time, I was not so lucky. The ball of my left foot turned into a giant blister. So I bandaged that and yes, went out again on Monday. I can see you shaking your head. As I read this, I am shaking my head. Now both feet turned purple and I could not get a shoe on and this was a problem. I was planning to present a paper at a conference in New York and presenting it in slippers is not an option so I called the doctor.

I had to take a break from the Xeloda for the rest of the 2-week cycle.

New York was a blast. I attended the conference, saw my son, ate wonderful food and went to a Broadway show, Something Rotten. I also walked some more blisters into my feet. Bandages and Band-Aids are my friends. I got back on Sunday night so that I could run/walk a 10k on Monday. The nurse had told me I could not race it so I decided to interpret that literally and just take it at a walk/ run pace. I didn’t race it exactly. However, now I really have little skin left on my feet.

Why is treatment for breast cancer still so primitive? There’s an old Bing Crosby song called, Brother, Can You Spare A Dime? Every time I am reminded that I am drowning in this breast cancer tidal wave, I wonder who will spare, not a dime, but a line attached to a life preserver.

In 2012, 521,900 people died of breast cancer. That is 1,430 people every single day and every year that toll rises. When 1,500 people died in the Titanic disaster, laws were changed so that a shipping disaster of that magnitude could be prevented from happening again.

In 2011, Susan G Komen allocated only 15% of its funds to research for breast cancer. That 15% includes all research, not only research into the biology of cancer and treatment. There is no Race for the Cure. What would be the purpose of a giant organization grounded in ending breast cancer if breast cancer actually just ended?

Almost all breast cancer research is aimed at preventing it returning and for all the progress that has been made, it is like holding up your hand and telling the tide to not come in.

When people talk of progress, they are inclined to talk in anecdotes. I am alive because… stories. However, some facts to bear in mind are:

1975: The 5-year survival rate for breast cancer was 75.2%

Now: The 5-year survival rate is 89.2%, but 83% at 10 years and 78% at 15 years which is not statistically different from the 5-year survival rate in 1975, especially if one considers the over-diagnosis and over-treatment now. For African American women, the 5-year survival rate now is only 79%.

In 1975: 30% of patients were diagnosed at Stage III or IV. Staging was not accurate so more women may have been Stage IV at diagnosis.

Now: 13% of patients are diagnosed at Stage III or IV.

The 5-year survival rate for Stage III is now 72% and the 5-year survival rate for Stage IV is now 22%. Both these are lower and far lower than the survival rates of 1975.

As long as survival rates are measured by being alive after 5 years, we will never know if early detection means that we are living longer knowing we have breast cancer or actually living longer.

When women like Sheryl Sandberg (in her book Lean In) write things like her grandmother beat cancer, they reinforce stereotypes that beating cancer is a matter of personal choice. They ignore the desperate need for research to cure breast cancer for those who are initially diagnosed with terminal breast cancer and the 30% who will see the cancer return and become terminal no matter what they do.

No wonder treatment is still so primitive.

Buddy, can you spare a line to save us?

The TSA and breast cancer

 I spent a hectic weekend in Seattle, seeing the sights with my husband and daughter. All the time, I wondered if this would be the last time. As with many women at this stage, I do not look sick and I try my damndest to not act sick. This is especially important when flying. I have about as much chance (or less) of having a medical emergency on board an airplane as the next person but I have not forgotten this incident and its warning to not look sick http://time.com/3813516/elizabeth-sedway-alaska-airlines-cancer-kick-off-flight/

It seems, however, that terminally ill patients have a hidden homing beacon that is picked up by officials at airports with the very specific agenda of making your travel even more miserable. Intellectually, I know that anyone can be singled out but when we are balancing our disease and a normal life, being singled out feels catastrophic. Airport screening after breast surgery is a tale from Hell. Have you noticed that breast cancer organizations have not stepped up to help here? To circumnavigate this problem and enable me to pass through security without being treated like a drug dealer, I ponied up the $, did the background check and got a Trusted Traveler card.

I have sometimes had to have extra screening for explosive residue on my hands etc. That, in and of itself, is a little disturbing. I mean, are they saying that their detailed background checks are not reliable? I’d have a bit more confidence if it wasn’t for articles like http://abcn.ws/1Ks0Af7 and http://bit.ly/1EVV1o8. However, TSA, knock yourself out.

Seattle airport (seatac), however, decided I needed extra special screening with the full body scanner. Well, yes that is not going to happen after my breast cancer surgery left me unable to raise my arm above my head. Now, I bought myself a grope (er, pat down).

• Off with your shoes and put them through the scanner.
• Don’t touch your luggage. Translation: You are not allowed to retrieve any documentation
• Would you like a private screening? No thank you. I need witnesses.
• Anything hurt or sensitive? How do you answer that question when you have metastases in your spine, hips, pleural cavity and liver?

I call over the supervisor and ask if this is really necessary. I have already passed a background check, walked through a metal detector, fly about twice a month, and had nothing in my luggage to cause alarm.

She assured me it was. I was selected at random. Meltdown time. The poor screener doing the pat down was now also trying not to cry with me. She kept apologizing. I honestly think she was too terrified to touch me in case I broke.

I complained of course. I got a form letter back saying (in essence)  that they can do what they like.

I actually feel less safe knowing the TSA is wasting resources to protect the skies by groping triple-checked, chemo-toting one-breasted women. 

Breaking the fragile shells we build to protect ourselves

 “Nobody knows the trouble I've seen

Nobody knows my sorrow” Spiritual

I listen to the Louis Armstrong version of this spiritual often. It soothes the troubled soul at the especially trying times at night, at hospital visits and at airports.

At night, I have this recurring nightmare that a grate is pushing down on my chest and I’m struggling to breathe. I wake up gasping for air. My heart is racing. I have to sit up until my breathing and heart rate is somewhere near normal again. The fluid pushing against my heart wall is not actually dangerous, it is just uncomfortable. I can’t breathe if I lie on my right side and I feel short of breath when I run. Of course, I cough when I lean forward.

I have completed one cycle of Xeloda but don't think it's working so I asked to increase the dose. I'm now at the maximum. I'll deal with the side effects, just help me get enough air.

There is a bit of an imposter in all of us. We say we are fine when we are not because that is the convention. I pretend to myself and others that my life is normal, but the shell I surround myself with is incredibly fragile. It shatters regularly at hospital visits because this is where I hear the bad news, fight to get my chemo and am crushed by the suffering of others. 

My fragile shell is sometimes shattered when I try to live life furiously. The conflict rages on between living life furiously and just living life. I have the endless battle of the spirit is willing but the body is not able.