April 22, 2021
It’s been a full month since my final Herceptin treatment and my port, Paz, was removed on the 6th of April. Creepy that it was removed with a local and that it turned out to be more painful, after the fact, than the 3 surgeries on my breast.
The surgeon told me that a lot of scar tissue builds up around the port, (our bodies don’t actually want something like that imbedded in us), and they have to go and cut it all loose, which I couldn’t feel at all, in terms of pain, but could feel the pressure and the such, making it kind of weird.
They let me keep Paz, and seeing it all cleaned up and how long the tube that connected the port to my vein was a bit disconcerting but I’m glad they let me keep it.
It’s not quite a badge of honor, but interesting enough that I wanted to keep it, and it made treatments easier and less risky for the past year, so I’m simply grateful for the peace it brought me during the week after week of treatments. Paz means peace in Taiwanese and was suggested by one of my lovely students, and I thank her for that because it did give me a tiny bit of peace and comfort not having a needle shoved into my arm for a year’s worth of treatments. When I was at Sharp/Grossmont they used a spray to freeze the area around the port, and at Scripps I applied lidocaine gel before treatment to numb the area, and while most of the nurses were really good at making the very large needle as painless as possible, there were a few times it did hurt, and I would not like to leave anyone with the impression that it was a painless process, but no more than having a needle in the arm. I mostly wanted it because of how often I had to have treatments, along with my bruising issues, and it was great to avoid it with the frequency of the treatments. I saw my new oncologist in person for the first time and completed the final infusion of Herceptin just after seeing her. We had met via TeleMed a bunch of times, but covid restrictions prevented in person meetings until the recently. It’s very weird that in the 5 months of having a new doctor that we have only met once in person, and that she had never examined my breasts until that time, even though she is treating me for breast cancer. In some ways, it was easier to meet with video per travel time, etc, but in other ways, it is impersonal and distanced, and it’s not that I need to be all “chummy” with my oncologist, but I still have 4 more years until I’m considered “cured,” and that means on-going, albeit quarterly, monitoring. I don’t know with covid restrictions if I’ll see her again in person, and while I feel as though I’m getting the best treatment, and I’m treated with concern and respect it’s impersonal, at best, at least in terms of the oncologist. Dr. Constantini said it could be 6-8 weeks for the Herceptin to completely flush from the system, and I’m looking forward to making note of how I feel without that harsh chemical flooding my body every 3 weeks. It will be interesting to see if getting rid of that chemo drug, but still taking the 5-year drug each day, changes how my body feels. So far, I’m still low on energy, but my gut is much better, and that is a really welcomed change. It’s not entirely better, but I can plan my day and not include where the nearest bathroom might be. Woo, hoo! My fingernails are trashed, which the doctor said is a residual from the Taxol—the harshest of the chemo treatments. That ended 6 months ago, but seems to be the gift that keeps giving and she said it could take a full year for all of those side effects to dissipate. In the meantime, I’m painting my nails, sloppily so, with things that are supposed to help nails. I am taking a supplement as well, but not seeing much progress, so fingers crossed that they will take a turn for the better.
I'm grateful for good insurance. It's nearly a 1/4 million so far and I have only had to pay for meds, which are minimal.
Mike asked me, “What are you now?” Human was my first thought, but he meant in the stage of cancer treatment. Limbo? That is my answer for where I am now, because five years, without the cancer coming back, is the litmus test to be considered cued.
So, I’m optimistically in limbo.
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