Molly Reflects

(Previous Installments: Molly Vs. The Machine, Molly Goes To The Hospital, Molly Gets Zapped, Molly Would Like To Punch A Random Stranger But Can't Get Up The Energy So Oh Well Maybe Some Other Time, and Molly = So Done.)

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So it's been six and a half months since my last radiation treatment. The paper certificate congratulating me on my successful completion of that hullabaloo hangs proudly on my bedroom door. I've been given a few certificates in my lifetime, but never has one meant as much to me. I didn't just deserve this one; I flipping EARNED it.

But now comes a weird time when I feel like I want to talk about what happened, but I don't know how to bring it up and rarely does anyone ask.Who wants to dredge up the subject of cancer when someone's technically in remission, right? That's just... well, even I think that's kind of awkward. And remission, for what it's worth, doesn't mean much besides "I am currently not being actively treated." It doesn't mean it's 100% gone for sure or that it won't ever come back. It just means... wait and see. So it's confusing and lame and I don't blame anyone for not asking because really, what would you say?

So... um... here are some facts in case you happen to be interested.

*The cancer was in my parotid gland. Read all about if you're not too squeamish. Yes, you have a parotid gland, too! Actually, two of them!

*My scar (from the surgery) is still vivid but it usually doesn't hurt, except when Voldemort is angry and/or near.

*The official ribbon for throat, neck and head cancer (they're a team!) is sort of white and burgundy, and I have a .jpg of it on the left side of the blog. Holla.

*During radiation my taste buds went wonky, but they have fully recovered and I can enjoy all manner of good and delicious foods again.

*I can wink, blink, and do all that facial stuff again. The two halves of my face aren't entirely uniform -- perhaps they never will be -- buuut I don't think it's a big deal anymore. One thing that really bugged me in the months after the surgery was not being able to close my eyes tightly. I had to be so careful when taking a shower because I just kept getting soap and shampoo in my eye. And that was painful. It's funny how you sort of take "being able to close your eyes" for granted. It's easy to forget that for a few weeks I literally had to tape my eyelid shut at night because it wouldn't close on its own. (Sorry. Even I think eyeball convos are gross. I will stop talking about that now.)

*School/work resumed roughly one month after treatment ended, and since then I've missed ONE DAY of work.  I do get colds, and I always have had allergies, but they haven't been bad this year. It's as if my body has decided that if it's going to get sick at all, it's only going to get REALLY SICK... and if not, then why bother?

*I do fear and expect to have a recurrence of cancer at some point within the next decade. I don't want it, but I am not naive enough to think that one surgery and two months of radiation have cured me from ever having to think about cancer again. It's not like when I was a kid and had Chicken Pox and then knew there was only a microscopic chance of me ever getting it again, because having it typically makes you immune to it. And, for the record, I HATED having Chicken Pox, and I'm so glad there's a vaccination for it now, and really think those parents who skip the vaccine and purposely expose their kids to it are... well, kind of jerky. Perhaps they've forgotten about the intense itching and the fever and the horrible feelings of crappiness. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO YOUR CHILD? RAWR.

*Also, both my dad (age 43) and paternal grandmother (age 68) died of cancer. So I'm just like yeah, whatever. Bring it on. I'll fight it. What else you got?

*An apple a day does NOT, as the saying suggests, keep the doctor away, as I literally did consume an entire apple every day for lunch in the nine months leading up to my diagnosis. Just in case anyone actually believed it would. Nothing against apples, though. They're still delicious. I just would like to debunk that myth.

*I never did post a picture of my radiation mask because even I have standards, and that thing is creepy, yo.

*I am so grateful to the people who were extra kind to me as things were happening last year. People that come to mind as doing something specific that meant a lot to me are my cousins Amy and Patrick, Emily and Thom, Shannon, Jenny and Chris and their kids, my Aunt Laura, my uncle John, my Grandma, my neighbors Jim and Beth, my mom's friend Fran, Peggy S., Karen & Linda L. & family, and everyone who prayed for me, which I think was a lot of people. I am very grateful and I did feel the effects of that because honestly, all the bad things they say about treatments? They were never as bad as they could've been, and I felt that I was getting these rushes of extra strength from somewhere, so thank you.

I love y'all, even if I didn't mention you specifically.

Okay. So enough about that, I guess.

I leave you now with some random photos off my hard drive. Because I care.

Molly = So Done

And so it ends.

As promised, they let me keep the mask. I was going to photograph it and show it to you, but I think I'll save that for Halloween. I think that's for the best.

 To celebrate my grand achievement (not only finishing treatment #35, but also not going postal and taking out any small villages), my aunt sent me a bouquet!

Then today I treated myself to a box of donuts. (We've driven by this donut shop at least 25 times in the past 2 months and it has made me crazy.)

 And thennnn the nice UPS guy brought my shiny new purple vacuum!

 I feel pretty darn good right now.

Molly Would Like To Punch A Random Stranger But Can't Get Up The Energy So Oh Well Maybe Some Other Time

One word to describe me of late: grumpy.

Not sad, not woeful, just full of grump.

I don't like being this way, but so it is. Today was day 24 of the treatment. 6 to go. I mean, that should be cause for celebration. Almost there! Woot! So close!

Yeah, okay, but can I punch a wall now?

It's not as bad as I thought it would be at this point. My face is red, sure, but I'm certainly not a tomato. My throat hurts a bit, but I can still eat. 

But about that. My taste buds have turned on me. One of the first things to lose all its flavor was cheese. CHEESE. Pizza started tasting like lima beans. A tragedy indeed. Cookies and brownies were next. Refried beans? Nada. Candy? No longer sweet.

And yet fruit and vegetables taste the same as ever. Eggs taste the same. Yogurt is fine.

What gives, stupid taste buds?

I sometimes find myself craving something with flavor. I used to enjoy food so much... and now it's like I'm on this constant quest to find something that tastes good that I'm not sick and tired of. This endeavor requires energy I do not have.

I think that's part of the reason why I'm grumpy. Food has always been one of those "comfort" things for me, and now it is lost. Woe.

But you know what? Something cool happened yesterday. I was riding an elevator and my left ear began tingling and I decided to try to wink my left eye -- something I have not been able to do since my surgery two months ago -- and lo and behold, I was able to almost close it... independently of the other one! I've been trying and trying for weeks and never could get it to do anything, and now it's doing something! My nerves are coming back! I'm one step closer to not looking like Quasimodo!

In the mornings my throat is sore and I get a lot of bloody noses. My scar itches and my skin feels icky. I have to go to treatment every day and I'm SO BEYOND TIRED OF IT, even though the nurses are nice and everything, and the waiting room has coffee and puzzles... still, I DON'T WANT TO DO IT ANYMORE.

And yet I have to stop myself and say, you know, look at that woman over there, that woman who has to change into a gown every time she comes to the clinic. Look how she's lost her hair. She has to have chemo. You better just count your lucky charms you don't have to deal with that, missie may. You're dealing with small potatoes compared to that lady and others like her, so just suck it up and deal.

Deal, deal, deal.

I'm going to set the timer for five minutes and list as many things as I can that make me happy.

Starting now.

Cousins, babies, baby cousins, swimming pools, balloons, cotton candy, chair lifts, watermelon, warm sand, boats, ski-bobbing, camping, forests, trees, trails, hiking, walking, bears, tigers, tiger cubs, pandas, giraffes, elephants, nature, bubbles, Harry Potter, digging in the dirt, finding rocks, baths, blankets, books, the library, Netflix, TV, Community, MST3K, L&C, randomly hearing a long-forgotten 90's song on the radio, Rock Band, Wii, Mario Kart, Paper Mario, Zelda, Final Fantasy, music, classical music, Jeopardy, Agricola, Seven Wonders, Stan, Kerry, Kirby, Riker, Baylie, Didi, CC, Servo, Hazel, Parker, Daisy, Hershey, Jasmine, sunsets...

Time's up.

And now it's time to rest.

ETA: So on day 29? I was informed I was now going to have 35 treatments instead of thirty. CONGRATULATIONS, YOU HAVE YET ANOTHER WEEK TO GO!

F.

So I'll be posting when it's all over, if it doesn't kill me first.

Molly Gets Zapped

In the five weeks since my surgery, some strange, strange things have happened. Strange for me, anyway. Some people might find them "exciting," "charming," or, more likely, "horrifying," but the writer in me prefers to think of them as strange. Interesting. Worth noting. Worthy of description.

"I wrote them down in my diary so that I wouldn't have to remember!"

 -- Henry Jones, Senior

So the left side of my face is still not back to normal, though it is a lot better. I have a crooked grin, but at least I can grin. I still can't wink, but at least I can close both of my eyes. For a while, the left one was drying out a lot and irritating me. Now, it's doing something even crazier -- it's making tears. Sometimes constantly. It's like when you have a bad cold and your nose won't stop running and you kind of just want to walk around with a tissue glued to your nostrils. Only this is my eye, and it's leaking. I feel like I'm perpetually half-watching a sad movie.

The eggheads at the lab studied that thing they took out of my head and decided it wasn't totally benign, and so to make sure that nothing evil goes elsewhere, I have to have radiation therapy. First they told me 25 days of that. Then they told me 30, and I almost cried for real. Not just because trekking to the hospital and being zapped 30 times would suck (it would) but because treatment only happens on weekdays, and 30 days would take me into the middle of July.

It's been a while since I've brought up What It Is I Do on this blog, but I'm a teacher of small children. I work my boots off September through June and save my money with the hopes that I will be able to have a summer of relaxation, sleeping in, and possibly a vacation. Now, last year, my cat had a medical emergency, which all but drained my bank account, and I got to go absolutely nowhere. Less than two weeks into this new school year, I was already on Google, planning my Epic Summer Vacation of 2012.

Suffice it to say, that will not be happening. Of course, August exists, but the thing with radiation therapy is that the side effects -- unrelenting fatigue being a big one -- can last for weeks, even after the last treatment. There's also the likelihood (at least in my case) of getting a bad sore throat and red skin. So you'll understand why I'm not packing my suitcase and summoning a taxi to take me to the nearest airport. (Except perhaps to go somewhere where no one can find me.)

But enough about that. Let's talk about radiation! Now, I know people get radiated for different reasons and on different parts of their body. For me, it's my head. So they made me this huge, ridiculous white mask thing to wear each time. It covers my whole face, the sides of my head, my neck, and part of my shoulders.  I lie down on this table and they put this mask on and bolt it down with about eight or nine fasteners. After that, I'm not goin' anywhere. About the only thing I can do is breathe, open my eyes slightly (the mask has tiny holes) and swallow if I must.

When they first made the mask, I almost laughed, it was so utterly ridiculous to look at. I couldn't believe this wasn't some wacky dream. But the making-of part was kind of interesting. First, the technicians molded a headrest for me to lay on each time I have the treatment. I have no idea what material they used for this headrest, but it felt like they were taking warm bread dough and kneading it against my neck and shoulders. Ahhh. Someone should market this idea, because it's super nice. Like a warm bubblebath... but better. I didn't want it to stop. Then they molded the mask. They dipped a big sheet of holey plastic in hot water and then put in on my face. Awkward. It quickly cooled and they molded it to the shape of my face. As it hardened, I began to feel a bit panicky. Augh, I can't move! That means I can not breathe! I am going to dieeee! But I didn't die. I lived to see another day... and another....

Day one of the actual treatment was pretty awful. I didn't expect to feel so claustrophobic inside the mask, but I did. Also, the radiation beams going across me -- well -- there was a smell I can not describe. I want to describe it, but there is nothing exactly like it. It's KIND OF like craft glue or paint. KIND OF like heat. And A LOT like that feeling you get when you jump into a highly-chlorinated swimming pool and the water goes up your nose.

By the end of that first session, I got the distinct picture in my mind of that scene in The Princess Bride where Westley has had one minute sucked from his life in the Pit of Despair, and the count asks him how it has made him feel. Westley begins to whimper. No words, just that. That was pretty much my reaction, too.

But it has gotten better. I've learned that if I hold really still, my face will hardly notice that the mask is holding me down, and I am less likely to panic. If I hold my breath when the beams do their thing, I can almost entirely block out that awful smell. And so, after treatment #4, I'm not loving it, but it's still better than getting a cavity filled. Oh, yes.

And so it will continue. 

They've told me that when it's all over, I can take my giant creepy mask home. Yay, I guess? I mean, what would they want with it? Wait a minute, what would I want with it? 

Anyone up for a bonfire?

Molly Goes To The Hospital

Hey, so remember the MRI I had back in March? You didn't think I was going to (anti?-) Chekhov's Gun that on you, didya? NO WAY! I WOULD NEVER! So yeah, after I got put into that big creepy machine, the ninja magnets went to work, found some stuff what should not be in my cabeza, and as a result, THIS!

 Stay tuned for the exciting (ummm) narrative of the hospital stay!!

Oh shut up, I'm trying to make myself feel better, okay?

Read on if you desire. Please forgive any typos; most of this was written on my cell phone and emailed to myself and... yeah, it's just a little crazy.

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Friday, May 4

There's something very wrong about this. I'm having surgery today, which means no work. Yet here it is, 6:50am, and I'm being woken earlier than usual. Plus I can't eat or drink until this is all over, so no morning coffee for me. So much for trying to trick myself into believing this is a mini vacation.CAFFEIIIENNEE?

9:15am

At the hospital now. Wearing a tacky green gown, blue booties, and -- what's this? A heated blanket? I must be in first class!

I.V. goes in (ew!)... and I go out like a light not long after they begin to wheel me toward the operating room.

Four hours pass instantaneously.

1:05pm

My throat's sore, I'm numb, I feel like I have the flu. But I'm awake. I'm in a big room with several other patients. One is moaning: "Owww... Owwww.... Owwww...." My pain I can handle, but this guy's gonna send me over the edge! Get me out of here!!

Half an hour later they wheel me to my own room, down dozens of corridors, even down an elevator (or maybe it was up? WHO KNOWS?)  I can now add "Rode an elevator while in bed" to my list of life accomplishments. :D

In my room, my mom is there and she's bought me a balloon. I feel like crap, but at least I've got a balloon to cheer me!

I've got these things on my calves that squeeze them a few times a minute, supposedly to improve my circulation, but all they really do is make it nigh impossible to fall asleep.

After the nurses all leave, I ask my mom to read aloud from a book I've brought. Its a fairly dull book, I knew this, that's why I brought it. Hope it'll put me to sleep. It doesn't.

3:00pm

I am allowed to order snacks off a "clear liquids" menu, which includes jello, broth, etc. Veggie broth and strawberry sorbet come my way. Delicious. I keep it all down. Meanwhile my face is still numb, and the side they operated on, I can not wink. At least not now. This is an odd sensation. I also can't grin on that side. If this doesnt clear up I'm going to look an awful lot like Two-Face (minus the burns, of course.)

4:00pm

My mom heads home for a few hours.  I watch Princess Diaries 2 on cable. What a train wreck. The sun begins to make its descent, glaring through the window and right into my eyes. I can not reach the curtains and so I try to adjust the height of my bed to avoid it but nothing helps. I do not call a nurse for help with this for whatever reason. I spend over an hour perusing a new, three-page menu that has arrived. Because I kept down my sorbet and broth, I am being permitted to order solids. Only... everything looks good, and deciding is tough. Finally I pick up the phone and order milk, orange sorbet, vanilla pudding, and -- being brave -- a veggie sandwich. This turns out to be perfect because it is soft and can be eaten in small bites. Also, being a colder item, it doesn't matter that it takes me an hour to eat it all.

7:00pm

My mother has returned, and we watch Jeopardy (Teen Tournament, Day 5!) and Wheel of Fortune (Portland edition FTW!) I find out from a nurse that the pain meds I was given earlier for a minor headache contained oxycodone. Wtf, hospital? That's like putting an ace bandage on a papercut. I don't need that! Also, this is about the fifth nurse I've had. I'm beginning to realize that Stacey McGill's hospital narrative in Stacey's Emergency was pretty darn accurate.

9:00pm

It is time for me to rest, but I'm not tired. A little loopy, yes, but sleepy, no. Still, my mom heads home for the night. I look forward to the morning, when I can spend another hour reading the "solids" menu, ordering what is sure to be a breakfast of champions (or of the ravenous.)

Saturday, 5:00am

Guh, what a lousy night. I was woken by prying medical professionals at 10, 11, 11:30, 12:15, and supposedly 4:15 though I don't actually recall that last one occurring. Except for the nurses and some occasional loud thumps from the hallway, it has been quiet, though. As for those thumps, I like to imagine it's due to a patient trying to escape, being chased by orderlies, knockng down equipment galore.

11:00am

So I've got this tube in me, and the doctor says I have to keep it in till Tuesday! Ughhh! Its uncomfortable, not to mention just plain gross!

I had a good breakfast. I ordered pears, custard, red potatoes, a muffin, and breakfast tea. But they sent a breakfast sandwich instead of the tea. Okay. For lunch I've requested a veggie burger, peaches, coffee cake, coffee, and milk. I feel like I'm in a restaurant where everything's free. Deep down, I know it all comes at a price. Even with insurance, I know my hospital stay bills are going to send me through the roof. Oh well. Think about that later. Time for cake!

1:00pm

Releasement! Home now. Still a bit unsteady. Hate this drain thing. Not tired, so can't even escape to lala land. 2/3 cats are being affectionate. Riker's holding out. He's kind of a snob that way.

Monday, May 7, 5:00pm

I guess I'm feeling a little better, 72+ hours after surgery. I can get up and walk around by myself. I can turn my head.  Left-side winking's still an issue, as is eyebrow-raising, thus limiting my ability to make evil faces. My ability to whistle is slowly coming back, much to the delight of my cats (and the disdain of everybody else.) I'm rocking a minor headache and I still have the tube, but it comes out tomorrow morning.

I'm keeping busy. Watching the Harry Potter movies, subjecting myself to one of the later-but-not-greater Baby-Sitters' Club books (for old times sake! What?!) and watching youtube videos galore.

Friday, May 11, 11:00pm

Each day has gotten a little better... and yet worse. On one hand, I'm up more. I put together a 24-page scrapbook for a vacation I took 4 years ago. This took 2 days. Might be a record. Finished the BSC book. Decided it was pretty terrible; will review it soon. (You're welcome.) I've been out in public a few times and no one has Wilhelm Screamed at me. I've had some dizziness and shaking. A certain lovable 6-year-old told me my face looked weird. (Well... it does.) The tube came out Tuesday and the stitches yesterday. I have a huge scar, from the top of my ear to my lower cheek. At least that can be covered by my hair. Not much can be done about the leftern side of my face, though. The nerve that controls things like eyebrow raising and grinning IS coming back... at a snail's pace. Normality should be back by now but it's not. My doctor is concerned. He's put me on steroids. I'm on my way toward being the next American Gladiator!

Saturday, May 12, 11:00pm

Thus ends this narrative, though my journey through the medical wonderland is not yet complete. More on that in a few weeks, perhaps. Or maybe just more Goofy Baby Ads and Kixia, Tropes and TV-Movie reviews. We shall see.

Molly vs. The Machine

The other day I had an MRI.  I'd never had one before and I was kind of scared because, you know, big giant tubey thing... 

claustrophobia... 

entrapment... 

magnets....

Yeah, magnets.  Benign & innocent, no? Ah, but the ones that live in MRI scanners are scary powerful, much moreso than their refrigerator-bound cousins. A projectile oxygen tank, attracted by MRI magnets, even killed a person once. Yikes. Anyway, here's a picture of the machine...

The worst thing about the process wasn't the encasement, really. I didn't mind being in the tube. It kind of felt like a cocoon. And it wasn't the noise, either, although that is definitely a minus (think: 20 dentists and 42 carpenters waging an impromptu war over who can do the loudest drilling job... two inches away from your head.) What sucked the most was having to keep completely still for an entire hour. Shoot, even at the dentist's they let you spit. Of course, I had no way of keeping track of the time in there. My head was put in a traction thing, my arms were, I dunno, somewhere. It was very strange and uncomfortable. 

I wasn't sure how much time had passed (but it was a lot) when I finally heard the technician say, "Okay, just seven more minutes..."

YAY!

"...and then we'll be giving you the shot of dye and put you back in."

Well, crap.

First off, don't tease me like that. Second, I don't like getting shots. Seriously, f that.

But somehow I made it through the shot and the second half of the experience, and when I was finally liberated I drove straight to the Panda Express and bought fried rice and honey walnut shrimp with a soda, half diet Pepsi, half raspberry iced tea. Mmm.

Afterwards, I was thinking about how awful it had been to have to lie in one spot for an hour, and then I remembered that there are some people that have to do that always. Yes.... people in iron lungs.

Oy, do iron lungs terrify me. But they also fascinate me at the same time, not unlike rickety staircases, the Titanic, the 60's, and old playgrounds. Iron Lungs have a valuable purpose (although modern technology has given us better, smaller options) but they're just so... metallic and enormous and machanical and... eeshk.

BUT... if you think having to lie in a MRI tube for an hour is bad, try being in one of those bad boys for six decades! (See? Again with the whole "perspective" thing. Always valuable.)

Amazingly, it's been done -- out of necessity, yes, but still, I have to admire the folks. People like:

Dianne Odell - who went into an Iron Lung at age 3, and died at 61, and

Martha Mason - who went into one at age 11, and died at 71.

Can you imagine having to lie flat on your back for 60 years? The thing is, though, both of these women, as far as I can tell, led good, full lives. You should read about them. And maybe there are more. Really, they seem like great ladies.

But that machine still gives me the creeps.