That's me, January 5th post Liver Biopsy. It had been 20 days since I went to Ascot A&E with a sore side, 17 days since an ultrasound that showed a 'shadow' on my liver and 5 days since an MRI had showed many suspicious 'lesions' on my liver. In 11 days time I would be sitting in my oncologist's office being told I had incurable breast cancer, but there would be one more CT Scan just for good measure because despite looking, no-one could see or feel where the primary site was. That is mostly what it's like navigating cancer treatments, it's all a numbers game.
Now, as an elder millennial I am fond of documenting life in photos. So strap in for that journey.
Something else they don't tell you when you begin this journey, nothing you are made to inject or ingest will ever taste good.
CT Scans are the main way we check for progression in my case. This requires no food or drink for a few hours before hand, a 'delicious' iodine concoction one hour before and then an IV iodine contrast during the scan.
One week later I have a magical portacath inserted in my chest. If you're ever in the terrible position of needing to decide on whether to get a port or not, the answer is 1000% yes. This little beauty is a lifesaver once it's all healed up and functioning properly.
The first chemo.
Before you have chemo you have to have staging scans. A baseline to compare how treatment is working, any side effect damages, or future progression. Staging scans for me consisted of: mammogram, ultrasound, CT scan, bone scintigraphy and a brain CT, all in one week.
The first chemo was a rough ride as you figure out the right levels of anti-nausea meds for you. Everything is new and scary. Things revolve around numbers again. Pills you take a certain number of hours before you go to the hospital, the scales you stand on before your treatment, the pills you take on arrival at the hospital, the bags of chemo and endocrine therapies they give you, the amount of time it's given over and more pills that you take throughout your treatment. The most terrifying part is the waiting to see if you have an allergic reaction to any of the IV drugs they give you - the heavy duty steroids they inject before you start treatment are supposed to help avoid that.
I have a note on my phone, documenting every injection, pill, IV bag of that first chemo experience and what came the next 7 days after, it makes for overwhelming reading but is a good reminder of just how far you end up coming.
And then the hair falls out.
They warn you about this, extensively. There are many appointments where your hair loss is discussed, so when the time comes you are very prepared. What I wasn't prepared for was how annoying it was. The stray hair EVERYWHERE. How dry your hair becomes, and how it mats so easily. My hair loss started after my second infusion and about one week was as long as I lasted before my wonderful hairdresser Ange, shaved my head for me.
We had a lot of fun shaving my head. Ange had the brilliant idea of cutting my hair into increasingly short hair styles so I could see what it would like like as my hair grew back - very fun.
It came as no surprise to anyone, but a bald Lisa looks awfully like a bald Steve (Dad).
As chemo came to an end, six rounds of docetaxel had claimed my hair, my eyelashes, most of my eyebrows and now my nails. This happened to all of my nails over the coming months, and two years post chemo two of my nails are still effected. Lucky a girl loves nail polish!
Comments