Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Four more sleeps
Christmas is coming! Ack! Have much to do to make up for the "time out" while I was sick this past week. Turns out a flu was the cause of my grief and, thankfully, not the gall bladder. Spent part of last night in St Mary's ER with Momzy who was hit by the same bug. The attending doctor and nurse told us they had the same thing - violent vomiting and diarrhea that lasted four to 12 hours. Apparently there is a lot of this going around at the moment. Like me, poor Momzy got very dehydrated and couldn't keep any fluids down so they put her on an IV of saline to bring her levels back up. She left the ER much perkier than when she went in. Let's hope that's the end of all of that. Now, on to the Christmas baking. Anyone have a spare cup of dark rye flour for my flat bread?
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Gall? Me?
The vomiting and diarrhea of Sunday/Monday may be behind me (so to speak), but I'm not feeling a whole lot better. Finally dragged my aching body to the doctor this am. Dr J is away, so I met with a locum. He suspects an issue involving my gall bladder so has ordered an ultrasound. The order is marked "urgent" so I should have it in the next day or two. In the meantime, I'm laying pretty low. Little appetite, lots of discomfort (no pain) and general aches, so I'm heading back to bed. Hate to think the gall bladder - or any other organ - is involved. For once, I'm hoping I have the flu. In any case it sure beats having the measles like I did one Christmas when I was a kid.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Bad Night
Call it a not-so-gentle reminder that all is not as well with me on the molecular level as it might be.
Picture it (or not, especially if you are reading this during breakfast, lunch or similar happy time). I had just slipped into freshly cleaned jammies, was snuggling into my cozy bed for some much welcomed sleep when the mid section of my body suddenly woke up. Without any prior warning (aside from a very delicate belch), I embarked on a program of projectile vomiting and diarrhea that would last from 11pm to 6am. Things would just settle down when they started up again in earnest with each episode being worst than the one before. Trust me when I say I have renewed respect for any parent who has experienced an exploding diaper or a very, very sick child with tummy issues. Without being too overly graphic, things got so bad at one point that I scrambled to fashion a pair of diapers from a green garbage bag so I could at least lie down between each eruption without causing any further damage to my newly renovated house. (Sadly, that new house smell is no more.) Suspect the root cause of my malady lay in a bag of potato chips - although it didn't smell or taste rancid and the best before date is long into the future - or something else I ate yesterday. Regardless, aside from the events that lead to my hospitalization in March, I cannot recall ever having such an experience. Today I plan to devote as much time as possible to laying in bed as it is still the most comfortable position at the moment. Hope to catch up on some of that missed sleep. Momzy will be pleased to know that I am taking every opportunity to drink plenty of water - amazing how quickly the body becomes dehydrated.
Let's hope the rest of the week is far less dramatic.
Picture it (or not, especially if you are reading this during breakfast, lunch or similar happy time). I had just slipped into freshly cleaned jammies, was snuggling into my cozy bed for some much welcomed sleep when the mid section of my body suddenly woke up. Without any prior warning (aside from a very delicate belch), I embarked on a program of projectile vomiting and diarrhea that would last from 11pm to 6am. Things would just settle down when they started up again in earnest with each episode being worst than the one before. Trust me when I say I have renewed respect for any parent who has experienced an exploding diaper or a very, very sick child with tummy issues. Without being too overly graphic, things got so bad at one point that I scrambled to fashion a pair of diapers from a green garbage bag so I could at least lie down between each eruption without causing any further damage to my newly renovated house. (Sadly, that new house smell is no more.) Suspect the root cause of my malady lay in a bag of potato chips - although it didn't smell or taste rancid and the best before date is long into the future - or something else I ate yesterday. Regardless, aside from the events that lead to my hospitalization in March, I cannot recall ever having such an experience. Today I plan to devote as much time as possible to laying in bed as it is still the most comfortable position at the moment. Hope to catch up on some of that missed sleep. Momzy will be pleased to know that I am taking every opportunity to drink plenty of water - amazing how quickly the body becomes dehydrated.
Let's hope the rest of the week is far less dramatic.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Capecitabine
My oncologist has sent me some more information about Capecitabine (Xeloda), the Plan B drug she told me about a couple of weeks ago. The information comes from the BC Cancer Agency Drug Manual, a more reliable source than Wikipedia and other online medical advise sites where I gleaned my initial information. That is not to say the information from any source is particularly appealing. The BCCA information lists side effects in the order in which they might occur. The least savory of the lot - the hand-foot skin reaction - appears at the top of the list, with nausea/vomiting, diarrhea, sore mouth, decreased white blood cells and platelets, and fatigue falling further down the list (in the order that I have written them here). Apparently my skin will be more susceptible to sunburn as well. Hair loss, it seems, is a very rare side effect of this drug.
It is the hand-foot skin reaction that scares me most. As I've said before, I care far less about the length of my life than the quality of it. Should I beat the prognosis and live well past the one year I should have remaining (statistically speaking, as soon as the cancer entered my lungs I was only expected to live another two years max), I'll be damned if I want to spend the entire time confined to my bed, comfortable as it may be. As long as I continue to feel as good as I do at present, I intend to do some serious traveling. Also plan to do more work around the garden and in the art/craft line while I'm still able to do physical stuff and activities requiring fine motor skills. These are, after all, the activities that bring me so much joy. None of these things will be possible if my hands and feet are numb, swollen, and painful. The "management" suggestions given in the BCCA bumpf state that I should avoid tight-fitting shoes and apply liberal amounts of Bag Balm to the skin of the affected areas once the hand-foot thing kicks in. That's a mighty flimsy band-aid treatment for the problem, if my previous experience with Taxol is anything to go by.
Still feel I've made the right decision for me re "taking a break" for the time being. If the pulling in my left side becomes more pronounced (i.e. if it starts occurring regularly and not only when I turn at certain angles) or if shortness of breath becomes as much an impediment to activity as it did in the early spring, I might be tempted to seek advice about other potential treatment sooner rather than later. I will, however, admit there is a very faint voice in the far recesses of my ever-greying grey matter that whispers that the present plan of foregoing treatment might not be in my best interest. A very, very faint voice. In any case, at this time I am not the least bit interested in sourcing alternative treatments - although I thank everyone who passed along info re the pureed asparagus diet, some treatments that are being pioneered in Eastern Europe and South America, etc.
When people look at me, they don't see someone who is terminally ill. I certainly don't feel it - although it must be said that I've never been terminally ill before so am not entirely certain how one is supposed to look/act/feel in such a situation. It's sort of like asking someone how they feel on their birthday, as if they somehow transform into a more mature or aged being once the clock strokes midnight. Heck, I can't honestly say that I feel a whole lot different now than when I was 42, 32, 22, or 12 - aside from the arthritis that has invaded my knee, the expansion of my waistline that makes it impossible to wear my high school prom dress (yes, I still have it!), and the unbelievable unmentionable affects of gravity on an ever-aging body. Maybe that's what it's all about! The butt stops here! Or is it here? With my luck, my butt will continue growing long after I cease breathing - unlike nails and hair (sorry to shatter any delusions of folks believing in that urban myth). I seem to remember someone saying noses and ears continue to grow throughout our lives, too. That explains so much, doesn't it? And then folks wonder why I live alone. I mean, really!
It is the hand-foot skin reaction that scares me most. As I've said before, I care far less about the length of my life than the quality of it. Should I beat the prognosis and live well past the one year I should have remaining (statistically speaking, as soon as the cancer entered my lungs I was only expected to live another two years max), I'll be damned if I want to spend the entire time confined to my bed, comfortable as it may be. As long as I continue to feel as good as I do at present, I intend to do some serious traveling. Also plan to do more work around the garden and in the art/craft line while I'm still able to do physical stuff and activities requiring fine motor skills. These are, after all, the activities that bring me so much joy. None of these things will be possible if my hands and feet are numb, swollen, and painful. The "management" suggestions given in the BCCA bumpf state that I should avoid tight-fitting shoes and apply liberal amounts of Bag Balm to the skin of the affected areas once the hand-foot thing kicks in. That's a mighty flimsy band-aid treatment for the problem, if my previous experience with Taxol is anything to go by.
Still feel I've made the right decision for me re "taking a break" for the time being. If the pulling in my left side becomes more pronounced (i.e. if it starts occurring regularly and not only when I turn at certain angles) or if shortness of breath becomes as much an impediment to activity as it did in the early spring, I might be tempted to seek advice about other potential treatment sooner rather than later. I will, however, admit there is a very faint voice in the far recesses of my ever-greying grey matter that whispers that the present plan of foregoing treatment might not be in my best interest. A very, very faint voice. In any case, at this time I am not the least bit interested in sourcing alternative treatments - although I thank everyone who passed along info re the pureed asparagus diet, some treatments that are being pioneered in Eastern Europe and South America, etc.
When people look at me, they don't see someone who is terminally ill. I certainly don't feel it - although it must be said that I've never been terminally ill before so am not entirely certain how one is supposed to look/act/feel in such a situation. It's sort of like asking someone how they feel on their birthday, as if they somehow transform into a more mature or aged being once the clock strokes midnight. Heck, I can't honestly say that I feel a whole lot different now than when I was 42, 32, 22, or 12 - aside from the arthritis that has invaded my knee, the expansion of my waistline that makes it impossible to wear my high school prom dress (yes, I still have it!), and the unbelievable unmentionable affects of gravity on an ever-aging body. Maybe that's what it's all about! The butt stops here! Or is it here? With my luck, my butt will continue growing long after I cease breathing - unlike nails and hair (sorry to shatter any delusions of folks believing in that urban myth). I seem to remember someone saying noses and ears continue to grow throughout our lives, too. That explains so much, doesn't it? And then folks wonder why I live alone. I mean, really!
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Back to flaky me
Finally have a date to see the dermatologist re whatever on my back had the surgeon so excited a couple of weeks back. Won't be able to see her until early Jan, but since I've opted to visit her office near Lions Gate Hospital, I can get in a full month sooner than if I waited for her next visit to Sechelt. Something tells me that all those summer days basting in the sun a la Johnson's Baby Oil have finally caught up with me. Either that, or my increasingly dry skin is more problematic than I suspected.
Speaking of dry skin, the area under my left eye is positively flaky - even more than my general personality, and that's saying something. I'm talking about flakes bigger than anything found in my favourite childhood breakfast cereal (obviously I never chowed on Wheaties). The area extends from my tear duct to the middle of my eye, and from the outer rim of the lower lid to the middle of my morning "bags". Fortunately, I chose to wear round-framed glasses, so the unsightly site isn't overly obvious to anyone paying me a passing glance. But it's darn irritating, and it brings with it a rather dull ache. It's like the lid is bruised from the inside. Looks very much like eczema. I've had this before, but this time no amount of moisturizer or steriod cream is making a bit of difference. Will consult Dr J if it doesn't clear up in a couple of days.
Other than that, I continue to plod along. Do notice that I've developed something of an attention deficit of late. Can't seem to do just one thing at a time, and don't seem to finish much of anything that I start. Part of the problem is that if I don't do something the moment I think of it - or at least write down that it should be done - I immediately forget about it. Gag! Is age catching up with me, too? Say it ain't so!
Speaking of dry skin, the area under my left eye is positively flaky - even more than my general personality, and that's saying something. I'm talking about flakes bigger than anything found in my favourite childhood breakfast cereal (obviously I never chowed on Wheaties). The area extends from my tear duct to the middle of my eye, and from the outer rim of the lower lid to the middle of my morning "bags". Fortunately, I chose to wear round-framed glasses, so the unsightly site isn't overly obvious to anyone paying me a passing glance. But it's darn irritating, and it brings with it a rather dull ache. It's like the lid is bruised from the inside. Looks very much like eczema. I've had this before, but this time no amount of moisturizer or steriod cream is making a bit of difference. Will consult Dr J if it doesn't clear up in a couple of days.
Other than that, I continue to plod along. Do notice that I've developed something of an attention deficit of late. Can't seem to do just one thing at a time, and don't seem to finish much of anything that I start. Part of the problem is that if I don't do something the moment I think of it - or at least write down that it should be done - I immediately forget about it. Gag! Is age catching up with me, too? Say it ain't so!
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