Chemo Brain

My favourite Disney character of all time is Dory, the blue fish from Finding Nemo. I love her because she's hilariously funny and I feel I can associate with her. Don't get me wrong - I don't suffer from short-term memory loss (I do speak Whale though), but the past few years I've noticed that my memory is completely shot. I've blamed it on my two epidurals, but apparently now I can even blame chemotherapy. Sadly, the concept of 'chemo brain' is not an urban myth: studies have been done and it's been proven that both radiotherapy and chemotherapy mess with your memory and cognitive thinking and its effects may last up to five years.

This is really bad news: even before chemotherapy I found myself indulging in many forms of James Joyce 'streams of consciousness' dialogues with myself, and even more worryingly, with others. I have not recognised half the people who ask me to be their friend on Facebook. Most of them turn out to be classmates from high school or university and apparently, I even snogged one of them. (Oops.) And when I do remember something, it's a bit skewed: I was convinced that my father tried to drown me when I was a wee babe, whilst my mother and godfather watched gleefully. (I even remember my swimsuit: a red and white stripy number with an anchor design in front.) When I confronted my parents about this attempted infanticide, I was told that yes, my father had held me over a boat and let my feet dangle over the water when I was two. But apparently we were on a boat one lovely summer holiday and my father certainly was not going to let go - they just wanted me to enjoy the water - or so they say... (My parents found this memory very funny by the way. All I can say is a word to the wise: be careful what you do to your children as you may scar them for life.)

If this is what my memory was before chemotherapy, I cannot even begin to imagine what it will be like when this whole episode is over. Currently, not enough research has been done on chemo brain to prevent it. So again I'm having to rely on my instincts. Although I will not turn my back on trashy magazines, it now seems imperative that I go back to hours spent doing killer sudoku. I was so addicted to this puzzle at one point that I would spend a couple of hours each day solving them. I had to eventually wean myself off as I was not getting anything done. Well, now I can do them with impunity. It's for the sake of my mental health after all. So forget the pile of laundry or ironing: it's puzzle time for me.

Does my bum look big in this?

Considering that cancer is one of those illnesses that people associate with death, when you meet someone suffering from it you expect to see a grey and emaciated person. This is not the case however - because of the steroids pumped into you as part of chemotherapy, weight gain is inevitable. So instead of being confronted with an individual in the throes of death, you see someone edacious who looks like they ate all the pies.

I weighed myself this morning and was mortified to find that I've gained nearly two kilos since I started chemotherapy. I very nearly shaved off the patchy hair left on my head just to see the number go down, but considering that I only have a very silly coronet of hair left (please do not visualise) I figured it wouldn't make much of a difference.

So sadly that leaves self-control and exercise. Forget the first week after chemo - I'm too nauseous to exercise and too hungry to deprive myself. Which means that I've got roughly two weeks to shed the weight gained in the first week of absolute greed. (I know - it's wishful thinking.) So I was back at the gym Thursday last week and have tried, with mixed results, to control my eating. But I think it's too late: my stomach seems to have expanded and it now thinks that it needs the diet of a champion weightlifter to get satisfied. Which leaves the gym.

And it's great - I always feel strong afterwards. But I find it very odd that my gym friends think that I'm being very admirable, and brave, simply because I go spinning or contort my body into weird positions with pilates. I don't really understand this - what else would I do? Going to the gym has always been a part of my routine - I've always felt much better when I'm fit and healthy. So I don't see why I suddenly shouldn't go now, especially at a time when I need it most.

Admittedly, I did wallow in self-pity when I was first diagnosed, and started planning the video diary for my children with my life lessons (such as never ever get a tattoo) but the thought of doing that now is inconceivable. I now know what I'm dealing with and have just modified my life to accommodate this nuisance that is chemotherapy. So I go on with my life as normal, and that includes getting a bit of exercise. So don't be impressed, it's perfectly ordinary.

A semi-colon, after all...

(For men or the squeamish: I may give TOO MUCH INFORMATION in this blog entry so I suggest you stop reading now.)

When I gave birth to the twins 11 and a half years ago, I opted for sterilisation at the same time as we already had three beautiful children and I was 34. I was very surprised and disappointed to find out that despite having my tubes tied (or cut, I'm not really sure) I was still going to have my monthly periods. After all, it's not called 'the curse' for nothing.

However, when I saw my oncologist and he was going through the side-effects (the nurses and doctor seem to enjoy discussing this - either they want their arses covered for any eventuality or they get a certain perverse pleasure) he informed me that the drugs could make me go through my menopause early. I shrugged my shoulders and was not bothered in the slightest. At least I wouldn't have the long, drawn out process of hot flushes and bad moods. And no surfing of the crimson wave. Hurrah! But when my period did not arrive when due last week, I felt a certain sadness. And not because I had recently bought a bumper pack of tampons at our local Costco either - suddenly, I felt old and infertile. I've left my youth and all that. I'm not deluded - I know I left it ages ago but sometimes I still like to tease LH about the possibility of having more children. I know I've been sterilised but I did have to sign a waiver saying there was still a one in a thousand chance of still getting pregnant...

As it turns out all that angst was premature as the curse arrived today. And what a pain. Bring on the menopause, I say.

There are scarier things than cancer

Such as the cat bringing a toad into the house.

Wishful thinking?

One of the more knee-weakening experiences in this whole cancer journey was touching my lump for the first time. With the aid of the mammogram images, Mr Tit-man was able to pinpoint the exact spot of the tumour and guided my hands towards it. And it felt grainy and quite big, really. (It was measured at 1.6 cms, small-ish in relative terms, but still...) It freaked me out that I had not felt it earlier, but I suppose I had not known what I was looking for.

Since that first time however, I have become used to touching it. Initially, it would make me cry, but now I just do it out of curiosity. And I'm convinced that it has already shrunk since I started chemotherapy. In fact, this morning I had trouble finding the little bugger.

Ha! Shrink into oblivion vile tumour!

Argh

Someone left a comment on my entry on the prevalence of breast cancer, saying that she was going to delay having a mammogram because apparently she can roll off the names of so many who had been diagnosed with cancer having gone to our local private hospital. I find this comment particularly insensitive and ignorant to be honest. Does she think that all the women have been misdiagnosed?  That our local private hospital is making money by subjecting healthy women to unnecessary chemotherapy and surgery?  That I'm losing my hair and going through all this pain and massive inconvenience so someone can rake it in? Or perhaps there's a better explanation - that cancer cases are going up and are becoming more common. In fact, the NHS is going to move down the age of free mammograms to 48 - they understand the epidemic and are hoping to cure as many women as they can from this disease by finding it early. 

So, please ignore that comment (I will, of course, delete it) and get yourselves checked.  

Also, please excuse the rant. And my sense of humour failure.  As the comment was anonymous, I could not just pick up the telephone and scream.

Result!

Went out to dinner last night, and for the first time actually felt bohemian and fashionable, rather than an ill, militant placard-carrying lesbian or an out-of-work fortune teller with a strange hat. Or a YO! Sushi chef.

I am going to rock this look.