Last Friday, my boyfriend and I met with Dr. Unibrow about Chemotherapy Plan B. I knew I had a bad reaction to the Taxotere but apparently I went into anaphylactic shock from the drugs. Holy shit! Anaphylactic shock?!?! Breast cancer just made a valid and almost successful attempt to kill me. Yikes, score one cancer? Or is it score one Lara because it didn't kill me? This is going to sound morbid but I'm very glad I have my will drawn up. If anyone needs an estate lawyer in the Pittsburgh area, I highly recommend the one I went to: very nice and efficient.
Unibrow informed us that I have one more shot at chemotherapy, and if I have another allergic reaction like I did, then I am done with chemotherapy. According to Unibrow, some people just can't tolerate chemotherapy and if I'm one of those people, no need to push the boundaries. The cancer was caught early enough that it isn't a "life or death" situation. The chemotherapy now is just to make sure any micro-mestastis cancer cells die horrible deaths, and I can reach my mom's age with no problemo.
He gave me three options to choose from. The regime that we tried was the standard one and least damaging (ha) and amount of time. He said that since my reaction was so quick and severe that we are definitely not going to try taxotere ever again (I apparently had a less than 2 percent chance of having that reaction... not winning the numbers game with this cancer thing). I think I'm going to choose the option three he gave me because it's the closest to the taxotere but prepared in a different solution. Him and the nurse swore up and down the solution is what causes the reaction and nobody reacts to this option three chemo. The bad news: instead of four doses, I have to do six and my first shot at chemotherapy doesn't count. Blah, mother fucker. Chemo number 2/new number 1 is still scheduled for December 9.
I'm looking at chemo extending until the end of March, instead of late January. To that, I say: FUCK YOU BREAST CANCER. I FUCKING HATE YOUR CANCERY FACE, YOU STUPID MEAN ASSHOLE. You know, some women might face cancer with grace and dignity, inspiring those all around her. Not this gal, haha. Grace and dignified are not two words that can be used to describe me. To my friends, my "colorful" language isn't a shock. To my family reading this, this probably is a shock since I don't regularly drop the F-bomb at family gatherings. "Happy fucking Thanksgiving, Aunt Mary! Where's the damned mashed potatoes" Haha, yeah, I would never ever talk like this in front of my extended family. It's disrespectful and also, I'm sure Aunt Mary would slap me if I talked like that.
Anyway, what helps me deal with all this stress and emotional roller coastering, is pure hatred toward this disease of mine, plus mood stabilizing medications, haha. I hate cancer good. I hate it above all else. When I think about what cancer is doing to my life, my finances, my personal relationships, my ability to have a child when I want, or just my day-to-day routine... I get really angry and hate cancer and want to destroy it, even if it means part of me goes down with it in the process. It has already made a good attempt at my life. My turn, fucker.
The person who I used to be is gone, and I'm slowly accepting that with the help of journaling, my loved ones and again, mood stabilizing medications. Now and then, I have moments where I feel like myself and am goofy and weird. If I have to be this semi-depressed, sick, bald woman who occasionally has periods of feeling goofy and weird, then that's who I am going to be. As long as I come out of it at the end victorious, that's all that matters. Then, I hope you all can watch me scream to the heavens, "IN YOUR FUCKING FACE, BREAST CANCER! I RULE! YOU SUCK ASS!"
I will, too.