Cancer's butt? It's getting whipped. EXCELLENT!

After just two treatments of Avastin and taxotere the tumor was down to half the size it was before I started. Yes, HALF! My lymph nodes look normal. Yes, NORMAL! I've had another treatment, with one more to go (then another taxotere treatment as I wait for the Avastin to clear out of my system before surgery.)

Take THAT, you stupid cancer cells. Out, out OUT! You are no longer welcome here. How dare you sneak in while I wasn't looking. Never show your face here again. Did you hear me? NEVER! Now GO!

let the butt kicking begin

I have started a new treatment plan. I have pushed my oncologist towards a drug that has only been approved for stage IV, so giving it to me is a little "outside the box" for her. I think it's good for her to be pushed a bit.

I started it yesterday. It was a ten hour day for me. TEN HOURS! I had a heart scan in the morning followed by a brain MRI to make sure I'm in good shape for the new drug that could put my heart and brain at risk. Everything looked good- in fact the previous AC treatments didn't seem to damage my heart as expected. My heart test turned out the same as before chemo started. And my brain looked good- no aneurisms. (phew!)

So it was off to the treatments center for me to sit and wait for an hour and a half, as usual. (big eye roll) Then every infusion was dragged out since it was the first time I was getting avastin and taxotere. I was finallyuntapped at 8:15pm. I nearly crawled to the car, I was so tired.

This better start kiicking some major tumor butt. This thing HAS to shrink, or I go under the knife right away. Not ready for that yet...

Feeling blue

I got the results back from my latest MRI. It turns out I am not kicking cancer's butt. I am merely tapping it lightly with a stick- maybe annoying it a bit, but that's all. "No change since April" is what it said. No change. All those treatments. All those lost eyelashes. All the neupogen shots that make me ache like I have the flu. All for nothing.

cancer sucks.

Here I am doing my Captain Jack Sparrow impression. All I need is some long braids, lots of black eyeliner, and a bottle of rum.

Joshua took this- usually he depresses the shutter and I lose my head. this one isn't bad.

Watch your back, Beatty.

We were standing in the Oncologist's waiting room last week when Mark nodded to someone over my shoulder. I turned around and saw the back of a doctor heading out the door. I turned back to Mark and raised an eyebrow. He said, "Dr. Beatty."

I blanched. THE Dr. Beatty who traumatized me the day after my diagnosis? I don't think I would even remember what he looked like- I had erased his image out of my memory for self preservation's sake. He was the surgeon who presented my diagnosis as if it was grim, very grim. then he layed out the treatment plan as if it was the only option: immediate induction to get the baby out. radical mastectomy in one week. Chemo after that. Then radiation. I had asked if I had choices. No, he had said. 50% survival rate if you do the mastectomy alone. chemo brings the survival rate up. I nearly passed out.

He walked out of the room and I collapsed in tears. My mother jumped up and said, "no, NO! Do not listen to him! We will talk to someone else!" After he walked back in the room, I watched him interract with the intern who was shadowing him. He talked down to her. He made her feel stupid in front of us when she couldn't come up with an answer to one of his questions. I hated him for that. So, I narrowed my eyes, and began to drill him. He didn't like that one bit- he didn't want to give me more information. He wouldn't answer all my questions. He kept saying, "Whoa, we don't need to go into that now." Excuse me? You do not need to answer my questions? I nearly jumped off the table and kicked him in the shins.

I left there feeling broken, angry and so afraid I could barely walk. But, I was determined to get a second opinion.

Good thing I did. I found out breast cancer is never an emergency. I had time to make a decision. Chemotherapy first to reduce the tumor makes the surgery more successful. Those survival rates were bogus. AND I found out from multiple sources within, and outside Swedish that he is a very poor surgeon. "He really should retire" is what I heard more than once.

Standing in the oncologist's waiting room I asked, "Do you think anyone would notice if I ran after him, tackled him to the floor and tried to poke out his eyeballs?"

Mark said, "I'm sure a few people would cheer. Better yet, shove his arm behind his back until he agrees to say, 'I am an arrogant asshole.'"

I smiled...and felt thankful for how far I had come from that terrible day three months ago. He took me down then, but now, I could take him down in a heartbeat.

Bald: not exactly beautiful on me, but tolerable for the short term

So, I've gone all Sinead O'Connor. I feel like I should open my eyes really wide and sing, soulfully, about how horrendously gutwrenching it is to be dumped by a boyfriend. In Ireland. Then I'll pout and complain about the music industry.

It's better than going all Britney Spears. I have no interest in rehab. I guess she doesn't either. I don't want anything to do with loser backup singers either. Hmmm. She doesn't either. maybe I am going all Britney Spears.

Ugh. Can't bear that thought. Being bald is bad enough.