The "B.C." Era
The last week has been filled with last minute Amazon orders and Target and CVS runs, as blog post ideas have run rampant through my head. But I couldn't put anything to the proverbial paper, delaying the journaling exercise for as long as possible.
But tonight marks the end of the B.C. era and it felt like a requirement to document.
B.C.
Before Chemo. I know you thought it would be "Before Cancer," but cancer itself isn't the singular thing that is changing my every day life. I actually felt fine with cancer. I will not feel fine with chemo.
The B.C. era had a great run: 39 years, 2 months, and 7 days to be exact.
Everything I've done - all of the "prepper" style acquisitions - has been leading up to this milestone.
Let me ask: what would you do if you knew you had... 7 days, or whatever magic number, before...
You would have unfamiliar toxins running through your body.
You would start losing all of your bodily hair (hopefully preserving most of the hair on your head, through "cold capping").
Your body would change, maybe considerably, from the steroids and hormone blockers.
You couldn't engage in any "higher risk for infection" activities, like going to the nail salon for a mani/pedi or going for a dental cleaning or shaving with a razor or, really, going any public place during flu season.
You might lose sensation in your fingers and toes.
You will be suddenly thrown into menopause and all the fun that comes with it, like hot flashes.
Your taste buds will change.
Your diet and dietary needs will change.
You will be spending several days of every three weeks dealing with nausea and other stomach ailments and exhaustion and "chemo brain" and a host of other changes.
You may lose your nails!
You have to decide between losing a huge chunk of your breasts and getting radiation, or removing both of them.
The list seems daunting to type, but I tackled it like I tackle everything: absorb as much as I possibly can about the topics, including the good, bad, and dirty on what to expect; and prepare. I am what I affectionately call a "control enthusiast." I obviously had no control over acquiring the disease, and I have no real control over how my body will respond to the treatment, but I can control how I approach it and react to it.
I prioritized those head shots that I had been wanting to retake for a while.
I had a spa day (thanks to fantastic friends!!), and got a good mani and pedi.
I requested really dark polish, because I'd read that dark colors can block UV rays and protect against really ugly side effects that can make your nails lift or fall off.
I ordered ice packs for my feet and fingers, because I'd read that freezing them during the Taxotere infusion can help prevent neuropathy, like freezing my scalp can help prevent hair loss.
I bought all of the products needed to preserve my hair: silk pillow case, really good wide tooth comb, some spray that helps cover balding spots.
I made a super glamorous Target run for all of the constipation prevention meds the doctor suggested, as well as the diarrhea prevention. Because both are side effects!
I got my eyebrows threaded once more, ordered a serum that helps preserve them and lashes, and ordered magnetic lashes and a new brow pencil.
I shaved.
All of this seems silly, knowing the hair will likely fall out. And it isn't even like I enjoy shaving. But the act of shaving is, for me, normalcy.
And there it is. Even as I am approaching the end of an era, I want to hold on to all things B.C. Everything I have done to prepare has been in the spirit of feeling like myself for a little while longer. I feel surprisingly calm as I type this, nine hours before the first infusion starts, because I thrive on knowledge and feel I have armed myself as much as I can. But I would certainly be lying if I said I wasn't preemptively mourning the B.C. era.
But tonight marks the end of the B.C. era and it felt like a requirement to document.
B.C.
Before Chemo. I know you thought it would be "Before Cancer," but cancer itself isn't the singular thing that is changing my every day life. I actually felt fine with cancer. I will not feel fine with chemo.
The B.C. era had a great run: 39 years, 2 months, and 7 days to be exact.
Everything I've done - all of the "prepper" style acquisitions - has been leading up to this milestone.
Let me ask: what would you do if you knew you had... 7 days, or whatever magic number, before...
You would have unfamiliar toxins running through your body.
You would start losing all of your bodily hair (hopefully preserving most of the hair on your head, through "cold capping").
Your body would change, maybe considerably, from the steroids and hormone blockers.
You couldn't engage in any "higher risk for infection" activities, like going to the nail salon for a mani/pedi or going for a dental cleaning or shaving with a razor or, really, going any public place during flu season.
You might lose sensation in your fingers and toes.
You will be suddenly thrown into menopause and all the fun that comes with it, like hot flashes.
Your taste buds will change.
Your diet and dietary needs will change.
You will be spending several days of every three weeks dealing with nausea and other stomach ailments and exhaustion and "chemo brain" and a host of other changes.
You may lose your nails!
You have to decide between losing a huge chunk of your breasts and getting radiation, or removing both of them.
The list seems daunting to type, but I tackled it like I tackle everything: absorb as much as I possibly can about the topics, including the good, bad, and dirty on what to expect; and prepare. I am what I affectionately call a "control enthusiast." I obviously had no control over acquiring the disease, and I have no real control over how my body will respond to the treatment, but I can control how I approach it and react to it.
I prioritized those head shots that I had been wanting to retake for a while.
I had a spa day (thanks to fantastic friends!!), and got a good mani and pedi.
I requested really dark polish, because I'd read that dark colors can block UV rays and protect against really ugly side effects that can make your nails lift or fall off.
I ordered ice packs for my feet and fingers, because I'd read that freezing them during the Taxotere infusion can help prevent neuropathy, like freezing my scalp can help prevent hair loss.
I bought all of the products needed to preserve my hair: silk pillow case, really good wide tooth comb, some spray that helps cover balding spots.
I made a super glamorous Target run for all of the constipation prevention meds the doctor suggested, as well as the diarrhea prevention. Because both are side effects!
I got my eyebrows threaded once more, ordered a serum that helps preserve them and lashes, and ordered magnetic lashes and a new brow pencil.
I shaved.
All of this seems silly, knowing the hair will likely fall out. And it isn't even like I enjoy shaving. But the act of shaving is, for me, normalcy.
And there it is. Even as I am approaching the end of an era, I want to hold on to all things B.C. Everything I have done to prepare has been in the spirit of feeling like myself for a little while longer. I feel surprisingly calm as I type this, nine hours before the first infusion starts, because I thrive on knowledge and feel I have armed myself as much as I can. But I would certainly be lying if I said I wasn't preemptively mourning the B.C. era.
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