My latest visit to Dr Darcourt was uneventful, which is my favorite kind of doctor visit. Despite the fact that I have to get stuck for blood work and step on the scale every time I go see him, I still like going. As much as you can like going to an oncology visit.
In the beginning of this “cancer journey,” it freaked me out to say “my” and “oncologist” in the same sentence. Not something one usually wishes for, to say the least. But if I have to have an oncologist, my guy is pretty great. Not just because he’s young and Peruvian, either. Although that doesn’t hurt.
There ya go.
Just a disclaimer: he was the third oncologist I consulted, and didn’t choose him based on the fact that he’s young and Peruvian. Not just.
Ok, so the appointment was uneventful, and he said the words I love to hear: “I have no reason to think your cancer will come back.” Music to my ears. We talked about Tamoxifen, the chemo pill I take every day and will stay on for 5 years, and the artificially-induced menopause brought on by it and the Lupron shot I get every three months for hormone suppression. In a nutshell, since my cancer was fed by estrogen, it’s easy to control it by depriving it of estrogen. It means I go through menopause a bit early, but that’s a small trade-off for ensuring the cancer doesn’t come back.
The trick is to determine if I’m really in menopause or if once we stop the Lupron shots, we also stop the ‘pause. This is important because it affects the chemo pill I take. Tamoxifen is for pre-menopausal women, i.e., if you weren’t in menopause at the time of diagnosis, you take it. If you’re post-menopausal, you take a different drug, mainly Femara or Arimidex. Either way, I will be on one of these drugs for 5 years. I’m ok with that, because I’m pretty reliable at remembering to take it every day, and it’s another weapon in my arsenal against my cancer.
And taking a pill every day is much easier than getting that Lupron shot. Even though Ionly get it once every 3 months, it’s dreadful. The needle is really big: 20 gauge.
The 20 gauge needle is what is used for port access. It has to be big enough in diameter to not only pierce the skin and the membrane of the port, but also allow for blood to be drawn back out through it.
That’s a big needle.
If you don’t like needles, like me, you may get a little squirmy right about now. That’s ok. Don’t worry if your palms start to sweat, if your heart races, and you feel a little nauseated. All normal reactions to seeing a wonking big needle. But if I have to see it, so do you. I’m good at sharing.
The drug itself is very thick, and has to be warmed before being injected. You know it’s going to hurt. Because it’s thick, it takes several seconds to push the drug through the needle into the body. So the pain lasts. Then once the drug is in, it burns. On the skin and inside. I literally can feel the drug trailing into my body. And yet, I do it willingly. Because I want to starve any cancer cells that may be entertaining thoughts of reforming. I don’t want any uprisings on my watch.
I may take that shot willingly, but I still complain about it. I get it in my left arm, and the bruise from the previous shot, 3 months ago, is always still visible. For several weeks, I will have a hard little knot at the injection site. My arm will be sore for the rest of the day after I get the shot, but then life goes on and it’s business as usual, for the next 3 months.
But yesterday, I made a BIG mistake when getting the shot. I glanced over my shoulder as the nurse was getting ready to inject it. I saw that big-ass needle, glinting in the florescent lights, looking as menacing as an inaninate object can.
Oh, I wish I hadn’t seen that. Somehow the visual reality makes it so much worse. I had to grit my teeth and concentrate on not yelling.
I usually console myself with a beer or a glass of wine on shot days. But yesterday, I was trying to dry out from our Napa trip, so I tried to refrain. I didn’t get very far, and ended up with a Pinot Noir in my glass. But now I’m back to drying out, because I was reading one of my favorite blogs today, and misread one of the lines. It describes waking up and “waiting for the new day to open like a spring margarita.” Oh, wait–it’s
“spring magnolia.” Oops. Guess I’d better get on the wagon, sore arm and all.