The Pink Angel
I’m beginning to think that timing is perfect. As in, always. Every time. All the time.
We wrapped up a truly wonderful summer this past week. In between weekly chemo infusions and daily Neupogen injections, we kept ourselves busy with lots of quick getaways, visits from dear friends, awesome summer camps, and staycation memories. By the time August 16th rolled around for the first day of school, I feel like all three of us had sufficiently “summered” and were ready for a new school year. Henry will be playing AYSO soccer as well as flag football and riding lessons, so we have a lot to look forward to this fall.
As I neared my final chemo dose for phase 1 (the halfway mark for my chemo journey!), I learned of a dear friend and mentor who had entered hospice. She lives on the East Coast. The situation gutted me, and I desperately wanted to hold her hand and tell her some things in person. I ran it by Dr. Kass, and he supported my choice.
“Your liver counts are low this week, which is very common… and frankly, happens a lot earlier in the treatment process for most. Since it’s your last infusion for this phase, let’s skip it for this week to let your body gear up for the AC (the Phase 2 chemo). Statistically, it will make very little difference. It will also keep your immune system higher for your trip.”
His blessing settled it. Two close girlfriends from different parts of the country joined as well, and I was overwhelmed with gratitude for everything falling into place that allowed me to have this moment with my friend, as well as share it with these other two women. We had a good four hours with our friend and her husband, and it meant the world to look into her eyes and hold her hand and tell her what was on my heart.
Courage comes in many forms, my friends. She embodies it, as she always has.
It was a fast trip. I left at 4 am on Friday and was home by 9 pm on Saturday.
Sunday, we rested.
Monday, Bob and I spent the day in LA meeting with the reconstruction surgeon and the radiation oncologist. (We finally have a timeline forming for what is to come, and that feels good.)
Tuesday found us back in Santa Barbara at UCLA’s infusion center for the first dose of my Phase 2 chemo, which included lots of pre-meds, more Keytruda (the immunotherapy), and a new medication, Adriamycin, or AC for short. Its nickname, however, is hard to forget: The Red Devil, due to its deep red color and unpleasant side effects.
I’m not gonna lie. I’ve been quietly dreading this chemo since the beginning. How can you not with a name like that?
After the nurse administered all the pre-meds and the Keytruda, I watched her, in some amount of disbelief, suit up in a blue hazmat robe, then walk toward me and pull out the syringe of AC to hook up to my port.
“Uh… why the hazmat suit?” I asked warily.
She gave me a knowing glance.
“I’ve been doing these thirty-one years, and for whatever reason, if it touches your skin or an organ, it can do lots of damage. But in a vein, it works miracles.”
I took a deep breath.
Trust the process.
She finished the injection with no complications, followed by a self-injection patch that would inject me with a three-week dose of Neulasta (another white blood cell booster) at exactly 28 hours from the end of my chemo infusion, which equated to 3:10 pm the following day.
We left, thankful to get the first one under my belt, and cautiously proceeded to do one final end-of-summer activity that Henry had requested: Riding bikes (Bob and I rented e-bikes to keep it easy) up and down Santa Barbara’s ocean-front boardwalk. It was a blast! We made pit stops at the turtle pond and ice cream shop before turning our bikes in and heading home for an early night—a perfect end to a surprisingly great summer.
Wednesday morning came bright and early for Henry’s first day of 3rd grade! I adore his little school, and, as always, they provided a warm welcome to all the students. It was an early release day, followed by lunch and milkshakes after school with some friends.
We pulled into our driveway around 2:30, and I was beginning to feel some strange effects. (This is normal timing. Steroids tend to wear off the following day.) At exactly 3:10, I felt like I’d been run over by a Mack truck. From that point on for the next few days, I called my bed home as I dealt with nausea, lymph node pain, crazy fatigue, zero appetite, and an unsettling jitteriness in my body. It was, shall we say, quite unpleasant. I wondered if this was going to be my new reality for the next three months.
Thankfully, the fog began to lift on Saturday, and today is much better. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel!
*****
Our last summer visitor was a dear family friend, Tim Jones, who is doing some really cool things to break down barriers and bring people together. We were having breakfast one beautiful morning at the Alisal Grill, a quaint little restaurant in Solvang that overlooks one of the Valley’s prettiest golf courses. The fog lifted from the greens, backdropped against oak-studded hills. One of the things I love most about Tim is that, like me, he doesn’t really do small talk. We cut right to the deep stuff and enjoy lots of stimulating conversation.
He casually asked if I’d joined any breast cancer events like Susan B. Comen walks.
It was a fair question but somehow caught me by surprise.
“No, not really,” I replied, pausing to reflect on his question. Why hadn’t I? “I’ve embraced my cancer, even befriended it to a degree,” I said. “But it’s not part of my identity.” The words started spilling out.
“I look at myself as a person with cancer, not a cancer patient. Or a cancer victim. Or a cancer warrior. Just a person with cancer.”
As I spoke the words, I articulated them in a way I hadn’t yet realized.
My cancer is here for a while to show me some specific truths and grow me in ways not otherwise possible. And for that I’m grateful.
But the cancer is just a vehicle for those lessons. It’s not actually about the cancer. And therefore, it’s not how I identify either.
So, I sit here today grateful once again. Grateful we had an amazing summer. (Thank you for your thoughts and prayers in this area.) Grateful my chemo schedule was perfectly timed to allow me to go hold my friend’s hand and tell her I loved her. Grateful my symptoms were perfectly delayed to just after the first day of school.
Finally, I’m thankful for the AC, and the work it’s doing in my body on my behalf. It’s a shame it’s been saddled with such a negative nickname like The Red Devil.
I’m rechristening it with a new one that feels more fitting.
For me, it will be called The Pink Angel.
And I’m sticking to it.
Some concluding thoughts for the week:
This second phase of chemo requires infusions every three weeks (rather than weekly, yay) through October 17th. Pending a clear MRI, that will mark my end of chemo!
My mastectomy is scheduled for November 15th. A month of radiation will follow in January. The reconstruction surgery will be put on hold until Fall 2024. And the hysterectomy will be fit somewhere within that timeframe.
Please pray my body tolerates the AC/Keytruda infusions, and there continues to be relief in between each infusion.
Thank you to those who have supported us recently with incredible generosity. You know who you are.
Thank you so very much for your love, support, prayers, notes, texts, puppy playdates, and more. This journey would otherwise look and feel very different without you.
Here’s to The Pink Angels in our lives in all their forms.
With love,
Evie
