Now entering Nadir

I've written about nadir before--essentially the low point in blood counts after chemo is given. But nadir after leukemia chemo is even more intense than it was during breast cancer treatment.

If things proceed as expected, the max chemo is in my body on day 7 of treatment. That was yesterday. Here's a picture of me being disconnected from seven straight days of chemo.

For days 10-14, the maximum killing power of the chemo takes hold and the blood cell counts (and all the other fast-growing cells in my body) are at their lowest. I'm told to expect to need lots of transfusions, lots and lots of rest, and to feel generally really crappy. After a few days, if all goes well, my healthy cells will start their recovery and I'll gradually feel better. What that means, is that I would like visitors, but it is entirely possible that I may change my mind mid-way through the day. Please don't be offended if I either cancel a visit or cut it very short.

Yesterday's counts definitely supported nadir, as have today's:
WBC:  0.2, 0.3 (since the chemo is done, these will slowly start to climb up, but will likely stay pretty low through the next few days before the climb up)
Hemoglobin: 7.4, 7.1
Platelets: 11K, 6K

No blood products needed yesterday, but today I'll get platelets again.

And to kick of the celebration of finishing this first round of chemo, I had the most wonderful morning! Milwaukee does the coolest biking event, called the Santa Rampage. At this event, literally thousands of people dress up as Santa (or elves, etc.) and ride their bikes from Wauwatosa to the lakefront. It's been happening for 15 years, and I'd wanted to ride last year, but caught a cold and it was rainy. I'd determined there was nothing that would stop me from riding in it THIS year. I bought my Santa suit on clearance last year and planned to ride my fat tire bike with all my biking friends. So I was pretty disappointed to not be able to ride in it this year, either.

However, my dear, dear friends, surprised me and found a way for me to participate--they brought the ride to me. :)  Barb did the actual ride, and then came to the hospital while Meredith came straight to the hospital and helped me get ready for it. We decorated the exercise bike, Barb wore her Santa stuff, Meredith wore her Christmas sloth outfit, and I had a silly hat. It was amazing (and we made the staff laugh a lot, too).

And then we went back to my room and Meredith cleaned it and decorated it with tinsel and the lights that my friend Chris had brought me.

And because I was so exhausted that I could barely keep my eyes open, Meredith, who is the most awesome K4 teacher ever, read Barb and I a bedtime story. And then I fell fast, fast asleep.

Greg came and watched me sleep, and then I was able to be leave the floor and walk with him to the healing garden--which is amazing. For Milwaukee people, it's like a mini-Domes with giant indoor plants and trees. I will be spending more time there.

And then I was unhooked completely from the IV, took a nice, long shower, and was able to walk without the IV pole for the first time in over a week. I wanted to run, it felt so good.

I was treated to the most spectacular sunset (which my photos cannot do justice to, but up on the 12th floor, you really get to see it from all angles).

And I had a long, barely-interrupted night of sleep.

Already today there are little annoyances: I feel like I'm getting a cold or something, with a scratchy throat, itchy ears and post-nasal drip; one of my two picc lines appears to be clogged and so they're trying to unclog it, but it hasn't yet responded completely and if not both are working, then I can't get two things (like platelets and IV antibiotics) at the same time. Food still tastes yucky, and I'm just missing my home. But I feel so surrounded by love--both from those who are physically with me, and by all the messages, texts, facebook comments, and just general good feelings. I don't have fear or anxiety--I'm able to just focus on healing. And that is an amazing gift. Thank you all.

Nearing the end of the first big step

Today's a big day. This morning they hung the final bag of my 7+3 chemo regimen. Unfortunately, each bag is a little more than 24 hours, so I won't be done till sometime tomorrow afternoon, but there is an end in sight!

Counts still dropping:
Total WBC 0.2
HGB 6.9 (after blood)
Platelets 19K

So moving the right direction, and I need more blood today.
I got a triple infusion machine to be able to do chemo, antibiotics and blood all at the same time! :)

The plan now is to let the chemo do its thing. It will hang out in my body and for the next week work at destroying my current diseased bone marrow. In a week, they will check the bone marrow and if there's zero blasts in it, we'll consider that a success and I'll be able to let my normal blood cells repopulate my marrow and blood, and take a break till we give it another hit in a month. That, to me, is totally doable.

Unfortunately today as I thought about what *should* happen and what I *hope* will happen, I went to the other side, which is "it might not work this first time." The good news is that there is a way to determine if it was not effective and there is a treatment protocol to do something if it did not. And that's going to improve the ultimate goal of achieving minimal residual disease. Here's a great handout on MRD in blood cancers, although I'm not sure why it doesn't include AML specifically. I *think* using MRD for AML is still evolving, so maybe that's why it's only in PubMed and not on the general L&LS or ACS pages.

At any rate, I obviously would love a complete response this first time through, which might actually allow me to go home for Xmas. So if you would like something to do over the next week, I invite you join me in visualizing the chemo trashing the shit out of my bone marrow. You can do it however you want. Here's an image of blood entering bone marrow, and the chemo is in my blood, so that can work:

You can imagine the chemo clearing everything that shouldn't be there in the blood throughout the body, including the bone marrow, and flushing it out of my body/kidneys (maybe a teenaged boy visual...)

Or you can make up a cartoon or imagery that helps you imagine what's happening.

Lots of people use pac-man visuals for chemo, gobbling up cancerous cells

You can imagine a warrior or a boxer or any number of violent cultural references.

Or you can use what I used to get through breast cancer chemo: Buffy the Vampire Slayer staking. I especially like this one because it's not just Buffy, but all those who love her fighting off the bad stuff. Also, when she stakes, the vampires go up into dust, which is just an awesome visual, I think.

If you think of another one, or had your own chemo visual during treatment, let me know!

Here's to completion of the first phase. Thank you all for following along.

Meds and tests and giving in to medicine

I thought I'd start by putting my numbers from my blood counts over the last few days here. Although I wrote about what the tests measure and indicate, I didn't give all the numbers I had. 

Copying from my last post to get the general range of numbers, I'll put in my numbers after. I have labs run every morning (between 3:30 and 6:00 am).

Total white blood cell count
Normal is 4.2-11.0
5.0, 5.1, 6.9, 4.1, 6.3, 5.4, 2.5, 1.1, 0.4

Hemoglobin
Normal is 12-15.5
They will do a whole blood transfusion if it drops below 7.0
8.6, 8.2, 9.5, 8.0, 7.4, 7.6, 7.8, 6.5

Platelets
Normal is 140K-450K, but mine have never been that high
They will do a platelet transfusion if it drops below 10K
23K, 21K, 38K, 22K, 20K, 18K, 15K, 10K, 5K

Absolute neutrophils
Normal is 1.8-7.7
They call it neutropenic if I drop below 1.5, and exercise additional precautions, including putting me on a prophylactic antibiotic; apparently once you're declared neutropenic, they stop running this and the blast percentage because the total WBC count is so low that it's really hard to get fractions.
1.1, 0.8, 1.7, 1.8, 4.3, 4.2, 1.6, 0.4...

Blast percentage
Normal is 1-5% in bone marrow, but none in blood; this goes along with the neutropenic marker and is no longer run after you go neutropenic.
42%, 28%, 10%, 2%, 14%, 12%

What this means is that today I will get a blood transfusion and also platelets. I am indebted to all who are able to donate, as it truly will save my life. I'm also a little bit scared as the consent form lists things that could potentially happen if you receive blood from another person. Still, I don't exactly have another option, so we'll do it!

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Last night was a rough night. As my blood cells dropped, I started to develop a fever. I also was ridiculously exhausted--to the point of not being able to keep my eyes open. It was kind of scary to be that out of it, but also strangely nice to not be able to do anything other than just sleep. My temp started to creep up into the 100's and I was warned that if it hit 101.5 they'd have to do all sorts of thing, including preventative antibiotics and a bunch of tests to make sure it wasn't an infection causing the fever. I have always been the kind of person who spiked fevers easily (My mom used to say, "you get a fever from a paper cut."). So part of me knew that this was likely my body reacting to all the crap being thrown at it. But it's still scary when they're doing all sorts of things, "just in case." And then my temp hit 101.8.

I spent over 12 hours drifting in and out of consciousness (sleepy-consciousness) while my vitals were taken over and over, I was given meds, and more blood was drawn and more other things sampled, and I got an X-ray in my hospital room...

At this point the urinalysis and the X-ray were both negative for anything, but it can take days for the blood cultures to come back. The longer w/o results, the better in that case, meaning nothing is growing. Again, I'm hoping it's just my body and the way it reacts to any trauma and not another thing to have to deal with.

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I asked my nurse this morning to go over all the meds I'm on, and explain them.  Here we go:

Idarubicin: chemo given daily for 3 days; done with this one
Cytarabine: chemo given around the clock for 7+ days (there's some extension of time with the IV bags and changes of lines and such, so it ends up being over 7 days; I'm still getting this one and it is due to end sometime on Saturday.
Posaconazole: oral med that is an anti-fungal
Allopurinol: oral med to decrease uric acid, which can increase with the chemo as cancer cells die, and it ultimately protects my kidneys
Ondansetrone/Zofram: anti-nausea meds given in my IV
Cephapine--IV antibiotic given when neutrophils drop
Vancomycin--second IV antibiotic added when my temp went over 101.5
Femara/Letrozole: the aromatase inhibitor that I have been on for four years already
Calcium/Vit D.: vitamins I've taken for a long time
Acyclovir: Anti-viral that will be added when the chemo is done

I was taken back 25 years when I was writing my birth plan and was ADAMANT that I would not get an IV placed because it was too invasive. I didn't want pain meds for labor or pitocin for induction. I wanted to trust my body to de exactly what it was made to do.

It's insane to think about that now. Central lines, additional IVs as needed, a med list that I can't remember and have to write down. Everything going into me and coming out of me being measured... What I wouldn't give to just have to defend my birth plan now!

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I'm gearing up for another day of hard work. I need to try to walk or otherwise exercise since I barely did anything yesterday. I'll have 1-1.5 hours of platelet transfusion, then 2.5-3 hours of blood transfusion. I'm tired, but I'm not so completely exhausted as I was yesterday. I have been told that it will get worse before it gets better, and I'm still moving forward. Two more days of chemo, and I just keep checking things off the list.


While it's been nice to see people, it really wipes me out, so please don't be offended if you ask to visit and I just can't do it. It's taken an inordinately long time to be able to type this blog post since I'm super easily distracted. I had thought I'd be able to keep up with work while I was hospitalized. While I can do tiny bits, I can't sustain thoughts or plans. So I guess resting is where it's at. (And walking. So much walking.)

A slave to the numbers

I missed posting yesterday on the one week anniversary of my diagnosis (I'm kind of big with those kind of milestones--tomorrow will be the 5 year D-day/official diagnosis of my breast cancer). Man, the holiday season seems to suck for this kind of stuff.

Anyway, I've been settling into a sort of pattern. Everyone here is wonderful, but the fact of the matter is that there is a lot of interruption that must occur in the hospital, and especially on the oncology wing. The good news is that, as I've gotten more sleep-deprived, the hospital bed is less uncomfortable and I'm actually sleeping some. The weaning of the steroids has undoubtedly helped as well (I only got those before the three doses of Idarubicin).

I have always tracked my lab counts ad nauseam and one of the nurses here told me a few days ago which numbers I really need to track, and also said that she can get the results before they appear on my medical record that I can access myself. So they keep giving me my counts. I hope I'm understanding and correctly sharing the meaning of each, but I may have to edit.
Here's what they're following:

Total white blood cell count
Normal is 4.2-11.0
If below 1, it's a greatly-increased risk of infection
We want to see this go down, as it shows that the chemo is majorly messing up the bone marrow and keeping it from making white blood cells (infection fighters) which are what caused this overgrowth in the first place

Hemoglobin
Normal is 12-15.5
They will do a whole blood transfusion if it drops below 7.0
Hemoglobin is a protein that is responsible for making red blood cells carry oxygen to the cells (as all cells need oxygen). Low hemoglobin results in anemia. This will undoubtedly go down, so there will be transfusions in my future. I've never had one, but apparently they do make you feel better when you get one.

Platelets
Normal is 140K-450K, but mine have never been that high
They will do a platelet transfusion if it drops below 10K
Platelets are responsible for clotting of the blood, and so it's important to have enough to clot if anything internal or external causes a bleed. As I get more exhausted, falling is more likely (ie: could bleed internally) and I have so many things connected to my skin that external bleeds are also more likely. I did need one platelet transfusion after my mastectomy, and I guess I handled it fine.

Absolute neutrophils
Normal is 1.8-7.7
They call it neutropenic if I drop below 1.5, and exercise additional precautions, including putting me on a prophylactic antibiotic.
Neutrophils are the first line of defense in an infection, so something that would normally be fought off by a healthy person (ie: ear infection) can almost immediately become septic. It may be an overabundance of caution, but I've chosen, with my team's support, to require everyone to mask up now that my levels are low even if they don't have symptoms. It's just not worth the risk.

Blast percentage
Normal is 1-5% in bone marrow, but none in blood
Blasts are partially-differentiated hematopoietic stem cells that populate the white blood cell (infection-fighting) line. In leukemia, they divide uncontrolled (cancer thing) and fill up the bone marrow, preventing effective blood cells of all types to be formed. In leukemia they also spill out into the blood and can be viewed and measured that way. That's how my initial diagnosis at Dr. Shah's office was made. There should be under 5% blasts at any time, and more than 20% are sufficient to diagnose that some sort of leukemia is happening. Mine were 30% in Dr. Shah's office.

So I've been tracking my numbers and while my blasts were trending downward, yesterday they took an uptick, which completely freaked me out. Being mostly stuck in a hospital bed with only your own thoughts (and the internet) is not a great way to be reasonable. Suffice to say that my blasts had gotten down to 2% and then yesterday shot up to 14% (thus the panic) but are heading back down, being 12% today. And that's what we want because it means that the chemo is working. If you want to visualize or vibe or pray, feel free to work on dropping those blasts!

But Dr. Thompson was happy that the other blood counts are all about where they should be. He said an increase in WBC would not be good now, and they are definitely trending down. Neither my hemoglobin nor platelets were low enough for transfusions today--although it's always possible tomorrow. Slow and steady.

I had been able to sleep significantly more last night, and had a hard time waking up this morning. Then late this morning I could barely keep my eyes open. It's got to be the cell counts, and the absence of steroids. I had some people who were going to visit and I had to turn them away. My eyes were rolling back in my head I was so sleepy.

And as I was napping, I felt like I was running a fever. I have always had chills and body aches with low grade fevers since I was a kid. I wasn't sure whether to say or do anything because I was already getting antibiotic in my IV since my neutrophils had fallen so low. At routine vitals, it was found that I had a temperature over 100. It was explained that they'd watch, but if my temp got to 101.5, then the big guns/protections would be pulled in. I'd need blood cultures--from the port but also peripheral. I'd need a urinalysis. And then a chest X-ray--all to insure that the fever was from the chemo but not an infection. I was shivering and the nurses turned up the heat in the room and I put on some fuzzy socks and more blankets. I stopped shivering, but my temp eased up to 101.3. And an hour later, it was at 101.4. The nurse put in a call to the doctor to get things going. :( And then I pried myself out of bed and Greg walked me around the floor. It was tough to keep moving and I just wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep, but it worked. My temp went back down to 100.8 and just now it was 100.0. I have to remember there's a such thing as too warm!

Not much else to report. I feel like my brain is quite foggy and it's hard to hold a conversation, so if you do come visit, know that I may not make sense. I'm glad I started this blog post awhile before I crashed. I still don't know if I was correct in all that I wrote, but I hope it made a little sense.

Oh, the other big thing that happened today is that I was able to trash the Tele (EKG telemetry). Everyone has to be monitored for a little while, and I'd been doing pretty well but then I think I actually moved in a strange way and caused an irregular heartbeat (v-tach) and so I was kept on the Tele. I did create a game with it where I walk around the floor and whenever there is a display, I seek out my name and measurement and try to get it to settle down and have a normal pattern. After that, I started playing the 87 game--I'd breathe slowly and steadily to try to bring my heart rate down to 87 (because Class of 87 rules...). It broke up my walks.

but it also meant that I had six electrodes stuck to my chest and a heavy transponder to carry around with me. I was pretty happy to say goodbye to the Tele.

And I am almost 5 days into the 7 day chemo regimen. I know it'll be a little longer and it's possible it'll be a LOT longer, but I'm moving forward. Here's hoping those numbers stay/move where they are supposed to be, and I rebound at least a little bit in energy. For now, I think I'm going to take a 7:00 pm nap...

The bullet train

When I was still figuring out my breast cancer diagnosis five years ago, my survivor friend Dawn told me to jump on the breast cancer train, as one thing (a lump) leads to another (a mammogram) and another (an ultrasound) and another (a biopsy), etc. and that if it was really cancer, it would build to a bullet train. I love Dawn and her analogy, but in retrospect, that was not a bullet train. There was plenty of time to stop, think, worry, have sleepless nights, etc. But the leukemia train? That is a freaking bullet train.

Tuesday at my 6 month checkup, Dr. Shah handed me a slip of paper with a referral, because her hospital system does not have any leukemia oncologists. She told me they would be expecting my call and to make sure my phone was charged and on "ring" and that I needed to go see the referral doctor TOMORROW MORNING and be ready to be admitted. The only problem is that this doctor belongs to a hospital system that our insurance does not cover. When I told Dr. Shah this, she said that there is no other specialist in the area and that I should talk to my insurance company to figure out how to make it work. So while waiting for Greg to arrive, I'm on one phone with the specialist who is not covered, trying to find out if I can get an out-of-network exception pushed through by their hospital, and another phone trying to explain to my insurance company that I have to be seen OON because there is no other specialist in the area. Neither of these calls went well.

Fast forward to a few hours later when my Team Phoenix sister Barb came to the rescue, called everyone she could within the Aurora network and got me the names for the most highly recommended doctors in the Aurora system (in network) who DO treat leukemia patients. I shared their names with Dr. Shah, she called and transferred records, and told me that I needed to go right away to St. Luke's emergency department which would be the "easiest" way to get me into the hospital where I needed to be. And she told me to pack as if I'd be staying a long time.

The St. Luke's emergency department was, of course, full of germy kids, people coughing, moaning, etc. And I had just found out that I was pretty severely immunocompromised. I grabbed a mask.

After 8 hours in the emergency department, a whole lot of blood draws--some successful, others not so much, and exposure to some interesting patients, I had a room on the oncology floor. I sent Greg home around 11:00 pm and got all my admission stuff done. And then I tried (unsuccessfully) to sleep.

Wednesday was a whirlwind of provider visits and pre-admission tests. The hospitalist, the hematological oncologist on duty, the cardiac oncology department, the infectious disease specialist, associated Nurse Practitioners, and nurses and nursing assistants and phlebotomists and on and on. And Meredith came to visit:

She sat with Greg while I had my bone marrow biopsy, my echocardiogram, and my chest x-ray. And then, because my blood counts weren't frighteningly low and because I was put on a protective antibiotic, I was able to go home and sleep in my own bed for two days, have thanksgiving with my extended family, and love on all three of my kids, including putting up the Christmas tree.

Friday we went to the outpatient clinic for labs and an appointment at noon. I got my definitive diagnosis of treatment-related acute myeloid leukemia (t-AML). They do genetic testing on the bone marrow that takes longer and it can tell what kind of mutations caused the leukemia. However, the fact that this is treatment-related already escalates it to a more severe case. I was told to walk across the skywalk and be admitted to in-patient at St. Luke's. I was packed and better prepared this time.

I got a slightly different room with a slightly less desirable view, but my luck continues with excellent staff all around. I've been hospitalized before and I spent a lot of time with my mom during her hospitalizations and there is often some staff member (usually a night nurse) who is not the most agreeable person. I have not found one difficult staff member yet here at St. Luke's. They are amazing and positive and friendly and willing to answer my millions of questions at the level I can comprehend. And they repeat things when I forget or need clarification. I feel very confident that I'm where I should be.

So now the treatment plan, which is, of course subject to change along the way. It seems to follow pretty closely the treatment guidelines that the ACS spells out.

1. Chemo to induce remission: I got in the hospital Friday afternoon, had my picc line inserted, and started chemo that night.  It wasn't until I was reading later that I understood the urgency. Apparently survival of untreated AML is "measured in days or weeks." 

   

   so much better than being poked over and over

2. Regimen includes:
1. Three Idarubacin infusions of 15 minutes apiece over three days. This is an anthracycline similar to Adriamycin (the red devil) which I received for breast cancer treatment. It's reddish orange and kind of scary looking. I have completed two of the three. 

   

   My best friend, the IV pole

    2. Continuous (24 hours) infusion of Cytarabine for seven days straight. 

These will hopefully knock out my defective bone marrow completely over those seven days. I will then stay in the hospital another 1-3 weeks while getting blood (if Hb < 7) and platelet (if <10K) transfusions and be monitored for infection and all the other fun medical stuff that can happen when you have no immune system. After one week, I'll have another bone marrow biopsy to see if the chemo actually knocked everything out (we hope that it did--I'll be asking for all your positive thoughts at that point). If it did NOT, I'll need more chemo to attempt to knock it all out. Either way, I will follow the intense period with

 3. Consolidation: I will come back to the hospital four more times, once every four weeks, to get more high-dose infusions with Cytarabine. This will hopefully knock out any remaining leukemic cells that made it through the initial intense phase.

For some low risk cases of AML, this is all the treatment that is needed, and a person's immune system essentially gets jump-started back to normal. But given that this is t-AML (and we don't yet know the genetic markers), it's treated as higher risk, and the next step is:

4. Bone marrow transplant: I'm not a candidate for autologous stem cell transplant (from yourself), so this will be an allogenic (donor) transplant. Siblings are the best chance for a match, but they're only about a 50% chance. I have high hopes that my brother is more like me than he thinks. :) If he's not a match, I'm not sure if they look to other relatives first or just open it to an anonymous donor. That won't happen until spring/summer, so I haven't focused too much on it.

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Whew! That's a lot. I cannot believe I've only known about this less than five days and am already this deep in. Truly a bullet train. In many ways it's been easier than with my breast cancer diagnosis because there's been no time to think--just to act. But it's also scarier--both because I've done something like this before, so I know how crappy it's going to be; but also because this is a bigger deal. And I only know one person who has done this, so I don't have as many people to draw on their experiences. I don't like uncertainty!

I do have some positives going for me. I'm “young” (defined as under 60). I’m in pretty good physical shape (thank you, Team Phoenix, Cadence, and my Fat Biking buddies!). My heart function tests apparently came back really good, despite being on two cardiotoxic drugs with my BC treatment. All my other tests (kidney and liver function, electrolytes, x-ray, communicable disease, etc.) are great. My blood pressure, EKG, pulse ox, etc. all look great. My appetite has returned (hello, steroid pre-meds) and they encourage walking the hall (have to stay on the oncology floor) and have exercise bikes out for patient use. I'll be doing my best to stay as fit as can be so I can be back on a real bike as soon as I have enough platelets to do so!

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As people have found out about this, they've all been so supportive with positive thoughts and offers to help. At this point, I don't think we need anything in terms of help with meals or anything like that. I'll be in the hospital, being taken care of, and only Greg and Ash are home. They'll have two cars so able to get themselves around. And they're both in and out, busy with so many things. I'm sure there will be a lot of frozen pizza or other quick/take-out meals, and that's fine. Cara will be back from grad school in two weeks and she's excited to cook in a real kitchen and generally take care of us all. Travis will probably be home a week after that. And Ash has always been immensely independent and able to cook and clean and help with everything. I made some awesome kids and chose a fantastic life partner.

I will try to keep up with this blog to send out bigger updates (or just to entertain myself with all my hospital time). I'll put little updates on Facebook. My dear Team Phoenix sister Meredith has offered to organize visits if it comes to that. At this point I am free to have company, and after today I'll have less family company, so happy to have visitors, especially during week days--as long as you're not sick and haven't been around someone sick. I'd ask that you text me before coming in case I'm particularly exhausted or if like five people want to come at once. And I may reserve the right to send you to Meredith to organize. :) I cannot have any plants or flowers (germs). I have to be careful with foods brought in. So no gifts--just company and emails or texts or messages. As with the breast cancer journey, I know it's my friends and their positive energy that got me through as well as I did. I'm hoping for the same this time.

And if you really want to DO something, please donate blood or platelets. I'll be drawing a LOT from the stores that currently exist. I'd feel better if they weren't depleted. And if you do, let me know. I'll thank you profusely.

May I also suggest that sign up for "Be the match"? If you are between the ages of 18 and 44, your bone marrow is more effective in a transplant. You don't have to donate anything (other than a cheek swab, I think) unless you're matched with someone. You could literally save a life.

OK, let's do this thing!

And I almost made it...

In the cancer world, one of the most frequent metrics is 5-year survival rate, or DFS (disease-free survival). Although we all know people who have had recurrences both before and after the 5 year mark, my father-in-law told me that actuaries, who determine things like when a cancer survivor can again buy life insurance, must be onto something or they wouldn't use that 5 year marker. So it's a pretty big milestone.

Since my surgery was January 8, 2015, I count that as my cancer-free day, or my cancerversary. This January would not only be 5 years since my double mastectomy, but also the month of my 50th birthday. I was vacillating between how I wanted to celebrate these two milestones. Did I want to throw a big party with all my friends? Or did I want to do a getaway somewhere warm and sunny with just Greg?

This Tuesday was my routine 6 month check-up (and Zometa infusion) with Dr. Shah. When I met with her and we went through the symptom checklist, I told her how I'd been more sick this fall than I can remember ever being. She asked some other questions (fevers? chills? more tired than usual? headaches?) and decided that, although she didn't think it would show anything, she was going to have me get scans (brain MRI and abdominal CT) and would run blood tests for tumor markers just to put us both at ease.

The beautiful view of the Lake out of the infusion bay window at Ascension

And then my blood tests (CBC) came back. My counts were off. My red blood cells, hemoglobin and hematocrit were all low. My platelets, normally low, were frighteningly low (20K). I told Dr. Shah that the nurse had had trouble getting blood and that it's possible the blood clotted in the tube. She looked relieved and had them draw another tube. Unfortunately, it, too, showed extremely low RBC and platelets. She said she wanted to have the hospital lab examine a smear, and could I wait? Was my husband available?

The smear came back showing blasts and consistent with acute leukemia.

Of the long list of things that could happen post-cancer, this was (is) not something on my radar--at least not once I got a year out of treatment. Two of the chemos that I had for my breast cancer treatment (adriamycin and cytoxan) carry a very small (~0.5%) chance of causing leukemia in the ten years following administration. Lucky me. A whole new series of challenges and treatments.

I was so close.  So damn close...

Drain free, baby!

With all three of my bigger surgeries, the worst part of recovery has been the surgical drains. This surgery was no different. Up until this morning, I was afraid I might have to keep at least one drain in longer than a week (the left side would not stop producing), but last night's measurements were slightly lower and this morning's even lower. Dr. Kinney obliged. Hooray!

I really thought I'd written about the surgical drains before, but can't find a post. So forgive me if this is a repeat. With each major surgery (bilateral mastectomy, implant placement, explant) I've had Jackson Pratt (JP) surgical drains placed in my chest to remove the build-up of fluid (blood and lymph, mainly) that can impede healing. They look like this:

That flexible end is wound around the area where the surgery was done, and then the clear tube feeds out of the skin, where it's secured by being sewn in and taped, and the grenade-shaped bulb has a cap that can be opened to create or release pressure. Two or three times a day you need to "milk" the tube from where it exits the body to force the fluid down into the bulb. Then pressure is released, the bulb is emptied into a measuring cup, and the volume of fluid is recorded before it's flushed. Finally, the bulb gets compressed, the cap is closed, the bulb is secured to clothing (or a lanyard) and the negative pressure continues to suck out that excess fluid.

I didn't feel the tube inside of me--except when it was being pulled out (squick...). But the stitches and adhesive where it exits the skin alternate between pinchy and itchy--especially as my body was healing and the wound started to dry up. In addition, my drains all ran out the side of my body, so they were near the ribs and would prevent me from turning on my side in bed or otherwise. Mostly they just impede movement in general, and that is why it's so amazing to have them pulled! Now I just have gauze taped over the wounds to absorb any extra leakage. Hopefully they'll heal up in a day or two.

In addition to removing the drains, Dr. Kinney said nothing bad showed up in pathology (YAY!), and he showed me photos of the full capsules and intact implants that he removed. (If anyone wants to see the photos, I'm happy to share, but don't think I should put them up on a public blog in case people are grossed out by that kind of stuff.) The capsule (which is the scar tissue that forms around an implant) on my right (cancerous) side was a mess. The alloderm (cadaver tissue) that Dr. Sterkin used to make a big enough pocket to hold my implant on that side, since it had radiation, and the grafted fat did not take as they should, which is likely what led to the capsular contracture and extreme pain on that side. Seeing the mess of dead fat and alloderm taken out on that side made it pretty obvious why my chest is not flat but concave. It's essentially skin and scar tissue on top of muscle. Dr. Kinney also verified that the implants pressed in on my ribcage and that is responsible for the concavity and is not reparable (unless I did a flap surgery in the future). If I only knew then what I knew now...

In the week since surgery, I think the concavity has lessened somewhat. Either that or I have just gotten used to it. I'm able to start doing some gentle stretching to keep my shoulders loose, and in a few weeks I'll return to PT to see what I can do about releasing some of that scar tissue. I continue to be able to take big, deep breaths, which I didn't know I'd missed until I was able to do it again.

Finally, I asked about when I could return to biking. Dr. Kinney said that the biggest risk to me post-surgery is too much motion of my arms and chest area, which would increase fluid build-up and possibly require manual drainage. But biking doesn't use much arm motion (unless you're mountain biking, which I will refrain from for at least a little while), so he said I could bike whenever as long as I watched for any fluid build-up. Guess what I'm doing tonight... :)

After my appointment, Greg and I went to Bel Air for Taco Tuesdays. Tomorrow I return to work. I'm so glad I asked around for second opinions on surgery, and went ahead with the implant removal. It's not perfect, but I have confidence that it will be much better. And I'm pretty excited to only miss a week of biking. I don't think I'll be riding with the fast group for a few weeks, but I'm excited to get back on my bikes.

Thank you to friends who brought me delicious protein-heavy snacks, sent me beautiful flowers, kept me company on walks or chats, and who checked up on me by texting or messaging. You've helped heal my body as well as my mind. Now there's nothing holding me back. Onward and upward!