Magic School Bus Inside the Chemo Brain
Anyone remember the Magic School Bus book series? It features quirky Ms. Frizzle, a teacher who makes science fun through hands-on learning, such as shrinking the school bus so she could take the kids on a tour inside the human body.
I can’t help but wonder, What would happen if Ms. Frizzle took her students on a tour of my brain? And why can’t a children’s writer get cancer without making up ridiculous stories? I know it’s weird but I can’t help myself, so board the bus and get ready for a bumpy ride:
“C’mon, kids,” says Ms. Frizzle. “Today we’re going inside the chemo brain – similar to a normal brain, just fried and burnt and a little bit crispy, yet surprisingly fuzzy on the inside, but otherwise perfectly delightful. Be sure to wear a gas mask, in case of smoldering residue, and a life jacket so you don’t sink in the mush.
Once inside the brain, they step out of the bus and immediately discover that the brain is not as predictable as its former self. For one thing, the weather changes without notice. It could be perfectly sunny and clear when, without warning, the fog sets in. Fortunately, the kids dressed in layers.
Oh, look! Ralphie stands on a synapse that has an important message to transmit to the receiving synapse. It starts to fire, but fizzles out. Now the message is lost. Ralphie may have eaten it. Oh, wait, here comes another firing synapse. “Hop on, kids. Let’s ride this one to the receiving side.” Another fizzler. Unfortunately, Ms. Frizzle and the kids had jumped thinking the synaptic firing would propel them to the other side.
“Kids, secure your life jackets!”
They tumble down into a wasteland that reeks of the aftermath of a nuclear fallout.
“It’s dark and scary in here.” Ralphie turns on his flashlight. “Yuck! I stepped in melted marshmallow.”
“Where am I?” A girl grasps for something, anything, so she can get her bearings.
“Hey … you, kid!” yells Ms. Frizzle. “Don’t touch that. It’s contaminated! Are you listening?”
“Who, me?”
“Yes, you … what’s your name again?”
“Um… er… how am I supposed to know? No fair giving a pop quiz.”
“Ms. Frizzle, now what do we do?”
“Don’t worry, kids, just grab one of those Post-it Notes scattered on the floor. There’s a good chance it has written instructions.”
“I can’t read the writing. Looks like ‘Remember to pick up *#(@d.’ I can’t make it out.”
“It could say ‘bread’ or ‘kid.’”
“Oh em gee! She forgot to pick up her kid!”
Fortunately, Ms. Frizzle and her students managed to find their way out, but not without tripping over scattered debris. Yes, they were late for their next class, but were glad to have survived the ordeal. Just grateful to come out alive.
Tale of Two Cancers
Flashback to the spring of 1990. My mother had just turned 57. After a routine mammogram, she received the gift of a diagnosis that saved her life — ductal carcinoma in situ, which is to say, cancer confined to one of the ducts in her breast that was not invasive. In fact, the lump was not even palpable. After undergoing surgery, she was able to continue with the business of living. Soon she will celebrate her 80th birthday.
In the fall of that same year, my father experienced strange symptoms. The doctor initially misdiagnosed and treated him for one thing, but cancer being what it is, didn’t go away just because its host was unaware that it hid uninvited in the crooks and crannies of his body. Just as with squatters who invade homes not their own, once cancer breaks past the boundaries of one’s body, it’s no easy feat to get it to leave.
My father went back to the doctor when he remained symptomatic. That’s when he was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. I never knew what stage; only that it spread throughout his body and aggressive treatment was the soup du jour. I assume he was Stage 4, but my mother says he was “Stage 8 out of 9.” Any of us who are unfortunate enough to know anything about cancer know that the stages run from 1-4, but understand that my almost-80 mother isn’t exceptional with numbers but is quite the talent in the art of tall tales. That’s another article which, if you have nothing better to do and care to be entertained, was publishedhere. But I digress.
After undergoing three months of chemotherapy and other procedures, despite my father’s strong will to live and upbeat spirit, he passed away on January 7, 1991. Today is the anniversary of his death.
Cancer is like a sadistic dictator who oppresses lives and commits serial murder. One thing is certain, however. Those who recognize the presence of this insidious beast early on have the opportunity to make choices that may put a permanent, lifesaving wedge between them and it.
I promise that most, if not the rest, of my posts will offer something constructive or positive. Just not today. Here’s to all of our dear ones who have left Planet Earth too soon, but whose legacy of love lives forever.
Juicing: A Green & Edible Walk-Through
Since chemo, I’ve come to love juicing. For one thing, it’s a helluva lot more fun. But you already knew that. To be clear, I don’t believe juicing or any one remedy is a cure-all in and of itself. In fact, I feel it’s dangerous when some people tout a particular remedy or eating plan as a “cure” for cancer. Our path of treatment and support is individual and personal, not to mention that a combination of factors work together toward wellness. That said, I do believe what we put in our bodies goes a long way in supporting or detracting from our vitality and overall health. That’s why I’m about to give you a juicing walk-through — so you can get a taste for yourself. (Note: If you mind the occasional bad pun, I’d turn back right here, right now. Everyone else, by all means, keep reading.)
To Eat or Not to Eat
Before I started juicing, I thought certainly it was better to actually eatvegetables and fruits. I’d not only benefit from the juice, but the fiber as well. While this is true, I can’t possibly eat as much produce as I can drink. I simply don’t have room. Juicing allows me to exponentially increase the amount of nutrients I ingest.
What About the Taste?
I had expected juiced greens to taste like vegetables after they’d stayed out all night at the bar. I don’t mean the juice bar. Perhaps I have too many memories of drinking wheat grass, which to me kind of tastes like what it is — something regurgitated by dirt. Wouldn’t you know it, though? After experimenting with various fruit and veggie combos, I can make any juiced produce taste great. It is food, after all; not food’s recycled step-cousin. And really, after going through chemo, this is a piece of kale.
How can something so green taste so right?
Have a look at the ingredients: Kale, cucumber, apple, pear and lemon. I also threw in a few sprigs of parsley. Delicious! Like drinking natural lemonade with no added sugar.
What About the Cost?
If costly juicers make juicing prohibitive, know that there are less expensive options. Sure, it would be nice to own one of the more expensive models, but you can still have a decent juicer for less. I use a Hamilton Beach Big Mouth, purchased from Amazon for $60. Pros and cons to follow.
Pros: It works great, isn’t overly loud, and is easy to clean.
Cons: If cleaning the juicer is too easy, the Big Mouth isn’t done yet. There’s a reason it’s called the Big Mouth. Yes, you can put whole tomatoes and apples in the hopper, but true to its name, it sometimes opens its trap too often and a tad too much. Often, flecks of carrot or tomato escape from the hopper onto my counter. Hey, Big Mouth, shut your trap!
Pros: Still not hard to clean up. What’s more, its feelings never get hurt no matter how often you call it a Big Mouth, so insult away!
Final Comments
Produce is my new super hero. And I thought getting through chemo was brave. (It is and we are!) Imagine: After being perfectly whole, some human comes along and tosses the produce into a machine baring sharp teeth. The human flips a switch. The machine roars to life. Like the neighborhood bully, it violently pulverizes the poor little veggies until they don’t look or act like produce anymore. The good news is that fruit and veggies can take it. They’re tough. Masochists! They exist for your consumption. When I see a leafy stalk of kale or a bright carrot, I see vegetables whose sole purpose on earth is to be eaten and enjoyed by humans, and other living things. That’s more than you say for some things we ingest.
I Sweat the Small Stuff!
The woman at the bank asked, “Has cancer changed you? Do you no longer sweat the small stuff?”Cancer definitely changes everyone whom it touches, but not always in the ways people think. As if we become spiritual goddesses for having survived hell. On the other hand, and speaking for myself, it wasn’t as if I was an asshole to begin with. That’s probably true for most people who’ve been smacked up the side of the head by cancer’s slimy little hands.
I told the woman, “What was annoying before cancer doesn’t stop being annoying afterward.” In fact, cancer has made me sweat the small stuff more. It’s taught me to not tolerate certain behaviors in others that are toxic to me.
As I learned from reading, “The Wellness Community: Guide to Fighting for Recovery from Cancer,” it’s good to be nice, but there’s no merit in being too nice. Being “too nice” is when I say “yes” when I mean “no.” Granted, there are times when you do things that cause discomfort because in your heart, you know it’s right and to not do so is just plain selfishness, like when you get up with your child in the middle of the night. There’s a time to defer to another’s needs, and that’s “the good nice.” Those of us who were fortunate enough to have caregivers during treatment know that he or she had their moments when caring for us, but continued to give out of love.
There are times, however, when our boundaries have been crossed, when you feel it an imposition that you’ve even been asked to do this or that. Yet, you say, “Yes.” Or you don’t speak up. And why do we do that? Because we don’t like conflict. We want to be liked. And accepted. To maintain our nice-guy image.
Cancer reinforced a lesson I’d already started to learn: if making others happy pisses our own selves off, it’s time to rethink what we’re doing. What’s more important – that others think well of you and you loathe your own self, or you gain self-respect and expend your energy in areas you feel worthy, even at another’s disapproval?
I don’t think this is the small stuff, really. It’s actually the big relationship stuff that often wears the cloak of “not a big deal so what’s all the bellyaching?” For the record, however, I still sweat the small stuff, too. Congested traffic continues to stress me out. Stepping in a dog’s “freshly made pies” because the owner didn’t have the courtesy to remove it gets me steamed. You want to see me turn into a curmudgeon? Just place a couple of loud-mouth neighbors outside my window when I’m trying to write. I know, I know… I must be feeling better.
Chemo: The Gift that Keeps on Giving
Who knew chemo not only attacks cancer cells, but works on other areas, too? And all for the price of one.
Once I finished treatment, I was surprised at how unrelated areas of my body were affected, and I don’t mean the usual things like fatigue, chemo brain, hair. For instance, I had a routine checkup with my dentist. I’d been told I had a “healthy environment” in my mouth and I’m not prone towards dental problems. However, that all changed once chemo got done with my mouth, at least initially.
The dentist said, “You brush too hard!” He then asked about my brushing habits or if my toothbrush was soft-bristled. I told him I don’t brush too hard and my toothbrush is soft, that I’d finished chemo and I think that’s the culprit. “You’ve got to brush more gently. Your mouth is all ripped up.” Nice guy, although his listening skills needed a tad refining.
He brought in the main dentist, who also asked about my violent brushing. I again explained about the chemo. He said, “It’s possible that medication could cause problems.” Medication? Try poison! And I guess I was a little fuzzy and fogged from the chemo brain because only after I got home did I make the correlation between my damaged gums and the awful mouth sores after that third round of Adriamycin/Cytoxin. No matter. $500+ later, everything was fixed.
Then I had my routine appointment with my endocrinologist to check if my thyroid levels were stable. They were not. In the end, the doctor had to up my medication not once but twice. He asked, “Have you been taking your medication every day?” Yes, I had. “Do you think maybe you don’t remember?” If I didn’t remember to take it, I’m guessing I forgot all that not remembering. “You must’ve missed a lot of dosages.” No, because I do remember that I have a specific routine that safeguards me from forgetting, that makes it all happen in a perfunctory way and I know that I know that I know I hadn’t missed a single dosage. But, doc, it’s probably from the chemo. “What?” After a stupefied expression, he buried his nose in his soap notes. Could it be he didn’t remember?
But it’s okay. Sometimes doctors get fixed in what they know and when a patient/layperson says things like, “I’m pretty sure it’s the chemo,” you may as well have said, “A zebra visited me in my sleep, stole my meds, and scrubbed my gums with a wiry barbecue brush.” No matter. The main thing is to remedy the glitch and get on with it. So get those dental and physical checkups, especially if there’s an area of your body that’s already compromised.
Good Times, Bad Times
There are days, and then there are days. I’m having one of those, but I promised myself I’d write on a regular basis and be honest with my readers. If I write only when I’m up, that’s a great way to alienate the very people I care about reaching. I believe in trying to maintain a positive mindset and by nature, I am a cup-half-full person. However, that does not mean lying to yourself when you have a bad day. It’s important to be honest with yourself and deal with what bugs you truthfully. Otherwise, you’re just sweeping the dirt under the rug and pretending it’s not there. Staring your stuff straight in the face is the only way to sweep it up and out.
Today, my body feels out of whack. My sleep was off and to make matters worse, I slipped in the rain and fell flat on my back. I’m feeling it… When I’m tired or don’t feel well, I tend to don brown-stained lenses through which I view my whole world. At least I realize I’m wearing glasses that skew my perception. That’s probably 50% of getting through.
These days, many people are big on a gratitude kick. I actually think it’s a great thing and am also a proponent. But sometimes when you’re really deep in the muck, when you’re not just having a bad day, but feel you’re having a bad life, listing three things you’re grateful for doesn’t always cut it.
I know the self-soothing techniques that work for me, such as listening to music, walking in nature, etc. Beyond that, you just have to remind yourself that this is just a day, a week, a period of time. It’ll pass because everything does. Change is a given and you’ll get past it. Even when your outer circumstances seem stagnant or fixed, the way you feel can fluctuate greatly.
Here’s a short poem I wrote some time ago. For some reason, it comforts me:
Better Days
Better days will surely come.
Just as soon
as I finish
waiting
for eternity
to
end.
I Have a Dream
I recently had a dream. And, yes, sharing dreams is boring, don’t you agree? Which is why I’ll keep this concise. And relevant. And stop babbling now and get on with it…
I rode a bicycle along a dirt path running parallel to the main road for cars. I pedaled as fast as I could, working hard, but making good speed for my efforts as I breezed along.
Until a car caught up and whizzed by me.
A well-dressed woman, reclining leisurely in the backseat, glanced my way. She looked down her nose at me, then went back to staring off, relaxing.
My initial reaction was to be annoyed that she judged me and that for all my hard pedaling, she got to where she was going faster and without effort. My annoyance passed quickly, however, when I realized how fast my bike was going and how seamless the ride was — for a bike, that is. The important thing was I no longer let it bother me what others thought because I knew I was pedaling and doing well with what I had to work with.
The trick is not to compare yourself to others who haven’t dealt with your set of challenges, and that includes comparing yourself to yourself pre-illness. Compare yourself now to where you were three months ago, for instance. Continue to do those things that facilitate healing and you’ll see yourself winding down that dirt path, getting farther and farther along, until you reach your destination. To borrow a phrase (slightly modified) from “Finding Nemo”: Just keep pedaling, just keep pedaling…
No One Thing
If there’s one thing that’s certain, there’s no one thing that’s responsible for one’s healing. While a particular act may significantly contribute toward healing, nothing is a “get healed quick” anecdote. Being proactive toward your own healing will take you further along in the trek toward wellness, but nothing is instantaneous. It’s a process, an upward climb, a trek. I like to picture myself hiking in the mountains — something I love to do actually — and I picture the various trails and paths that lead toward healing. One step at a time.
On a physical level, the two most important things for me have been exercise and nutrition. Exercise is tricky because during treatment and the weeks or months following, I didn’t have the energy to do what used to be my routine. I did what I could.
Pre-cancer, I’d folk dance, hike and walk. I’m not a gym person. For me, exercise is something that’s done under the guise of having fun. It has to be enjoyable or I’m not going to stick with it. I’m back to doing these things now. Initially, I’d just walk, every single day. Even if just a little bit. Adding dance back has made a huge difference, although initially I’d suffer from “dance hangover” the day following. That’s what I get for doing the hard stuff.
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