The Assertive Cancer Patient

Intro to Jeanne's Diary

I began writing “Jeanne’s Diary” for the OnHealth.com Web site in the fall of 1998, just a few weeks after surgery to remove my right breast and shortly before beginning chemotherapy.

In the beginning, I wrote it as a way to make money. I needed to support myself and my children during my cancer treatment and recovery, and the opportunity was there. I’m a writer, it’s my life, so why not?

The diary quickly became so much more.

For me, it was therapy. I wrote each chapter “in the moment”–-in the too quiet hours of the early morning when it seemed the whole world was asleep but me, or whenever I was overwhelmed. I pounded it out as fast as I could type.

I wrote about my fear of chemotherapy.

I wrote about insurance problems, going bald (twice!), a young woman in my support group who died, and about my children, who struggled with their fears that I would die.

Then later, I would edit and rewrite, turning it into complete sentences with correct punctuation. I’d give it to my editor and it would go live on the Web site. Once, I dictated a chapter over the phone from the psych ward at the University of Washington Medical Center where I was hospitalized for depression.

For other women with breast cancer, the diary and the attached online bulletin board became a lively support group. Women–-and one lone man with breast cancer--would post their own stories, ask questions about different treatments, and send messages of encouragement and hope.

Then I Was Fired
Then, when I was fired by OnHealth in early 2000, my life and my story became public in a way that I had never anticipated.

I still find it almost impossible to write about. If you want to read what happened, here’s the link to the page one story in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer: Blindsided by disease and life, she fights to survive

TV interviews followed. The wire services picked up the story, and OnHealth was bombarded with phone calls and e-mails.

This part of my story has a happy ending: I settled with OnHealth and within two weeks of the settlement, I had a better job at another health and fitness Web site.

Overall, the publicity was a good thing, but sometimes I feel a bit funny about the “breast cancer poster child” aspect of it. Am I now expected to be a model cancer patient? To never be afraid or discouraged?

It’s also humbling to find out that so many people care.

The diary covers my cancer treatment in 1998 and 1999.

A couple of years later, on New Year's Eve, December 31, 2001, I found out that my cancer had returned, this time metastasizing to my bones. One tumor broke my right arm. Dozens more were scattered throughout my bones, in the spine, the pelvis, the ribs … It gives me the willies to write about it.

I have been in continuous cancer treatment ever since. And, almost five years later, I am still alive, and life is mostly good. This blog comes out of my experiences living with cancer day by day.

@ Jeanne Sather 2006

Chapter 1: Life in the "Chemo Room"

How many ways can you say scared? Terrified, apprehensive, afraid, nervous, freaked out--just plain scared.

For the two months since my breast cancer diagnosis, I've been riding an emotional roller coaster over the prospect of undergoing chemotherapy. Chemotherapy. You know, the treatment where they pump you full of poisons to kill cancer cells and your hair falls out and you vomit for days at a time and the cure is nearly as deadly as the disease. That treatment.

I had a mastectomy about one month ago, and the surgery was not nearly as frightening to me as the thought of chemo. I was most upset by the thought of losing my hair--a billboard that shouts "I have cancer"--and the fatigue. "How fatigued?" I asked endlessly. "Will I be able to work? Play with my kids? Keep things running at home?"

My lymph nodes were negative, which means the cancer probably hadn't spread beyond the breast. I wanted to just walk away after the mastectomy and be done with it. Take my chances. Without chemo, those chances are 30 percent that the cancer will reoccur--and 70 percent that it won't. With chemo that number increases to 85 percent. But it's all numbers. There are no guarantees.

Week One in the "Chemo Room"
The "chemo room" at the University of Washington Medical Center in Seattle is not a friendly place. Someone has made an effort to make it seem friendly: Metallic stars and chains of paper cranes hang from the ceiling, and the six reclining chairs are pink--a friendly color--but it is not a friendly place.

Before I got there, my mental image of the place was of a group of people sitting knee-to-knee in a circle, IVs dripping powerful drugs into our arms as we shared our life stories.

It's not like that at all. Each patient is isolated behind half-drawn curtains. The six pink chairs are all full, but no one makes eye contact with me. I manage to catch one woman's eye and smile, but she turns away without responding. Everyone looks pretty healthy; several people are wearing hats, although they seem to have hair under them.

It's a private place.

My nurse, Ann, gets me settled in a chair with my friend Elaine sitting to one side and asks about my surgery: "What kind of surgery? Which side?" (Jeez, doesn't the whole world know I lost my right breast on October 12, 1998? My own nurse doesn't know?)

"Right," I say, "I had a mastectomy on the right side," and Ann wraps my left arm in a warm towel to bring up the veins. While we wait, Ann lays out a tray of needles, tubes, plastic bags of saline solution and anti-nausea medication, and then a syringe of bright rosy-red doxorubicin, my chemotherapy drug.

A needle is punched into a vein in the back of my left hand (ouch!), and carefully checked. If the doxorubicin leaks into the tissues, it can cause tissue damage like a burn, I'm warned. First comes the saline, just to make sure everything is working, then the anti-nausea drugs, then finally, the syringe of doxorubicin, all through the same needle.

Ann gives this slowly, with pauses to run saline through the line. She talks nonstop throughout the 45 minutes it takes to give me the drugs. Calmly and cheerfully, she runs down the list of possible side effects. I have a printed sheet in my hand so I can follow along.

• Nausea and/or vomiting . . ."We'll give you pills to take at home". . .

• Red, pink, or orange urine, tears, or sweat. . .

• Hair loss (eyebrows, eyelashes, body hair, all of it). . .

• Mouth sores. . ."You won't have that one this week". . .

• Heart damage. . .

• Sore palms or soles of the feet. . ."Let's worry about that one later."

I try to pay attention and ask intelligent questions, but my eyes won't focus properly.

Finally, at 4:15 p.m., I'm done. I walk out, feeling a little spacey and lightheaded, but otherwise fine. I head to the pharmacy to pick up more anti-nausea drugs to take at home. (A few bad moments here when I hear about the side effects of one of those drugs: The pharmacist warns me that the drug Compazine can cause muscle spasms, sometimes so intense that they require other drugs to unlock the muscles so you can move. She's kidding, right?)

So far, though, it's anticlimactic. All that pink stuff went into my arm, but so what? I feel almost normal.

Waiting for the Drug
Elaine drops me at home, and I go in and wait for the drug to hit. My stomach is a little queasy, I'm not sure if it's the chemo or nerves. I have some soup and talk on the phone with a friend who has just heard about my cancer. She is more upset than I am.

I'm ignoring my kids. They don't seem quite real. At 7 p.m., I take my medicine, drink a glass of milk, pop out my contacts, and get into bed with a copy of Newsweek.

At 7:30, another friend, Pat, arrives to spend the night. We talk and fold laundry. I cuddle Robin, my younger son, who is crying over an argument with his brother, Akira.

At 9 p.m., I pee orange urine and get back into bed. My head hurts. My tears are not pink.

10:30, still awake. Head still hurts. No nausea, thank god.

Midnight. Still awake. I get up and read my cheat-sheet: If you are receiving chemotherapy and experience any of the following problems, call the clinic immediately. "Headaches," it says. I call. "Take Tylenol," the resident says. The only Tylenol in the house is the junior grape variety. I chew four chalky tablets and go back to bed.

Saturday. Not much sleep, but I feel OK. I clean house with my bird, Spot, on my shoulder, playing with my earring as always, while Pat takes the kids to Japanese class and does the grocery shopping. I spend the afternoon in bed, reading, still waiting for the drug to hit me.

Sunday. It hits. I feel rotten. My face is pale and puffy. I go out for a short walk, then back home and into bed. I'm tired and queasy, as if I have a bad case of flu. I try to be a good parent and play Scrabble with Robin, but after four turns, I'm done. Back to bed. The kids eat dinner, I eat crackers in bed. What a day.

Monday morning. My bird is dead. He died during the night. I have no idea why. I cry. Suddenly, I'd like to crawl back into bed and stay there for the next three months. Instead, I go to work and make light of the whole thing to my co-workers.

Tuesday. I feel a bit queasy at the smell of coffee, or when a bus goes by, belching diesel. Otherwise, I'm fine. Ready to go back in three more days and do it again.

@ Jeanne Sather 2006

Chapter 2: The Diagnosis

I walk into my second chemo treatment on Friday feeling terrible--I have a cold, got almost no sleep the past two nights, and my head is pounding so badly my eyes won't focus. I am clutching a long list of questions in my hand to ask Ann, my nurse.

I walk out an hour later feeling tremendous. Headache gone, I'm jazzed--getting wired is one side effect, whether of the chemo drug, doxorubicin, or of the anti-nausea drugs, I'm not sure. I go home, send the kids off to friends' houses for the night, and head out to a Society of Professional Journalists event with a couple of friends.

I have fun. There is a sense of unreality buried down deep, but on the surface I'm having a great time, talking and laughing and being with people I like.

But in the back of my mind always are the questions:

I had a bad headache after my first chemo, what can I do?

Ann says my choices are to change the anti-nausea drugs or to take Tylenol before the chemo to head off the headache. The anti-nausea drugs are working for me, so I don't want to mess with them. I opt for two Tylenol.

Can I drink wine during the holidays?

A glass or two of wine is fine, Ann says.

I'm tired from my cold. Can I take sleeping pills?

We agree that sleep is important, and Ann calls in a prescription for Ambien. I've never taken sleeping pills before my cancer, but I love this stuff. Instead of lying awake for hours with wheels whirling in my head, it's a long, slow slide into dreamless sleep.

What are the weekly blood draws for--what exactly are we checking?

Ann gives me a chart that shows the blood factors measured each week and fills in my counts from the blood draw I had an hour ago. The chart shows my white blood cell counts, my red blood cells, and my platelets, which aid clotting. At week two, everything is fine. My white cell counts are actually up, probably from fighting the cold.

I feel quietly horrified at the thought of watching my blood cells killed off, week by week, but the chart lets me know what's going on. And who knows, maybe I can talk those cells into staying strong, staying with me.

A Warning Signal
The day after my chemo, Saturday, I decide the house is too quiet and lonely without my bird Spot, who died last week. I know it's too soon to buy another bird. So I head out to the pet store and come back an hour later with a bowl of goldfish.

I buy a classic, round bowl, three fish--Spot, Fin, and Feather--and a chubby black and orange snail my son Akira dubs Slow Poke. I get a little castle for the fish to swim through, live plants, and lots of glass marbles for the bottom of the bowl.

By Wednesday, my cold has turned into a sinus infection. I pull out my sheet of instructions. "Call if you have an infection." It's the day before Thanksgiving, and the cancer center is frantic. The nurse asks if I have a GP I can go to for something for my sinus infection.

"Nooo," I respond, thinking there is no way I'm going to let anyone but my oncologist treat me for anything, no matter how small. She'll get back to me, she says, and calls back later with a prescription for an antibiotic.

Now I'm taking: doxorubicin, my chemo drug; zofran and decadron, two anti-nausea drugs I take through an IV; Axid and Compazine, two more anti-nausea drugs I take by mouth; the sleeping pills; the Tylenol for headaches; and now the antibiotic Zithromax for the sinus infection. It's a drug store around here. I line up the bottles and look at them for a long time.

The cold, and the sinus infection that followed, was a warning. My blood counts were not low enough after only two rounds of chemo for the infection to be a serious concern, but I need to avoid germs in the weeks to come as my ability to fight infection declines. Later on, a simple infection could kill me.

I open door knobs with my sleeve, use my own pen to sign checks at the grocery store, wear yellow rubber gloves to wash dishes, and look at my children with newly suspicious eyes: What germs are they incubating to pass on to me?

I have my own hand towel and drinking cup in the bathroom. I buy extra-soft toothbrushes to protect my gums.

How I Got Here
How did this happen to me?

Well, there were no signs or symptoms. I never felt a lump. My doctor, a Seattle ob/gyn, didn't feel a lump when I went in for my annual exam last August. But she did recommend that I have a mammogram.

I was not inclined to agree. I was busy. I'd had a baseline mammogram at 40, and I wasn't convinced I needed another one at 43. I'd read the conflicting recommendations on whether mammograms were necessary--read "cost-effective"--for a woman in her 40s. And I had no risk factors. A vegetarian since age 16, I ate reasonably well, exercised when I could, and had no family history of breast cancer. But my doctor persisted, and I agreed, although I left her office thinking she was one pushy broad.

I go for my mammogram at a clinic down the hall. I don't really mind mammograms. All that squeezing and pulling isn't pleasant, but I don't really mind it.

Then, a few days later, there's a message on my answering machine: "Please call us about your mammogram." When I call back before 5 p.m. that same day, the woman who'd left the message isn't there, and I am told no one else could tell me why she'd called.

I spend a sleepless night.

The next day, I'm told that the clinic wants to do some more mammograms, close-ups, to check some calcifications. "Fine," I say. I try to get more information in the few days before the next mammogram, but the people I talk to are vague. Calcifications are just clumps of calcium in the breast--sometimes a problem and sometimes not. No one wants to use the word "cancer" with me.

I have the follow-up mammograms and read whatever I can find in the waiting room about calcifications. I learn a new term, DCIS, or ductal carcinoma in situ. I read about DCIS, which is really confusing. Some sources call it "precancer," so why are we so worried? Some sources say it's fine to do nothing, just watch it closely to catch any break-out from the milk ducts where it's contained.

But the doctors at my clinic recommend a biopsy of the calcifications. Confused, worried, caught in a whirlwind, I agree. They give me a sheet explaining the procedure, which is a stereotactic biopsy, also called a mammogram-guided core needle biopsy.

Let me tell you, that sheet does not explain the procedure. And it in no way prepares me for having a dozen holes punched into my flattened breast with a device just like a hole punch. It's awful. I thought a biopsy was a little skinny needle that took a few cells. The tissue they take out looks like 12 little worms. I feel really sick.

I ask if all this punching won't release cancer cells into my bloodstream. "That's a good question," responds the doctor, sounding surprised that I would ask such a thing. She goes on to give me a "yes, but" answer that I don't really understand.

I'm scheduled to come back in a day or two to get my test results and talk to a surgeon. Why did they schedule me to see a surgeon before we even have the test results? I ask myself that question, but I'm too overwhelmed to ask at the clinic.

When I show up to learn the test results, the woman who checks me in says I'm scheduled for an ultrasound. An ultrasound? I just came in to get my test results, I reply, no one told me anything about an ultrasound.

"Is it OK to do the ultrasound?" she responds.

"Well, yes, of course, but no one told me," I say. So we do the ultrasound, and a second biopsy, with a skinny needle this time. I'm at the clinic for an hour before I see the surgeon, and so far no one has told me the results of the earlier test. However, no one makes eye contact, a bad sign.

When I finally see the surgeon, she tells me that I have extensive DCIS. Plus I have a lump--a tumor--which didn't show up on the mammogram but was found during all the follow-up testing and has now been submitted for testing. I'll have to wait till next week for the results. Still, she says, I'll probably require a mastectomy.

I don't like this clinic, and I'm not ready to accept the recommendation that I have a mastectomy. I schedule an appointment with a well-known surgeon at the PolyClinic in Seattle for a second opinion and with the Cancer Center at the University of Washington Medical Center for a third opinion.

@ Jeanne Sather 2006

Chapter 3: The Mastectomy

I bought a new breast today. It's a size 5-right, made of squishy pink silicone, and weighs about a pound, the same as the breast I lost. The new breast doesn't come cheap: I paid $354 for the prosthesis, plus $60 for two new bras, plus tax, for a grand total of $414. My insurance company says it will pay 80 percent of the cost.

Back in September, when a surgeon first told me I needed a mastectomy, my response was, "No way." I wanted a lumpectomy, to remove just the cancer, and even as the surgeon explained her reasons for recommending a mastectomy over a lumpectomy, my mind was looking for a way out. One reason for a mastectomy, she said, is that a lumpectomy would leave a "bad cosmetic result." Meanwhile, I was thinking, "So it looks a little weird, at least I'd still have a breast."

The idea of a mastectomy felt like a mutilation.

But I got second and third opinions--and all three sets of doctors agreed on the need for a mastectomy. Then I did some more reading, and took the time to come to terms with the choice I faced: that it was the breast versus my life. Then the choice became easy. "I can live without a breast," is the way I explained it to my children, "if that means I can live a long time." ("Or even a longer time," I added in my head. Life looks suddenly short when you hear that word, cancer.)

My doctors asked me if I wanted to consider reconstruction. For me, the answer is no. I feel strongly about this. Reconstruction is an elective surgery--and a long, complicated one. There are some risks, as with any major surgery, and the recovery time is longer than for a mastectomy. I don't want to go through that again any time soon.

The other big issue for me is that it's not a real, functioning breast. If I lost a hand, I would want a functioning artificial hand. Hell, I'd take a hook. But the best you can get with breast reconstruction is what the books call "a breast shape." It's not a functioning breast--no milk, no sexual sensation. Just a glob of fat from somewhere else on your body with a tattooed nipple. For me, the answer is, why bother?

My doctors would want to wait a year after the mastectomy to do a reconstruction anyway--that gives you time to heal from surgery and time to recover from chemo. Also, because most women either gain or lose weight in that first year, they say, it's better to wait until your weight is stable because a reconstructed breast will not change size with weight gain or loss as the other breast will.

"Fine," I said. "I don't think I want to do it, but we can talk about it again in a year."

Saying Goodbye
The night before my mastectomy, I said goodbye to my right breast in the shower as I scrubbed with a special antibacterial soap to help prevent infection in the operating room. I washed my breast, knowing that by the same time the next day it would be gone, part of it off to a lab for analysis, the rest sent to an incinerator, I suppose, with the other medical waste. There is a tremendous feeling of unreality: This is not happening.

I remember nursing my younger son, Robin. I loved nursing. I have a vivid, physical memory of going to see Kevin Costner in "Dances With Wolves" when Robin was less than a year old, and nursing him through the entire movie on that right breast to keep him quiet. I remember the feel of his mouth on my nipple.

When I woke up after surgery, I was strapped into a contraption called a Surgi-bra, which someone had stuffed with wads of gauze so it looked like the breast was still there. It took me two days to look under the Surgi-bra at my incision, and I felt faint and weak in the knees when I did.

But there was very little bleeding, and I didn't need the wads of gauze. The incision, I decided, was pretty tidy and not too upsetting, but the big hollow under my arm was a surprise. It's a wounded-bird look, and I felt very vulnerable looking at it.

I abandoned the scratchy Surgi-bra in short order, in favor of a soft cotton Calvin Klein undershirt and a plaid flannel shirt. These shirts and black sweat pants became my uniform.

The surprising thing is, once the breast is gone, it doesn't bother me, even though I had been so adamant about not wanting a mastectomy. How can I explain my feelings? I am focused on other things, more important things--my survival, getting through the chemo. They are more important than the breast I've lost.

When I'm all through with the chemo and feeling healthy again, this may change. Then, I may well feel the loss of my breast more than I do now. And I don't have a husband or a lover, so sex, and the sexual use of my body, is not an immediate issue. I can take my clothes off for a doctor without flinching, can even sit there and admire my surgeon's neat handiwork, but I don't know if I could take my clothes off with a man.

My scar is neatly done, a curving red line across my chest, with a smaller incision closer to the armpit from the sentinel node biopsy, and an angry red spot where the drain was. The skin over the whole area is numb, which feels weird, and it is still sometimes tight or tender underneath, where scar tissue is forming.

I want to buy a poster of an Amazon--one of those one-breasted, mythical women warriors--to hang over my bed.

Shopping at Nordstrom
I bought my new breast in the lingerie department at Nordstrom's flagship store in downtown Seattle. It's a beautiful store, already decorated for Christmas when I go in, but not a place I usually shop. But I'd heard good things about Nordstrom's ability to fit a prosthesis, so off I go.

I called earlier in the week, thinking I'd probably need an appointment. This was a hard phone call to make; what do you say? I wrote out a script before I dialed:

"Hi. I understand you sell breast prostheses?" ("Yes.")

"Could I speak to that department please?" ("That would be lingerie, on Three.")

"Hi, I've had a mastectomy and I'd like to be fitted for a breast prosthesis. Can I make an appointment?" ("No appointment is necessary, come in any time.")

"Oh. OK. Thank you."

I was sweating by the time I hung up.

It's almost as bad at the lingerie counter when I arrive, 8-year-old Robin in tow, on a Saturday afternoon. By the time I make it clear that I'm there to be fitted for a breast prosthesis, I'm hyperventilating.

Once Mary Moore arrives to take me in charge, however, things get better. Mary has been fitting prostheses at Nordstrom since 1991, and she's both a pro and a warm friend, right from the start.

The first step is a well-fitting bra that will completely cover the prosthesis. Mary explains that there are "mastectomy bras," but that she usually doesn't recommend them for younger women, she just works to get a good fit in a regular bra. I end up with a cream, stretch-lace, underwire bra similar to what I've worn for years.

Then Mary brings on the boobs, in a stack of boxes like shoes. She explains that prostheses don't come in cup sizes, they come in sizes 1 through 13, and are different shapes and colors as well as different sizes. After a couple of tries, we decide a size 5-right is right for me.

Mary asks about my incision, if it was done that way in order to do a reconstruction later. I explain about the sentinel node biopsy and the simple mastectomy I was able to have because my lymph nodes were negative. Mary hasn't seen a woman who's had this fairly new procedure before.

We end the one-hour fitting with a hug.

Back home, I admire my new breast and bra in the bathroom mirror. It looks good. It feels right. I didn't think I cared, but it's good to have two breasts again, even if one is just silicone.

The next day, my enthusiasm has cooled. Out of the bra, the silicone boob looks like Jabba the Hut, slug-like, wrinkly, and jiggly. I nickname him Jabba.

Bring on the Buzz Cut
This is the week my hair is supposed to fall out--between treatments three and four, I've been told--so I go home and buzz-cut my head, taking my hair from about 3 inches down to a half-inch. It looks pretty good--sort of a Joan of Arc look--except for the back, which is hard to cut evenly over my shoulder.

My eyelashes, eyebrows, and body hair will go too. I'm not sure when.

@ Jeanne Sather 2006

Chapter 4: Going Bald

I'm in the shower on Wednesday morning, two days before my fourth chemo treatment. I tug gently on my pubic hair, and clumps come away in my fingers. Now I'm afraid to shampoo my head--I have a couple of appointments that afternoon, and I'd like to have hair for them.

I stand there, wondering whether I dare get my head wet.

Then I realize that my period has started. It's probably the last period I will ever have--chemo makes you sterile and pushes you into early menopause. It's one of the things that really upset me when I learned about it. I had always hoped to have one more child.

I'm a mess. But I have to get out of the shower, I guess, so I wash my hair and comb it gingerly. I decide to skip the hair dryer. So far, so good: I still have a full head of hair. I decide a little hair gel won't hurt anything, and dab some on.

Somewhere in one of the books and pamphlets I have on breast cancer is the suggestion that women keep a plastic container in the shower to collect their hair as it starts to fall out. "Hair loss is upsetting," the book says--that's an understatement. How much money and time do women (and men, for that matter) spend on their hair? Shampoos, special treatments, hairdressers, perms, color, transplants for pattern baldness. We like hair.

I've worn my hair the same way for a dozen years, a chin-length bob with bangs. But I decided that it would be less upsetting to cut it off than to wait for it to fall out and go through a period with a clump here, a clump there.

So I went to SuperCuts the week before my chemo started and had my hair cut short. It's a nice cut, sharper looking than my usual style. Friends tell me I look younger.

The day of my third chemo, I came home and buzz-cut my hair to less than an inch. I needed bigger earrings with this short cut, I decided, and found some from Mexico made of brass and polished them up. They are broad little native faces, wearing bead earrings.

I would never have taken electric clippers to my own head six months ago. Cancer makes me bold.

Prepare to be Bald
I've been getting ready for the bald look for weeks: A friend who had cancer six years ago loaned me six or seven hats and dozens of scarves. She has a whole wall full of hats because her friends gave her a hat and scarf shower when she was going through chemo--a great idea.

I also visited a little shop called Hatterdashery in northeast Seattle. I dropped by, intending to buy one hat to wear for the holidays, and walked out with four. I gift-wrapped two of them and put them under the tree for myself for Christmas.

On Thanksgiving, I wore my brown velvet beret and a matching velvet sweater. I felt good. (So what if I fell asleep on the couch right after dinner?) The other hat, also velvet, has a roll-up brim and is a mixture of blue, green, and purple; the color changes from different angles. It's my favorite hat. I also have the gray fedora my grandfather wore in the 60s. That looks good, too.

I'm told, by my doctor and also by the guy who cut my hair, that hair grows back thicker and curlier after chemo. Well, that's nice, but my hair's always been straight. What if I don't like curly hair? Can I get my old hair back? On the other hand, my hair is pretty fine; thicker would be nice.

When my hair grows back, I want to dye it red. I tell my son Robin this, and he asks me to dye it the same shade of red as his. How sweet: mother-and-son hair color, just like those old Miss Clairol ads, with a gender twist. Maybe I'll do it.

A Strand at a Time
Eight days after my body hair began to fall out, the hair on my head starts to go. A gentle tug is all it takes, or no tug at all. It doesn't fall out in clumps, as I thought it would, but rather a strand at a time, like a dog shedding in spring.

My doctor says it will take a week or two for it all to fall out. This surprises me: I thought it would all go at once. He says it will start growing back as soon as the chemo stops, or possibly sooner. I don't know how this can be. The hair falls out because chemo kills fast-growing cells, including cancer cells and hair cells.

Early on, I had decided against a wig: I'd just wear hats, I thought. But now a wig looks good. I don't want people on the street--people I don't even know--to feel sorry for me.

The falling hair is really upsetting. I need to cry, but I can't. I can feel the tears, right there, but they won't come. I call a couple of friends, but no one is available to talk. Do I feel sorry for myself? You bet.

A few minutes later, a friend calls me back. We talk for a while, and I cry on the phone. I still don't feel better. This is really hard.

In the days that follow, hair clogs the drain in the shower, gums up the soap, and scatters across my pillow. I run my hand across my head, and a light shower of hair follows.

Is It Working?
At 6 a.m. on the Sunday after my third round of chemo, I lie awake. I don't feel sick like I did the last two Sundays, and I fantasize that I didn't get the chemo at all. But of course I watched it flow into my vein. Then I fantasize that it's not working, that's why I don't feel sick. I've got to call the doctor on this one, but not at 6 a.m.

When I finally do call a couple of days later and talk to one of my nurses, she laughs and reassures me. "Don't worry about that one," she says. "It's working."

So when I get treatment number four and it hits me harder than the others, it is somehow reassuring. I feel tired and sick from Friday night through about Tuesday. I don't know if it's an old wives' tale or not, but several people have told me that if my hair falls out it means the chemo is working. I guess I can be glad about that.

@ Jeanne Sather 2006

Chapter 5: My Friends

Why do people think it's appropriate--or even remotely OK--to tell someone with cancer their own cancer horror stories?

My family does it, my friends do it, even people I barely know feel compelled to tell me the horrific details of the deaths of people they know to cancer.

I don't even want to know that someone you know died of cancer. I can't hear this right now. I know someone who died of cancer--my father died of pancreatic cancer at age 53--but if I dwelt on that, I'd soon be dead, too. The woman you know who had breast cancer two years ago--had a mastectomy, chemo, radiation, the whole nine yards, and is now well and running marathons--that story I want to hear.

Many of these people probably have their own grief and pain, and they need someone to talk to. But a person being treated for cancer is not the right person to tell. I need to hear that I will get well, and I need stories that reinforce that belief. My mind can help make me well, but not if the people around me think that I am dying.

When I got my diagnosis, I did not know a single woman who had had breast cancer and survived. I did know several who had died, including one of my my aunts. This was scary.

A Little Help From My Friends
But let me tell you what my friends did for me in those early weeks: They brought me stories of women who had survived breast cancer. They gave me phone numbers of more women who had survived and who could tell me, with authority, that I would survive it, too.

These women told me that I would cry when my hair fell out, that I would feel sick with chemo, that I would sometimes feel very sorry for myself, that I would laugh sometimes at the indignity of it all, but that I would get through it, as they had.

They were the greatest gift, these stories.

Let me tell you what else my friends do for me:

They drive me to doctor's appointments and chemo treatments, week after week after week. They cook dinner and deliver it to my door at 5 o'clock. (People I don't even know, neighbors of friends, cook dinner for us.)

They drive my children home from school and to chess practice and to Japanese class.

They have the kids over, weekend after weekend, so that I can sleep on my bad days, right after chemo. They take the kids out to have fun: to the Science Center, to the park, to the movies, bowling ... wherever Robin and Akira want to go, someone is there to take them.

They bring me books from the library to read during the long nights when I can't sleep. They clean my house, and wash and fold my laundry. They shop for groceries. They do repairs and take my children Christmas shopping. They bake Christmas cookies.

They bring me vitamins and herbal teas. They bake me brownies. They give me parakeets to replace Spot, my cockatiel that died a couple of days after my first chemo treatment.

They listen to me talk about cancer. (And talk, and talk, and talk.) And they never tell me what to do, they just listen. They tell me I am remarkable. They tell me I am strong. And they tell me they love me and that I will live.

The Checkup, and a Delay
I had a sore throat when I went in for my fifth chemo treatment, which was also my monthly check-up with my oncologist. He took a look at my throat and said, "We'll have to hold your chemo today." I was surprised--the sore throat didn't seem like any big deal--and also dismayed, which in itself is a surprising turn of events for someone who had dreaded chemo as much as I had.

But holding this week's chemo means a week longer till I'm done, and I am counting down the weeks. I wanted to argue with my doctor about it, but decided that didn't make much sense.

My doctor swabbed my throat to run a culture to see what the sore spot was, a viral infection, possibly even herpes, or what he called "chemo toxicity," a reaction to the chemo drug. If it was chemo toxicity, he said, it wouldn't heal if I had my usual chemo dose.

Then we ran through my typical long list of questions, agreed that I was doing very well, and I headed home, feeling oddly bereft without the chemo. I was trying to be philosophical about it--knowing I'd have a much better week than I would have had if I'd been pumped full of poison and sent away to get over it.

Several days later, on Wednesday, I called to get the results of my culture. No virus, no herpes, so that means it's a reaction to the chemo drug, and my doctor will cut my dose. Apparently it isn't unusual to get a smaller dose as the chemo goes on and your blood counts drop.

I go in on Friday and get 26 mg. of doxorubicin instead of my usual 34 mg. I suck on ice chips while the IV is running. It's supposed to help prevent further mouth sores.

Back on track, seven weeks to go. But I want so badly to be finished. I want my life back.

@ Jeanne Sather 2006

Chapter 6: Telling the Kids

I don't remember exactly the words I used back in September when I told my sons I had cancer, but I was dreading the conversation. Finally, after worrying for a week, I simply told them that I had breast cancer, that I was having surgery to remove the breast, that I'd have some other treatment after the surgery, and that I'd be fine.

Then I waited for their questions. Did I mind losing the breast, they both asked. No, I said, it's necessary. Akira, my 14-year-old, wanted to know what it was about cancer that hurt you. So what if those cells were growing, where was the harm in that, he asked. I couldn't answer that one.

They were worried, but they believed me when I told then everything would be OK. I've also tried to SHOW them everything is OK, which is why we went to Hawaii for a week's vacation after my surgery and before my chemo started. We had fun--the boys learned to snorkel and boogie-board, we ate at McDonald's and soaked up the 85-degree sunshine.

Things got tougher for them when the chemo started. I usually get my chemo on Friday in order to have the worst of the after-effects on the weekend so I can go back to work on Monday. When I'm tired after a chemo treatment, 8-year-old Robin's typical reaction is to cry over small things, like the wrong kind of breakfast cereal in his bowl. He takes his stuffed bunny everywhere.

Akira is irritable and rude, and nasty to his brother. I quickly learned that I needed to ask friends to take the kids out on the weekends to have some fun.

"Did You Lose the Breast?"
Robin has been much more involved in my treatment than Akira. Robin walked into my hospital room after my mastectomy and asked straight-out, "So, did you lose the breast?" He asked to see my incision, and then wanted to play with the controls on my hospital bed. Akira came in for a quick hug and a hello, then shot back to the waiting room.

Robin went with me to Nordstrom to buy a prosthesis and tagged along to one of my chemo treatments to see what that was all about. Akira is curious, but shy. He went to a friend's house the day I shopped for the prosthesis, and when we got home he didn't mention it. So I did. I showed him how the prosthesis looks with a bra on, and he peeked over the top of the bra at the pink thing that has replaced my breast. That was enough for him.

About three weeks into my chemo, I started to wonder if Akira was depressed. He'd take his lunch to school but he wouldn't eat it; I'd find the lunches crammed back in the fridge. When I asked, he said he felt okay, but wanted white bread, creamy peanut butter, and seedless strawberry jam instead of the whole-wheat bread and chunky peanut butter I normally buy. After the switch he seems to be eating better.

Then, a couple of weeks later, Akira left school in the middle of the day and walked home. He said he'd had an argument with a teacher and was upset, so he just decided to leave.

I lost a night of sleep worrying about what to say at my 8 a.m. meeting with the principal, who drove around looking for Akira after he disappeared from school. But I worried for nothing: The principal was very understanding, and now Akira seems calmer.

He's still irritable, but he's also very protective: He answers the phone and screens calls, he always asks where I'll be after school, and he asks several times a day if I need anything, and how I feel.

A Frightening Week
It's week six of chemo, and I've hit the wall: physically, mentally, emotionally--everything is going wrong. The vein where I take my chemo treatment is bruised and burning. I lose my confidence and start thinking, "Why bother?" I'm depressed for the first time in the four months since I found out I have breast cancer.

Coincidentally, or maybe not, it is Christmas.

Christmas Eve, the day of my sixth chemo, I was too tired to open my gifts. I lay on the couch and watched the kids open theirs and left mine till morning.

I'd overdone it that day: I'd gone out to brunch, had my chemo, gone to a matinee of "A Christmas Carol," and had friends back to our place for eggnog, cookies, and sushi--all before tackling the gifts. I feel like the world's worst mother, snapping at my kids on Christmas Eve.

Christmas Day, with only a dinner with friends on the agenda, is much easier. But the next day, two days after my sixth chemo treatment, I feel seriously crazy. I'm panicked, wired, my head is crowded with frightening stuff--fantasies, delusions--that I can't explain. My friend Dana drives me to the emergency room, where I wait three hours to meet with a doctor who seems unsure of what to do for me.

The emergency room is crowded: two men with broken legs, a woman with chest pains, an old woman telling her life story, and the screams of a patient hidden behind double doors. Every time an ambulance pulls up the wait gets longer.

The doctor says he thinks I'm having a reaction to the Compazine I take for nausea, a drug that is also used as an anti-psychotic medication. He gives me two other drugs to take instead, but warns it will take a while to clear the Compazine out of my system. He gives me a printed sheet explaining the drugs, and I sign, signifying that I understand what I've been told. But when I get home I can't explain, either to myself or to my friends, why I should take these other drugs.

How bad was the effect of the Compazine? I lie on my bed Saturday after returning from the hospital, exhausted, but too terrified to sleep. I ask Dana to sit by me and wake me if I fall asleep. I am certain if I sleep, I will not wake up. This is crazy. This drug--or something--is making me crazy.

An Inevitable Crash
On Monday, I gather up six pill bottles and go see my oncologist to make sure he agrees with the drug switch, and to get some reassurance. He says he's not sure my problems were a reaction to Compazine, but he pockets the Compazine anyway, and gives me back the substitute, Phenergan, prescribed by the emergency-room doctor. But he suggests that I hold off on taking it.

Instead, he suggests that we change two of my anti-nausea drugs when I get this week's chemo. He tells me I'll be fine. I know it's my job to believe that, but I can't.

Two days later, I'm back. "I'm not better," I tell my doctor, "I'm worse." We talk for quite a while, and the word "depression" comes up. Also the word "anxiety." I'm jumpy and fidgety and keep repeating that I don't want to be home alone with the kids, but there's no one to stay with us. "I'm scared," I say. "Of what?" my doctor asks. But I have no clear answer. He calls for a social worker, who smiles constantly while gently leading me upstairs to see a psychiatrist.

The psychiatrist and I talk until I am exhausted. When we are done, what he has to add makes sense: I am depressed. I am very anxious. The Compazine, and a double-tall mocha I had on an empty stomach Saturday morning, may have triggered the whole thing, but the Compazine alone was probably not responsible. And, he adds--the biggest irony--the fact that I was coping so well for so many months made this crash almost inevitable.

I go home with some little white pills for anxiety and some little pink ones for depression. I also have the promise that I won't have to take my chemo tomorrow. I'm not ready for it.

The next morning, having taken only a couple of pills, I'm working at the keyboard with a clear head and feeling worlds better.

@ Jeanne Sather 2006

Chapter 7: Depression

One rainy morning last week, I lay snuggled in bed, rereading my earlier diary entries. It was the first time I'd gone back and read the whole diary, and as I read I wondered: Who was that woman?

All that energy and optimism, I thought, and now I can hardly get out of bed. Not to eat. Not to drink. Not even to take Robin to school. He sits in the living room, watching television and playing quietly. He brings his beloved stuffed rabbit to keep me company, and the toy and I lie curled together.

I lose track of time, waiting for the antidepressant and anti-anxiety drugs I've been taking to lift me out of the frightening depression I slid into about two weeks ago. I know it takes time for the medication to get into my system and take effect, but how much time? When I call my doctors and nurses, they are sympathetic, but they tell me there's not much more they can do for me. It's not the chemo, they say.

One morning, my toilet gets stopped up and I find myself completely overwhelmed. Calling for repair, paying the worker, getting the toilet to flush again--what once would have been a straightforward and simple task is now just too much. I look at the plugged toilet and I know something is seriously wrong with me.

Two days afterward, as early in the morning as I can without breaching all etiquette, I call my counselor at home. She listens to me, then tells me to call the psychiatrist I've seen once before at the University of Washington Medical Center. I get him on the phone, and try to describe what's happening to me. He tells me I should be admitted to the hospital--not for breast cancer, exactly. For depression.

Here, doctors will be better able to control the dosage of the drugs I'm taking--Paxil for depression and Ativan for anxiety. They'll also be able to give me more intense counseling. This way, they say, they'll be able to "pop" me out of the depression faster.

I call my mother, and she and her husband drive up from their home about an hour south of Seattle to stay with Akira and Robin. I enter the hospital on a rainy Thursday afternoon.

What Happened?
It's a little scary being here, but I feel like it's the right thing to do. Each afternoon, however, I tell my story over and over to a varying lineup of psychiatrists and social workers, all of whom have different ideas about what exactly is wrong.

Some think the anti-nausea drug I was using triggered my depression. Others say the drug probably had little, if anything, to do with it. One, a senior psychiatrist who brings with him a group of four followers, says I may be grieving for my lost breast.

Well, I tell him, I never thought of that. I'll think about it now. And I do. Still, it doesn't seem right to me. To me, the explanation that makes the most sense is I was overwhelmed. I think it may have started when I asked to take some time off from work. On the surface, I did it because my vision had become blurry. But in reality, I think I did it because I felt like I wasn't pulling my weight anymore.

Then came the holidays, when some of the people I rely on got so busy that I hated to call them to ask for help. When I did manage to summon my strength and call, I'd feel personally rebuffed if I got an answering machine instead of a friend.

Meanwhile, some of the friends I did reach didn't know how to deal with my depression. Not knowing what else to do, they pulled away. I got more and more isolated, and finally, a stopped-up toilet defeated me.

This Far Down?
Depression isn't unusual among cancer patients, the psychiatrists, social workers, and therapists tell me. Of course, not everyone who gets cancer has to be hospitalized for depression.

My editor tells me she called an expert to get some perspective on depression and breast cancer. Hester Hill, chief oncology social worker at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center in Boston, has worked with breast cancer patients for 20 years, and is a six-year breast cancer survivor herself. She says that in her experience, serious depression requiring medication and hospitalization is unusual for patients who are doing well in treatment, like me. But, she says, it's not unheard of. And, she says, almost everyone who has cancer suffers mild depression at some point.

"My experience is everybody has a psychological collapse and hits the skids at one time or another," says Hill. "It can be at diagnosis, or in the middle of treatment, or a year later."

The important thing, Hill says, is to get help. "Tell somebody," she says. Find a counselor who's experienced in helping women with breast cancer. Look for a support group. If you're lucky enough to have them, tell your good friends and family you need help.

I thought I could lift myself out of this low with the help of the drugs, my friends, my counselor, a new yoga class. I was wrong. So for now, I shuttle between my hospital room, sessions with psychiatrists and nurses, and self-help classes on how to cope. I get my scheduled chemo, which, ironically, doesn't worry me at all anymore.

Now, I feel better--not great; not nearly as energetic and optimistic as that woman who cheerfully wrote about shopping for a new boob a couple of weeks ago. But I feel well enough to force myself out of bed and into the world, even though it is the safe and regulated world of the hospital.

The doctors say I could be here anywhere from a few days up to a week. Right now, a week seems like an awfully long time.

@ Jeanne Sather 2006

Chapter 8: Life on 7 North

It hits me the minute I see the day room on 7 North at the University of Washington Medical Center: I've checked myself into the hospital for depression, and this is serious.

People sit spaced a certain distance apart. Some are watching daytime television; some are looking inward, not even aware of time passing. I walk in and look around, but nobody meets my eyes. "Wow," I think. "Look at this room full of zombies." Then I realize I'm one of them. I don't want to make eye contact, either.

Six days later, when I check out of 7 North, I've changed my mind. I really care about some of these people, and I go around the room giving and getting goodbye hugs and best wishes with tears in my eyes. But there are six full days between my arrival and my departure, and in those six days my mood rises and falls like a battered kite.

Activities of Daily Life
My second day on "the unit," as the staff calls it, is a Friday: my chemo day. I am determined to keep up with my treatment schedule, and I spend part of the morning hounding the staff. "Are you sure I'm going to get it?" I repeatedly ask. "I feel well enough to get it."

When my appointment time comes, an escort arrives to take me to the Cancer Center. As a "level 2" patient, I'm not allowed to go to chemo alone, although I can go outside for 20 minutes at a time every two hours. I soon figure out the unit hierarchy: Level 1’s can't go off the unit without an escort, level 3's can leave for up to two hours at a time, and level 2's, like me, are in the middle.

Today I have an appointment with my oncologist, and he has good news. My blood counts are good, and my monthly chest X-ray is clear. There's an extra bonus: I haven't lost all of my hair and at this point I almost certainly won't. My hair is as sparse and fuzzy as a 6-month-old's, but it's hair.

More importantly, he tells me I've done the right thing by coming to the hospital for the depression that's been trailing me for about three weeks now. My nurse, Ann, tells me the same thing, and suddenly I realize how important it is to me to hear it from them. Though I think I'm doing the right thing, doubt follows me into the hospital. "Gee," I think. "Is all this drama really necessary? Maybe I can get over this by myself."

Up and Down
I've never been treated for depression before, let alone spent time in the hospital for it, and I'm startled to discover that many of my fellow patients on the unit have been there before. Some have lost everything to depression--everything, that is, except their lives.

All of the 18 or so patients are here because they are seriously depressed. We range in age from teens to the fragile elderly. Some need interpreters to talk to the psychiatrists. Some have no homes to go back to once they're discharged. A feeling of being isolated and overwhelmed is what we have in common. The average stay, the staff tells me, is six days.

During my six days, depression seems to lift and descend in waves. Some days I want to be left alone, and refuse to eat until the nurses agree to let me take my meals in my room. Other days, I get up, shower, and go to group therapy.

On 7 North, the staff pushes us to be social. If we don't show up for breakfast or to take part in the "community meeting" at 9 a.m., they almost literally drag us out of our rooms. They constantly encourage us to attend the sessions on coping strategies. They require us to do our own laundry. There are two exercise bikes and a ping-pong table on the unit, but I never see anyone use them, except my son Robin and another little boy who comes to visit.

On Saturday morning, a group walk is scheduled--complete with attendant. I really want to get outside, but an image keeps popping up in my mind's eye: Me, my fellow patients, and an attendant towing us along like preschoolers on a leash, everybody looking just a little off-center.

The group walk is canceled, and I go out by myself for my allotted 20 minutes. The rain makes everything fresh, and the hospital grounds are quiet. I realize that if we had all gone out together, no one would have paid any attention to the gang from 7 North.

Going Home
My mood continues to seesaw: one day up, the next day down. The doctors and nurses begin to mention going home. But I don't feel like I'm ready--until Tuesday evening, when I simply make up my mind to leave. Suddenly, I feel light. I begin to pack my clothes, and by nine o'clock Wednesday morning, I'm checking out.

Since then, it hasn't been easy being home. I'm still depressed. But I'm using some of the coping techniques I learned in the hospital, and I'm reaching out to my friends for help. Somebody calls me in the morning to make sure I get up and get going; others bring dinner to share in the evening and stay afterward to play games with the boys.

I've gone to my yoga class, and I've made plans to walk with friends. I talk to my editor often so she can update the diary. My cousins come for the weekend. It all helps keep me going.

My cousin Karen, knowing that I had nicknamed my prosthesis Jabba, since it's round and wrinkled like the Star Wars character Jabba the Hutt, brings me a box to keep him in. She has decorated the round container with stars, planets, and pictures of Jabba and other Star Wars characters. On the lid, she has written, "Jabba's Hut."

I've never laughed so hard. It was exactly the gift I needed.

@ Jeanne Sather 2006

Chapter 9: The Insurance Fiasco

When the medical bills and insurance statements first started coming in the mail, I'd open them and cry. Later, as a trickle became a flood, I didn't even open them, I just stuck them in a red file folder that grew and grew until it was three inches thick.

The first piece of mail that made me cry was a statement from my insurance company informing me they wouldn't pay any part of a $1,700 bill. On the bottom of the statement they included an incomprehensible explanation of their position, but I knew it was an error. I also knew it was going to take phone calls and letters to both the insurance company and the health-care provider to straighten it out. Who had the energy? Not me.

As the statements continued to come in, I was befuddled by bills from providers I'd never heard of, charges that didn't add up, errors in the calculation of my deductible, and--always--codes and cryptic explanations that I couldn't understand.

My favorite is "Payment reduced per sanctioning policy." What's a sanctioning policy? My health insurance company, United Healthcare of Minnesota, is sanctioning me for spending too much money?

To the Rescue
Help arrived in the person of Kelly Calden, whom I found in the Yellow Pages under "Insurance Claims Processing-Medical." Kelly came to my house and didn't even flinch when she saw the stack of unopened bills and statements. "Some people give me mounds of envelopes in laundry baskets," she says. "Some people have not dealt with the medical bills for two or three years."

First, she sorted out the mess, matching statements from providers with explanations of benefits from my insurance company. She threw away duplicates, filled out forms and sent in the ones that hadn't been submitted to my insurance company. Then, she checked for errors. She found several in the calculation of deductibles, and asked my insurance company to correct them and recalculate payments to the doctors and the hospital. So far, she has saved me $630. And we're not done.

Kelly has called or written to all of my health-care providers and has a contact at each one. She's tracking everything, following up regularly by phone or fax. "I let them know we're working on it and that we're not deadbeats," she says. "It's all very positive and very nice."

If a claim is denied, she doesn't stop working. "I don't accept the first denial," she says. "I question it on the phone and if I'm not satisfied I fax a note or letter asking for a response in writing."

What I get is a list of bills to pay, complete with addressed, stamped envelopes. I also get a clear, brief status report. Kelly charges $25 an hour, and so far her services have cost me $150. She expects to put in two to three hours a month handling my claims over the next couple of months.

What'll It Be: Nausea or Fatigue?
For me, Kelly is a bargain. I barely have the energy to eat dinner, let alone sort through the insurance. My doctors warned me before the chemo started that the two biggest side effects were likely to be nausea and fatigue. I've been lucky with the nausea--I haven't thrown up once.

But fatigue, a fancy word for being tired all the time, I understand. Before I started chemo, I wanted someone to quantify fatigue. "How tired?" I asked again and again in the early weeks of my care. "Give me numbers, give me hours-per-day. Will I be able to work? Play with my kids? Keep things running at home?"

And, of course, I got the standard answer: "It varies from person to person." Which is no answer at all.

A couple tales of deep fatigue:

The Monday after my second chemo, I fell apart in public. I worked from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m., ran a couple of errands, then went to my son Robin's school for a 2:30 p.m. parent conference. The family in the time slot ahead of us arrived late, and then took 50 minutes for their 20-minute conference.

And I fell apart. I started crying, and complaining to the teacher that I was just too tired for this and it was really unfair to make us wait so long.

Then, on Christmas Eve, the day of my sixth chemo, I was too tired to open my gifts. I lay on the couch and watched the kids open theirs and left mine till morning. The fatigue can come on very suddenly. And it's hard to predict; some weeks have been much easier than others.

In between, there are days when I feel pretty normal. I have energy and enthusiasm and joy. Those moments are treasures: As trite as it sounds, the sky is bluer; my love for my children and for life is more intense than ever. Paradoxically, rest is not the only thing, or even the best thing, for dealing with fatigue. Exercise is. Just a walk outside in the fresh air, even 15 minutes, can work wonders. One of my nurses tells me, "Exercise fights fatigue, right down to the cellular level." I don't entirely understand that, but it sure seems to be true.

Waking Up
It's been a week since my six-day hospital stay for depression. The antidepressants have kicked in and I feel much better. I'm still not sleeping much, and I have trouble writing. But I feel hopeful and have more energy, despite the chemo fatigue. I can talk to people, and I have an appetite again. And I'm planning a party to celebrate the end of my chemo, just three weeks from now.

I'll continue my treatment for depression past the end of the chemo, and my psychiatrist has suggested light therapy and an additional session of yoga a week. I like the idea of adding complementary therapies to the conventional medical approach, which seems to be drugs, drugs and more drugs.

@ Jeanne Sather 2006