Tour de California & Tour de France

On the last day of the Tour de France, it is fitting that I found the list of those whose names are on the Radio Shack bikes.  (It appeared while I was in the hospital.)

27 cancer survivors, carers and relatives made it.  At No. 37, my friends, family, supporters and strangers got Nick and me awfully close.

Thanks you.

How Well Do I Know My Body? (Graphic-ish)+

We've already noted that one of the first casualties of my cancer was shame, so I thought to evaluate my current condition -- on my blog, so I couldn't take it back.

I am having a good week. I feel human for the first time since, maybe, June. Here are some of the things I've noted that I can check out tomorrow when I go for chemo.

• I've stopped sleeping ALL the time.
• I've made lunch (full meal) twice this week.
• I've fed the dogs twice (maybe 3 times) my very self.
• I've walked the dogs (with Nick) twice (maybe 3 times).
• I've gone back to house planning -- working out the lighting for the terrace and garden.
• I've gone back to finishing the bathroom. Working on a shower curtain system. And sewing.
  
• The catheter is moving. Well, it moves frequently; I can tell because of the different discomfort and a very minor amount of blood. But this time I think it's descending. That means it passage is widening enough to let it slip. This is good news and bad news. Bad news: slippage makes for more leakage. Good news: urethra has less pressure on it.
• I have had a normal bowel movement three days in a row, for the first time since I can remember, but certainly before June. (This is the no shame part.) That would mean (to me) the my intestine is less constricted.

I find it hard to believe that one chemo treatment has done this much, but tomorrow I might be able to get some information, pro or con, on my thesis.

Hubris & Nemesis

En français ci-dessous.

2nd edition with French translation. Warning: Using the French translation for academic purposes could be dangerous for your grades and ambitions.

* * *

I've been bragging on the French health system. Well, everyone's got problems. I'll try to keep to the short version.

As near as I can figure, another hospital is having staffing problems and the oncologist from my hospital is spending half her time there. Or something. Whatever, she has not responded to any of my phone calls for 3 or 4 weeks, so that I haven't been able to complain, yet again, that the current chemo protocol is totally ineffective.

In addition to being able to feel the tumours with my fingers, I am losing control of my bladder. To empty it requires pushing on my stomach and there are occasional leaks. I believe, but may be wrong, that the sciatica that is crippling me is not caused by my usual back problem, but the tumors pressing on the nerve. So, finally, I arranged for a scan elsewhere, had a series of blood tests and, yesterday, saw an oncologist at the cancer institute in Avignon.

The bad news: My CA-125 is over 2000, again, the tumours have about doubled in size (I knew that without the scan) and have probably invaded my kidneys. I have an appointment with a urologist in Orange tomorrow afternoon and there is the possibility of radiology or surgery following that. He'll do the evaluation.

The good news: I have an appointment at the Léon Béard Center in Lyon next Friday. It is "the reference" for research/treatment centers in the region.

How I feel: Angry, leg in constant pain, not very mobile, pissed off, not exactly frightened, but somewhere in there, tired (platelets down to 35), annoyed and vulnerable.

* * *

Mauvaise traduction du blog:

Je vantais le systeme des soins en France. Or, tout le monde a des problèmes. En court:

J'entends dire que l'hôpital de Montpellier manque des médecins et l'oncologue de l'hôpital de Montélimar passe une partie de son temps là-bas. N'importe. Elle n'a pas répondu à mes coups de fils depuis 3 ou 4 semaines, donc je n'était pas pu me plaindre, encore, que le protocol actuel de la chimio est completement inefficace.

Je peux toucher les tumeurs avec des doigts et je perds la mâtrise de la vessie. Il faut pousser sur la ventre pour la vider et, des fois, il y a des fuites. Je crois -- mais peût-être en erreur -- que la sciatique que me fait estropiée vient de la pression des tumeurs, pas du disque. Enfin, j'ai eu le scanner ailleurs, a fait faire une prise de sang et, hier, a vu un oncologue à l'Institut Sainte Catherine à Avignon.

Les mauvaises nouvelles: Le CA-125 est à plus de 2000 de nouveau, les tumeurs sont deux fois la taille qu'ils ont eu en mai (j'ai le dirais sans scanner) et ont envahi les reins. J'ai un rendez-vous avec un urologue à Orange demain soir et il y aura la possibilité de la radiologie our la chirugie après. L'urologue déciderait.

Les bonnes nouvelles: J'ai un rendez-vous avec un oncologue au Centre Léon Bérard à Lyon, la réference des soins pour la région, vendredi, 7 aôut.

Comment je vais en moi: fachée, jambe douleureuse, pas très mobile, fachée, pas exactement peureuse, mais un peu, fatiguée (plaquettes à 35), fachée, et vulnerable.

Squatters

First of all, my GP explained the chemo thing to me. Chemo is hard on your system, to put it mildly. It damages more than the cancer cells. So, if the cancer is inactive, they prefer not to give you chemo.

As to exactly what is left beside the two main tumours, she said to come in after my next scan and we'd go over it.

I like my GP and feel kind of bad that we are leaving her because WE ARE MOVING!

We still don't know what the hearing was about, but . . . let me back up: Inheritance law in France is unique. Napolean wanted to break the tradition of the aristocracy and the landed gentry leaving everything to the eldest son (primogeniture; it's what makes those vast estates in England to this day), so now the law is this: Your spouse is entitled to 1/4 of all your property and has the right to live in your house for the duration. Your parents and your children are entitled to equal shares. It's more complicated than that, but that will do for discussion.

So, consider. A couple die and they had 7 children. The property is divided equally among the 7. Some have died, though, and their shares devolve equally on their children. You now have many, many heirs who are scattered to the four winds, some of whom don't talk to each other. None of them want the damned house, anyway.

You come along as a buyer. The heirs, including those who have been lost for thirty years and must be traced, have to agree a price and the division of spoils. Need I say more?

Back to the present, we are dealing with an uncle and his nephew, who appear to be acting on behalf of the rest of the family. Both have their own notaires -- do you get a feeling of family harmony here? -- and both notaires have hired their own liquidateur-judicière. The l-js are dealing with the debt (back taxes and mortgages) and the judge.

One of the l-js, probably, asked for the most recent hearing before the judge. The judge ruled favourably and the release was sent by one of the l-js to our notaire. But not the other. ("He agrees, he agrees," say our notaire and estate agent, "The paper is only a formality." A formality, without which, we cannot sign the contract.

Earlier this week, I called our notaire and the estate agent and said that the following day was the last day we could cancel the contract, so I was going to. We couldn't take the chance that everything would be postponed indefinitely. Cutting to the result:

We have a letter from the uncle and his nephew saying that we can move in as of Wednesday of this week. And that, if the signing date gets postponed for whatever reason, we are still the buyers and we get the house.

And the second l-j has sent through the paperwork.

So we're moving. Over the next two weeks.

Whew!

How Do You Feel?

Dedicated to all those who wrote to me and to Nick in the past couple of weeks and all those who rallied 'round to help Nick move into our temporary flat, to those who didn't yet get the news and those who happened to pause at this blog out of idle curiosity.

A couple of weeks ago, when I got what I thought was the usual bladder infection, I took the usual bladder infection medicine that I keep on hand. When it didn't do its usual job, I went to the doctor. Hmm, she thought it might be stones or, even, cysts and sent me for a sonogram. That doctor thought it might be cysts or something worse and sent me for an MRI, a CAT scan and blood tests, including marker indicators. The MRI guy thought I might have an infection, which is one of the things the markers can indicate and my GP was willing to go along with that. The CAT scan guy mumbled some of the same stuff, but when I asked flat out, “Do you think it's cancer,” he answered, “Yes,” and marched me over to the other side of the clinic to meet with the surgeon. The surgeon sent me home to pack and return the same afternoon to the hospital for surgery. That was last Monday.

I've lived the last 25 years in fear and terror of breast cancer. My mother died after her cancer had spread to every part of her body. My maternal grandmother had done likewise 25 years before that. And my aunt, my mother's sister, was a breast cancer survivor. Was. I don't know if she still is. She stopped talking to the family many years ago, but that's another story. I have a mammogram every year. Which is still clear, by the way.

Two years ago, when the endocrinologist found the tumours on my thyroid, my reaction (out loud, to Nick) was a terrified, “But I'm supposed to die of breast cancer, not thyroid cancer”! Anyway, the thyroid tumours appear to be benign, if lack of growth is an indication.

Back to the present, I went into the hospital on Monday and was operated on on Wednesday. Thursday morning, waiting for the good or bad news, I got the bad news. I'm not wholly clear on this, but I think the tumours have spread around my abdomen and /or are too big, so the surgeon just closed me up, again. He wants me to have a few months of chemotherapy to reduce the size or the tumours and then he will operate. He's making the appointment with the oncologist (23 August) and then perhaps all be clearer.

Since I don't know exactly what is wrong, I have no prognosis. So far, they've been easing me into the knowledge, sort of a day at a time. Also things could be worse than they're telling me. So I should be panicked, right?

Wrong. I feel like the usual me.

Maybe it's shock. Or maybe the antidepressants I've been on for the last few years (paroxetine) are even better than I think they are . Or, maybe it's the report I read last week about France having the best cancer treatment in the world (along with the United States, but here it's so much more universal). Or gratitude for not being in the U.K. (rated somewhere with the rest of the third world). Or it could be that age has made me into a philosopher. Or. . . damned if I know.

I realise I could die. And it seems better to face that possibility, since we're on the verge of buying land for a house that we intend(ed) to build ourselves. Even if I come out of this alive, I'm obviously not going to be in any shape for housebuilding for a few months, so it had to be discussed. Like, can Nick build the house while I keep him company or should we buy one? If I die, will Nick be better off in the village where he knows people or in Nyons where there are more distractions available? So we discuss it.

But I don't feel bad or sad or scared. I feel like. . . normal. Just get on with it and see what happens. I'm going to die – or not. It will be soon – or not. I don't know a whole helluva lot more than I knew a couple of weeks ago about my mortality, so I don't feel a lot different.

Some of my decisions, of course, have to take an imminent death into consideration; things like, uh, maybe I won't get a new puppy for awhile. On the other hand, the clinic where I currently reside is about 150 meters from a small shopping centre and, since they want me to get out and walk, yesterday I walked to the hypermarket and bought a pretty set of towels (slate blue and mocha; I'm planning on brown for the new bathroom) and new sheets for our new queen-sized bed (which we haven't bought yet). And a T-shirt, 7 pairs of knickers (a sale), and a kitchen timer.

There you have it. The new me and the old me, one and the same.

This status report should get rid of some awkward questions, like: what do you say? Answer: the normal things. You can ask questions, too, about my treatment or how I'm feeling physically or whatever you're curious about, just as you would about my thyroid treatment or myriad knee injuries. I don't mind. Shame about the puppy, though.

P.S. Our phone is being transferred to the apartment and we won't have the internet for 10 days. The next time you hear from me will be from the hotel/restaurant/bar up the road where they've just installed wifi.