The Wig

We can't agree on the wig. No, not "which wig". We can't agree on whether to get the wig. A wig. Any wig.

My Dad, who sports a crew cut, likes my bald head. In his opinion, it commands respect. And I look good without hair.

My Mother believes I should get a wig for social outings, important family celebrations such as Christmas, and for going back to work.

My Husband, who is half bald, rolls his eyes when I mention that I want to get a wig. (Maybe we can get a two for the price of one deal?) He questions me on my reasons for getting a wig. Well, family celebrations such as Christmas. "We all know you're bald, so why pretend?", he comments. Well, for going back to work then. "The hair will grow back won't it?", he replies. Men! Yes, the hair will grow back ... eventually. But not enough of it will grow back by the time I go back to work.

"So, you don't really care whether I have hair or not?", I ask. He nods. "Okay, in that case do you care whether I make dinner or not?". He sits up startled, "Yes!"

Zoladex

When you receive chemotherapy there is a high chance that it will leave you infretile.

Yes, no more babies, early menopause, risk of early osteoporosis. Not desirable. At my age, the risk is about 40%. High.

In a bid to reduce this risk the doctors try to shut down my ovaries during chemo. So they put me into a temporary menopause. They do this with a drug called Zoladex. In my case, it reduces the risk down to about 15%.

Zoladex comes in the form of an implant, administered by siringe into a fatty area of the body such as the stomach or the thigh. The treatment is repeated every 28 days for the duration of the chemo.

And I just wanted to say this ... that siringe is huge! I've only seen it once, but I swear that it's at least 3 to 4mm in diameter. That's why I've only seen it once. Once was enough. When you see that siringe, you just want to drop everything, and run in the opposite direction. It's mean. It's serious.

Out of all the things I have to do during chemo, getting the Zoladex is the most scary. It's short, but on the scariness scale, it rates.

Insomnia

Despite feeling nauseous and tired, I suffer from insomnia. Yes, I can't sleep. Not for the entire three weeks, of course, but for about four or five days following treatment. The doctor assures me it's common.

I walk daily, I try and do as many physical tasks around the house as I can manage. I get to bed at 11pm and read a book for an hour. Then it takes me another half an hour to fall asleep. By 6:30am (that's if I am lucky enough to sleep that long), I am ready to get up.

I lie in bed though, gazing at my sleeping husband. I know that when the alarm sounds, he will still be struggling to get up. I struggle to lie in bed. Of course I feel nauseous, and tired, but I can't sleep either! I don't care if it's common! It's annoying!!!

Chemo 3

There is a marked difference between me and the other cancer patients in the oncology ward. The other patients wear beautiful wigs, in a bid to make themselves look and feel normal. To blend in with the general public. To, perhaps, move a metre away from the fact that they are being treated for cancer. Not me.

I have dug out all my fancy ski hats, and I wear them in turn. Last time it was my red hat - a favourite pick up from St Anton, Austria. Today, I am wearing my blue and yellow striped, jester-style hat, with tassles that dangle below my waist. From Queenstown, New Zealand.

Whether out in the street, or in the oncology ward, I turn heads. People notice me. They check me out. In the oncology ward, everyone says "hello" as though we're old mates. The nurse introduces herself, "Hi, I am Violetta, I've noticed you before." I am glad.

I know why they notice me. Because the crazy hats scream "I've got cancer, and I am not scared!!!" I want some of that to rub off on them. I want them to get to the end of their day, and have a memory of that girl in a crazy hat, and I want that memory to bring a smile to their face.

My mum suggests that maybe we should go wig shopping. You know ... for the family Christmas celebration. I'm thinking of getting an even more crazy jester hat, with three curved pointed ends, a bell at each end.

The day before chemo 3

I'm scared. I am scared that they won't be able to find the vein, that I'll get heart palpitations, that I will put on 2kg in 2 hours. I am scared that I will have unbearable nausea afterwards. For days.

Who cares that after this session I will be half way through. Who cares about the spiritual journey. Who cares about the golden girl nurses. The long and short of it is - today I feel exceptionally good. Tomorrow, after my treatment I will feel terrible at best.

Of course, I have done enough long distance events in my life to understand the half way mark jitters. Approaching the half way mark is hard. Getting past it is even harder. And this is where I am at. And I understand this. But still, I'm scared.

Saving the tank

A year ago, or was it two?, our water tank cracked irreperably. So we had a special liner put inside the concrete tank, and all was well. Until it rained. Too much.

The leaves got washed out of the gutters, and into the tank, and they blocked the outlet pipe. And the tank kept filling up, and filling up, until it was 10% over the full mark. And then of course, it was over the liner. The water flowed between the liner and the concrete tank, and all of a sudden we had odd syphons of water coming out of the base of the concrete tank. What we didn't know, was whether we had damaged the liner or not.

Of course we unblocked the outlet pipe, but the water just wasn't draining fast enough. So how can you turn a miserable situation like this into a winner?

Well, after many years of drought, I just had the longest shower I can ever remember. Follwed by the fullest bath I have ever had in my entire life. Simply heaven.

And it looks like the tank and the liner are all fine. Phew!

The Ring

(Before I write this entry, I would like to make the reader aware that I have a beautiful engagement ring, and lovely wedding band. But I only wear these on special occasions, and sometimes to work. When I remember. My farm and horse riding tasks make it far too impractical to wear the rings all the time.)

Sabina has found a ring at school. It has a little butterfly on it, and it is very pretty. She promises that first thing on Monday morning she will put it into lost property at school. But in the meantime, she wears it on her middle finger with pride.

She skips in front of me, down the corridor. "Now I'm like a real mum", she says with joy.

The Kelpie

I have previously mentioned that I experience spiritual growth during my chemo. This is one aspect of it.

In my normal life (when I am not being treated for cancer) I do stuff. Lots of stuff. And I do it fast. Slowness of any kind drives me mad. I think fast too. Which means that I'm already executing a plan of action, while other people are still considering the problem. This is all very nice when I need to rely on myself, but doesn't work so well within a community.

I remember how once we went to see a Kelpie demonstration (a Kelpie is the Australian sheep dog). The farmer had two Kelpies. The Kelpies work together to bring in the sheep by driving the sheep, one Kelpie on each side of the sheep herd. But, he said, one of the Kelpies was too fast. Which means that the herd of sheep inefficiently zig zags across the paddock.

So, said the farmer, what do you do when one of your Kelpies is too fast? Well, you change him from fourth gear, down to third gear. And having said that, the farmer proceeded to put the Kelpie's front paw into his collar, so he became, effectively, a three legged dog.

Both Kelpies then ran across 40 acres of dusty fields, and brought back the herd of sheep. The three legged Kelpie was still a touch too fast.

Going through my cancer treatment, I feel like the three legged Kelpie. I feel like God has given me cancer to slow me down. So that I would be more useful in a community. At times I feel that I fight this slowness with tooth and nail. But every now and then, I actually stop, put my tools down, and "feel" what it's like to work at this slower pace.

Fire Plan

It might be raining madly this weekend, but the honest truth is, that the so called "fire season" is approaching. That is, a season, where a bushfire can start and flare out of control in minutes, and arrive at you doorstep at any time of day or night.

Now, we know what happened the last time a bushfire arrived at our doorstep (well, close enough anyway). We looked in the "fire box" and asked "where is that piece of paper that tells us what to do?"

So today we sit down and draw up our fire plan. We decide that the house is "defendable", and in the event of bushfire danger we will stay and defend our house. We go through a thorough list, which includes items such as water, power, clothes, perparatory clean up, first aid and animals.

We open up the fire box and review the items. This is Sabina's favourite part. She puts a hankie over her nose, holds it down with her goggles, and puts her gloves on. She then proceeds to dance around the room with joy.