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@Christina: I looked at your entry on the Chemo History thread. I didn't know you were going into surgury after the chemos. My overall impression is that everyone is so much worse off than I am. It's misleading because I feel perfectly normal now and will until 48 hours after the next (and third of four) chemos, and even then it's not that bad. I feel selfish and self-centered, talking about my own health problems when everyone else's are so much worse.
My greatest fear is that after the four chemos, there will still be cancer, or cancer somewhere else. And I'll never escape it. 90% (recovery rate) is not the same as 100%.
I'm sorry about your grandmother. I'm 61 so naturally, I've lost all my grandparents, not to mention my parents. But you still have her and that is wonderful for you, and for her.
The fear that you might not be in the 90% is common. It is something that raced through my head. Then right out, I wasn't going to let cancer do that to me. So I gave it the middle finger and trusted that the chemo would be effective. The followups were what bothered me. I always had a nagging fear, it didn't get easier as time went on.
My first follow up appointment post chemo I was sick to my stomach. The CT scan and doctors visit made me nervous.
Yeah, I'm a sorry excuse for an intellectual (if that's what I am??); I watched Rocky II this afternoon, and cried. Those films always inspire me. I'm not much of an athlete, but I have made several come-backs as a musician. I'd like another one. Followed by an honorable teaching career and long vacations by the sea.
One of my students made it into the youth symphony; I seem to have very young ones or older ones I'm coaching. The ones in middle ground all went away to college.
I get mad at my body for doing this to me.
After the chemo, when he could still walk, one of his friends accompanied my father to the doctor, who told him he still had cancer. Dad's friend told me that dad cried. And I could see all of it in my mind's eye, as if I were absorbing the experience from this man, who was my father's friend but whom I really didn't know at all. I'm afraid the same will happen to me.
That last paragraph wasn't bad. I've been struggling with how to start this book of letters I'm transcribing, which were written by my dad to my mother during the second world war. Now I've got my entry:
After the chemo, when he could still walk, one of his friends accompanied my father to the doctor, who told him he still had cancer. Dad's friend told me that dad cried. And I could see all of it in my mind's eye, as if I were absorbing the experience from this man, who was my father's friend but whom I really didn't know at all. I'm afraid the same will happen to me.
I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer two months ago, had surgery and am undergoing four treatments of chemotherapy. I am not very ill, the tumor was encapsulated and I have only Stage1 cancer with a 90% recovery rate. I will probably be fine, but I am 61 years old an want to transcribe these letters before they get lost in time.
These are the letters my father wrote to my mother during his experiences as a bombardier in WWII.
There are over 1,000 letters here and it's very hard work, but I think I'd better try to finish the project. I'll attach their photo. Dad died from lymphoma and mom followed, not that long afterwards.
In transcribing these letters (very hard to do), a friend of mine, Clara Menuhin (neice of Yehudi) asked me if they were love letters. And I just now got the title of my book: Love Letters to Marie: A WWII Correspondence.
I had no idea what to call the book until this minute; several people suggested titles with "Wings" in then. But dad wasn't a pilot, he was a bombadier.
It's physically painful to transcribe these letters (and occasionally scan the graphics in), because I have to sit still for long periods of time. It's also emotionally draining. The material is so personal. There are at least 1,000 letters. I have them in manilla folders, divided by months.
When the book is done and up on Amazon, I'll let people know.
Back to work!
Last edited by SouthernBelleInUtah; 05-21-2012 at 09:30 AM..
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Love that photo!
I don't like to think that anyone is "better" or "worse" off than anyone else. None of it is good...if we are well enough to be on the internet reading and typing here, it could be worse.
My consult with the surgeon is June 6th. (I had the lump removed in February with surrounding tissue, but they did not get clear margins). What if, after all this chemo, they take out the tissue and there is still cancer in it? I wanted to ask that today when I met with my oncologist's physician assistant, but I chickened out at the last minute. I need to ask next week.
I've got 400 letters to transcribe; in '43 he wrote mother nearly every day and sometimes twice a day. As his squadron moved into the European theater the letters become less frequent. I've got 3/4 of '43 done but I suspect the really interesting ones are coming up.
As I read about how my dad felt, it's very, very emotional. I think one could make the case that doing these now in the midst of my chemo is maybe not a good idea. I have no idea whether its the wrong thing to do or not. I just want to do this.
The cover of the book is beautiful. I'm very proud of this.
My friend's uncle has Lung cancer which now spread to his liver and esophagus.=(
I'm sorry to hear that, Tony22. Wish there was more to say.
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