Hey Fawn Vrazo,Your blog "anticipation....", leads...

2005-11-04T02:55:00.000-08:00

Hey Fawn Vrazo,

Your blog "anticipation....", leads me to believe you will find my information on preventing hair loss and other hair loss subjects to be beneficial.

You are also welcome to publish your own experiences on hair loss in my free directory ... sharing your knowledge will help others and you also get the benefit of recognition and a valuable backlink to your own blog. If you have a few minutes to spare, please have a look at my articles on hair loss now!

Best Wishes
Emily

These comments are from Michael Emery: Fawn, H...

2005-02-16T10:54:00.000-08:00

These comments are from Michael Emery:

Fawn,

Hi, I wanted to write and comment on your article in the Inquirer,
Sunday, January 30, 2005. I was diagnosed with testicular cancer in 2000 ... had surgery and subsequent radiation treatments.

It is amazing how you learn more about your body than you would have ever expected when something like this happens. Thankfully, the Internet is a wonderful research tool and gratefully a web site exists solely dedicated to this form of cancer. Anyway, a proverb they teach you is "that no one knows or cares about your body more than you do." I have
taken this as gospel as I have learned to "listen" to my body.

In response to some of these signs, I have also become very affluent with "Doctor speak." I have learned the language, CAT scan, PET Scan, with or without contrast, AHG levels, seminoma, non-seminoma, etc. I guess my next move should be to apply for an internship!

Anyway, I applaud your courage. When you are diagnosed with cancer a scarlet letter is permanently affixed to your mind as well as your body.

Each waking day is spent with "what ifs" and it can be overwhelming. I hope you have a church family as well as faith. This is the only way I have been able to cope with the feelings of anxiety I experience.

Additionally, I can say, we are a different group of people. We have
joined a very exclusive club and unfortunately the membership fee can be deadly. I can only hope our new "club" continues to learn through research and hope for cures.

Fawn, I can only offer prayers and encouragement. If you wish to
continue corresponding or if anyone needs information, assurance, hope, please feel free to contact me (michael@catalystintl.com,
215-389-3563).

Thanks, and God bless!

These comments are from Georgene Utter, who wrote ...

2005-02-16T09:43:00.000-08:00

These comments are from Georgene Utter, who wrote to me after reading one of my stories:

On February 10th, 2003 I was in the shower when my doctor called to tell me that I had endometrial cancer. I don’t remember the conversation at all. I had to call him back to actually hear the news again.

Your whole life changes in an instant. I had surgery on March 7, 2003 and although everyone was extremely confident that “they got everything”, my pathology report said that 4 out of 30 lymph nodes showed miniscule traces of cancer. Because of this, I had to have 29 external radiation treatments and 6 chemo treatments. My last chemo treatment was on October 8, 2003.

Here are a few things I wrote during this time.

LOSING MY HAIR

I thought that the worst part would be losing my hair, what little there was left of it. But losing my hair turned out to be the best part. It was the only part of the treatment that brought me joy and fun. I have a great head shape. The rest of my face stands out and just shines. I loved feeling my little bald head. I felt sexy and alive and free. I also want to get a tattoo that says “THIS END UP”. Every time I think of that, I crack up.

I agonized over losing my hair since the word “chemo” was used in conjunction with me. Such as “and you will have chemo treatments, too”. That word alone packs a walloping punch, sending you down for the count. Breathing stops automatically. Panting and crying set in at once. Begging follows soon after. And when they tell you that you will lose your hair, they don’t tell the story right. First, your hair starts to hurt. It is as if you can feel each strand on your head, and to lie your head down is almost agony. Each little hair seems to scream out in discomfort. Then your temples grow really hot. The next day, as you run your hands through your hair you will gather between 10-15 hairs each time. It just falls out. If it is windy, don’t talk. The hair that is falling will fall right into your open mouth. It falls into your food. The best course of action is to get your head shaved. You won’t believe how freeing it is.

Everyone tells you to get a wig before that, so you are ready for the baldness. I happen to love my baldness so I haven’t worn my wig. But I like looking at it. It makes me feel as if I am a performer with a show on the road, and there sits part of my costume. Who will I be this time?

BLOSSOMING

Everyone tells me how wonderful I look. I can’t tell if this is because I looked terrible before, or people are expecting me to look pale and gray. I look very much alive, and my face glows. This is probably just a reflection of the baldness of my head. It just doesn’t seem to me that you should come into your beauty during cancer treatments. This seems to be a little off center.

It is really nice to be complimented so much. The truth is that I feel pretty good most of the time. When I am not feeling good I usually don’t go out, because I am too tired to get dressed. I guess the real truth is that when I am having ugly days, people don’t see the sickness. To see the sickness is to see sunken eyes and dullness in me. The sickness shows up when the fatigue sets in.

It took awhile for my eyebrows and my eyelashes to fall out. Then I felt as if I looked like Uncle Fester from the Addams Family. This was pretty handy, because it was around Halloween. I had a built in costume, especially if I wore a black turtleneck, which I happen to wear all the time.

CANCERHEAD

Cancerhead is the worst side effect of having cancer. Everyone gets it, even if they don’t talk about it. Cancerhead is invisible, but you can see the side effects by the worried looks on survivor’s faces. It is the anxiety and fear we feel with each pain we experience or test result that we are waiting for.

Before cancer, having a blood test or going for a doctor’s exam was a pretty ordinary experience. Then one day you have an exam, or a test and you get a call that changes your life forever. At least I got a phone call. I was in the shower when my husband said “it’s Dr. XXX.” I knew right away that was not a good sign. I was right. Once you are diagnosed with cancer, it seems that every part of your body becomes suspect. The parts that had cancer – they are usually removed – may have let some little pesky cancer cells get free to wander around your body, looking for another target. This is what we worry about. The doctors schedule tests for you to have and then it seems as if time stands still until you get the results. We don’t start to worry after the test – that is just like icing on the cake. The worry begins as soon as we know we need a test or a visit. We examine the nurses and diagnostic people for any sign that may indicate the results of our procedure. We can read into anything that we see or hear until we get the “thumbs up”.

Other cancer survivors understand what you are experiencing and can remind you of all the different ways to defeat cancerhead. Or they can just let you ramble on about your fear. The best thing is that they understand what it’s like to wait.

Comments on Cancer Chronicles: anticipation....

Hey Fawn Vrazo,Your blog "anticipation....", leads...

These comments are from Michael Emery: Fawn, H...

These comments are from Georgene Utter, who wrote ...