Frumpy Middle-aged Mom: This is what happens when you have chemo brain

Oops. And double oops. If you are among the thundering hordes who called, wrote and emailed me that I made a mistake in last week’s column, thank you for that. I mixed up the Y and X chromosomes that women and men have that make them gender specific. I’m not explaining any more, because I’ll probably get it wrong again. What’s annoying about this is that I made a point of looking it up so I could get it right in my column, like any responsible journalist would. And then I still wrote it down wrong.

This is what happens when you’ve bombarded your body with 18 months of toxic chemicals, heavy metals and radiation. It’s called chemo brain. And I’ve got it. I call the dog by my son’s name. I call my friends by the dog’s name, because I’ve forgotten theirs. I need to just start addressing everyone as “Hey you” because at least it’s hard to mess that one up.

Now, some of you keep writing to me and saying, “What the heck? Why aren’t you telling us what’s going on with your health?” So I’m going to answer that question now, and if you don’t want to think about cancer, then come back next week.

Because it’s not a totally happy picture. I was on this new immunotherapy treatment for several months and got very excited, because my cancer numbers started plummeting. I started making plans for my future, which is something I hadn’t done for quite awhile. My oncologist just looked at me and smiled as I waxed poetic about how I was going to beat this cancer, even though it’s a particularly mean and nasty one that kills almost everyone.

Eventually, though, I discovered why she just smiled without commenting, because, hello, it stopped working. Somehow, like a villain in Marvel comics, the cancer found a way to survive and beat back the Forces of Good. At the same time, the immunotherapy started making me so flipping sick that I ended up in the hospital. So, goodbye, immunotherapy. It was nice while it lasted.

I went back to the oncologist and she basically said, “I got nothin’ for you.” Like Jeff Probst on “Survivor.” We’d run through all the treatments available, except the ones that were unlikely to work but make you mondo sick anyway. She told me to enjoy (what was left of) my life and finish my bucket list. Then she laughed. “Oh yeah, you’ve already been to the Galapagos,” she said and I laughed, too.

The fact that there were no treatments available and they expected me to die soon meant that I was now eligible for Kaiser hospice, which I liked a lot, because they gave me a lot of free stuff and free services like an adorable lady named Susana who came twice a week to give me a spa-quality bath. No Glen Ivy for me. They also gave me the kinds of hard drugs, like morphine, that I probably would have liked when I was in my 20s but now I just worried would get me addicted.

In any event, I really had no intention of dying soon, especially because the COVID rules mean I couldn’t have the kind of crazy funeral I want. Forget that. I’m not going anywhere until I can hand out tiaras at my funeral along with tequila shots.

So, I went to get a second opinion at the City of Hope in Duarte, which is one of the most esteemed cancer centers in the world. Kaiser wouldn’t pay, so I paid out of my own pocket. This is well worth it, my friends. You need to always be in charge of your own health care. Don’t wait for the doctor to tell you what to do, because he or she really doesn’t have a dog in your fight, if you know what I mean. Get a second opinion.

Anyway, the City of Hope doctor persuaded me to try a treatment I’d rejected before, because it can give you congestive heart failure and only works 20 percent of the time. “A one-in-five chance is better than a zero-in-five chance,” she told me. So I agreed. Even though I dreaded having yet more toxic chemicals dumped into me.

I can get the treatment from Kaiser, so I won’t have to pay extra for it. I’ve already had the 87 tests they give you to make sure you can stand the infusion.

So, hooray, I get to go back to the chemo infusion center, where they hand out margaritas and mimosas all day long. OK, that’s a lie. They don’t give you any booze, no matter how much you beg. Trust me on that one.  I’m still a huge gimp from the last treatments, so we’ll see how I do this time.

If you want more updates sooner, join my Facebook page at facebook.com/FrumpyMiddleagedMom. We have fun on there. Meanwhile, don’t hold your breath. You won’t be getting rid of me any time soon.

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