Days of Trodelvy and Hair Loss

It's been great having hair, even if it looks like a toilet brush. But I'll be Yul-Brynnerish sometime in the next twelve days. So long, eyebrows! Been good to know you. Bye-bye eyelashes. Hello, looks-like-I-chugged five Schnapps look (the cortisone to combat nausea). Hello snoring (the anti-allergenic). 

"Trodelvy"--they all have such evocative names, these cancer drugs. I think of trolls digging and delving somewhere underground, Grieg's Hall of the Mountain Kings playing in the background. 

I'm not far off with "dig and delve" either. My doctor is digging deep for the right drug and everybody's delving for another rabbit to whip out of a hat. But remember that children's rhyme:

One, two, buckle my shoe,

Three, four, shut the door

Five, six, pick up sticks

Seven, eight, lay them straight

Nine, ten, a big fat hen

Eleven, twelve, dig and delve . . . .

The rhyme goes on, but by the time you're on your eleventh or twelfth line of treatment, they're starting the real dig-and-delve. 

The Trodelvy experience, so far, hasn't been anywhere near as bad as Avastin, Paclitaxel, Epirubicin, Cyclophosphamide, or the capacetabine or the Letrozole or the Ibrance and the Faslodex or the Everolimus/Exemestane combo. Or the Enhertu, which my lawyer twisted my insurance company's arm to get. Thank you, wonderful lawyer! If only the stuff had worked.

The Trodelvy doesn't make me feel that bad, actually. Maybe I'll even go to the gym. If it works, yay! If it doesn't, I'm up the proverbial creek without the fabled paddle.