A mom, a dad and two daughters. We're living ordinary lives with a twist of 5p- (Cri du Chat) for spice. But we're about so much more than our younger daughter's genetic diagnosis.
Showing posts with label Cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cancer. Show all posts
Friday, September 25, 2020
Impersonator
Tom’s been looking for a used car to purchase for his and Alyssa’s use. The one she currently drives to school and work is fine as long as it starts but that’s the iffy part, so he wants something a bit more reliable.
He’s been perusing FB marketplace for vehicles.
But see, the thing is, he doesn’t actually have a FB account. He doesn’t seem to think it’s necessary for him to have an account because I have one and I can keep in touch with his sisters and extended family for him.
Huh.
Of course this means that he’s using my account to look at vehicles and message the owners.
I don’t actually care that he’s doing this. What’s the big deal?
Well, the big deal comes along when he messages these people and pretends to be me talking to them, saying things like, “My husband is the one who will be coming to look at the car. I’ll hurry him along.”
Yeah. I have never ‘hurried him along’ in all the years of our marriage.
But this isn’t even that big a deal. It’s kind of funny to read the messages he sends out in which he’s impersonating me.
But then he was communicating with a woman who is selling her vehicle and she mentioned that her son would be the one to show my husband the car because she is in the hospital receiving chemo or leukemia.
Tom, pretending to be me, said to her, something along the lines of: Sorry to hear about the chemo. I went through that for breast cancer a few years ago. Just keep the faith and everything will be fine.
You guys, please tell me that you KNOW I wouldn’t say that?
Okay, so no, I didn’t actually say it but she thinks I did and it’s just so trite. No one who has been through cancer treatments would say that!
We’d say something like, “Oh, I’m so sorry you’re going through chemo. That sucks so much. I’m wishing you the best.”
We would not tell her to ‘keep the faith’ and ‘everything will turn out okay.’
It doesn’t always turn out okay, damn it! And those of us who have faced serious health issues know this. We don’t say that to each other. We just don’t.
It’s kind of like those of us who’ve had a child in the NICU or suffered a loss. We don’t say things like, “Well, at least you know you can get pregnant” to a woman who’s recently suffered a miscarriage.
We don’t say things like, “Hey, at least you have one baby” to someone who’s lost one of their twins.
We know the odds aren’t always in our favor. We know that things can go bad from one heartbeat to the next.
Keep the faith? Are you fucking kidding me?
I ought to slap him for that. I know he meant well. I know that; which is why I’m taking deep breaths and thinking before I speak. I just…I don’t know how to explain to him why what he wrote was wrong. I don’t think he’d get it and it would probably hurt his feelings.
So…I’m letting it all out here and reminding any readers who haven’t been through sucky times to maybe think about this stuff and how they might want someone to respond to them if they were to suffer something horrific.
Just think about it.
Friday, August 21, 2020
Three Years
August 21, 2017 was a Monday. The details are still so clear in my head.
This was the seventeenth anniversary of when I started my job (at the time).
Bigger still, though, it was the day I was told I had cancer. I knew it was coming. My doctor had called me the day before but I hadn’t been near my phone and so wasn’t able to answer.
Doctors do not call you on the weekends with good news.
I called my doctor’s office at 9am the next morning, Monday, August 21, 2017. I was at work because, why not? I didn’t feel sick, there was no reason not to work.
He took my call right away. Again, not a good thing.
He told me right there over the phone that the biopsy came back saying I had cancer. But he didn’t want to go into details on the phone. He asked me if I could come to his office that afternoon. He wanted my husband to be there too.
I called Tom and gave him the news. I asked him if he could meet me at the doctor’s office at 2:30.
I called my mom and asked her if she could meet the girls’ bus at 3:10 at our house. I explained the situation. She cried.
I hadn’t cried at that point. I mean…why? We didn’t know how bad things were yet. I wanted to save my tears for when they might actually be needed.
But I get it. I totally get why my mom cried. If I were told one of my children had cancer, no matter how old those children were (I was 46) I’d cry too.
I continued to work, because what else could I do?
Tom and I met at the doctor’s office. Dr. S was very kind. He explained that my cancer was invasive ductal cancer. It was triple negative. He said I’d need to meet with the surgeon but it might take weeks before I could get in.
At that point, his nurse came and told us that she’d contacted the surgeon’s office and had gotten me in to see him that same week, on Thursday, at 3pm. Dr. S was surprised that Dr. B had an opening.
I was not surprised. It felt very much like divine intervention at work. Just like those nights I’d lay awake, thinking about the pain in my left breast. There was no lump that I could feel. It was too deep. But I knew that pain wasn’t normal.
From there, things just snowballed. Meet the surgeon, get chest x-ray, get breast MRI with contract, schedule surgery (September 5). Meet the oncologist. Get port placed. Set up appointment with chemo nurse (Kyla) for chemo education. Set up appointment for first chemo. Second chemo; two days after that second chemo treatment, my hair started falling out and I was bald all the way into the 16th chemo. Meet with Parkview billing because OF COURSE my treatment was going to span two years and I’d have a whole new deductible to meet. This woman was awesome. She found me a program that would pay up to $5000 toward my Taxol chemo. Guess who much my twelve infusions of Taxol cost? That’s right, exactly $5000.
After chemo was done it’s time to get port removed, meet with radiation oncologist, feel terrible about self for a few days because while he was kind, he was the first doctor in all these doctors I’ve seen and who have seen my stupid boobs to make me feel like maybe the cancer was my fault. Get over myself, schedule appointment to get fitted for brace that I will lay in for my five minutes of radiation that will take place every week day for seven weeks, for a total of 35 treatments.
Schedule first radiation, get through all 35, ‘graduate’ from radiation.
And…done.
Except of course once you’ve been through cancer treatments, you never really feel done. Every twinge, every new ache must be the cancer coming back. It can’t possibly be that I’m getting old and I’m way too fat.
I still see my chemo oncologist every six months. This past June I was released from seeing my radiation oncologist. I see the surgeon once a year. His office schedules my mammograms. I’ve had one more breast MRI (with contrast.)
I’m doing okay. I’m here and I’m so very grateful for that. Every single day is a gift that I don’t appreciate nearly enough what with my irritability and being tired. But that’s life. We can’t be all sunshine and roses every second of every day.
But I do try and take a minute each day to be grateful. I’m grateful to God for His grace and His love. I’m grateful to the doctors and nurses and technicians and billing clerks and hematologists and receptionists who were always so kind to me. Who always treated me like a person, someone going through a traumatic experience rather than a number, someone to push through the program.
I would like for this to have all meant something but it doesn’t always have to. Sometimes, it’s just one chapter in the book of your life. And that’s okay too. But sometimes, like on days like this, I feel the need to go back and reread that chapter, if only to see how far I’ve come.
This was the seventeenth anniversary of when I started my job (at the time).
Bigger still, though, it was the day I was told I had cancer. I knew it was coming. My doctor had called me the day before but I hadn’t been near my phone and so wasn’t able to answer.
Doctors do not call you on the weekends with good news.
I called my doctor’s office at 9am the next morning, Monday, August 21, 2017. I was at work because, why not? I didn’t feel sick, there was no reason not to work.
He took my call right away. Again, not a good thing.
He told me right there over the phone that the biopsy came back saying I had cancer. But he didn’t want to go into details on the phone. He asked me if I could come to his office that afternoon. He wanted my husband to be there too.
I called Tom and gave him the news. I asked him if he could meet me at the doctor’s office at 2:30.
I called my mom and asked her if she could meet the girls’ bus at 3:10 at our house. I explained the situation. She cried.
I hadn’t cried at that point. I mean…why? We didn’t know how bad things were yet. I wanted to save my tears for when they might actually be needed.
But I get it. I totally get why my mom cried. If I were told one of my children had cancer, no matter how old those children were (I was 46) I’d cry too.
I continued to work, because what else could I do?
Tom and I met at the doctor’s office. Dr. S was very kind. He explained that my cancer was invasive ductal cancer. It was triple negative. He said I’d need to meet with the surgeon but it might take weeks before I could get in.
At that point, his nurse came and told us that she’d contacted the surgeon’s office and had gotten me in to see him that same week, on Thursday, at 3pm. Dr. S was surprised that Dr. B had an opening.
I was not surprised. It felt very much like divine intervention at work. Just like those nights I’d lay awake, thinking about the pain in my left breast. There was no lump that I could feel. It was too deep. But I knew that pain wasn’t normal.
From there, things just snowballed. Meet the surgeon, get chest x-ray, get breast MRI with contract, schedule surgery (September 5). Meet the oncologist. Get port placed. Set up appointment with chemo nurse (Kyla) for chemo education. Set up appointment for first chemo. Second chemo; two days after that second chemo treatment, my hair started falling out and I was bald all the way into the 16th chemo. Meet with Parkview billing because OF COURSE my treatment was going to span two years and I’d have a whole new deductible to meet. This woman was awesome. She found me a program that would pay up to $5000 toward my Taxol chemo. Guess who much my twelve infusions of Taxol cost? That’s right, exactly $5000.
After chemo was done it’s time to get port removed, meet with radiation oncologist, feel terrible about self for a few days because while he was kind, he was the first doctor in all these doctors I’ve seen and who have seen my stupid boobs to make me feel like maybe the cancer was my fault. Get over myself, schedule appointment to get fitted for brace that I will lay in for my five minutes of radiation that will take place every week day for seven weeks, for a total of 35 treatments.
Schedule first radiation, get through all 35, ‘graduate’ from radiation.
And…done.
Except of course once you’ve been through cancer treatments, you never really feel done. Every twinge, every new ache must be the cancer coming back. It can’t possibly be that I’m getting old and I’m way too fat.
I still see my chemo oncologist every six months. This past June I was released from seeing my radiation oncologist. I see the surgeon once a year. His office schedules my mammograms. I’ve had one more breast MRI (with contrast.)
I’m doing okay. I’m here and I’m so very grateful for that. Every single day is a gift that I don’t appreciate nearly enough what with my irritability and being tired. But that’s life. We can’t be all sunshine and roses every second of every day.
But I do try and take a minute each day to be grateful. I’m grateful to God for His grace and His love. I’m grateful to the doctors and nurses and technicians and billing clerks and hematologists and receptionists who were always so kind to me. Who always treated me like a person, someone going through a traumatic experience rather than a number, someone to push through the program.
I would like for this to have all meant something but it doesn’t always have to. Sometimes, it’s just one chapter in the book of your life. And that’s okay too. But sometimes, like on days like this, I feel the need to go back and reread that chapter, if only to see how far I’ve come.
Friday, November 29, 2019
Notes to Self
You don’t have to tell every single person you come into contact with that you’ve had cancer and been through chemo.
You don’t have to bring up the lymphedema every chance you get.
No one really cares.
So yes, they make all the right noises when you bring it up but you could just…not.
Practice a little introspection and figure out why you feel the need to share that stuff with everyone.
Do you want them to feel sorry for you?
Is it because you want them to appreciate all your glorious post-chemo hair?
Is it because you feel like a freaking hero for all that you’ve been through?
Well, guess what? Everyone has been through their own hell. They don’t necessarily need to know about yours.
Maybe you’re hoping to make yourself approachable. Is it working?
Are you looking for a common bond among your fellow humans?
I’ll be honest, that’s annoying as hell. So maybe just stop. Stop telling people about the dry mouth that comes from chemo. Stop making a circle around your face and saying something along the lines of, “This is nineteen months of growth.”
Stop mentioning the lymphedema, stop drawing attention to the compression sleeve. Stop talking about cancer altogether.
If people want to talk to you about it, they’ll bring it up.
Is it obvious that I’m annoying the shit out of myself these days? Time to breathe and stop being so hard on myself I guess.
You don’t have to bring up the lymphedema every chance you get.
No one really cares.
So yes, they make all the right noises when you bring it up but you could just…not.
Practice a little introspection and figure out why you feel the need to share that stuff with everyone.
Do you want them to feel sorry for you?
Is it because you want them to appreciate all your glorious post-chemo hair?
Is it because you feel like a freaking hero for all that you’ve been through?
Well, guess what? Everyone has been through their own hell. They don’t necessarily need to know about yours.
Maybe you’re hoping to make yourself approachable. Is it working?
Are you looking for a common bond among your fellow humans?
I’ll be honest, that’s annoying as hell. So maybe just stop. Stop telling people about the dry mouth that comes from chemo. Stop making a circle around your face and saying something along the lines of, “This is nineteen months of growth.”
Stop mentioning the lymphedema, stop drawing attention to the compression sleeve. Stop talking about cancer altogether.
If people want to talk to you about it, they’ll bring it up.
Is it obvious that I’m annoying the shit out of myself these days? Time to breathe and stop being so hard on myself I guess.
Tuesday, August 13, 2019
Two Years
Around this time two years ago, the employees in the plant where I worked were assembled and informed that Corporate was closing our facility. We were told that by December 31, we would all be out of a job. They told us that we’d receive a ‘stay bonus’ if we continued to work until December 31. We’d get a severance package whether we stayed or not. That would include a week’s worth of pay for every year of service we had with the company.
I’d sensed the coming of this announcement. There were just too many meetings taking place behind closed doors, super stealth whispering going on, weird phone called with doors being closed.
I was also a little preoccupied by the pain in my left breast. I’d seen my regular doctor by this point two years ago and he was all about waiting and seeing.
I was also seeing a doctor about my stupid left foot. I’d been diagnosed with tendonitis and plantar fasciitis. Whee, my left side is a real disaster zone.
I’d just recently decided that waiting and seeing about that weird pain was a bad idea. I hadn’t actually seen my gynecologist yet but I was psyching myself up to make the call. Each night, I’d promise myself that if the pain was still there the next morning, I’d call.
We all know that I did finally call.
I’m edging in on my one year anniversary at my new/current job. It’s fine. I’ve had a couple of good reviews with my immediate supervisor as well as the lady with whom I work the most closely. So…that’s good, right? I don’t want to be stupid and say something like, “Yeah, it’s going great!” because yeah, we all know the universe is just waiting to slap people who say things like that right the hell down.
I just…keep waiting for the next thing to happen.
I mean, right? Isn’t that the way things have been for a while?
Every time management closes a door, I think, “Here it comes.”
Each time I have an appointment with a doctor, I wonder, “Will this be the time the give me bad news again?”
I know, logically, that the odds of that happening are slim. But…the odds of getting triple negative breast cancer at 46 years old were slim too. So forgive me for feeling a little stressed sometimes.
For anyone googling post-cancer life, I’d like to mention that the side effects of chemo and radiation are mostly gone. Last summer I could feel the rays of the sun on my skin, like little pin pricks all over any exposed skin. This summer, nothing. It’s all good. I don’t seem to burn any more easily than I did before radiation.
At my most recent dental cleaning, my hygienist said that my dry mouth is abating. It’s still there, but getting better. I’d noticed that too. My skin has bounced back.
Hair still doesn’t grow under my left arm, but I’m most certainly not complaining about that one.
Heck, even the lymphedema is responding well to the exercise and self-massage prescribed by the physical therapist. So really life is going well.
Hey, universe? Please don’t see that last sentence as an invitation to punch me in the face, kay? I know how lucky I am. I say thanks every single day for everything that I have, everything that I am. I know it could all be snatched from me in an instant. And maybe that’s what I’m so tentative to believe that all’s well.
Because what if tomorrow it’s not?
I’d sensed the coming of this announcement. There were just too many meetings taking place behind closed doors, super stealth whispering going on, weird phone called with doors being closed.
I was also a little preoccupied by the pain in my left breast. I’d seen my regular doctor by this point two years ago and he was all about waiting and seeing.
I was also seeing a doctor about my stupid left foot. I’d been diagnosed with tendonitis and plantar fasciitis. Whee, my left side is a real disaster zone.
I’d just recently decided that waiting and seeing about that weird pain was a bad idea. I hadn’t actually seen my gynecologist yet but I was psyching myself up to make the call. Each night, I’d promise myself that if the pain was still there the next morning, I’d call.
We all know that I did finally call.
I’m edging in on my one year anniversary at my new/current job. It’s fine. I’ve had a couple of good reviews with my immediate supervisor as well as the lady with whom I work the most closely. So…that’s good, right? I don’t want to be stupid and say something like, “Yeah, it’s going great!” because yeah, we all know the universe is just waiting to slap people who say things like that right the hell down.
I just…keep waiting for the next thing to happen.
I mean, right? Isn’t that the way things have been for a while?
Every time management closes a door, I think, “Here it comes.”
Each time I have an appointment with a doctor, I wonder, “Will this be the time the give me bad news again?”
I know, logically, that the odds of that happening are slim. But…the odds of getting triple negative breast cancer at 46 years old were slim too. So forgive me for feeling a little stressed sometimes.
For anyone googling post-cancer life, I’d like to mention that the side effects of chemo and radiation are mostly gone. Last summer I could feel the rays of the sun on my skin, like little pin pricks all over any exposed skin. This summer, nothing. It’s all good. I don’t seem to burn any more easily than I did before radiation.
At my most recent dental cleaning, my hygienist said that my dry mouth is abating. It’s still there, but getting better. I’d noticed that too. My skin has bounced back.
Hair still doesn’t grow under my left arm, but I’m most certainly not complaining about that one.
Heck, even the lymphedema is responding well to the exercise and self-massage prescribed by the physical therapist. So really life is going well.
Hey, universe? Please don’t see that last sentence as an invitation to punch me in the face, kay? I know how lucky I am. I say thanks every single day for everything that I have, everything that I am. I know it could all be snatched from me in an instant. And maybe that’s what I’m so tentative to believe that all’s well.
Because what if tomorrow it’s not?
Monday, April 29, 2019
A Nightmare
Last year at the parent-teacher conference I spent probably forty-five minutes talking to Olivia’s fourth grade teacher, Mrs. K. We didn’t spend that time talking about Olivia, though.
We talked about cancer and treatment and how it affected us and our families.
About ten minutes into the conference, Mrs. K told me she’d fought uterine cancer the year before. It was nice to talk to someone who was farther out from the disease and all it entails than I was.
Alyssa told me last week that Mrs. K’s cancer is back.
It was like a punch in the gut.
Why? Why do our bodies betray us this way? Why can’t we find a way to cure all cancers for all time?
I pray for Mrs. K. I pray for her family. I pray for me and my family.
At one of my more recent doctor appointments, my doctor reminded me that I have a 70% chance of the cancer NOT coming back.
I like those odds.
I have googled triple negative breast cancer more times than I care to count.
Did you know that of the breast cancers cases diagnosed, around 15% of those are triple negative?
So…lemme do a little math…if one in 8 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in her lifetime, that’s a twelve and a half percent chance of getting breast cancer at all. Fifteen percent of twelve and a half percent is, well, it’s small, is what I’m saying.
So while I like the sound of having a 70% chance of my cancer NOT coming back. I don’t like the thought of having a 30% chance that it could come back.
That 30% is WAY bigger than the original chance of getting at all.
I can only imagine how Mrs. K and her family are feeling right now.
Scared, no, terrified. She’s already been through this once, she knows what she’s facing. Her family knows what she’s facing. And recurrence pushes the survival rate of most cancers of the reproductive system really, REALLY low.
I’m just so sad for them.
And, selfishly, sad for myself and my family. Why?
Well, I feel like every person who fights and beats cancer for good is a check mark in the ‘we can beat this’ column of life.
And every person who suffers a recurrence just proves that we can’t beat this at all.
I know. That’s so unfair. Every single person who is fighting cancer is fighting their own battle. They are not responsible for the rest of us, who are cheering them on from afar. And every person who fights, even if they don’t survive, they win. They give cancer everything they’ve got and they win just because they are human and every person they love, every memory they make, every smile they give and every time they laugh is a win against cancer.
Amy’s granddaughter is a win against cancer.
My freaking hair is a win against cancer.
I will pray for Mrs. K and every other person out there fighting cancer and try hard not to make their fight about me. I have my own battles. I’ve won because I live and I love and I make memories with my husband and daughters and parents and brothers and nephews and friends every single day. If I have to fight again, I will. I pray I don’t have to. I pray every single day but like Mrs. K, I will do everything I can to keep living and loving and laughing.
Will you join me in my prayers for a cure for all cancers? I realize that researchers are doing what they do and funds are need and I’m working on that, but for now, prayers can’t hurt, can they?
We talked about cancer and treatment and how it affected us and our families.
About ten minutes into the conference, Mrs. K told me she’d fought uterine cancer the year before. It was nice to talk to someone who was farther out from the disease and all it entails than I was.
Alyssa told me last week that Mrs. K’s cancer is back.
It was like a punch in the gut.
Why? Why do our bodies betray us this way? Why can’t we find a way to cure all cancers for all time?
I pray for Mrs. K. I pray for her family. I pray for me and my family.
At one of my more recent doctor appointments, my doctor reminded me that I have a 70% chance of the cancer NOT coming back.
I like those odds.
I have googled triple negative breast cancer more times than I care to count.
Did you know that of the breast cancers cases diagnosed, around 15% of those are triple negative?
So…lemme do a little math…if one in 8 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in her lifetime, that’s a twelve and a half percent chance of getting breast cancer at all. Fifteen percent of twelve and a half percent is, well, it’s small, is what I’m saying.
So while I like the sound of having a 70% chance of my cancer NOT coming back. I don’t like the thought of having a 30% chance that it could come back.
That 30% is WAY bigger than the original chance of getting at all.
I can only imagine how Mrs. K and her family are feeling right now.
Scared, no, terrified. She’s already been through this once, she knows what she’s facing. Her family knows what she’s facing. And recurrence pushes the survival rate of most cancers of the reproductive system really, REALLY low.
I’m just so sad for them.
And, selfishly, sad for myself and my family. Why?
Well, I feel like every person who fights and beats cancer for good is a check mark in the ‘we can beat this’ column of life.
And every person who suffers a recurrence just proves that we can’t beat this at all.
I know. That’s so unfair. Every single person who is fighting cancer is fighting their own battle. They are not responsible for the rest of us, who are cheering them on from afar. And every person who fights, even if they don’t survive, they win. They give cancer everything they’ve got and they win just because they are human and every person they love, every memory they make, every smile they give and every time they laugh is a win against cancer.
Amy’s granddaughter is a win against cancer.
My freaking hair is a win against cancer.
I will pray for Mrs. K and every other person out there fighting cancer and try hard not to make their fight about me. I have my own battles. I’ve won because I live and I love and I make memories with my husband and daughters and parents and brothers and nephews and friends every single day. If I have to fight again, I will. I pray I don’t have to. I pray every single day but like Mrs. K, I will do everything I can to keep living and loving and laughing.
Will you join me in my prayers for a cure for all cancers? I realize that researchers are doing what they do and funds are need and I’m working on that, but for now, prayers can’t hurt, can they?
Tuesday, April 9, 2019
Zany Questions
Several years ago, it became a ‘thing’ for Alyssa to have a slumber party for her birthday.
Great fun is had by all and it’s just what we do these days.
Tom tried to put the kibosh on the slumber party last year, citing “CHEMO”.
Alas, I, being the actual chemo patient, overruled him and the slumber party happened.
Tom has also tried to impose a limit on the number of guests invited to this annual shindig.
(Please note that Tom is not quite the fuddy duddy that I paint him to be, it’s just that he doesn’t like having people over, like at all, and really kind of hates going out…wait, he’s actually totally the fuddy duddy he’s appearing to be…nevermind.)
Again, he was reminded that we only have this party once a year, since it’s, ahem, a birthday party and he should just kind of shut it and let it happen as it’s going to anyway and he’s just causing stress amongst those of us who do the work of planning the party.
Yes.
Anyway.
Alyssa has reminded him each time he tries to tell her how many (three? Really?) people she can invite that she can’t possibly not invite people she’s previously invited because that will inevitably lead to hurt feelings and she can’t abide hurting anyone’s feelings.
We also remind him that even when she invites eight to ten people, invariably, only five or six show up, and again, no one is hurt because everyone was invited.
So there.
Amongst the invitees during The Year of Chemo was the one male friend that Lyss has invited for several years now. Let’s call him Zane because he’s just a zany kind of guy. A little backstory: Zane always has questions. At school some of the teachers have had to institute a three question per day rule when it comes to Zane. This makes me sad for him because Dude wants to know! How’s he going to find out what he wants to know if people impose limits to his search for knowledge?
Then again, there are usually about 20 kids per class and if everyone were as curious as Zane, there would be no time for actual teaching, only questions and answers…but wait, maybe that’s what school should really be. Hmmm, I think Zane is on to something.
So at last year’s party, I happened to get warm. Remember, I was wearing a stocking cap all the time, due to, you know, baldness.
So I took the hat off and said something off hand about no one caring that I was shining my bald head about the room.
Zane was curious. He asked what happened to my hair.
I kind of blinked at him and said matter-of-factly, “Chemo.”
He gasped, “You have cancer!?!”
I laughed because his reaction was just so lovely.
One of Lyss’s other friend, Amy, said, “Didn’t you know? I though everyone knew.”
Zane was shocked that no one had told him.
I was surprised he cared so much.
Alyssa muttered something about not making a big announcement, that it had just been mentioned amongst a few people here and there.
Zane was so offended that he hadn’t been told. He was also very concerned about my well-being. I think he might have teared up over the whole thing.
He’s a sweetheart and I’m glad Lyss has him in her life.
She’s got a good bunch of friends, is what I’m saying.
P.S. It amuses me so that I managed to use the words kibosh, shindig and fuddy duddy all in one post. I’m easily amused, but we all already knew that, right?
Great fun is had by all and it’s just what we do these days.
Tom tried to put the kibosh on the slumber party last year, citing “CHEMO”.
Alas, I, being the actual chemo patient, overruled him and the slumber party happened.
Tom has also tried to impose a limit on the number of guests invited to this annual shindig.
(Please note that Tom is not quite the fuddy duddy that I paint him to be, it’s just that he doesn’t like having people over, like at all, and really kind of hates going out…wait, he’s actually totally the fuddy duddy he’s appearing to be…nevermind.)
Again, he was reminded that we only have this party once a year, since it’s, ahem, a birthday party and he should just kind of shut it and let it happen as it’s going to anyway and he’s just causing stress amongst those of us who do the work of planning the party.
Yes.
Anyway.
Alyssa has reminded him each time he tries to tell her how many (three? Really?) people she can invite that she can’t possibly not invite people she’s previously invited because that will inevitably lead to hurt feelings and she can’t abide hurting anyone’s feelings.
We also remind him that even when she invites eight to ten people, invariably, only five or six show up, and again, no one is hurt because everyone was invited.
So there.
Amongst the invitees during The Year of Chemo was the one male friend that Lyss has invited for several years now. Let’s call him Zane because he’s just a zany kind of guy. A little backstory: Zane always has questions. At school some of the teachers have had to institute a three question per day rule when it comes to Zane. This makes me sad for him because Dude wants to know! How’s he going to find out what he wants to know if people impose limits to his search for knowledge?
Then again, there are usually about 20 kids per class and if everyone were as curious as Zane, there would be no time for actual teaching, only questions and answers…but wait, maybe that’s what school should really be. Hmmm, I think Zane is on to something.
So at last year’s party, I happened to get warm. Remember, I was wearing a stocking cap all the time, due to, you know, baldness.
So I took the hat off and said something off hand about no one caring that I was shining my bald head about the room.
Zane was curious. He asked what happened to my hair.
I kind of blinked at him and said matter-of-factly, “Chemo.”
He gasped, “You have cancer!?!”
I laughed because his reaction was just so lovely.
One of Lyss’s other friend, Amy, said, “Didn’t you know? I though everyone knew.”
Zane was shocked that no one had told him.
I was surprised he cared so much.
Alyssa muttered something about not making a big announcement, that it had just been mentioned amongst a few people here and there.
Zane was so offended that he hadn’t been told. He was also very concerned about my well-being. I think he might have teared up over the whole thing.
He’s a sweetheart and I’m glad Lyss has him in her life.
She’s got a good bunch of friends, is what I’m saying.
P.S. It amuses me so that I managed to use the words kibosh, shindig and fuddy duddy all in one post. I’m easily amused, but we all already knew that, right?
Wednesday, April 3, 2019
Support
Once upon a time, the lovely, incomparable Julie encouraged me to join a group, to start a blog on a site where other moms gathered to support each other. These moms had all one through unexpected experiences. Some had delivered premature babies who spent months in the NICU. Some lost their babies to chromosome issues, birth defects, still birth, prematurity. Some of us had full term babies who still spent time in the NICU and had ongoing issues even after coming home.
All of us knew what it meant to have dreams dashed, hope washed away with the strong antiseptic soap provided by the hospital.
That site was a Godsend. Julie is an angel.
In case you’re going through the devastation of a premature birth or the diagnosis of birth defect or you’ve lost a child, that side was Shareyourstory.org. It’s a support group provided by the March of Dimes. The ladies (and the few gentlemen) there are amazing.
These days, I’m doing pretty well with my status as a special needs mom. Olivia’s amazing, she’s so very much come into her own as a person, as an individual. I don’t need nearly as much support as I once did, back in the days before her diagnosis, when we were figuring out therapies, failure-to-thrive concerns, reflux, doctors who said she was ‘too pretty’ for there to be anything wrong…
But, a year plus out from chemotherapy and I find I’m floundering in my own doubt, my own status as a ‘cancer survivor.’
Am I?
Of course I’m a survivor, I’m alive, right?
But right now, I am on constant edge, waiting for the other shoe to fall. I wonder if every single pain I have, every twinge, is the cancer coming back.
My index finger hurt for no reason over the weekend. I wondered, “Can you have cancer of the finger?”
That’s so stupid.
And I know it’s normal. I do. But I feel so lost, so alone.
My family is amazing, we all know that.
But they can’t understand the constant low-level worry that buzzes around in my head. They don’t know that I still hurt almost all the time. They don’t know the fear I have each night when I go to sleep, the dread at every doctor’s appointment.
But others do know. People have been where I am, they understand and they’ve felt this too.
I need to find those people. I believe they can bring me down to a level of worry that is manageable. They can tell me that it gets better, that with enough time of being ‘well’ I’ll get past this stage, this worry, this sense of impending doom.
There are a couple of women I know from other areas of my life, one from the above mentioned support site and the other who has a daughter (also Olivia, if you can believe it) who are farther along than I am in their journey of surviving breast cancer but I hate to bother them. I would rather find a group so we can spread out the burden of support. I know, I KNOW, both of those ladies would be more than willing to help, to listen, to give me the benefit of their experience but…again, I have a hard time asking for help from those I know are already giving so much of themselves to the world.
Then again, I would absolutely want anyone who was worried or stressed or just starting their cancer journey nightmare to reach out to me. I’ve heard from quite a few people who feel breast pain or have had an actual diagnosis who are scared and need reassurance. I want to be there for those people.
So…
All of us knew what it meant to have dreams dashed, hope washed away with the strong antiseptic soap provided by the hospital.
That site was a Godsend. Julie is an angel.
In case you’re going through the devastation of a premature birth or the diagnosis of birth defect or you’ve lost a child, that side was Shareyourstory.org. It’s a support group provided by the March of Dimes. The ladies (and the few gentlemen) there are amazing.
These days, I’m doing pretty well with my status as a special needs mom. Olivia’s amazing, she’s so very much come into her own as a person, as an individual. I don’t need nearly as much support as I once did, back in the days before her diagnosis, when we were figuring out therapies, failure-to-thrive concerns, reflux, doctors who said she was ‘too pretty’ for there to be anything wrong…
But, a year plus out from chemotherapy and I find I’m floundering in my own doubt, my own status as a ‘cancer survivor.’
Am I?
Of course I’m a survivor, I’m alive, right?
But right now, I am on constant edge, waiting for the other shoe to fall. I wonder if every single pain I have, every twinge, is the cancer coming back.
My index finger hurt for no reason over the weekend. I wondered, “Can you have cancer of the finger?”
That’s so stupid.
And I know it’s normal. I do. But I feel so lost, so alone.
My family is amazing, we all know that.
But they can’t understand the constant low-level worry that buzzes around in my head. They don’t know that I still hurt almost all the time. They don’t know the fear I have each night when I go to sleep, the dread at every doctor’s appointment.
But others do know. People have been where I am, they understand and they’ve felt this too.
I need to find those people. I believe they can bring me down to a level of worry that is manageable. They can tell me that it gets better, that with enough time of being ‘well’ I’ll get past this stage, this worry, this sense of impending doom.
There are a couple of women I know from other areas of my life, one from the above mentioned support site and the other who has a daughter (also Olivia, if you can believe it) who are farther along than I am in their journey of surviving breast cancer but I hate to bother them. I would rather find a group so we can spread out the burden of support. I know, I KNOW, both of those ladies would be more than willing to help, to listen, to give me the benefit of their experience but…again, I have a hard time asking for help from those I know are already giving so much of themselves to the world.
Then again, I would absolutely want anyone who was worried or stressed or just starting their cancer journey nightmare to reach out to me. I’ve heard from quite a few people who feel breast pain or have had an actual diagnosis who are scared and need reassurance. I want to be there for those people.
So…
Monday, February 11, 2019
Identity Crisis
I’m kind of lost these days.
Who am I?
I’m no longer a cancer patient.
I’m a cancer survivor.
But what does that mean?
I’m still a wife, a mom, a daughter, a sister, a friend.
But I don’t feel like I’m the same person I was before I was diagnosed with cancer.
I don’t feel less but I’m not sure I’m more…does that even make sense?
I don’t know.
I drank something with caffeine in it last night and when I lay down to try and sleep, my heart was racing. It was so weird and I felt so very off. I prayed that I’d be allowed to wake up this morning.
I realize how paranoid that is. I suppose everyone who’s gone through a serious illness goes through this.
I’m seeing a chiropractor for my hip pain. He says it’s my sciatic nerve being irritated. Not pinched but definitely rubbed the wrong way. Apparently I’m lucky the pain isn’t running down my leg.
I don’t know.
I want to get back to just being. I want to find my zen. I want to appreciate my body for how strong it is, for what it’s been through and still kicking.
I want to kick someone or something’s ass, metaphorically speaking, of course. I suppose one could say I’ve kicked cancer’s ass and yet…it could come back and kill me to death so there’s that.
According to my chiropractor (who seems to be in cahoots with my radiation oncologist) I should be on an alkaline diet. Cancer likes an acidic environment, so if I make my body chemistry more alkaline, cancer won’t feel so at home.
Huh.
Well, damn. I just opened a can of tomato juice. Do I dump it down the drain? Do I drink it and hope for the best? I drank it.
But then I googled ‘alkaline diet’. Yeah. Because we can believe everything we read on the internet, it says that there is no actual diet that can prevent cancer. Though losing weight can’t hurt, so there’s that.
I’m so sick of bitching about my fatness. I mean, isn’t everyone just as sick of reading about me bitching about my fatness? It’s kind of time to either accept my fatness and move on or do something about it. Talking about it, whining about it, bitching about it doesn’t do me any good except make me feel bad about myself and look where that’s got me.
So…what next?
Who am I?
I’m no longer a cancer patient.
I’m a cancer survivor.
But what does that mean?
I’m still a wife, a mom, a daughter, a sister, a friend.
But I don’t feel like I’m the same person I was before I was diagnosed with cancer.
I don’t feel less but I’m not sure I’m more…does that even make sense?
I don’t know.
I drank something with caffeine in it last night and when I lay down to try and sleep, my heart was racing. It was so weird and I felt so very off. I prayed that I’d be allowed to wake up this morning.
I realize how paranoid that is. I suppose everyone who’s gone through a serious illness goes through this.
I’m seeing a chiropractor for my hip pain. He says it’s my sciatic nerve being irritated. Not pinched but definitely rubbed the wrong way. Apparently I’m lucky the pain isn’t running down my leg.
I don’t know.
I want to get back to just being. I want to find my zen. I want to appreciate my body for how strong it is, for what it’s been through and still kicking.
I want to kick someone or something’s ass, metaphorically speaking, of course. I suppose one could say I’ve kicked cancer’s ass and yet…it could come back and kill me to death so there’s that.
According to my chiropractor (who seems to be in cahoots with my radiation oncologist) I should be on an alkaline diet. Cancer likes an acidic environment, so if I make my body chemistry more alkaline, cancer won’t feel so at home.
Huh.
Well, damn. I just opened a can of tomato juice. Do I dump it down the drain? Do I drink it and hope for the best? I drank it.
But then I googled ‘alkaline diet’. Yeah. Because we can believe everything we read on the internet, it says that there is no actual diet that can prevent cancer. Though losing weight can’t hurt, so there’s that.
I’m so sick of bitching about my fatness. I mean, isn’t everyone just as sick of reading about me bitching about my fatness? It’s kind of time to either accept my fatness and move on or do something about it. Talking about it, whining about it, bitching about it doesn’t do me any good except make me feel bad about myself and look where that’s got me.
So…what next?
Thursday, December 20, 2018
Complaints
Okay, even though I just said that I’m not one to complain (it was said sort of tongue in cheek) I kind of want to document my current complaints, just in case I need to look back and try to remember when certain aches and pains might have started.
So I think my right hip/lower back started hurting about mid-October, 2018. I know I was trying to figure out if I should mention it to Dr. Z when I saw him on October 30. I did mention it to both the nurse and the nurse practitioner and they both didn’t seem to think anything of it.
I also mentioned it to Dr. B, the surgeon, in mid-November. He also didn’t seem to think it was a big deal.
I saw my family doctor on November 27 (O’s b-day!!!) and was going in to talk about both the pain and my blood pressure. Lo and behold, the pain stopped the weekend before my appointment.
It comes back now and then these days, mostly at night, when I lay weird. But…it bothers me that I have this pain and no one seems worried about it.
At this point, I don’t know who else to tell. Do I request some sort of scan? Do I continue to ‘wait and see’? My problem with waiting and seeing is that if I’d done that when it came to the pain in my left breast, well, I’d be fighting a completely different battle these days. So yeah, I don’t like the wait and see game.
I just…don’t know.
Anyway.
I don’t know if the blood pressure meds are working. I don’t feel any different. I suppose I should check my pressure at some place like WalMart or Walgreens just to see. But I feel fine. Then again, I felt fine when my pressure was deemed high, so who the hell knows?
One thing I do know is that I need to lose weight. I need to go on a diet, move more and lose weight. The pain in my stupid right hip/back would probably go away if I’d lose about eighty pounds. Or, it might not and then we’ll have something to investigate.
Sigh.
This is why I don’t really talk about this stuff (ha!) What good is it doing me until I see a professional who can actually order the tests necessary to rule out some things or find something? It’s just a bunch of annoying venting.
Sorry about that.
So I think my right hip/lower back started hurting about mid-October, 2018. I know I was trying to figure out if I should mention it to Dr. Z when I saw him on October 30. I did mention it to both the nurse and the nurse practitioner and they both didn’t seem to think anything of it.
I also mentioned it to Dr. B, the surgeon, in mid-November. He also didn’t seem to think it was a big deal.
I saw my family doctor on November 27 (O’s b-day!!!) and was going in to talk about both the pain and my blood pressure. Lo and behold, the pain stopped the weekend before my appointment.
It comes back now and then these days, mostly at night, when I lay weird. But…it bothers me that I have this pain and no one seems worried about it.
At this point, I don’t know who else to tell. Do I request some sort of scan? Do I continue to ‘wait and see’? My problem with waiting and seeing is that if I’d done that when it came to the pain in my left breast, well, I’d be fighting a completely different battle these days. So yeah, I don’t like the wait and see game.
I just…don’t know.
Anyway.
I don’t know if the blood pressure meds are working. I don’t feel any different. I suppose I should check my pressure at some place like WalMart or Walgreens just to see. But I feel fine. Then again, I felt fine when my pressure was deemed high, so who the hell knows?
One thing I do know is that I need to lose weight. I need to go on a diet, move more and lose weight. The pain in my stupid right hip/back would probably go away if I’d lose about eighty pounds. Or, it might not and then we’ll have something to investigate.
Sigh.
This is why I don’t really talk about this stuff (ha!) What good is it doing me until I see a professional who can actually order the tests necessary to rule out some things or find something? It’s just a bunch of annoying venting.
Sorry about that.
Wednesday, December 19, 2018
Full Circle
One year ago yesterday was my last day at my former job. I was starting my new chemo a year ago today, December 19th. On the advice of my HR manager, I’d decided to go on full-time medical leave for the remainder of my treatment.
The facility where I’d worked for over seventeen years closed on December 31, 2017. Because I was on medical leave, they couldn’t officially fire me until I was finished with treatment.
Talk about a relief, right? The knowledge that I had insurance coverage, that I was receiving a percentage of my original pay, that I could concentrate on getting better and not drag my sick self to work each day…it was a huge blessing.
But honestly, being back to work feels like a blessing too. I feel so very lucky to have come full circle.
Here I am, working, taking care of my family, feeling pretty good (for the most part, but we all know I’m not one to complain *cough, cough*)
As Christmas looms, I find myself grateful just to be here. Just to get to see my kids’ faces on Christmas morning.
As I fell asleep last night, I prayed, giving thanks for each and very thing that I have. I know that things could have been so very different.
They’re different for my Auntie Nell. She’s facing her first Christmas without her daughter. Her first great grandchild was born last month (on Liv’s birthday!) and her daughter isn’t here to celebrate being a Gram.
It would have made Amy crazy knowing that her daughter was out in California with a newborn and Amy was stuck here in the Midwest but maybe she’d have found a way to go be with them for a few days.
I believe with all my heart that she’s with them now, keeping watch over her daughter and that beautiful baby girl.
Amy was so sick this time last year.
I was going through treatments, trying to get well. We were all doing our best with the cards we were dealt. I know I got the better hand. I’m sorry that Amy didn’t get a better one too.
But I’m not sorry I’m here. I’m so very thankful for every single day I get to be here. I pray that there are many, many more December 18ths and Christmas mornings and all the days that come before and after and in between.
The facility where I’d worked for over seventeen years closed on December 31, 2017. Because I was on medical leave, they couldn’t officially fire me until I was finished with treatment.
Talk about a relief, right? The knowledge that I had insurance coverage, that I was receiving a percentage of my original pay, that I could concentrate on getting better and not drag my sick self to work each day…it was a huge blessing.
But honestly, being back to work feels like a blessing too. I feel so very lucky to have come full circle.
Here I am, working, taking care of my family, feeling pretty good (for the most part, but we all know I’m not one to complain *cough, cough*)
As Christmas looms, I find myself grateful just to be here. Just to get to see my kids’ faces on Christmas morning.
As I fell asleep last night, I prayed, giving thanks for each and very thing that I have. I know that things could have been so very different.
They’re different for my Auntie Nell. She’s facing her first Christmas without her daughter. Her first great grandchild was born last month (on Liv’s birthday!) and her daughter isn’t here to celebrate being a Gram.
It would have made Amy crazy knowing that her daughter was out in California with a newborn and Amy was stuck here in the Midwest but maybe she’d have found a way to go be with them for a few days.
I believe with all my heart that she’s with them now, keeping watch over her daughter and that beautiful baby girl.
Amy was so sick this time last year.
I was going through treatments, trying to get well. We were all doing our best with the cards we were dealt. I know I got the better hand. I’m sorry that Amy didn’t get a better one too.
But I’m not sorry I’m here. I’m so very thankful for every single day I get to be here. I pray that there are many, many more December 18ths and Christmas mornings and all the days that come before and after and in between.
Monday, November 26, 2018
Midnight Thoughts/Prayers/Wishes
Sometimes I lie awake at night and worry about how my family, my daughters especially, will deal with my death.
I truly believe that death isn’t the end. But I also acknowledge that if I’m dead, I’m not here, physically with them anymore.
They’d be on their own, the girls and their dad, trying to make it without me.
My sweet Livie. Oh how I don’t want to leave her.
I know Alyssa will miss me but I also know she’ll make it. She’s so strong, so resilient. She’ll be so sad and I don’t want her story to have the words, “I lost my mom when I was…teen years old.”
But Livie, oh it breaks my heart to think of her losing me. I know that sounds really conceited but that child and I…we have the bond that only parents of special needs children can understand.
At the one and only 5p- conference we attended, the moment that sticks out to me the most happened in the New Attendees meeting. We were all sharing a little about ourselves and one dad brought most of us to tears.
He admitted that, though he’s ashamed that he feels this way, he hopes he outlives his son. He is not wishing his son dead but he knows that no one will care for his son the way he and his wife do.
No one will love Livie like I do. Yes, her dad loves her. Her Gram loves her but I am her primary caregiver. I do so much for her and when I die, she’s going to miss that.
I hope to not die for a long, long time. But having fought cancer, I can’t help but think that my time is limited, like, really, truly limited. Will I still be here next year? I hope so. I pray that I am.
A few nights ago, I prayed to God to let me live to see Alyssa graduate from high school. I know if I get to that point I will ask for more time. I want forever with my sweet girls.
I’ve had my mom for 48 years. I want that for my girls. I want them to have me well into their adulthood because I think they deserve that. We all deserve that. I’m a good mom. I want to continue to be a good mom to them.
Sigh.
This is nothing more than any other mom wants for her kids.
I know that. I know that I don’t love my kids more than most moms. I know I’m not any more special than any other parent.
But I still want to be here. I want to continue to watch them grow, to guide them, to care for them.
Please.
Please God, let me stay here, let me mother my girls.
Please.
I truly believe that death isn’t the end. But I also acknowledge that if I’m dead, I’m not here, physically with them anymore.
They’d be on their own, the girls and their dad, trying to make it without me.
My sweet Livie. Oh how I don’t want to leave her.
I know Alyssa will miss me but I also know she’ll make it. She’s so strong, so resilient. She’ll be so sad and I don’t want her story to have the words, “I lost my mom when I was…teen years old.”
But Livie, oh it breaks my heart to think of her losing me. I know that sounds really conceited but that child and I…we have the bond that only parents of special needs children can understand.
At the one and only 5p- conference we attended, the moment that sticks out to me the most happened in the New Attendees meeting. We were all sharing a little about ourselves and one dad brought most of us to tears.
He admitted that, though he’s ashamed that he feels this way, he hopes he outlives his son. He is not wishing his son dead but he knows that no one will care for his son the way he and his wife do.
No one will love Livie like I do. Yes, her dad loves her. Her Gram loves her but I am her primary caregiver. I do so much for her and when I die, she’s going to miss that.
I hope to not die for a long, long time. But having fought cancer, I can’t help but think that my time is limited, like, really, truly limited. Will I still be here next year? I hope so. I pray that I am.
A few nights ago, I prayed to God to let me live to see Alyssa graduate from high school. I know if I get to that point I will ask for more time. I want forever with my sweet girls.
I’ve had my mom for 48 years. I want that for my girls. I want them to have me well into their adulthood because I think they deserve that. We all deserve that. I’m a good mom. I want to continue to be a good mom to them.
Sigh.
This is nothing more than any other mom wants for her kids.
I know that. I know that I don’t love my kids more than most moms. I know I’m not any more special than any other parent.
But I still want to be here. I want to continue to watch them grow, to guide them, to care for them.
Please.
Please God, let me stay here, let me mother my girls.
Please.
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
Inquiring Minds
My MRI results came back. It’s all good. The thick skin and hardness of the breast tissue itself is due to damage from both the original lumpectomy and from the radiation. No sign of cancer recurrence at this time.
I’m sure you can imagine the relief I feel.
I’m sure you can imagine the relief I feel.
Monday, October 29, 2018
The MRI
So as stated in Friday's post, my insurance approved the MRI. I headed over to the hospital at 2:00 Friday afternoon.
Just walking into the hospital was, weirdly, like coming home. I mean, I was there SO MUCH over the past year. Every single Saturday for three months, I went to that hospital for a blood draw to make sure my counts were high enough to receive chemo. After chemo, I was on the hospital campus for radiation daily for almost seven weeks.
I won't go so far as to say I miss treatment but there was a weird sense of comfort in going in there, knowing we were doing something to either find new cancer early or make sure there is no more cancer. for the past five plus months, I've had no doctors' appointments, no treatments, nothing to fight any cancer that has started growing again. Obviously, I have all the hope in the world that there is nothing to be found, but knowing we were looking for it made me feel...I hesitate to say good but, maybe, comforted?
I hope not to hear from my doctor any time soon. I have a follow up appointment with him in mid November. I know that the MRI will be read Monday or Tuesday. If there is anything found, I know they'll call me before my appointment. I really, REALLY hope I don't hear from them and just head to my regularly scheduled appointment and find out that the MRI found nothing. Prayers are appreciated, obviously.
I do have an appointment with my chemo oncologist on Tuesday. I don't think he gets my humor but that's okay. I will be me, probably wise-cracking and being stupid but I can't help it. I think maybe he doesn't think I take this whole thing seriously but I can't. I can't go in there all morose and sad. I have to be positive, happy, joking around about my stupid hair and hoping, praying, planning for the best.
I don't know if they'd send him the MRI results or now, but I guess we'll see.
So yeah, after over five months with only one appointment (the surgeon in August) I'll see several doctors/therapists/technicians over the span of the next few weeks. It's taking me back, but not necessarily in a bad way. It feels like everyone cares again.
Weird? Maybe. But maybe not so unusual. A dear friend who battled cancer back in the last 1990s warned me that after treatment, she felt bereft, like she was being left to flounder and figure out life after treatment. I appreciated her wise words of warning. It makes me feel less freakish.
I have often in the past couple of months felt regret in doing the lumpectomy. I have thought maybe I should have gone with the mastectomy just to get rid of the offending bosom. I mean, what I do need these stupid boobs for? They weren't even capable of feeding my children over ten years ago. They're obsolete and they (well, Leftie) tried to kill me. I think maybe I should have opted to have them lopped off.
Live and learn, right? I just hope and pray that for me, it's not die and learn.
Just walking into the hospital was, weirdly, like coming home. I mean, I was there SO MUCH over the past year. Every single Saturday for three months, I went to that hospital for a blood draw to make sure my counts were high enough to receive chemo. After chemo, I was on the hospital campus for radiation daily for almost seven weeks.
I won't go so far as to say I miss treatment but there was a weird sense of comfort in going in there, knowing we were doing something to either find new cancer early or make sure there is no more cancer. for the past five plus months, I've had no doctors' appointments, no treatments, nothing to fight any cancer that has started growing again. Obviously, I have all the hope in the world that there is nothing to be found, but knowing we were looking for it made me feel...I hesitate to say good but, maybe, comforted?
I hope not to hear from my doctor any time soon. I have a follow up appointment with him in mid November. I know that the MRI will be read Monday or Tuesday. If there is anything found, I know they'll call me before my appointment. I really, REALLY hope I don't hear from them and just head to my regularly scheduled appointment and find out that the MRI found nothing. Prayers are appreciated, obviously.
I do have an appointment with my chemo oncologist on Tuesday. I don't think he gets my humor but that's okay. I will be me, probably wise-cracking and being stupid but I can't help it. I think maybe he doesn't think I take this whole thing seriously but I can't. I can't go in there all morose and sad. I have to be positive, happy, joking around about my stupid hair and hoping, praying, planning for the best.
I don't know if they'd send him the MRI results or now, but I guess we'll see.
So yeah, after over five months with only one appointment (the surgeon in August) I'll see several doctors/therapists/technicians over the span of the next few weeks. It's taking me back, but not necessarily in a bad way. It feels like everyone cares again.
Weird? Maybe. But maybe not so unusual. A dear friend who battled cancer back in the last 1990s warned me that after treatment, she felt bereft, like she was being left to flounder and figure out life after treatment. I appreciated her wise words of warning. It makes me feel less freakish.
I have often in the past couple of months felt regret in doing the lumpectomy. I have thought maybe I should have gone with the mastectomy just to get rid of the offending bosom. I mean, what I do need these stupid boobs for? They weren't even capable of feeding my children over ten years ago. They're obsolete and they (well, Leftie) tried to kill me. I think maybe I should have opted to have them lopped off.
Live and learn, right? I just hope and pray that for me, it's not die and learn.
Friday, October 26, 2018
Insurance
I’m supposed to have a breast MRI today. Wait. Let’s back up. I was supposed to have a breast MRI last Friday. Alas, it was rescheduled due to insurance not deeming it necessary and wanting a peer to peer consult with my doctor. And now I’m waiting to find out if the peer to peer review changes their (the insurance company’s) opinion on whether the test is medically necessary.
Huh.
Insurance companies kind of suck. I realize they’re a business but honestly, those in charge probably have no idea what an actual person experiences when they go through what I went through in the past year.
I am not saying my experience with cancer and the treatments and tests and recovery and the subsequent fears and worries and stressors are worse than anyone else who has been through this. In fact, I’m pretty sure my experience has been fairly typical.
But I don’t think insurance companies get it. Those in charge seem to take the human factor out of the equation and only worry about the dollar signs.
It makes me sad and it makes me mad.
Can you put a price on peace of mind?
A person shouldn’t have to go into debt to get and stay healthy, both physically and emotionally/mentally.
Back to the MRI. I saw my surgeon back in August. He did his usual exam and decided that since Leftie is still swollen and the skin is firmer than Rightie, an MRI should be done. See, we can’t actually feel much in Leftie because of the firmness of the skin and the swelling from everything it’s been through. A physical exam doesn’t do much to detect any potential bad stuff. My surgeon is great. My insurance…is not.
They are saying that since I haven’t had any other test, other than a physician’s exam, to give us reason to think something might be wrong, the MRI isn’t necessary.
Let’s stop for a minute and think about this. My insurance doesn’t think we have any reason to think something might be wrong. Even though I just went through what was quite possibly the worst year of my life. Even though I’ve HAD A FREAKIKNG CANCER DIAGNOSIS, they don’t think there’s a valid reason to pay for an MRI.
The insanity of that makes me want to scream. Would they rather pay for an MRI that could detect something early enough to necessitate another lumpectomy or wait and later pay for a freaking double mastectomy because I’m telling you, if I have another cancer diagnosis, that’s where we’re going. I’m getting both Leftie and Rightie lopped right the hell off and then insurance can pay for reconstruction along with the surgery to get rid of these two abominations hanging from my chest.
Whew. Okay, deep breath.
I don’t currently know the final decision. I guess I should call the f*#^ down and wait to hear from someone, be it my doctor’s office, the imaging center’s scheduling department or, heaven forbid, my insurance company. They never bother actually communicating with ME, the actual patient who is enduring all their bullshit.
I’m good most of the time with being all positive and planning for my 50th birthday, which will be a big one since it will be three years from the time of diagnosis and if I get to three years without the cancer coming back, my chances of ever coming back are very slim. (See: Triple Negative Breast Cancer statistics.) But sometimes, mostly at night, in the dark when I’m hurting somewhere in my body I’m convinced that it’s already back, that the day after we stopped chemo, the cancer started growing again, either back in Leftie or somewhere in Rightie or even down in my lower back, on the right where it just aches sometimes. I’m just sure I only have a couple more years with my girls and I need to get as much loving and living in while I can, while I’m not spitting up blood and losing my hair again and slow (or quickly, depending on how depressing I want to be) declining, sleeping more and more, slipping away from everyone and everything I love.
They need me to be strong. They need me to be HERE, with them, guiding them, loving them, making them laugh, making memories that will sustain them even if the worst happens.
And if it takes a freaking MRI to keep me here, then damn it, my stupid insurance company needs to get with the program.
End rant.
Update: The MRI was approved. I know! I was shocked too. And impressed with my doctor's persuasive abilities. I pray that if the MRI finds anything, it's early, like last time...
Huh.
Insurance companies kind of suck. I realize they’re a business but honestly, those in charge probably have no idea what an actual person experiences when they go through what I went through in the past year.
I am not saying my experience with cancer and the treatments and tests and recovery and the subsequent fears and worries and stressors are worse than anyone else who has been through this. In fact, I’m pretty sure my experience has been fairly typical.
But I don’t think insurance companies get it. Those in charge seem to take the human factor out of the equation and only worry about the dollar signs.
It makes me sad and it makes me mad.
Can you put a price on peace of mind?
A person shouldn’t have to go into debt to get and stay healthy, both physically and emotionally/mentally.
Back to the MRI. I saw my surgeon back in August. He did his usual exam and decided that since Leftie is still swollen and the skin is firmer than Rightie, an MRI should be done. See, we can’t actually feel much in Leftie because of the firmness of the skin and the swelling from everything it’s been through. A physical exam doesn’t do much to detect any potential bad stuff. My surgeon is great. My insurance…is not.
They are saying that since I haven’t had any other test, other than a physician’s exam, to give us reason to think something might be wrong, the MRI isn’t necessary.
Let’s stop for a minute and think about this. My insurance doesn’t think we have any reason to think something might be wrong. Even though I just went through what was quite possibly the worst year of my life. Even though I’ve HAD A FREAKIKNG CANCER DIAGNOSIS, they don’t think there’s a valid reason to pay for an MRI.
The insanity of that makes me want to scream. Would they rather pay for an MRI that could detect something early enough to necessitate another lumpectomy or wait and later pay for a freaking double mastectomy because I’m telling you, if I have another cancer diagnosis, that’s where we’re going. I’m getting both Leftie and Rightie lopped right the hell off and then insurance can pay for reconstruction along with the surgery to get rid of these two abominations hanging from my chest.
Whew. Okay, deep breath.
I don’t currently know the final decision. I guess I should call the f*#^ down and wait to hear from someone, be it my doctor’s office, the imaging center’s scheduling department or, heaven forbid, my insurance company. They never bother actually communicating with ME, the actual patient who is enduring all their bullshit.
I’m good most of the time with being all positive and planning for my 50th birthday, which will be a big one since it will be three years from the time of diagnosis and if I get to three years without the cancer coming back, my chances of ever coming back are very slim. (See: Triple Negative Breast Cancer statistics.) But sometimes, mostly at night, in the dark when I’m hurting somewhere in my body I’m convinced that it’s already back, that the day after we stopped chemo, the cancer started growing again, either back in Leftie or somewhere in Rightie or even down in my lower back, on the right where it just aches sometimes. I’m just sure I only have a couple more years with my girls and I need to get as much loving and living in while I can, while I’m not spitting up blood and losing my hair again and slow (or quickly, depending on how depressing I want to be) declining, sleeping more and more, slipping away from everyone and everything I love.
They need me to be strong. They need me to be HERE, with them, guiding them, loving them, making them laugh, making memories that will sustain them even if the worst happens.
And if it takes a freaking MRI to keep me here, then damn it, my stupid insurance company needs to get with the program.
End rant.
Update: The MRI was approved. I know! I was shocked too. And impressed with my doctor's persuasive abilities. I pray that if the MRI finds anything, it's early, like last time...
Friday, October 19, 2018
1 in 8
We all know eight women, right? I mean, if you’re a woman and you have any family at all, you know more than eight women.
One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in her lifetime.
I graduated in a class of 44, pretty much half girls and half boys. That means there were at least twenty girls who became women. Which, statistically speaking, means that at least two of us were bound to end up with breast cancer.
You want to feel young? Get a breast cancer diagnosis in your forties (no, don’t do this, I don’t wish this on anyone, ever.) Every single doctor I saw during my cancer treatments told me that I was ‘so young.’ I skewed the average of the patients receiving chemo each time I went in for a treatment.
Cancer is not an ‘old peoples’ disease. It happens to all ages, all races, both genders. And it sucks.
The aftermath of a cancer diagnosis, even beyond treatment and being ‘healed’ is pretty awful.
Sure, I’m grateful to be here. I’m so very thankful to be alive but I am scarred, both physically and emotionally. I’m a wreck. I am still tired. I’m weak. I worried incessantly.
But I’m here to fight another day.
So get those mammograms, those screenings. Get checked, and then get rechecked. Trust your instincts. If something hurts and you can feel that it’s not a ‘normal’ ache/pain, fight your way through the medical bureaucracy and find someone who will listen to you.
Get any vaccinations available that might prevent cancer.
Both my girls have had the HPV vaccinations. Alyssa got hers before I received my diagnosis and Olivia after but I’d already planned for Liv to receive hers before I was told I had cancer.
If there is anything that might prevent cancer, please, PLEASE do it. It’s such a horrible disease. Of course no illness/disease is fun. I get that but I can only speak for cancer when I say that the treatment is pretty awful too.
Let’s keeping fighting the good fight. Let’s keep working to find cures for all cancers. Babies should not have to endure chemotherapy. Mom’s shouldn’t have to worry about loving their kids enough today because they might not be here tomorrow. Spouses shouldn’t have to bury their love because cancer took them away.
Let’s fight together to save more lives.
One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in her lifetime.
I graduated in a class of 44, pretty much half girls and half boys. That means there were at least twenty girls who became women. Which, statistically speaking, means that at least two of us were bound to end up with breast cancer.
You want to feel young? Get a breast cancer diagnosis in your forties (no, don’t do this, I don’t wish this on anyone, ever.) Every single doctor I saw during my cancer treatments told me that I was ‘so young.’ I skewed the average of the patients receiving chemo each time I went in for a treatment.
Cancer is not an ‘old peoples’ disease. It happens to all ages, all races, both genders. And it sucks.
The aftermath of a cancer diagnosis, even beyond treatment and being ‘healed’ is pretty awful.
Sure, I’m grateful to be here. I’m so very thankful to be alive but I am scarred, both physically and emotionally. I’m a wreck. I am still tired. I’m weak. I worried incessantly.
But I’m here to fight another day.
So get those mammograms, those screenings. Get checked, and then get rechecked. Trust your instincts. If something hurts and you can feel that it’s not a ‘normal’ ache/pain, fight your way through the medical bureaucracy and find someone who will listen to you.
Get any vaccinations available that might prevent cancer.
Both my girls have had the HPV vaccinations. Alyssa got hers before I received my diagnosis and Olivia after but I’d already planned for Liv to receive hers before I was told I had cancer.
If there is anything that might prevent cancer, please, PLEASE do it. It’s such a horrible disease. Of course no illness/disease is fun. I get that but I can only speak for cancer when I say that the treatment is pretty awful too.
Let’s keeping fighting the good fight. Let’s keep working to find cures for all cancers. Babies should not have to endure chemotherapy. Mom’s shouldn’t have to worry about loving their kids enough today because they might not be here tomorrow. Spouses shouldn’t have to bury their love because cancer took them away.
Let’s fight together to save more lives.
Wednesday, October 17, 2018
First Chemo Anniversary
A year ago today, I received my first chemotherapy treatment. I’d had my port for probably three or so weeks. I was nervous. I worried about how sick it was going to make me. I knew my hair was going to fall out and I wondered how long it would take from the first chemo for the first strand to fall out (16 days for anyone wondering.)
In the end, it wasn’t all that bad. Sure, it sucked and I felt awful at times (Thanksgiving dinner was fun last year, as I lay on my mom’s bedroom floor, dozing my way through day three post chemo.) but I obviously came through the other side and here we are, watching the anniversaries come and go.
There will be a lot of “One year ago today” moments in the coming months. I know this is probably boring and I’m sorry but I feel like I need to commemorate these moments, these days, as they come along.
I actually kind of dreaded the end of chemo. Those last twelve weeks aren’t so bad and as long as I was receiving the drugs, I knew no new cancer was growing. The chemo was keeping it at bay. I was told after surgery that I was cancer-free, that chemo and radiation was preventative. But I can’t help but worry that without those treatments, any new cancer might be developing, growing, spreading, killing me slowly until, well, it’s not slow anymore.
I am sure all cancer patients/survivors feel this way. I should probably find some to talk to rather than ramble here.
Every ache, every feeling of fatigue, every ping makes me think it’s back, it’s growing, and I’m dying.
I don’t like feeling like this. I don’t like wondering what the next doctor’s appointment is going to bring. I try to just keep living, keep loving, keep parenting my girls and being a wife to Tom. I try to take it day by day because, well, what else can I do? Even if it is back, well, I guess we’d start a new treatment and keep going.
I have a breast MRI this coming Friday. I worry because, well, as I’ve said before, once you’ve heard the worse news, you kind of expect it again. I am praying for the best and preparing myself for the worst.
I got through chemo once, I would get through it again if I had to.
In the end, it wasn’t all that bad. Sure, it sucked and I felt awful at times (Thanksgiving dinner was fun last year, as I lay on my mom’s bedroom floor, dozing my way through day three post chemo.) but I obviously came through the other side and here we are, watching the anniversaries come and go.
There will be a lot of “One year ago today” moments in the coming months. I know this is probably boring and I’m sorry but I feel like I need to commemorate these moments, these days, as they come along.
I actually kind of dreaded the end of chemo. Those last twelve weeks aren’t so bad and as long as I was receiving the drugs, I knew no new cancer was growing. The chemo was keeping it at bay. I was told after surgery that I was cancer-free, that chemo and radiation was preventative. But I can’t help but worry that without those treatments, any new cancer might be developing, growing, spreading, killing me slowly until, well, it’s not slow anymore.
I am sure all cancer patients/survivors feel this way. I should probably find some to talk to rather than ramble here.
Every ache, every feeling of fatigue, every ping makes me think it’s back, it’s growing, and I’m dying.
I don’t like feeling like this. I don’t like wondering what the next doctor’s appointment is going to bring. I try to just keep living, keep loving, keep parenting my girls and being a wife to Tom. I try to take it day by day because, well, what else can I do? Even if it is back, well, I guess we’d start a new treatment and keep going.
I have a breast MRI this coming Friday. I worry because, well, as I’ve said before, once you’ve heard the worse news, you kind of expect it again. I am praying for the best and preparing myself for the worst.
I got through chemo once, I would get through it again if I had to.
Tuesday, October 16, 2018
Happy Birthday
Today is Amy’s birthday. The first one since she died in February. I can only imagine how hard this day must be for her mom, for her kids, for the love she left behind.
Amy’s daughter is pregnant with Amy’s first grandchild. I think she’s due next month. It’s a girl.
Amy would have been so thrilled. I believe she is thrilled, watching from heaven.
I also believe she’s still loving all of us, watching out for us, keeping us safe and reminding us each day that we’re loved.
When we were growing up, Amy was my favorite cousin. She was only thirteen months older than I am but she always seemed so much more mature. She was very protective even when we were little kids.
She had a tough time of it as a teenager and a young adult but she figured it out and left her kids with a legacy of love. They knew they were deeply, thoroughly loved.
She loved a lot in her 48 years. She left a legacy of love and devotion.
Who would ever think at 24 that they have lived half their life? It seems so unfair. I know she had more she wanted to do but it’s so much better to focus on all that she did do.
She lived. She loved. She raised strong, smart, kind children and that’s important work right there.
I pray that if my time is shorter than I want it to be that I can get as much loving in as Amy did. I hope my kids feel my love even when I’m not here to tell them and show them.
I’ve felt her with me in the months since she died. I’ve felt her comforting presence, letting me know that it’s all going to be okay, no matter how it ends. She’s been here with so many of us, loving us in her new way.
I’m grateful that I knew her. I’m grateful that I got to watch her mother her kids and feel the love she had for so many.
Happy Heavenly Birthday, Amy. You are remembered. You are missed. You are loved.
Amy’s daughter is pregnant with Amy’s first grandchild. I think she’s due next month. It’s a girl.
Amy would have been so thrilled. I believe she is thrilled, watching from heaven.
I also believe she’s still loving all of us, watching out for us, keeping us safe and reminding us each day that we’re loved.
When we were growing up, Amy was my favorite cousin. She was only thirteen months older than I am but she always seemed so much more mature. She was very protective even when we were little kids.
She had a tough time of it as a teenager and a young adult but she figured it out and left her kids with a legacy of love. They knew they were deeply, thoroughly loved.
She loved a lot in her 48 years. She left a legacy of love and devotion.
Who would ever think at 24 that they have lived half their life? It seems so unfair. I know she had more she wanted to do but it’s so much better to focus on all that she did do.
She lived. She loved. She raised strong, smart, kind children and that’s important work right there.
I pray that if my time is shorter than I want it to be that I can get as much loving in as Amy did. I hope my kids feel my love even when I’m not here to tell them and show them.
I’ve felt her with me in the months since she died. I’ve felt her comforting presence, letting me know that it’s all going to be okay, no matter how it ends. She’s been here with so many of us, loving us in her new way.
I’m grateful that I knew her. I’m grateful that I got to watch her mother her kids and feel the love she had for so many.
Happy Heavenly Birthday, Amy. You are remembered. You are missed. You are loved.
Wednesday, October 3, 2018
Not Much At All
I went on a rant about my parents yesterday and it got lost somewhere in the depths of cyber space.
Honestly, it’s probably for the best. I was cranky (when am I not, right?) and more than a little bitchy so, yes, someone/thing was saving me from myself.
I need to get a grip.
Let’s play a game. It’s October, Breast Cancer Awareness month. Let’s see if I can find positives about having had breast cancer.
Wheee!!
Well, let’s see. I think my marriage is actually stronger now that we’ve been through a major health crisis. Tom was pretty awesome during surgery, treatment and even this past summer when I wasn’t working. He is a rock. I’m lucky to have him and I’m trying hard to remind myself that he’s lucky to have me too. I am pretty sure he thinks so and that’s something.
And hey, tomorrow’s our anniversary, so there’s that. Sixteen years of marriage, almost eighteen years together. We’re among the lucky.
I wish I could say I take better care of myself. I’m trying to get into that mindset. I’ve resolved just today to try and eat less salt (that means cutting out the pickles and that makes me sad because I freaking love pickles.) I’m not quite there for cutting back on sugar (see above and anniversary, I’ve got to get a cake for that.) but I may be on the verge.
I still hate my body but maybe not quite as vehemently as I once did, so that’s something.
I wish I could say that having had cancer has given me some sort of zen and greater appreciation of life but yeah, no. I’m still cranky. I still get road rage walking behind slow people in the grocery store. I am grateful each morning when I wake up and get to spend another day with my family. I know that life is fragile, but that might be more because of Amy, my cousin, than because of my own fight. It’s all blurred together. I was diagnosed, started treatment, Amy got sick, was in an out of the hospital from November until February and then she just…died. She never got a definitive diagnosis. We believe it was some sort of lung cancer.
Yes, and I was still going through treatment. It was tough time for my extended family.
I do believe in the power of prayer. During my treatment, I was probably on every prayer list within a thirty mile radius of my work and house. And I felt the strength of those prayers. I feel like God always hears the prayers, even if He doesn’t give us the answers we hope for. Even if my prognosis had been worse than it was, I would like to believe that those prayers would have still given me comfort and strength.
I have an enormous appreciation for health insurance. Can you even imagine what we’d be facing if I’d gone into treatment without insurance? Wow. The mind reels at the possibility.
I trust my instincts that much more these days. Remember back in the days before Olivia’s diagnosis? I found her syndrome when she was NINE MONTHS OLD. I brought it to her doctor’s attention. I was told she was too pretty to have 5p- syndrome. I mean…
I held that syndrome close to my heart in the ensuing year and a half, knowing we would circle back to it. And we did. And her doctor (the on at Riley, not the one who said she was too pretty.) tested her because she was a smart, caring doctor and here we are.
I trusted my instincts enough to decide not to ‘wait and see’ as my first doctor wanted me to after talking about the pain in my breast. And here we are again. Trust those little voices that tell you something is wrong.
Don’t trust those voices that tell you that you are the Lloyd of your marriage (inside joke, except it’s not funny.)
I want to be stronger, smarter and better than I was before breast cancer and treatment. But really, I’m just me, with a slightly smaller left breast and some physical and emotional/mental scars to show for all that my family and I went through.
Happy October. Go buy a pumpkin. Get a mammogram. Hang a witch from your tree. Do your self exams. Eat some candy corn.
Honestly, it’s probably for the best. I was cranky (when am I not, right?) and more than a little bitchy so, yes, someone/thing was saving me from myself.
I need to get a grip.
Let’s play a game. It’s October, Breast Cancer Awareness month. Let’s see if I can find positives about having had breast cancer.
Wheee!!
Well, let’s see. I think my marriage is actually stronger now that we’ve been through a major health crisis. Tom was pretty awesome during surgery, treatment and even this past summer when I wasn’t working. He is a rock. I’m lucky to have him and I’m trying hard to remind myself that he’s lucky to have me too. I am pretty sure he thinks so and that’s something.
And hey, tomorrow’s our anniversary, so there’s that. Sixteen years of marriage, almost eighteen years together. We’re among the lucky.
I wish I could say I take better care of myself. I’m trying to get into that mindset. I’ve resolved just today to try and eat less salt (that means cutting out the pickles and that makes me sad because I freaking love pickles.) I’m not quite there for cutting back on sugar (see above and anniversary, I’ve got to get a cake for that.) but I may be on the verge.
I still hate my body but maybe not quite as vehemently as I once did, so that’s something.
I wish I could say that having had cancer has given me some sort of zen and greater appreciation of life but yeah, no. I’m still cranky. I still get road rage walking behind slow people in the grocery store. I am grateful each morning when I wake up and get to spend another day with my family. I know that life is fragile, but that might be more because of Amy, my cousin, than because of my own fight. It’s all blurred together. I was diagnosed, started treatment, Amy got sick, was in an out of the hospital from November until February and then she just…died. She never got a definitive diagnosis. We believe it was some sort of lung cancer.
Yes, and I was still going through treatment. It was tough time for my extended family.
I do believe in the power of prayer. During my treatment, I was probably on every prayer list within a thirty mile radius of my work and house. And I felt the strength of those prayers. I feel like God always hears the prayers, even if He doesn’t give us the answers we hope for. Even if my prognosis had been worse than it was, I would like to believe that those prayers would have still given me comfort and strength.
I have an enormous appreciation for health insurance. Can you even imagine what we’d be facing if I’d gone into treatment without insurance? Wow. The mind reels at the possibility.
I trust my instincts that much more these days. Remember back in the days before Olivia’s diagnosis? I found her syndrome when she was NINE MONTHS OLD. I brought it to her doctor’s attention. I was told she was too pretty to have 5p- syndrome. I mean…
I held that syndrome close to my heart in the ensuing year and a half, knowing we would circle back to it. And we did. And her doctor (the on at Riley, not the one who said she was too pretty.) tested her because she was a smart, caring doctor and here we are.
I trusted my instincts enough to decide not to ‘wait and see’ as my first doctor wanted me to after talking about the pain in my breast. And here we are again. Trust those little voices that tell you something is wrong.
Don’t trust those voices that tell you that you are the Lloyd of your marriage (inside joke, except it’s not funny.)
I want to be stronger, smarter and better than I was before breast cancer and treatment. But really, I’m just me, with a slightly smaller left breast and some physical and emotional/mental scars to show for all that my family and I went through.
Happy October. Go buy a pumpkin. Get a mammogram. Hang a witch from your tree. Do your self exams. Eat some candy corn.
Tuesday, October 2, 2018
October
Oh, hey, did you know that October is Breast Cancer Awareness month?
What does this mean? Hell if I know.
I do know that A’s girlfriend, N, put pink gauges in her ears in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness. Go N!
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to do something or say something or celebrate my life or what.
Maybe we need cake. There’s always a reason to have cake. Just ask my giant butt. My butt freaking loves cake.
I guess I could make a list of all the ways breast cancer has changed my life. I could ruminate over how the last year affected me, both good and bad.
Maybe tomorrow.
What does this mean? Hell if I know.
I do know that A’s girlfriend, N, put pink gauges in her ears in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness. Go N!
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to do something or say something or celebrate my life or what.
Maybe we need cake. There’s always a reason to have cake. Just ask my giant butt. My butt freaking loves cake.
I guess I could make a list of all the ways breast cancer has changed my life. I could ruminate over how the last year affected me, both good and bad.
Maybe tomorrow.
Tuesday, September 11, 2018
A Year Ago Today
I know, I’m tired of this too but I can’t seem to stop my brain from thinking about where I was and what I was doing/going through a year ago in this day and that day and the other day.
Last year I dragged my six days post-surgery body to the county fair. I didn’t ride any rides except the Ferris wheel but I did walk around the place, watched Olivia ride rides with her sister, sat through the band performances and went home and slept as hard as ever.
My hematoma was hard and painful but the incision itself wasn’t too bad. I was bruised and battered and still reeling from the cancer diagnosis.
But I went to that damned fair because I was determined to keep living. I knew the coming months would be hard and I wanted to live. The whole point of treatment, of the surgery, the chemo, the radiation was to live and I didn’t want to put my life on hold while I fought to live.
So we went. And it was fine. I didn’t rupture anything or bleed more. I think getting out of the house that day helped. I didn’t and still don’t want to feel sorry for myself.
Yesterday, we hit up the fair again, this time after work, since…see yesterday’s post. This time, I rode the rides with Olivia while Alyssa hung out with her friends and prepared for her performance with the bands. It was fun.
Liv and I had a blast. We rode the Berry Go Round twice, once in a blueberry and once in a strawberry. After our Berry Go Round rides, we headed to the stands to watch her sister toot her flute. Liv was bored but honestly, so was I. Lyss’s band was the third in six that performed. They were awesome but waiting for her to perform and then sitting through those who performed after was boring. I’m there for my kid, not everyone else’s. I know, bad village mom. Whatever.
After the bands, we got some fair food because, duh. Liv got a cup of fries, I got some chicken tenders to share with her. We shared a Pepsi (isded, as O likes to point out) and I learned that colas still taste nasty.
And you know…if the one lasting effect of chemo (besides the awesome one of no more cancer!) is that I have a weird aftertaste when I drink Pepsi or Coke, well, I’m pretty damned lucky. I avoided the neuropathy. My hair grew back. I’m here. I can forgo colas for the rest of what is hopefully my very long life. I’m healthier for it anyway so I’m going to go have some cotton candy now.
After we ate we headed back to the rides. At first, O and I waited in line for the Ferris wheel. While we waited, they carney dudes let all the riders off and then…one of the dudes, the slightly younger one, grabbed a couple of wrenches and started climbing the wheel. I looked at Olivia and said, “We don’t really want to ride on this thing after he’s ‘fixed’ with a wrench, do we?”
She agreed that it seemed like a bad idea to climb aboard this ride and we headed to the scrambler instead. We both laughed so hard during our first ride as she slid into me over and over again that we decided to ride it again. After that, we were out of tickets and so headed back to the pavilion to find my mom. We were home by 8:45, just in time for Liv to have a shower and get her hair washed. It had been over a week since we’d had softened water. Her hair had been washed several times in that week but with nasty, hard water. It was icky. After her shower her hair felt so much better, as I’m sure, did she.
I’m so very grateful to have this time with my girls. To be able to look back on the past year with gratitude and joy, to know that this fight has been worth it. Even if the fight isn’t over, it’s worth every battle, every journey, every tear for moments like last night.
Last year I dragged my six days post-surgery body to the county fair. I didn’t ride any rides except the Ferris wheel but I did walk around the place, watched Olivia ride rides with her sister, sat through the band performances and went home and slept as hard as ever.
My hematoma was hard and painful but the incision itself wasn’t too bad. I was bruised and battered and still reeling from the cancer diagnosis.
But I went to that damned fair because I was determined to keep living. I knew the coming months would be hard and I wanted to live. The whole point of treatment, of the surgery, the chemo, the radiation was to live and I didn’t want to put my life on hold while I fought to live.
So we went. And it was fine. I didn’t rupture anything or bleed more. I think getting out of the house that day helped. I didn’t and still don’t want to feel sorry for myself.
Yesterday, we hit up the fair again, this time after work, since…see yesterday’s post. This time, I rode the rides with Olivia while Alyssa hung out with her friends and prepared for her performance with the bands. It was fun.
Liv and I had a blast. We rode the Berry Go Round twice, once in a blueberry and once in a strawberry. After our Berry Go Round rides, we headed to the stands to watch her sister toot her flute. Liv was bored but honestly, so was I. Lyss’s band was the third in six that performed. They were awesome but waiting for her to perform and then sitting through those who performed after was boring. I’m there for my kid, not everyone else’s. I know, bad village mom. Whatever.
After the bands, we got some fair food because, duh. Liv got a cup of fries, I got some chicken tenders to share with her. We shared a Pepsi (isded, as O likes to point out) and I learned that colas still taste nasty.
And you know…if the one lasting effect of chemo (besides the awesome one of no more cancer!) is that I have a weird aftertaste when I drink Pepsi or Coke, well, I’m pretty damned lucky. I avoided the neuropathy. My hair grew back. I’m here. I can forgo colas for the rest of what is hopefully my very long life. I’m healthier for it anyway so I’m going to go have some cotton candy now.
After we ate we headed back to the rides. At first, O and I waited in line for the Ferris wheel. While we waited, they carney dudes let all the riders off and then…one of the dudes, the slightly younger one, grabbed a couple of wrenches and started climbing the wheel. I looked at Olivia and said, “We don’t really want to ride on this thing after he’s ‘fixed’ with a wrench, do we?”
She agreed that it seemed like a bad idea to climb aboard this ride and we headed to the scrambler instead. We both laughed so hard during our first ride as she slid into me over and over again that we decided to ride it again. After that, we were out of tickets and so headed back to the pavilion to find my mom. We were home by 8:45, just in time for Liv to have a shower and get her hair washed. It had been over a week since we’d had softened water. Her hair had been washed several times in that week but with nasty, hard water. It was icky. After her shower her hair felt so much better, as I’m sure, did she.
I’m so very grateful to have this time with my girls. To be able to look back on the past year with gratitude and joy, to know that this fight has been worth it. Even if the fight isn’t over, it’s worth every battle, every journey, every tear for moments like last night.
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