December 11, 2016
December 11, 2016
September 28, 2016
My goal is to be as prolific as J.K. Rowling on a Harry Potter bender. I want to eat and breath literary excellence, summoning the wise Virginia Woolf, the caustic Edith Wharton, the wisecracking Dorothy Parker…and roll it off the press faster than Danielle Steele’s latest and greatest…Or maybe I should be content to finish this short piece.
First, I probably should explain why I quit.
Before I had cancer, I loved to write about all the things I found amusing. I’d pound out a post during the day and then my husband and I would edit into the night over a few glasses of wine and a lot of laughs. Then I got sick. I tried to hold onto my humor through cancer and chemo, but it became increasingly hard as the treatments ended and I was supposed to resume living with rekindled purpose and joy.
But I didn’t know how. I was scared to eat anything for fear it would return. I was reminded over and over that reoccurrence usually happens in the first five years. As much as I tried to live in the moment and not think about that timetable, my thoughts always circled back. So I exercised until exhausted. I became a slave to perpetual motion…somehow believing the culprit was the sedentary sloth-like hours I spent at my writing desk. Ultimately I stopped doing EVERYTHING I loved since it seemed obvious the life I led caused that dreaded disease.
For the first two years I waited for time to pass, hair to grow, and my mind to reboot. I became fixated on things to avoid…chocolate, alcohol, coffee, stress, root canals, red meat, processed food, white rice, microwaves, vegetable oil, artificial sweeteners, soft drinks, …the list grew longer and longer as I turned each calendar page. I snacked on Brazil nuts and almonds, made a commitment to whole grains, and tried a conscious uncoupling with Monsieur Cabernet.
I wanted to figure out who I was, the “new me”, the one who could no longer write or read because my brain was foggy. I began small though lofty projects, but soon left them halfway done, moving onto the next. When I finished a book, I forgot its contents immediately. I would take out a mop, a footstool, or a vacuum, plug it in and walk away, leaving a perfect toe-stubbing obstacle course for my uber patient husband.
I was bald for over a year, with token cameos from my eyebrows, eyelashes and short patchy stubbles on my head before they would all exit stage left again. Every ounce of hair on my body went MIA for those first two years and I pined for everything from pubes to nasal follicles. I felt sexless and depressed and I just wanted to be left alone, but my mind was on a tape loop. If I ate or drank something that was on the no fly list, I felt guilty and worthless. It was not fun to go out to eat or rendezvous with friends as no one wanted to be reminded of illness. An uncomfortable meeting with an old acquaintance leading to a comment about my appearance could set me back for months. My emotional skin was thin, leaving me ultra-sensitive when someone found all those new little sprigs on the top of my head to be a real knee-slapper. I stayed home, tucking myself away in the writing alcove and bounced on an exercise ball, praying that I’d find a lift, while feeling like a spoiled brat for being depressed. For God sakes, I was one of the lucky ones.
Now that I’ve filled this page with doom-and-gloom, I’m going to tell you what I probably should have said at the beginning. I’m finally done thinking about reoccurrence. I am going back to my old mantra…”I am healthy and I am healed.” I will enjoy each moment, whether it’s writing this post, running a half marathon, or eating a super sized bacon-cheeseburger and fries. Besides, if cancer makes another guest appearance, wouldn’t I be pissed that I spent my days worried about it? I’m going to stop feeling sorry for myself, get on my Quidditch stick and skewer demons!
December 13, 2013
I definitely look weather-beaten…oh hell, let’s not mince words…I look like shit. To top it off, I can’t feel my hands or feet from the neuropathy and there’s a distinct metallic taste in my mouth. When they unplugged me from the last drip my husband gave me a celebratory kiss and said, “That’s as close as I’ve ever been to heavy metal.” What a guy! I might have spurned the lip-lock myself, but he gets extra points for the snog.
Recently The New York Times ran an article entitled “What Does Cancer Smell Like?” (Subtitle: Tracking The Old Jock Strap In You.) Supposedly research is being done to find out if dogs can detect the disease. It all started back in 1989, when a woman went to see her doctor about a mole. She had no clue it was there until her Collie-Doberman mix became aggressive, trying to bite it off through her pants. (Cancer screening…another reason to buy a violent dog!) The mole turned out to be melanoma, so now they’re calling in the hounds for research. So far Dr. Petri’s canine study is inconclusive, but no matter…I’m on high alert this holiday. You can jolly well believe I’m keeping a close eye out for large slobbering mutts who want to make mincemeat of my pelvis.
I’ve always had an uncanny ability to identify odors. If given the opportunity to dive nose first into my tumor ridden uterus way back in August when it was removed, I could easily have pegged the bouquet of that grisly organ. For all I know my overtaxed womb reeked of granny panties doused in Shalimar…or maybe a downwind Greeley Colorado cow pie. Regardless…there’s no need to pull out those formaldehyde tissue samples for a Pitbull’s second opinion!
As the holidays draw near, I am reminded of many fond memories and blessings. One of my favorite childhood moments took place in Seattle. My mother would sit at the typewriter in my dad’s office as I jumped into his leather chair to tell her stories. I remember we did this on rainy days…and there were many. My imagination ran wild…it was like recess for the brain. I can still hear her fingers on the keys and the buzzing sound of the carriage return as it set up for a new line. The possibilities were endless…where did the characters go?…Whom did they encounter?…and then, depending on my mood, how did they meet their demise? Sometimes they died in quicksand (what happened to quicksand? Did we pave over it?) Maybe eaten by a crocodile?…and sometimes they lived happily ever after. My mom filled a notebook, but unfortunately no one can find it. I do recall one story about not wanting to be a raindrop for fear I’d be like everyone else.
My perspective on motherhood has broadened since being diagnosed with cancer. I know it sounds strange, but this illness reminds me of being pregnant. There are the obvious similarities… watching your diet, feeling sick to your stomach, and the need for more rest. But there is a mental side as well. Small grievances that once got in the way no longer matter. Things that used to send me over the edge don’t even hit my radar. Instead I’m working on letting go of past hurt, and finding forgiveness. The important thing is to live a healthy life (but still have fun), love my family and friends, and pay forward all the incredible support I’ve received.
Of course cancer and pregnancy bring totally different outcomes. One involves birth, and the other rebirth. Either way you are changed forever. The two situations can show you the highest highs and the lowest lows. Each bears a gift, but you may have to search a little harder for the favor from cancer. Both require a tremendous amount of patience, trust, and a sense of humor. Still…A child changes your life forever, whereas cancer only changes the course of your life. One friend likes to remind me that cancer is a temporary condition. Every day will be different. It won’t last forever…just like raising kids. One minute you are submerged in it…and the next, you’re buoyed by newfound wisdom.
Oh my, I’m getting heavy. I’ll stop now and wish you all a healthy happy holiday season and a bright and prosperous New Year. That’s right…Christmas is coming! No stopping the heavy metal hickies under the mistletoe or the dollar store ornaments on display! Sure I’ll be up to my underarm chemo port in a turkey carcass, but at least I won’t smell like Shalimar and fresh cow pies!
November 10, 2013
This last bout of chemo started out a little rough, preceded by a staph infection requiring antibiotics. I don’t think my body appreciated adding something new to the mix. I ended up sleeping for days, and when I woke it was like I’d gone through a bad breakup. Quietly sunk into the sofa with that sad, weepy, whipped dog look, I’d try to remind myself everyday is different. (Note to self…repeat that mantra because I’m back in the game with energy to burn.)
I began this cancer diagnosis with a used manila envelope to house important pathology reports, procedures, re-capped doctor conversations, and medical bills. Soon the paperwork overwhelmed my feeble folder so I bought a small, but impressive hardbound notebook with dividers and pockets. I have since graduated to the largest three ring binder one can buy and the damn thing is full…and bloody heavy. Actually, there are two binders–one for medical bills, and the other for doctor related material. Supposedly there is specific software that would organize this mess, but I’m resisting the techno temptation. Besides, I still harbor the strong tactile urge to paperclip, hole punch, staple, and categorize. It makes me feel in charge, which is truly laughable.
It’s sobering to think a once invincible body let down its guard, permitting the enemy to march in and set up camp. The same flesh and blood that held up its end of the bargain for decades finally waving the white flag, granting a portal for bad stuff to enter. I flashback to that game show where a shrill-voiced English woman bellowed at contestants, “YOU ARE THE WEAKEST LINK!” (I visualize my downtrodden uterus limping off the stage accompanied by her closest mates…my ovaries and fallopian tubes.)
The other day I walked into a waiting room lavatory and read these words on the stall wall, “If you are currently undergoing chemotherapy, please flush twice.” Twice? The only advice I’ve heard concerning flushing is to put a brick in the tank to save water. But they were telling me to pull that little handle like on a tight Reno slot machine. For a minute I was liberated! Hell, if they want safety, why not give it a trio of deep sea discharges…or maybe a quartet to really send it packing! When I got home, I googled this multi-flush phenomenon…low and behold, it’s true. I am a biohazard for 48 hours after chemo while my body eliminates the drugs. I have to wonder what they think we are doing on the toilet. Dunking into the bowl splashing about with a little rubber duck and some chemo suds? For those who care, I do my business without making waves and get off the pot.
This week we met with a Gynecologic Oncologist and a Radiologist to develop a post chemo plan of attack. I’ve been a little uneasy about this new level of treatment as radiation zaps of any kind petrify me. I’ve even faked being pregnant at dental exams for the past thirty years just to avoid X-rays. So imagine the joy when I heard my medical team agree that no radiation is needed at this time. They took it off the table…so to speak.
There is a lot to think about while processing this news. I’d been preparing myself to strap on armor for radiation. Incredible as it may be to hear no further treatment is necessary after chemo, it is hard to wrap my head around. How do you live fully with the knowledge that it may rise again and rear its ugly head? What do you do to live cancer-free and remain AWOL for a second tour of duty in the chemo trenches? But as one smart doctor reminded me…There are no guarantees in life. There is just time.
It had to sink in. I had to really listen to that word and roll it around on my tongue, wash it around in my brain. Time is the only way I will ever find answers. In two years, I will celebrate a milestone…and each subsequent year after, I will rejoice. It takes a leap of faith. In the meantime, I’m going to glide, kick, and twirl to a disco ball on steroids.