If a book has a conclusion does it get to have an epilogue as well? I'm not sure. When I wrote Episode 25 as the Conclusion, I was done. Everything. I was done treatments. I was done living away from home. I was done thinking about cancer. I was ready to forget and move on. I was also wrong. I'm not done. Not by a long shot.
Every morning, I wake up and my first action of the day (literally, while I'm still in bed) is to swallow a handful of pills (two Vitamin D, two low-dose anti-anxiety pills, and one Tamoxifen). With a wake-up call like that, how can I forget? Sometimes I lie back down for some more rest. Sometimes I get up ready to take on the day. (It's a real blessing that I have two teenagers at home to keep me busy.) When I get up, I brush my teeth and, yep, you guessed it, I look in the mirror. As lovely as my hair is right now compared to six months ago, the darker colour, the softer texture, and the short length is another reminder. I constantly run my fingers through my hair to see if it has grown in the past five minutes. No, I'm not forgetting. A bath or a shower? Just another visual reminder that I'm not who I used to be. And often, I run out of breath. Can't forget why I'm short on breath. Oh, yes, and let's not forget chemo-brain (also known as fog brain). It is a thing. This week alone, I missed three appointments in three days. Keeping the house clean? Not even close. My kids don't understand why I've changed and what's different about me. They're frustrated. I just keep telling them to be patient but I know I've been doing some dumb things.
And get this, I'm one of the lucky ones. I'm alive. I live and move on my own steam. I can do things. I can care for my family. I can expect a lot more years out of this 1964 model. I am grateful. In so many ways, I feel that 2015 is a new beginning. I will elaborate on that in a future post. To that end then, I extend an invitation to you to continue the journey with me. I have started a new blog called Dawn's World. It won't be exclusively about my cancer story. There will be other events as well which, I hope, will be fairly mundane but, I also hope, will make for interesting reading. I have also created a Facebook group called Breast Cancer Warriors . It is a closed group designed to be a resource for breast cancer patients, survivors and their caregivers. If you have a story to tell that you think will encourage someone or if you need encouragement yourself, click on Join Group and we'll get you in. With that, I bring this blog, My Experience with Cancer, to a close (maybe) and look forward to seeing you all again in Dawn's World.
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Episode 25: Conclusion
"It's happy, scary, and weird all at the same time." - Roxanne
Yes, it is.
Happy Part Last Thursday, Neil and I met with the oncologist for the second time since January.* We were curious as to whether or not there would be any new information. There was one bit of news. A recent CT scan looking for blood clots in my heart and lungs showed that the cancer had not moved to my heart or lungs. And, thankfully, there are no blood clots anywhere including arms and legs. The really good news, however, was that the doctor stressed the past-tense nature of my condition. She emphasized, "You had cancer." It is in the past. And "You are cancer free. It is highly likely that the surgery got everything." This is what I have been telling people all along but it's nice to hear it from a doctor. I texted my parents and daughters immediately so they could enjoy the good news as well. I knew that they really needed a break from all the worry. A lady (my age) here at the hotel told me that she was 18 when her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer and that it was the scariest thing she'd ever known. My own daughters are 15 & 17 and I know this has been horrible for them. I've always taken my mother for granted (a fault that I can only attribute to her incredible patience) but the thought that a person could lose a mother in their young years brings tears to the eyes. (Oh, stink, where's the tissue?) ... Quick, back to Happy. Thanks, Pharrell! I also thought you might find the following link interesting: Due to research, breast cancer survival rates have improved drastically. Now almost 90% of those who experience #BreastCancer will survive! https://www.facebook.com/breastcancersocietyofcanada?fref=nf
Scary Part Now that I've had a week to digest the following information it's not that scary anymore but I was asked, "If the above is true then why the need for on-going treatment?" That's the wildness of breast cancer. Breast cancer doesn't play by rules. I was diagnosed with two cancers, one of which was aggressive and spreading into my lymph nodes. A modified radical mastectomy removed my left breast which removed the two lumps and the spreading cancer from my left breast. Also, 20 lymph nodes were removed from under my left arm, eight of which were cancerous (don't worry, we have hundreds Number of Lymph Nodes).** We can be fairly certain that everything was caught. But, ultra-sounds and CT scans don't see everything. It is possible for cancer cells to remain very small and escape detection. So at this point, post-surgery, everything becomes a game of statistics. Women in this situation who do not follow through with treatment have a fairly high chance of recurrence: that is the cancer comes back. Women who go through the whole process of surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation substantially drop the risk of recurrence.*** So even though I've been told to claim the status of being Cancer-free, I still do every preventive measure possible. (Perhaps a good comparison would be that even though I've never been hit by a car, I'll still walk on the sidewalk just so I can lower the odds.)
Further, my cancer was identified as Estrogen Receptor positive. This means that my little critters like estrogen. It helps them grow. Everyone produces estrogen until they die and if there are any cancer cells in me escaping detection at this point, they could grow with the help of my own estrogen. However, there is a treatment for that. It's called Tamoxifen and comes in the form of a little pill. Tamoxifen acts like estrogen and leads cancer cells to believe that they are getting an estrogen treat but, instead of helping the cancer cells to grow, the tamoxifen wraps itself around the cell and blocks it from receiving any real estrogen. I will be taking a Tamoxifen pill every day for the next five years. At that time, I will be re-evaluated and likely given another five year term of Tamoxifen. After ten years of Tamoxifen, I might be switched to an aromatase inhibitor but I'll look that up later. Right now, my head is full.
Weird Part It's been almost one year since this adventure started and I have yet to stop and catch my breath. I never ever would have dreamed that I could be in this situation and it's still a bit un-nerving to think about. It's been a whirlwind of learning, thinking, crying, withdrawing, and reaching out (to give and to receive). It's a weird feeling because I have to adjust. I'm not the same person I used to be. That is humbling because I thought I was pretty cool before but I had a lot to learn about myself and being a better person. On the one hand, I'm not as patient as I used to be over lifes minor aches and pains. "You stubbed your toe. Oh, what a shame. i.e. Get over it." But, on the other hand, I have a lot more empathy for the big stuff. For example, the other day I was too weak to walk from my radiation appointment to the pharmacy (both in the hospital) so I asked for a wheelchair and a porter to deliver me. It was kind of fun but also an eye opener. Now, when I see someone in a wheelchair I don't see someone who is weak. I see someone who has a story and probably a humdinger of a story at that. I also have a lot more empathy for old people (oops, the elderly) now. I am definitely younger than almost everybody here by quite a bit but, even still, I understand better the frailty that comes with age. We didn't start out looking like this. It's also weird because I have become an "expert" on an experience that I never asked for. People are asking me if there's "life after chemotherapy". It's a weird but nice feeling to be able to say, "Yes, there is. Don't give up. It does get better. It gets pretty low but you will come back up again."
________________________
* For the sake of accuracy, I feel that I must explain that it wasn't actually the oncologist I met but rather his representative, another doctor. Also, it might seem that having only two meetings from January to September isn't good but, in fact, there was a whole team of doctors and nurses looking after me regularly so I feel very well cared for.
** In case you're curious, I do still have pain and discomfort from the surgery, especially under my arm. Sometimes people ask so yes, it's there.
*** I am deliberately leaving out percentages and time frames rather than risk making a mistake. For real figures, please consult a Physician or reputable web-site.
Yes, it is.
Happy Part Last Thursday, Neil and I met with the oncologist for the second time since January.* We were curious as to whether or not there would be any new information. There was one bit of news. A recent CT scan looking for blood clots in my heart and lungs showed that the cancer had not moved to my heart or lungs. And, thankfully, there are no blood clots anywhere including arms and legs. The really good news, however, was that the doctor stressed the past-tense nature of my condition. She emphasized, "You had cancer." It is in the past. And "You are cancer free. It is highly likely that the surgery got everything." This is what I have been telling people all along but it's nice to hear it from a doctor. I texted my parents and daughters immediately so they could enjoy the good news as well. I knew that they really needed a break from all the worry. A lady (my age) here at the hotel told me that she was 18 when her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer and that it was the scariest thing she'd ever known. My own daughters are 15 & 17 and I know this has been horrible for them. I've always taken my mother for granted (a fault that I can only attribute to her incredible patience) but the thought that a person could lose a mother in their young years brings tears to the eyes. (Oh, stink, where's the tissue?) ... Quick, back to Happy. Thanks, Pharrell! I also thought you might find the following link interesting: Due to research, breast cancer survival rates have improved drastically. Now almost 90% of those who experience #BreastCancer will survive! https://www.facebook.com/breastcancersocietyofcanada?fref=nf
Scary Part Now that I've had a week to digest the following information it's not that scary anymore but I was asked, "If the above is true then why the need for on-going treatment?" That's the wildness of breast cancer. Breast cancer doesn't play by rules. I was diagnosed with two cancers, one of which was aggressive and spreading into my lymph nodes. A modified radical mastectomy removed my left breast which removed the two lumps and the spreading cancer from my left breast. Also, 20 lymph nodes were removed from under my left arm, eight of which were cancerous (don't worry, we have hundreds Number of Lymph Nodes).** We can be fairly certain that everything was caught. But, ultra-sounds and CT scans don't see everything. It is possible for cancer cells to remain very small and escape detection. So at this point, post-surgery, everything becomes a game of statistics. Women in this situation who do not follow through with treatment have a fairly high chance of recurrence: that is the cancer comes back. Women who go through the whole process of surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation substantially drop the risk of recurrence.*** So even though I've been told to claim the status of being Cancer-free, I still do every preventive measure possible. (Perhaps a good comparison would be that even though I've never been hit by a car, I'll still walk on the sidewalk just so I can lower the odds.)
Further, my cancer was identified as Estrogen Receptor positive. This means that my little critters like estrogen. It helps them grow. Everyone produces estrogen until they die and if there are any cancer cells in me escaping detection at this point, they could grow with the help of my own estrogen. However, there is a treatment for that. It's called Tamoxifen and comes in the form of a little pill. Tamoxifen acts like estrogen and leads cancer cells to believe that they are getting an estrogen treat but, instead of helping the cancer cells to grow, the tamoxifen wraps itself around the cell and blocks it from receiving any real estrogen. I will be taking a Tamoxifen pill every day for the next five years. At that time, I will be re-evaluated and likely given another five year term of Tamoxifen. After ten years of Tamoxifen, I might be switched to an aromatase inhibitor but I'll look that up later. Right now, my head is full.
Weird Part It's been almost one year since this adventure started and I have yet to stop and catch my breath. I never ever would have dreamed that I could be in this situation and it's still a bit un-nerving to think about. It's been a whirlwind of learning, thinking, crying, withdrawing, and reaching out (to give and to receive). It's a weird feeling because I have to adjust. I'm not the same person I used to be. That is humbling because I thought I was pretty cool before but I had a lot to learn about myself and being a better person. On the one hand, I'm not as patient as I used to be over lifes minor aches and pains. "You stubbed your toe. Oh, what a shame. i.e. Get over it." But, on the other hand, I have a lot more empathy for the big stuff. For example, the other day I was too weak to walk from my radiation appointment to the pharmacy (both in the hospital) so I asked for a wheelchair and a porter to deliver me. It was kind of fun but also an eye opener. Now, when I see someone in a wheelchair I don't see someone who is weak. I see someone who has a story and probably a humdinger of a story at that. I also have a lot more empathy for old people (oops, the elderly) now. I am definitely younger than almost everybody here by quite a bit but, even still, I understand better the frailty that comes with age. We didn't start out looking like this. It's also weird because I have become an "expert" on an experience that I never asked for. People are asking me if there's "life after chemotherapy". It's a weird but nice feeling to be able to say, "Yes, there is. Don't give up. It does get better. It gets pretty low but you will come back up again."
Dear Reader,
My adventure and this blog have completed their course. I want to sincerely thank you for the time that you have given me. Your support has been such an encouragement through a dark year. Being able to put my thoughts and feelings into read-able explanations has helped me to process this experience. And knowing that my words have been a help or a pleasure for you is extremely gratifying. Thank you.
Bless you,
Dawn
________________________
* For the sake of accuracy, I feel that I must explain that it wasn't actually the oncologist I met but rather his representative, another doctor. Also, it might seem that having only two meetings from January to September isn't good but, in fact, there was a whole team of doctors and nurses looking after me regularly so I feel very well cared for.
** In case you're curious, I do still have pain and discomfort from the surgery, especially under my arm. Sometimes people ask so yes, it's there.
*** I am deliberately leaving out percentages and time frames rather than risk making a mistake. For real figures, please consult a Physician or reputable web-site.
Wednesday, September 03, 2014
Episode 24: On Being Strong
Hello Dear One,
I'm writing to you from my hotel's computer in the activity room. There is a boisterous game of Euchre going on behind me. Yesterday, the gang showed me how to play. I am now living in London Monday-Friday while I receive daily radiation treatments. I don't know the exact number of treatments yet but it will likely be 33, so three down, thirty to go. The Cancer Clinic has a deal with the hotel so that out-of-town patients can stay here at no charge during the week. I'm just guessing but I would say that there are about 30 people who stay here through the Cancer Clinic program. We are very well treated, including three meals a day at a much-subsidized rate. As cancer patients, we are all at different stages and receiving different treatments so we are a very transient bunch but there is a lot of camaraderie as we all can relate to the trials of living this way and needing to look after each other.
I'm happy to report that the chemo part is over for me. My final treatment was July 28th, a little over a month ago. My hair is about 2" long, although very transparent and, although I'm still achy in the bones and easily winded, I can feel myself getting stronger every day. Yesterday, I used the stationary bicycle for five minutes and went a distance of 1 km burning ten calories. Today, I used the stairs several times from the lobby to the third floor and also back and forth to the second floor.
I want to write today regarding the topic of being called strong. Many times this year I have been complimented by people about how strong I am and that I can "do this". I don't want to offend well-meaning people who are genuinely trying to encourage me but, in truth, this is a compliment that does not sit well with me. It's taken me months of mulling to understand why but I think I have it now.
Just for fun, let's start with some definitions. Strong is:
- someone who comes off as confident; someone who is comfortable in there (sic) own skin; someone who can take on the world; someone who should be very proud of themselves (Urban Dictionary)
- Having passive physical power; having ability to bear or endure; firm; hale; sound; robust; as, a strong constitution; strong health; Solid; tough; not easily broken or injured; able to withstand violence; able to sustain attacks; not easily subdued or taken (www.thinkexist.com)
- not easy to break or damage (Merriam-Webster)
The only definition above that I'll accept for myself is having a strong constitution and being able to sustain attacks. I continue to endure. I think, though, real strength is like courage. It's the ability to do what needs to be done in spite of ones fears when given a choice. I did not have a choice. I had to go through the treatment and I don't deserve the label. Legally, yes it was me who signed the consent form but that's a moot point. There really was no choice or discussion. Knowingly leave my children orphaned: never. Leaving my husband widowed (widowered?), not good. Leaving my parents to bury their child, unthinkable. I will do everything I can to protect my family. You would do the same thing. Don't call me strong. Also, you don't know how many times I cried on my husband's shoulder, "I can't do this anymore." or how many times Neil brought me meals in bed so I could rest or how many times my children have hugged me to hold me up physically and emotionally, "Mom, you'll be fine. You can do this. You're better than you were yesterday." or how many sleepless nights my parents have had worried about me. Don't call me strong. Watching and carrying on while someone you love suffers is where the real strength lies.
Let me tell you about a lady I spoke with today who could be called strong. Let's call her Betty (because that's her name). She's lovely. She's vivacious, energetic, entertaining, and plays a mean game of Euchre. She's also 75 (looks about 60). She tested positive for the HER2/neu hormone which means that her brand of chemotherapy is especially brutal. Because she's 75, her family of grown children was divided about whether or not she should take the treatment. Her case went before the London Cancer Clinic Review Board. The Board was also divided. The decision became exclusively hers. How do you decide something like that? Choosing or not choosing treatment meant agreeing with some people and disappointing others. That's strength. When she told her family doctor that her decision was to get treated he took her hand and said, "I'm so glad." He explained that when the Review Board looks at a case all they see is a number: 75. When he, as her family doctor, looks at her case he sees her with all her energy, drive and faith. When she told her family about her decision to receive treatment and add a number of years to her life she told them that those who agreed could support her decision and those who didn't agree, if they couldn't encourage her, they should at least not say anything. I was mesmerized by her story and just kept thinking, "Now, that's strength."
Bless you all, my dear ones.
I'm writing to you from my hotel's computer in the activity room. There is a boisterous game of Euchre going on behind me. Yesterday, the gang showed me how to play. I am now living in London Monday-Friday while I receive daily radiation treatments. I don't know the exact number of treatments yet but it will likely be 33, so three down, thirty to go. The Cancer Clinic has a deal with the hotel so that out-of-town patients can stay here at no charge during the week. I'm just guessing but I would say that there are about 30 people who stay here through the Cancer Clinic program. We are very well treated, including three meals a day at a much-subsidized rate. As cancer patients, we are all at different stages and receiving different treatments so we are a very transient bunch but there is a lot of camaraderie as we all can relate to the trials of living this way and needing to look after each other.
I'm happy to report that the chemo part is over for me. My final treatment was July 28th, a little over a month ago. My hair is about 2" long, although very transparent and, although I'm still achy in the bones and easily winded, I can feel myself getting stronger every day. Yesterday, I used the stationary bicycle for five minutes and went a distance of 1 km burning ten calories. Today, I used the stairs several times from the lobby to the third floor and also back and forth to the second floor.
I want to write today regarding the topic of being called strong. Many times this year I have been complimented by people about how strong I am and that I can "do this". I don't want to offend well-meaning people who are genuinely trying to encourage me but, in truth, this is a compliment that does not sit well with me. It's taken me months of mulling to understand why but I think I have it now.
Just for fun, let's start with some definitions. Strong is:
- someone who comes off as confident; someone who is comfortable in there (sic) own skin; someone who can take on the world; someone who should be very proud of themselves (Urban Dictionary)
- Having passive physical power; having ability to bear or endure; firm; hale; sound; robust; as, a strong constitution; strong health; Solid; tough; not easily broken or injured; able to withstand violence; able to sustain attacks; not easily subdued or taken (www.thinkexist.com)
- not easy to break or damage (Merriam-Webster)
The only definition above that I'll accept for myself is having a strong constitution and being able to sustain attacks. I continue to endure. I think, though, real strength is like courage. It's the ability to do what needs to be done in spite of ones fears when given a choice. I did not have a choice. I had to go through the treatment and I don't deserve the label. Legally, yes it was me who signed the consent form but that's a moot point. There really was no choice or discussion. Knowingly leave my children orphaned: never. Leaving my husband widowed (widowered?), not good. Leaving my parents to bury their child, unthinkable. I will do everything I can to protect my family. You would do the same thing. Don't call me strong. Also, you don't know how many times I cried on my husband's shoulder, "I can't do this anymore." or how many times Neil brought me meals in bed so I could rest or how many times my children have hugged me to hold me up physically and emotionally, "Mom, you'll be fine. You can do this. You're better than you were yesterday." or how many sleepless nights my parents have had worried about me. Don't call me strong. Watching and carrying on while someone you love suffers is where the real strength lies.
Let me tell you about a lady I spoke with today who could be called strong. Let's call her Betty (because that's her name). She's lovely. She's vivacious, energetic, entertaining, and plays a mean game of Euchre. She's also 75 (looks about 60). She tested positive for the HER2/neu hormone which means that her brand of chemotherapy is especially brutal. Because she's 75, her family of grown children was divided about whether or not she should take the treatment. Her case went before the London Cancer Clinic Review Board. The Board was also divided. The decision became exclusively hers. How do you decide something like that? Choosing or not choosing treatment meant agreeing with some people and disappointing others. That's strength. When she told her family doctor that her decision was to get treated he took her hand and said, "I'm so glad." He explained that when the Review Board looks at a case all they see is a number: 75. When he, as her family doctor, looks at her case he sees her with all her energy, drive and faith. When she told her family about her decision to receive treatment and add a number of years to her life she told them that those who agreed could support her decision and those who didn't agree, if they couldn't encourage her, they should at least not say anything. I was mesmerized by her story and just kept thinking, "Now, that's strength."
Bless you all, my dear ones.
Sunday, July 27, 2014
Episode 23: Let There Be Tears
A number of years ago, my mother told me about an incident that happened at home while I was away. Apparently, someone in the house was quite upset. My little sister who would have been about 7 years old at the time walked into the room and said, "Well, if there are going to be tears, then let there be tears." I have no idea what was going through her mind at the time but I've remembered that statement ever since and have always liked it because it confers permission. There will be tears and that's okay. We know that crying is good for us. It releases tension. It washes away bacteria from our eyes and tear ducts. It keeps our eyes lubricated. I personally think we'd all be healthier if we could just sit down and have a good cry. If more of the world's leaders were women, there would be no child soldiers; no sons or daughters on a battlefield; no retaliation. We would sit at the boardroom table, glare at each other for awhile, then break down, have a good cry, wipe our noses, and then serve tea, pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and try again.
Let there be tears.
On January 13, 2014, life, as I knew it, fell apart in one easy stroke. Something died that day. From the look on the ultra-sound technician's face to less than two hours in biopsy, I knew. "They're worried." Except for my meltdown that day, there have been very few tears. I wanted to see where tears fit into the seven stages of grief. I'm still in a muddle of the first four stages. http://www.recover-from-grief.com/heartbroken-from-grief.html /watch?v=56wYNGfeouM Shock, being overwhelmed, needing to stay informed, following instructions, surgery, physical weakness, medication: all of it kept me too pre-occupied for tears. That has changed. Now, I'm beat. I'm exhausted and worn out. I have a lot of water retention so the tears flow easily (along with trips to the bathroom). I hurt all over. I don't want to do this any more. I know, in my head, that I'll get through this treatment plan but I'm oh so tired. And, after that, then what? Life as I knew it will never be the same again. I've changed. My circumstances have changed. There is no going back. Like my dear cousin said, "It's Unwritten." https://www.youtube.com
Let there be tears.
The other night I was reading a story from Chicken Soup for the Soul. Mother Theresa had given a set of rosary beads to a gentleman on a plane. After that, a friend had to go through chemo-therapy so he gave the beads to her and she found great strength and comfort praying with the beads. After her treatment, she sent the beads back to him. Then when a sister was going through a crisis, he mailed them to her who likewise found peace with them. This routine of sending the beads out and then having them returned to send to someone else carried on many times. When I finished reading, I started to cry. I closed my eyes and said, "What am I holding on to?" As soon as I said the words, with my eyes still closed, I saw in my mind an image of Jesus standing before me: traditional, Jewish, long hair, long beard, long robe Jesus. In my mind, I fell at his knees and cried, "I can't do this anymore." He crouched down so we were face to face, smiled gently, and said, "Yes, you can." I figured if anybody knows if I can or not, it would be He. I opened my eyes still with tears streaming down but through the tears I had this enormous grin on my face. "Blessed are they who mourn for they shall be comforted." - Jesus
Let there be tears.
Let there be tears.
On January 13, 2014, life, as I knew it, fell apart in one easy stroke. Something died that day. From the look on the ultra-sound technician's face to less than two hours in biopsy, I knew. "They're worried." Except for my meltdown that day, there have been very few tears. I wanted to see where tears fit into the seven stages of grief. I'm still in a muddle of the first four stages. http://www.recover-from-grief.com/heartbroken-from-grief.html /watch?v=56wYNGfeouM Shock, being overwhelmed, needing to stay informed, following instructions, surgery, physical weakness, medication: all of it kept me too pre-occupied for tears. That has changed. Now, I'm beat. I'm exhausted and worn out. I have a lot of water retention so the tears flow easily (along with trips to the bathroom). I hurt all over. I don't want to do this any more. I know, in my head, that I'll get through this treatment plan but I'm oh so tired. And, after that, then what? Life as I knew it will never be the same again. I've changed. My circumstances have changed. There is no going back. Like my dear cousin said, "It's Unwritten." https://www.youtube.com
Let there be tears.
The other night I was reading a story from Chicken Soup for the Soul. Mother Theresa had given a set of rosary beads to a gentleman on a plane. After that, a friend had to go through chemo-therapy so he gave the beads to her and she found great strength and comfort praying with the beads. After her treatment, she sent the beads back to him. Then when a sister was going through a crisis, he mailed them to her who likewise found peace with them. This routine of sending the beads out and then having them returned to send to someone else carried on many times. When I finished reading, I started to cry. I closed my eyes and said, "What am I holding on to?" As soon as I said the words, with my eyes still closed, I saw in my mind an image of Jesus standing before me: traditional, Jewish, long hair, long beard, long robe Jesus. In my mind, I fell at his knees and cried, "I can't do this anymore." He crouched down so we were face to face, smiled gently, and said, "Yes, you can." I figured if anybody knows if I can or not, it would be He. I opened my eyes still with tears streaming down but through the tears I had this enormous grin on my face. "Blessed are they who mourn for they shall be comforted." - Jesus
Let there be tears.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Episode 22: How to Cure a Panic Attack
Warning: The following method may not be suitable for all readers. Consult your Health Care Professional.
Sometimes it's easy to identify the cause of a panic attack: the sight of a lab technician walking in with a cart full of blood vials or the casual quip from someone who jokes about your greatest fear. Other times, the cause of a panic attack is less easy to identify: perhaps a smell or a certain day of the week triggers an unpleasant memory. Cycle 4 was fraught with anxiety which occasionally turned to panic. However, I believe that I may have found the cure.
One night at approximately 11:20 PM, I was lying in bed and I could feel myself tensing up for no apparent reason. Then, my breathing became very rapid. I tried some deep breathing exercises but to little avail. Since I wanted to have a good sleep, I decided that this was a good time to let a pill help me relax so I took one of my anti-anxiety pills. They usually work quite quickly (i.e. 5-15 minutes). Instead of relaxing, though, my breathing got worse, my skin started to tingle all over, and my hands began to clench. I couldn't believe it. Another attack? Now? Why? All I wanted to do was sleep.
I definitely had no intention of calling the fire department again (Episode 18) so I devised a plan. Quite often a burst of fresh cool air goes a long way so I figured that if I didn't calm down soon, I would ask my husband to take me to emergency. My car is my happy place. The combination of cool night air and peace and quiet would do wonders. If not, the 20 minute drive to the hospital might work and if that still wasn't enough the emergency department might have something.
By midnight, I was still no better so I said, "Would you please drive me to Emergency?" (Actually, it may have been more like: "Neil, Emergency Now!!") I stood up out of the bed and started to walk towards the stairs to go down. Wouldn't you know it but my left leg went numb? I couldn't walk. I was sure I could never make it down the stairs hopping. I'd tumble and break my neck. My sweetheart of a husband so lovingly said, "I'll carry you down." Hahahahahaha! Guess what? There is something worse than a panic attack. There's the terror of envisioning myself and my dear one doing somersaults down a full flight.
I crawled back into bed. I was fine.
Sometimes it's easy to identify the cause of a panic attack: the sight of a lab technician walking in with a cart full of blood vials or the casual quip from someone who jokes about your greatest fear. Other times, the cause of a panic attack is less easy to identify: perhaps a smell or a certain day of the week triggers an unpleasant memory. Cycle 4 was fraught with anxiety which occasionally turned to panic. However, I believe that I may have found the cure.
One night at approximately 11:20 PM, I was lying in bed and I could feel myself tensing up for no apparent reason. Then, my breathing became very rapid. I tried some deep breathing exercises but to little avail. Since I wanted to have a good sleep, I decided that this was a good time to let a pill help me relax so I took one of my anti-anxiety pills. They usually work quite quickly (i.e. 5-15 minutes). Instead of relaxing, though, my breathing got worse, my skin started to tingle all over, and my hands began to clench. I couldn't believe it. Another attack? Now? Why? All I wanted to do was sleep.
I definitely had no intention of calling the fire department again (Episode 18) so I devised a plan. Quite often a burst of fresh cool air goes a long way so I figured that if I didn't calm down soon, I would ask my husband to take me to emergency. My car is my happy place. The combination of cool night air and peace and quiet would do wonders. If not, the 20 minute drive to the hospital might work and if that still wasn't enough the emergency department might have something.
By midnight, I was still no better so I said, "Would you please drive me to Emergency?" (Actually, it may have been more like: "Neil, Emergency Now!!") I stood up out of the bed and started to walk towards the stairs to go down. Wouldn't you know it but my left leg went numb? I couldn't walk. I was sure I could never make it down the stairs hopping. I'd tumble and break my neck. My sweetheart of a husband so lovingly said, "I'll carry you down." Hahahahahaha! Guess what? There is something worse than a panic attack. There's the terror of envisioning myself and my dear one doing somersaults down a full flight.
I crawled back into bed. I was fine.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Episode 21: Mid-Cycle 4
In my last episode, I believe I had mentioned that Cycle 4 would be a different chemo-drug and that hopefully it would be easier to manage. Well, dash my hopes to bits. It was almost like Cycle 1 all over again. Blech, blech, blech, blech, blech. It's been almost two weeks and I'm still not quite perked up yet. Down can be really down and I have been warned that it only gets more exhausting until it's over. Oh, well, only two to go.
I'd like to address this episode especially to people who might be reading this, experiencing or contemplating chemo, and wondering if they can do it. PLEASE, follow the advice of your health-care team! Everyone is different and has different reactions. Cancers are different. Treatments are different. And, there are so many variables unique to each person that every situation is different. We are blessed here in Canada to have amazing services and care that I don't want anyone to think, "Oh, I can't do this. I have to stop." Don't stop. Don't give up. The nurses are great. They come to the house almost everyday. They talk me through the tough times on the telephone night or day. And they know how to say just the right things to lift my spirits. The other day one of my nurses was here and she told me that she has worked with patients who don't react much to chemo at all and have few side effects. That's not good. The fact that I'm going through all the tough stuff means that the chemo is working and that I'm receiving exactly the right treatment so "stay the course"! This is do-able!
Doctor: I have two pieces of bad news for you.
Patient: What's the first?
Doctor: You have cancer.
Patient: What's the second?
Doctor: You have Alzheimer's.
Patient: Thank goodness, I don't have cancer.
I'd like to address this episode especially to people who might be reading this, experiencing or contemplating chemo, and wondering if they can do it. PLEASE, follow the advice of your health-care team! Everyone is different and has different reactions. Cancers are different. Treatments are different. And, there are so many variables unique to each person that every situation is different. We are blessed here in Canada to have amazing services and care that I don't want anyone to think, "Oh, I can't do this. I have to stop." Don't stop. Don't give up. The nurses are great. They come to the house almost everyday. They talk me through the tough times on the telephone night or day. And they know how to say just the right things to lift my spirits. The other day one of my nurses was here and she told me that she has worked with patients who don't react much to chemo at all and have few side effects. That's not good. The fact that I'm going through all the tough stuff means that the chemo is working and that I'm receiving exactly the right treatment so "stay the course"! This is do-able!
Doctor: I have two pieces of bad news for you.
Patient: What's the first?
Doctor: You have cancer.
Patient: What's the second?
Doctor: You have Alzheimer's.
Patient: Thank goodness, I don't have cancer.
Sunday, June 01, 2014
Episode 20: Mid-Cycle 3
Three down, three to go.
Hello,
I really don't have much to report. I'm not blogging much because I am constantly tired except for the occasional high burst of energy. So, every now and then, I do something really amazing like paint the house for an hour (or plant some flowers) which is great if you don't mind a house exterior that's got about three different colours on it.
Next time I go in for a treatment is Monday, June 16th. We've postponed it from Thursday to Monday because I want to feel good on the weekend. My daughter is performing in a community theatre production and I am very excited to see it. She's Flute in Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. That is a play I have enjoyed many times and am looking forward to this version. Cycle 4 will consist of a new chemo-drug. I am very, very curious to find out the new side effects. They say the nausea is much diminished (please, please, please!) but the trade is to water retention and muscle aches. And, of course, still the constant fatigue.
Thank you for the continued encouragement and prayers. You are so much appreciated. Oh, I remember what I was going to tell you! As I am sure you can imagine, I have heard numerous stories in the past few months of people going through similar circumstances but without the care for their feelings. I can't go into details because the stories have been told in confidence but I am shocked at how callous some people can be and constantly feel so blessed by my circle. For example, the other day I went to the mall with my two daughters. It was so hot that I decided to ditch the scarf and rock the bald look. I asked my daughter if that was okay. She said to me, "Are you comfortable?". "Yes." "Then it's the perfect look." Can you believe that? No wonder I love my kids.
Night all.
Hello,
I really don't have much to report. I'm not blogging much because I am constantly tired except for the occasional high burst of energy. So, every now and then, I do something really amazing like paint the house for an hour (or plant some flowers) which is great if you don't mind a house exterior that's got about three different colours on it.
Next time I go in for a treatment is Monday, June 16th. We've postponed it from Thursday to Monday because I want to feel good on the weekend. My daughter is performing in a community theatre production and I am very excited to see it. She's Flute in Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. That is a play I have enjoyed many times and am looking forward to this version. Cycle 4 will consist of a new chemo-drug. I am very, very curious to find out the new side effects. They say the nausea is much diminished (please, please, please!) but the trade is to water retention and muscle aches. And, of course, still the constant fatigue.
Thank you for the continued encouragement and prayers. You are so much appreciated. Oh, I remember what I was going to tell you! As I am sure you can imagine, I have heard numerous stories in the past few months of people going through similar circumstances but without the care for their feelings. I can't go into details because the stories have been told in confidence but I am shocked at how callous some people can be and constantly feel so blessed by my circle. For example, the other day I went to the mall with my two daughters. It was so hot that I decided to ditch the scarf and rock the bald look. I asked my daughter if that was okay. She said to me, "Are you comfortable?". "Yes." "Then it's the perfect look." Can you believe that? No wonder I love my kids.
Night all.
Saturday, May 10, 2014
Episode 19: Early in Cycle 2
Hello Everyone,
Just checking in. Thanks for the continued reading. I'm about a week and a half into Cycle 2. They changed my medications (not the chemo, just the symptom management) so that the nausea has been bear-able until, that is, I thought I was doing so much better that I skipped a couple of days of pills. That was a mistake. "Hello, emergency room nurse at 4 in the morning via telephone. What do I do now? The pills won't stay down!" I even threw up while I was on the telephone. Not cool. But don't feel sorry for me. This is what happens to people who don't follow instructions. So lesson learned, I'm not skipping my pills. Today was amazing, amazingly good. I was up at 8 AM, drove my daughter to work, went back for a very brief nap, got up at 9 AM and have been busy all day. It's now 9:30 PM and I have gotten so much done today. I haven't been winded or nauseous or anything bad. Go, me!
BTW, I hope nobody is taking it personally if I don't answer messages. Like I said earlier, phones wear me out and days like today are few and far between. If you've been kind enough to think of me and message, please be patient, I'm doing my best to keep the communication lines open.
Oh! Happy Mother's Day, Mom!!!!
Blessings, Everyone.
Just checking in. Thanks for the continued reading. I'm about a week and a half into Cycle 2. They changed my medications (not the chemo, just the symptom management) so that the nausea has been bear-able until, that is, I thought I was doing so much better that I skipped a couple of days of pills. That was a mistake. "Hello, emergency room nurse at 4 in the morning via telephone. What do I do now? The pills won't stay down!" I even threw up while I was on the telephone. Not cool. But don't feel sorry for me. This is what happens to people who don't follow instructions. So lesson learned, I'm not skipping my pills. Today was amazing, amazingly good. I was up at 8 AM, drove my daughter to work, went back for a very brief nap, got up at 9 AM and have been busy all day. It's now 9:30 PM and I have gotten so much done today. I haven't been winded or nauseous or anything bad. Go, me!
BTW, I hope nobody is taking it personally if I don't answer messages. Like I said earlier, phones wear me out and days like today are few and far between. If you've been kind enough to think of me and message, please be patient, I'm doing my best to keep the communication lines open.
Oh! Happy Mother's Day, Mom!!!!
Blessings, Everyone.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Episode 18: End of Cycle 1
I thought I'd just say hello to everyone before I go in for another round of treatment tomorrow (one down, five to go). This has not been a good three weeks. And, no, I am not as strong as everyone likes to think. I am now on a new prescription to help keep the panic attacks under control. I'm a little miffed because that was not in the book.
On Saturday, I couldn't catch my breath and started hyper-ventilating. One of the results of hyper-ventilating is tingling in the arms followed by a clenching of the hands with an inability to un-clench. Again, not in the book! Guess who got a little freaked out (me and a couple of loved ones who were watching). Being Saturday, of course all the nurses stations were closed for the weekend so I finally consented to calling 9-1-1. The 9-1-1 operator asked if I was breathing normally. As a matter of fact, no, it's quite rapid. Two minutes later I heard the sirens at the fire station which is just a block away from our house and the trucks racing down the street.
So here's the thing. We live in a very small town where everyone knows everyone and our firefighters are a team of very dedicated and compassionate volunteer men. Well, here I am lying in bed gasping for breath, hear the sirens, open my eyes and what should I see but four very handsome, rugged, all decked-out firemen looking at me. Thanks a lot guys. Now, my breathing is too rapid and my pulse is too fast. I feel like such a fool. How will I face them at the next baseball game? (I wonder if they've ever considered doing a calendar.)
On one of my better days, I got a photo of me rocking the bald. You can see my new pic on the side there. I shaved my head in preparation for baldness but so far it hasn't happened yet. Watch that be the one side effect I don't get. Haha.
To end on a slightly more serious note, please keep praying. I'm getting nauseous just thinking about the next round. They've promised to change things for me so hopefully it'll be better but at the moment that's small consolation.
Just breathe 1-2-3 just breathe 1-2-3 just breathe 1-2-3 ...
On Saturday, I couldn't catch my breath and started hyper-ventilating. One of the results of hyper-ventilating is tingling in the arms followed by a clenching of the hands with an inability to un-clench. Again, not in the book! Guess who got a little freaked out (me and a couple of loved ones who were watching). Being Saturday, of course all the nurses stations were closed for the weekend so I finally consented to calling 9-1-1. The 9-1-1 operator asked if I was breathing normally. As a matter of fact, no, it's quite rapid. Two minutes later I heard the sirens at the fire station which is just a block away from our house and the trucks racing down the street.
So here's the thing. We live in a very small town where everyone knows everyone and our firefighters are a team of very dedicated and compassionate volunteer men. Well, here I am lying in bed gasping for breath, hear the sirens, open my eyes and what should I see but four very handsome, rugged, all decked-out firemen looking at me. Thanks a lot guys. Now, my breathing is too rapid and my pulse is too fast. I feel like such a fool. How will I face them at the next baseball game? (I wonder if they've ever considered doing a calendar.)
On one of my better days, I got a photo of me rocking the bald. You can see my new pic on the side there. I shaved my head in preparation for baldness but so far it hasn't happened yet. Watch that be the one side effect I don't get. Haha.
To end on a slightly more serious note, please keep praying. I'm getting nauseous just thinking about the next round. They've promised to change things for me so hopefully it'll be better but at the moment that's small consolation.
Just breathe 1-2-3 just breathe 1-2-3 just breathe 1-2-3 ...
Friday, April 18, 2014
Episode 17: Cycle 1 Days 1-10
Good Morning, Everyone. It's sunrise on Good Friday. This episode will be quite brief. Walking to the computer has worn me out so I will be going back to bed very shortly.
Chemo is every bit as miserable as we thought it would be. In fact, I'm not going to go into details because, even in memory, I do not want to re-live the puki-ness (as in puke) of this week. All I'm gong to say about it is that all my so-called bravery, positive thinking, and optimism of earlier episodes flew out the window like birds happy to escape leaving me to be a shattered lonely figure on the floor with just my bucket and retchedness (as in retch) for company.
Short term pain, long term gain. Short term pain, long term gain. Short term pain, long term gain. Repeat.
I'm not a superstitious person. I don't believe the universe sends us omens or warnings. It doesn't take a psychic to know that walking under a ladder is bad luck. Of course it is. Somebody might fall. Oh that reminds me, I read in a book that people born on June 13 are psychic. Shouldn't I have known that? (Get it? Known that? Haha.) However, I do love symbolism. And at 5 AM this morning (Good Friday), it occurred to me that it was 22 years ago on Easter Sunday that I was baptized. I think I previously mentioned one of my favourite quotes: It's Friday now but Sunday's a-coming. In other words, right now life really sucks but it's not going to stay that way. Sunday is on the way and we will rejoice! So, in order to enjoy the symbolism of the occasion I have decided to shave my head today (rather than wait for my hair to fall out in 8" long clumps) and go to Easter dinner on Sunday with a bright pink scarf and the assurance that our trials and sufferings are temporary and there will come a time, say it with me: We Will Rejoice!
May you all have a blessed Easter weekend.
Chemo is every bit as miserable as we thought it would be. In fact, I'm not going to go into details because, even in memory, I do not want to re-live the puki-ness (as in puke) of this week. All I'm gong to say about it is that all my so-called bravery, positive thinking, and optimism of earlier episodes flew out the window like birds happy to escape leaving me to be a shattered lonely figure on the floor with just my bucket and retchedness (as in retch) for company.
Short term pain, long term gain. Short term pain, long term gain. Short term pain, long term gain. Repeat.
I'm not a superstitious person. I don't believe the universe sends us omens or warnings. It doesn't take a psychic to know that walking under a ladder is bad luck. Of course it is. Somebody might fall. Oh that reminds me, I read in a book that people born on June 13 are psychic. Shouldn't I have known that? (Get it? Known that? Haha.) However, I do love symbolism. And at 5 AM this morning (Good Friday), it occurred to me that it was 22 years ago on Easter Sunday that I was baptized. I think I previously mentioned one of my favourite quotes: It's Friday now but Sunday's a-coming. In other words, right now life really sucks but it's not going to stay that way. Sunday is on the way and we will rejoice! So, in order to enjoy the symbolism of the occasion I have decided to shave my head today (rather than wait for my hair to fall out in 8" long clumps) and go to Easter dinner on Sunday with a bright pink scarf and the assurance that our trials and sufferings are temporary and there will come a time, say it with me: We Will Rejoice!
May you all have a blessed Easter weekend.
Sunday, April 06, 2014
Episode 16: We Have a Plan
Thank you so so much for positive feedback. Very few people post comments directly on the blog (I'm not even sure it works) but people who tell me personally that they "enjoy" the reading give me a boost that keeps me going for days. I have struggled all week with writing this latest episode. I want to write and keep people informed but, quite honestly, I've been feeling down and that's when I don't enjoy writing. Tonight I received a phone call from a dear friend who gave me the lift I needed to sit down and write again.
Yesterday, we watched Saving Mr. Banks. I've never thought of myself as a fan of Mary Poppins* but wouldn't it be great if someone could just whisk their way into my life and make it all better. Apparently, the author of Mary Poppins (P.L. Travers) had a difficult childhood and as a result became cold and bitter. Likewise, Walt Disney (Sr.) also had a difficult childhood but came to a different conclusion. He learned the art of forgiveness and of hope. My quotation isn't perfect but his lovely speech in reply to "Mary Poppins isn't real" goes something like this:
This link is not silly at all. Instead it's rather sobering but I want to share it with you. It came from the Globe & Mail and I found the comments very insightful: http://m.theglobeandmail.com/life/health-and-fitness/health/adventures-in-lymphomaland-our-readers-share-their-stories-about-life-with-cancer/article17721226/?service=mobile
So here's the plan.** Last Tuesday, I met with the chemotherapy specialist. I start chemotherapy next Thursday. I've been told to plan to be at the hospital for about five hours and then I get to go home. (All the ginger ale I want, and soup and sandwiches for lunch. I'm so excited.) I guess that means most of the lousy feelings happen at home. There will be six sessions of chemo spaced out over 18 weeks. My chemo package is the FEC/D combination (Fluourouracil, Epirubicin, Cyclophosphamide, Docetaxel) which is given through IV. There will also be some other pills and injections to help with the side effects. Nurses will be coming to the house for this. I really don't know what to expect so yes, I'm scared.
If I can I will keep you updated but if you don't hear from me for awhile it most likely means that I'm feeling like barnyard dirt. I'd like to mention, also, that messages of encouragement are gratefully received but you likely won't hear back from me. I generally don't have the energy for the telephone and my brain is a little full these days so expressions of gratitude are easily mis-placed. Please don't feel forgotten, ignored or offended. You may not see it but I am hanging cards, watering plants, feasting on treats, and cuddling in comforters.
Until next time ...
______________________
*Oddly, though, Mary Poppins and Chitty, Chitty, Bang, Bang are the two movies I've seen more often than any other and if someone were to identify me by a particular housekeeper/nanny model, I probably just might resemble Mary Poppins.
**In Episode 14, I explained that we were waiting for the results from the HER2 testing. As it turns out, they were negative which is good news for me. One less problem to worry about. And another piece of good news is that it's highly unlikely that my cancer is genetic. Tomorrow, I will meet with the radiation specialist. After chemo, there will be radiation but I'll get those details next week.
Yesterday, we watched Saving Mr. Banks. I've never thought of myself as a fan of Mary Poppins* but wouldn't it be great if someone could just whisk their way into my life and make it all better. Apparently, the author of Mary Poppins (P.L. Travers) had a difficult childhood and as a result became cold and bitter. Likewise, Walt Disney (Sr.) also had a difficult childhood but came to a different conclusion. He learned the art of forgiveness and of hope. My quotation isn't perfect but his lovely speech in reply to "Mary Poppins isn't real" goes something like this:
No, no, no. She's as real as can be to my daughters and thousands of other kids, adults too. ... I don't tell you (my childhood) to make you sad, Ms Travers. I don't. I love my life. I think it's a miracle ... but I'm tired. I'm tired of remembering (the harshness). Aren't you tired, Ms Travers? Now, we all have our sad tales but don't you want to finish the story? Let it go? Don't you want to have a story that isn't dictated by the past? ... That's what story tellers do. We restore order with imagination. We instill hope, again and again and again. ... George Banks will be redeemed. He will be saved, if not in life, then in imagination. ... And when it's time to fly a kite, thousands will rejoice.I mention this because also yesterday I was annoyed by a frivolous article from a woman who complained that her boobs weren't the right shape (I'm not speaking about a medically necessary change) and how she wished there was a fairy godmother to take them away from her. I couldn't let it go. I had to answer. Rather abruptly, I told her that she could borrow my fairy godmother who goes by the name of breast cancer. I have no sympathy these days for whiners but when I told my husband about it I realized that I just might be becoming bitter. I must guard against that. It's no one else's fault that this has happened to me. And wasn't it I who said that this is a great time for boob jokes? Six months ago, I might have been laughing at her silliness myself.
This link is not silly at all. Instead it's rather sobering but I want to share it with you. It came from the Globe & Mail and I found the comments very insightful: http://m.theglobeandmail.com/life/health-and-fitness/health/adventures-in-lymphomaland-our-readers-share-their-stories-about-life-with-cancer/article17721226/?service=mobile
So here's the plan.** Last Tuesday, I met with the chemotherapy specialist. I start chemotherapy next Thursday. I've been told to plan to be at the hospital for about five hours and then I get to go home. (All the ginger ale I want, and soup and sandwiches for lunch. I'm so excited.) I guess that means most of the lousy feelings happen at home. There will be six sessions of chemo spaced out over 18 weeks. My chemo package is the FEC/D combination (Fluourouracil, Epirubicin, Cyclophosphamide, Docetaxel) which is given through IV. There will also be some other pills and injections to help with the side effects. Nurses will be coming to the house for this. I really don't know what to expect so yes, I'm scared.
If I can I will keep you updated but if you don't hear from me for awhile it most likely means that I'm feeling like barnyard dirt. I'd like to mention, also, that messages of encouragement are gratefully received but you likely won't hear back from me. I generally don't have the energy for the telephone and my brain is a little full these days so expressions of gratitude are easily mis-placed. Please don't feel forgotten, ignored or offended. You may not see it but I am hanging cards, watering plants, feasting on treats, and cuddling in comforters.
Until next time ...
______________________
*Oddly, though, Mary Poppins and Chitty, Chitty, Bang, Bang are the two movies I've seen more often than any other and if someone were to identify me by a particular housekeeper/nanny model, I probably just might resemble Mary Poppins.
**In Episode 14, I explained that we were waiting for the results from the HER2 testing. As it turns out, they were negative which is good news for me. One less problem to worry about. And another piece of good news is that it's highly unlikely that my cancer is genetic. Tomorrow, I will meet with the radiation specialist. After chemo, there will be radiation but I'll get those details next week.
Monday, March 24, 2014
Episode 15: Dreaming
I had another dream on Friday night. I've struggled with whether or not I should post it because that would mean admitting that sometimes I am rather frightened. That is not an easy public confession.
Picture medieval England. Think Crusader, King Arthur, Knights of the Round Table, etc. The battlefield is littered with the bodies of footmen and horsemen and there are only four of us left to fight on each side. (I have no idea who we're fighting for or against but that's irrelevant. I don't even know how I ended up in medieval England.) Because we're down to the last four, it is now a matter of hand-to-hand combat. It is at this point that I, as a soldier, become frightened. I'm weak. I'm tired. I just want to go home. I become aware that if I fight I might not survive. I decide to run back into the forest away from the battle. I mention my plan to my teammates. I thought that they would have been a little more supportive but I was wrong. They turn on me and explain that if I don't fight with them they will kill me themselves. Talk about a dilemma. If I go into battle, I will probably die. If I don't go into battle, I will definitely die. Oh, the anguish. It's at this point that my dear husband wakes me up. He has noticed that I'm having a very bad dream. It's lucky for me that he has such broad shoulders. When I wake up, I am not in a good mood. A few weeks ago, someone else with cancer said that she felt that her body had betrayed her. I can't go that far. That seems a little extreme but, then again, I can't say I'm very pleased with my body at the moment. After all these years of being "a good girl", I really had expected better behaviour from it.
On Sunday, the four of us went to church as a family. I haven't been out much lately and to get all four of us out at the same time is impressive. The closing hymn was, "Be Thou My Vision". That was our wedding song 20 years ago and is one of my absolute favourites. Look at verses 3&5. Given my dream on Friday, was the playing of this song on Sunday a small-"c" co-incidence? I think not. "It's Friday, now but Sunday's a-coming." (Tony Campolo).
Be Thou my vision: verses 3 & 5
Be Thou my breastplate, my sword for the fight;
Be Thou my armour, and be Thou my might;
Thou my soul's shelter and Thou my high tower,
Raise Thou me heavenward, O Power of my power.
High King of heaven, when the battle is done,
Grant heaven's joy to me, O bright heaven's Sun,
Christ of my own heart, whatever befall,
Still be my vision, O Ruler of all.
Picture medieval England. Think Crusader, King Arthur, Knights of the Round Table, etc. The battlefield is littered with the bodies of footmen and horsemen and there are only four of us left to fight on each side. (I have no idea who we're fighting for or against but that's irrelevant. I don't even know how I ended up in medieval England.) Because we're down to the last four, it is now a matter of hand-to-hand combat. It is at this point that I, as a soldier, become frightened. I'm weak. I'm tired. I just want to go home. I become aware that if I fight I might not survive. I decide to run back into the forest away from the battle. I mention my plan to my teammates. I thought that they would have been a little more supportive but I was wrong. They turn on me and explain that if I don't fight with them they will kill me themselves. Talk about a dilemma. If I go into battle, I will probably die. If I don't go into battle, I will definitely die. Oh, the anguish. It's at this point that my dear husband wakes me up. He has noticed that I'm having a very bad dream. It's lucky for me that he has such broad shoulders. When I wake up, I am not in a good mood. A few weeks ago, someone else with cancer said that she felt that her body had betrayed her. I can't go that far. That seems a little extreme but, then again, I can't say I'm very pleased with my body at the moment. After all these years of being "a good girl", I really had expected better behaviour from it.
On Sunday, the four of us went to church as a family. I haven't been out much lately and to get all four of us out at the same time is impressive. The closing hymn was, "Be Thou My Vision". That was our wedding song 20 years ago and is one of my absolute favourites. Look at verses 3&5. Given my dream on Friday, was the playing of this song on Sunday a small-"c" co-incidence? I think not. "It's Friday, now but Sunday's a-coming." (Tony Campolo).
Be Thou my vision: verses 3 & 5
Be Thou my breastplate, my sword for the fight;
Be Thou my armour, and be Thou my might;
Thou my soul's shelter and Thou my high tower,
Raise Thou me heavenward, O Power of my power.
High King of heaven, when the battle is done,
Grant heaven's joy to me, O bright heaven's Sun,
Christ of my own heart, whatever befall,
Still be my vision, O Ruler of all.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Episode 14: Why the wait?
The lab sent my report away for an HER2-neu assessment which they just got back yesterday. The pathologist is now reviewing the information and I will most likely be called next week to be given an appointment time. What is HER2, you ask? I don't know yet if I have it or not but here is the info.
"Receptor tyrosine-protein kinase erbB-2, also known as CD340 (cluster of differentiation 340), proto-oncogene Neu, Erbb2 (rodent), or ERBB2 (human) is a protein that in humans is encoded by the ERBB2 gene. The ERBB2 gene is also frequently called HER2 (from human epidermal growth factor receptor 2) or HER2/neu. HER2 is a member of the epidermal growth factor receptor (EGFR/ERBB) family. Amplification or overexpression of this oncogene has been shown to play an important role in the development and progression of certain aggressive types of breast cancer. In recent years the protein has become an important biomarker and target of therapy for approx. 30% of breast cancer patients." (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Her2)
"In about 1 of every 5 breast cancers, the cancer cells make an excess of HER2 due to a gene mutation. This gene mutation and the elevated levels of HER2 that it causes can occur in many types of cancer — not only breast cancer. This is a gene mutation that occurs only in the cancer cells and is not a type of mutation that you can inherit from a parent." (http://www.mayoclinic.org/breast-cancer/expert-answers/faq-20058066)
The key here is that this protein is an important indicator of the treatment and therapy that will be chosen. To personalize, this means that the pathologist is now reviewing my report based on the new information and then can choose an appropriate treatment plan. Just to clarify, chemotherapy is a general term that is also known as a cocktail of chemicals and the precise combination of chemicals that goes into the cocktail is determined by the results of the various tests.
Further, this wait that I've been through is apparently quite standard. The doctor's office checked my timeline against others and they were all very similar. This wait has been good for me. Having most of my energy back since the surgery, I'm doing more around the house again and helping my husband in the office. It's not the fact that I'm doing more that matters here. The really cool thing is that I've been thinking about other things quite a bit. I actually forget about the cancer. As much as I love being the centre of attention for a little while, even I get bored with myself eventually, and it's so nice to know that there is life without cancer.
Stay tuned for more ... (information, self-pity, and hopefully a bit of humour).
"Receptor tyrosine-protein kinase erbB-2, also known as CD340 (cluster of differentiation 340), proto-oncogene Neu, Erbb2 (rodent), or ERBB2 (human) is a protein that in humans is encoded by the ERBB2 gene. The ERBB2 gene is also frequently called HER2 (from human epidermal growth factor receptor 2) or HER2/neu. HER2 is a member of the epidermal growth factor receptor (EGFR/ERBB) family. Amplification or overexpression of this oncogene has been shown to play an important role in the development and progression of certain aggressive types of breast cancer. In recent years the protein has become an important biomarker and target of therapy for approx. 30% of breast cancer patients." (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Her2)
"In about 1 of every 5 breast cancers, the cancer cells make an excess of HER2 due to a gene mutation. This gene mutation and the elevated levels of HER2 that it causes can occur in many types of cancer — not only breast cancer. This is a gene mutation that occurs only in the cancer cells and is not a type of mutation that you can inherit from a parent." (http://www.mayoclinic.org/breast-cancer/expert-answers/faq-20058066)
The key here is that this protein is an important indicator of the treatment and therapy that will be chosen. To personalize, this means that the pathologist is now reviewing my report based on the new information and then can choose an appropriate treatment plan. Just to clarify, chemotherapy is a general term that is also known as a cocktail of chemicals and the precise combination of chemicals that goes into the cocktail is determined by the results of the various tests.
Further, this wait that I've been through is apparently quite standard. The doctor's office checked my timeline against others and they were all very similar. This wait has been good for me. Having most of my energy back since the surgery, I'm doing more around the house again and helping my husband in the office. It's not the fact that I'm doing more that matters here. The really cool thing is that I've been thinking about other things quite a bit. I actually forget about the cancer. As much as I love being the centre of attention for a little while, even I get bored with myself eventually, and it's so nice to know that there is life without cancer.
Stay tuned for more ... (information, self-pity, and hopefully a bit of humour).
Monday, March 10, 2014
Episode 13: Waiting
Aaargh! I had thought that by now I'd be writing a very different episode, something with substance. But unfortunately, there is nothing new. Today is two weeks since the surgery and only just this morning did the pathology report arrive at the surgeon's office. This has been a long wait and will continue until I hear from London with an appointment date. This week? Next week?
This has not been a good week. As calm as I may appear, I am getting tired of waiting. I've been doing a lot of sleeping which is to be expected recovering from surgery. Unfortunately, when I'm not sleeping, I'm generally feeling sorry for myself. Too restless to rest and to weary to put the restlessness to good use. Not a good combination.
The other night I had a dream that I was living in a glass house in the middle of the forest. I was standing in the middle of the living room watching a young deer walk by. All of a sudden, the deer bounded away. I knew there was only one reason for a deer to hurry so quickly: a wolf was near. I was worried because I knew I would see it through the glass (and vice versa) but I reminded myself that all the windows and doors were closed so I would be okay. I was wrong. The wolf came in through the open door and grabbed my arm. That's when I woke up. I think the symbolism of the wolf is fairly straight-forward. My arm hurts.
I am, however, a bit more perplexed about the glass house. There are two possibilities running through my mind. One, which I think is the more likely, is that I always felt somewhat secure in the idea that truly bad things only happen to "other people". I could be compassionate but from a convenient distance. Now, the glass house of my own immunity has been shattered. I've had to contemplate my mortality. It's not fun. I told my husband that I'm not comfortable with dark, small spaces. He thought I was joking but I wasn't. I've become "other people", the one everyone feels sorry for, the one for whom noone has the right words. I've seen the pity and the helplessness in their eyes, their desire to wave the magic wand and make it all better. But they can't. Noone can walk this for me.
Not so long ago, the lady from Episode 5 came to visit me after my surgery. I'm clinging to her words, "This is do-able." I hope she's right.
This has not been a good week. As calm as I may appear, I am getting tired of waiting. I've been doing a lot of sleeping which is to be expected recovering from surgery. Unfortunately, when I'm not sleeping, I'm generally feeling sorry for myself. Too restless to rest and to weary to put the restlessness to good use. Not a good combination.
The other night I had a dream that I was living in a glass house in the middle of the forest. I was standing in the middle of the living room watching a young deer walk by. All of a sudden, the deer bounded away. I knew there was only one reason for a deer to hurry so quickly: a wolf was near. I was worried because I knew I would see it through the glass (and vice versa) but I reminded myself that all the windows and doors were closed so I would be okay. I was wrong. The wolf came in through the open door and grabbed my arm. That's when I woke up. I think the symbolism of the wolf is fairly straight-forward. My arm hurts.
I am, however, a bit more perplexed about the glass house. There are two possibilities running through my mind. One, which I think is the more likely, is that I always felt somewhat secure in the idea that truly bad things only happen to "other people". I could be compassionate but from a convenient distance. Now, the glass house of my own immunity has been shattered. I've had to contemplate my mortality. It's not fun. I told my husband that I'm not comfortable with dark, small spaces. He thought I was joking but I wasn't. I've become "other people", the one everyone feels sorry for, the one for whom noone has the right words. I've seen the pity and the helplessness in their eyes, their desire to wave the magic wand and make it all better. But they can't. Noone can walk this for me.
Not so long ago, the lady from Episode 5 came to visit me after my surgery. I'm clinging to her words, "This is do-able." I hope she's right.
Monday, March 03, 2014
Episode 12: Bored
So it's been one week since surgery: Monday to Monday. The nurses are pleased. They say I'm healing really well and obviously had an excellent surgeon. My arm is sore. I could be taking more Tylenol. It does get a lot of exercise though since I'm left handed so that's good. I'm up and moving, making my own coffee, sitting on the sofa with the laptop. Today I'll wash up and do my hair (with help). Tomorrow, I see the surgeon for a follow-up and to find out the results of the pathology. Chemo? Radiation? Nothing? Who knows?
I heard about this one man who went to see his doctor. He said, "Doc, I'm in pain. When I touch my leg, it hurts. When I touch my arm, it hurts. When I touch my neck, it hurts." So the doctor ordered a bunch of tests and had the lab look at everything. After about a week, they called the man at home and said, "Well, we have the results of your tests. Your finger is broken."
Say goodnight, Gracie.
I heard about this one man who went to see his doctor. He said, "Doc, I'm in pain. When I touch my leg, it hurts. When I touch my arm, it hurts. When I touch my neck, it hurts." So the doctor ordered a bunch of tests and had the lab look at everything. After about a week, they called the man at home and said, "Well, we have the results of your tests. Your finger is broken."
Say goodnight, Gracie.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Episode 11: Cheering Squad
"... we understand ... Abel ... Enoch ... Noah ... Abraham ... Isaac ... Jacob ... Joseph ... Moses ... Jericho ... Rahab ... And what more shall I say? I do not have time to tell about Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, David, Samuel ... Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, ... let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us." (Hebrews) This passage was on my mind last week and it seemed rather relevant.
One of the interesting features of blogger.com is that it provides statistics, nothing terribly detailed, just some basics. For example, it tells me how many pageviews (besides my own) my episodes have had and from what countries. There are pageviews from Canada, the U.S., Germany, South Korea and the Ukraine. If I could take a globe and put a tack on each location would it look like a cheering squad around the world or a cloud of witnesses perhaps? I picture someone running a marathon and having spectators at the side cheering them on.
I have a dear friend who said, "Next time you are tempted to imagine that your "story is getting old", try to remember this: reading your blogs allows me to feel a tiny bit like I am walking this path by your side. Please let me do that." I can't even remember birthdays. Why would anyone want to be part of this? And yet, I am so grateful. I think about my cheering squad constantly. Everyday I check my stats and it's like, "Oh, look, someone's thinking about me!" My cousin said, "Just so you know, you are an inspiration to many and a source of strength." How is this possible? And, just for the record, the people in my cheering squad have been through way harder things than I'll ever know. They're teaching me, not the other way around.
Last night, I did some self-pitying simply because I can't imagine why people would give up their time just to tend to me:
- My daughter who helps me change my undies
- My husband who cringes every time I wince
- My other daughter who rubs my feet. (Poor thing. That wasn't even necessary. I just felt like getting a foot rub.)
- My third "daughter" who hardly even knows me but carries out my dishes
- The nurses who do all the really nasty stuff that make me pass out
- My sister who booked her plane ticket right away
- My sister-in-law who's taking her first weekend off to drive up and take care of me
- And so many others who through words or actions encourage and help; I am so so humbled.
A couple of years ago, I (with my family) went up north to teach at a very difficult school. I was ill-prepared for the stress and the animosity. One of the local teachers said to me, "The only way you're going to survive up here is if you stick up for yourself. No one else is going to do it for you." He was right. I grew a backbone and I survived (one year, barely). Now, less than two years later, I'm flat on my back completely dependent on the beneficence of others. What exactly is the lesson here? Could the lesson be that regardless of what life throws at us (and trust me, these are races that I did not choose) we will survive? Our lives are so much bigger and more eternal than we can imagine. From the time of Abel, we have a cloud of witnesses cheering us on, regardless of the race we've been given.
One of the interesting features of blogger.com is that it provides statistics, nothing terribly detailed, just some basics. For example, it tells me how many pageviews (besides my own) my episodes have had and from what countries. There are pageviews from Canada, the U.S., Germany, South Korea and the Ukraine. If I could take a globe and put a tack on each location would it look like a cheering squad around the world or a cloud of witnesses perhaps? I picture someone running a marathon and having spectators at the side cheering them on.
I have a dear friend who said, "Next time you are tempted to imagine that your "story is getting old", try to remember this: reading your blogs allows me to feel a tiny bit like I am walking this path by your side. Please let me do that." I can't even remember birthdays. Why would anyone want to be part of this? And yet, I am so grateful. I think about my cheering squad constantly. Everyday I check my stats and it's like, "Oh, look, someone's thinking about me!" My cousin said, "Just so you know, you are an inspiration to many and a source of strength." How is this possible? And, just for the record, the people in my cheering squad have been through way harder things than I'll ever know. They're teaching me, not the other way around.
Last night, I did some self-pitying simply because I can't imagine why people would give up their time just to tend to me:
- My daughter who helps me change my undies
- My husband who cringes every time I wince
- My other daughter who rubs my feet. (Poor thing. That wasn't even necessary. I just felt like getting a foot rub.)
- My third "daughter" who hardly even knows me but carries out my dishes
- The nurses who do all the really nasty stuff that make me pass out
- My sister who booked her plane ticket right away
- My sister-in-law who's taking her first weekend off to drive up and take care of me
- And so many others who through words or actions encourage and help; I am so so humbled.
A couple of years ago, I (with my family) went up north to teach at a very difficult school. I was ill-prepared for the stress and the animosity. One of the local teachers said to me, "The only way you're going to survive up here is if you stick up for yourself. No one else is going to do it for you." He was right. I grew a backbone and I survived (one year, barely). Now, less than two years later, I'm flat on my back completely dependent on the beneficence of others. What exactly is the lesson here? Could the lesson be that regardless of what life throws at us (and trust me, these are races that I did not choose) we will survive? Our lives are so much bigger and more eternal than we can imagine. From the time of Abel, we have a cloud of witnesses cheering us on, regardless of the race we've been given.
Episode 10: Post-Surgery
Today is Thursday. Surgery was on Monday and I finally feel like I have some sustained energy. So here I go. It's time to get some thoughts out of my head and on to paper. According to the surgeon, everything went really well and he took out everything he could see. We'll know next week what exactly that means but for now it's nice to relax. I'm doing very little thinking ahead, partly by choice but also quite a bit because it's just too much to absorb. I really am living one day at a time.
The hospital was great. The staff were fabulous. Everyone took such good care of me. The anesthetist asked me what kind of music I wanted so I sang for him, "I'm going down. I'm yelling timber." He didn't recognize it. Sadly, I also don't think he got the humour either. I was a little disappointed because the night that I stayed, I was in a room for four and I got almost no sleep. They said they do that on purpose. It makes people want to go home.
At home, people have been so great. Friends have been bringing me food and flowers. I asked my surgeon if I should be careful with what I eat. He said absolutely not. This is not the time to worry about it. I need to eat anything and everything I want, especially protein. See why I like him? My parents and children got the house ready and beautiful. My (and Neil's) bedroom was moved downstairs into the sunroom so I could have the washroom and kitchen right beside me. It's kind of funny. This sunroom should be bitterly cold right now. It literally is a sunroom, almost all windows, and at -17 degrees I should be very cold but I'm not. The surgery left me over-heated so I am the best person to be back here.
I think it's a pretty safe bet that I won't opt for reconstruction. Surgery is just not that much fun. I think I can learn to live with a new shape, a little lop-sided perhaps but not much. My problem right now is my arm. Because the surgeon went into the lymph nodes I'm kind of sore under there. As long as I don't move I don't notice but it does make sleeping and getting up for the washroom rather tenuous. The surgeon warned me that I'll likely never pitch for the Blue Jays. I told him that I could learn to live with that but I was more concerned with my career at Hooters. His answer was reconstructive surgery. I think not.
BTW, I have gotten some compliments about my positive attitude and such. Please don't be fooled. I'm not special. I just like to write when I'm happy or have energy but I also have my down times as well. When that happens, I just curl up under the covers and feel sorry for myself until I fall asleep. Writing this blog has helped me with all of this and knowing that you all care has been a great support.
That's a load off my chest.
The hospital was great. The staff were fabulous. Everyone took such good care of me. The anesthetist asked me what kind of music I wanted so I sang for him, "I'm going down. I'm yelling timber." He didn't recognize it. Sadly, I also don't think he got the humour either. I was a little disappointed because the night that I stayed, I was in a room for four and I got almost no sleep. They said they do that on purpose. It makes people want to go home.
At home, people have been so great. Friends have been bringing me food and flowers. I asked my surgeon if I should be careful with what I eat. He said absolutely not. This is not the time to worry about it. I need to eat anything and everything I want, especially protein. See why I like him? My parents and children got the house ready and beautiful. My (and Neil's) bedroom was moved downstairs into the sunroom so I could have the washroom and kitchen right beside me. It's kind of funny. This sunroom should be bitterly cold right now. It literally is a sunroom, almost all windows, and at -17 degrees I should be very cold but I'm not. The surgery left me over-heated so I am the best person to be back here.
I think it's a pretty safe bet that I won't opt for reconstruction. Surgery is just not that much fun. I think I can learn to live with a new shape, a little lop-sided perhaps but not much. My problem right now is my arm. Because the surgeon went into the lymph nodes I'm kind of sore under there. As long as I don't move I don't notice but it does make sleeping and getting up for the washroom rather tenuous. The surgeon warned me that I'll likely never pitch for the Blue Jays. I told him that I could learn to live with that but I was more concerned with my career at Hooters. His answer was reconstructive surgery. I think not.
BTW, I have gotten some compliments about my positive attitude and such. Please don't be fooled. I'm not special. I just like to write when I'm happy or have energy but I also have my down times as well. When that happens, I just curl up under the covers and feel sorry for myself until I fall asleep. Writing this blog has helped me with all of this and knowing that you all care has been a great support.
That's a load off my chest.
Sunday, February 16, 2014
Episode 9: Update
Although I feel like my story is getting old and tired, I want to do another episode today just because it may be a couple of weeks before I'm ready for more or have any compelling messages. On Thursday, I go for the pre-surgery bloodwork and then on Monday the 24th I go for the actual surgery so this episode is dedicated to a few more thoughts and updates.
I got a couple of new reports from the doctor. The bone density scan came up with absolutely nothing. The doctor was surprised. He said they usually find something such as a fracture or arthritis but my bones are perfectly clean. What a relief. All those years of not skiing, skating, or jogging are paying off. Long live couch potatoes everywhere! The CT scan found a spot on my liver but that's apparently of no concern. Livers almost always show something. Busted! Maybe I have been drinking more than we thought. (Just kidding, Mom.)
I want to say thank you to those who have been reading my blogs. To know that people enjoy my writing is very rewarding and to be given kind words of encouragement to help me through this upcoming year is very appreciated. I feel very naive and rather humbled right now. I truly have no idea what's coming up and am not qualified to have an opinion. I quite expect that someday I will look back at these episodes and say, "Oh, what an idiot I was" but that's all part of the process, isn't it? Of course the student in grade 12 can smile knowingly at the child in grade 1 but we can't get to grade 12 until we've been through the others.
The other day, I googled "blogs about breast cancer". There were a lot. Most of them I didn't read because I didn't want to risk being depressed. I did, though, read about a lady who had been using Twitter to keep everyone updated about her progress but then she got in trouble from a couple of newspaper editors for tweeting too much. That struck me as odd. If you don't like it, wouldn't you just not follow? I joined facingcancer.ca. I think it's a project of Shopper's Drug Mart. I came across this gem of a quote: “On particularly rough days, when I’m sure I can’t possibly endure, I like to remind myself that my track record for getting through bad days so far is 100% and that’s pretty good.” http://www.facingcancer.ca/forums/viewthread/351#sthash.tbm9CNHf.dpuf And, on that happy note, I shall sign off,
Until next time, Dawn
I got a couple of new reports from the doctor. The bone density scan came up with absolutely nothing. The doctor was surprised. He said they usually find something such as a fracture or arthritis but my bones are perfectly clean. What a relief. All those years of not skiing, skating, or jogging are paying off. Long live couch potatoes everywhere! The CT scan found a spot on my liver but that's apparently of no concern. Livers almost always show something. Busted! Maybe I have been drinking more than we thought. (Just kidding, Mom.)
I want to say thank you to those who have been reading my blogs. To know that people enjoy my writing is very rewarding and to be given kind words of encouragement to help me through this upcoming year is very appreciated. I feel very naive and rather humbled right now. I truly have no idea what's coming up and am not qualified to have an opinion. I quite expect that someday I will look back at these episodes and say, "Oh, what an idiot I was" but that's all part of the process, isn't it? Of course the student in grade 12 can smile knowingly at the child in grade 1 but we can't get to grade 12 until we've been through the others.
The other day, I googled "blogs about breast cancer". There were a lot. Most of them I didn't read because I didn't want to risk being depressed. I did, though, read about a lady who had been using Twitter to keep everyone updated about her progress but then she got in trouble from a couple of newspaper editors for tweeting too much. That struck me as odd. If you don't like it, wouldn't you just not follow? I joined facingcancer.ca. I think it's a project of Shopper's Drug Mart. I came across this gem of a quote: “On particularly rough days, when I’m sure I can’t possibly endure, I like to remind myself that my track record for getting through bad days so far is 100% and that’s pretty good.” http://www.facingcancer.ca/forums/viewthread/351#sthash.tbm9CNHf.dpuf And, on that happy note, I shall sign off,
Until next time, Dawn
Episode 8: Another Great Lady
Today, I was blessed by a visit from another fabulous lady who'd been there, done that, got the T-shirt. In fact, she's still there with chemo but she was so up-beat and encouraging. Wow, I need people like her in my life. She was first diagnosed 10 years ago, had a double mastectomy and went on chemotherapy. The cancer came back last summer and she's on chemo again but to look at her you'd never guess. She said that treatments have improved so drastically in the past 10 years that she goes about her daily routines with energy that she didn't used to have. She told me about what to expect and how to get through the day. Her recipe is to:
- lean on God's strength
- do everything you need to do to take care of yourself without apology (eating, exercising, resting)
- surround yourself with people who understand that and
- give yourself one thing everyday to look forward to
She asked me if I was tired. I started to say no because treatment hasn't started yet but then I realized that I have been sleeping alot this winter. She said, "It's the shock." I hadn't thought of that but it makes sense. I think I am a little stunned and also guilty for being lazy. She corrected me and said absolutely not, "You need to rest every chance you get." I feel so fortunate to have a husband and children who are able to carry on even while I'm sleeping. I know they miss me but they've been so gracious to allow me the rest.
I'm just speculating here (well, I guess every episode has been about me speculating) but it seems to me that one of the "perks" about breast cancer is that I can't blame anyone for it. Because there isn't conclusive proof regarding the causes, I don't know who to get mad at. (Although, I have a feeling that before this year is over, I'll think of someone.) And because there's noone to blame, women can share their stories without embarrassment or shame. So rather than pull away from each other, women (with their men) can band together and offer encouragement. At least that's been my experience so far and I am very grateful for the openness.
- lean on God's strength
- do everything you need to do to take care of yourself without apology (eating, exercising, resting)
- surround yourself with people who understand that and
- give yourself one thing everyday to look forward to
She asked me if I was tired. I started to say no because treatment hasn't started yet but then I realized that I have been sleeping alot this winter. She said, "It's the shock." I hadn't thought of that but it makes sense. I think I am a little stunned and also guilty for being lazy. She corrected me and said absolutely not, "You need to rest every chance you get." I feel so fortunate to have a husband and children who are able to carry on even while I'm sleeping. I know they miss me but they've been so gracious to allow me the rest.
I'm just speculating here (well, I guess every episode has been about me speculating) but it seems to me that one of the "perks" about breast cancer is that I can't blame anyone for it. Because there isn't conclusive proof regarding the causes, I don't know who to get mad at. (Although, I have a feeling that before this year is over, I'll think of someone.) And because there's noone to blame, women can share their stories without embarrassment or shame. So rather than pull away from each other, women (with their men) can band together and offer encouragement. At least that's been my experience so far and I am very grateful for the openness.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Episode 7: Cancer 101
I've been working on this episode's draft for quite awhile. It's just not coming together the way it should. The more I learn, the more confused I get. Remember I said I got a whiteboard lesson on cancer. Well,
I want to share some of what I learned. Please take everything I say
with a grain of salt. I'm not a doctor and don't even remember or
understand half of what I've been told. As soon as I can get a copy of Dr. Love's "Breast Book", I'll be an expert (haha).
Apparently, there is a name for my ability to faint, thought that was kind of cool. And the nurse told me that it's completely involuntary (i.e. it's not just me being silly, so there). http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vasovagal_response
I really like the following links. These guys are reputable.
https://www.cancercare.on.ca/
http://www.mayoclinic.org/
https://www.facebook.com/breastcancersocietyofcanada?fref=ts
http://www.cancer.ca/en/cancer-information/cancer-type/breast/pathology-and-staging/malignant-tumours/dcis/?region=bc
Here's what I think I learned. There are over 200 types of cancer. Most cancers follow rules and are relatively predictable. Unfortunately, breast cancer isn't one of those. It doesn't play by the rules. 1 in 9 women have breast cancer. We have no idea yet what causes it. It's likely a combination of several things (e.g. lifestyle, environment, genetics). In fact, the township next door to mine is conducting a survey to find out why there seem to be so many women in this area who have breast cancer. Has anyone seen the movie, "Erin Brokovich"? She's my hero. My surgeon said that there are only two things that hold true: if you're a woman and you have breasts then you're at risk. In fact, I went through the Mayo Clinic's list of risk factors and I've never done any of those things. I'm not obese, never smoked, don't drink, blah, blah, blah. Genetics may play a part but even that's relatively unpredictable.
Back in the early days when surgery was done, a woman would be anesthetized not knowing whether or not a lumpectomy would be sufficient or if a mastectomy would have been performed. Only when she woke up would she find out what had been done. Now, they can prepare women a bit better for what's going to happen. In my case, a lumpectomy is not a good option because there are two lumps and I would end up looking "weird" afterwards. Also, because one of the lumps is surrounded by DCIS (Ductal Carcinoma In Situ) cells, the plan is to remove the whole thing along with any further risk of spreading. DCIS is one of the most treatable of the cancers, so good news for me.
But I'm confused. Apparently, there are a lot of women who are receiving surgery and treatment even though they don't need it. I'm so confused. http://www.cbc.ca/news/health/breast-cancer-death-rates-in-canada-didn-t-improve-with-mammograms-1.2532730 So that's my next question for the doctor: are we sure this is necessary?
As I learn more, I will revise Episode 7.
Apparently, there is a name for my ability to faint, thought that was kind of cool. And the nurse told me that it's completely involuntary (i.e. it's not just me being silly, so there). http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vasovagal_response
I really like the following links. These guys are reputable.
https://www.cancercare.on.ca/
http://www.mayoclinic.org/
https://www.facebook.com/breastcancersocietyofcanada?fref=ts
http://www.cancer.ca/en/cancer-information/cancer-type/breast/pathology-and-staging/malignant-tumours/dcis/?region=bc
Here's what I think I learned. There are over 200 types of cancer. Most cancers follow rules and are relatively predictable. Unfortunately, breast cancer isn't one of those. It doesn't play by the rules. 1 in 9 women have breast cancer. We have no idea yet what causes it. It's likely a combination of several things (e.g. lifestyle, environment, genetics). In fact, the township next door to mine is conducting a survey to find out why there seem to be so many women in this area who have breast cancer. Has anyone seen the movie, "Erin Brokovich"? She's my hero. My surgeon said that there are only two things that hold true: if you're a woman and you have breasts then you're at risk. In fact, I went through the Mayo Clinic's list of risk factors and I've never done any of those things. I'm not obese, never smoked, don't drink, blah, blah, blah. Genetics may play a part but even that's relatively unpredictable.
Back in the early days when surgery was done, a woman would be anesthetized not knowing whether or not a lumpectomy would be sufficient or if a mastectomy would have been performed. Only when she woke up would she find out what had been done. Now, they can prepare women a bit better for what's going to happen. In my case, a lumpectomy is not a good option because there are two lumps and I would end up looking "weird" afterwards. Also, because one of the lumps is surrounded by DCIS (Ductal Carcinoma In Situ) cells, the plan is to remove the whole thing along with any further risk of spreading. DCIS is one of the most treatable of the cancers, so good news for me.
But I'm confused. Apparently, there are a lot of women who are receiving surgery and treatment even though they don't need it. I'm so confused. http://www.cbc.ca/news/health/breast-cancer-death-rates-in-canada-didn-t-improve-with-mammograms-1.2532730 So that's my next question for the doctor: are we sure this is necessary?
As I learn more, I will revise Episode 7.
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