Fight for the Cure

Every single person reading this and every single person they know and love this has suffered greatly from this epidemic.

It can strike you down no matter how many hot yoga classes you attend or how organic your food is. Every moment of every day this beast is lying in wait to attack your healthy body and turn you into an immobile lump in your bed. Today I am calling BS on public enemy #1: the common cold.

Worse than cancer, the recurrence factor is 100% certain and it affects everyone on the planet.

We cannot--should not--rest until this demon is quelled once and for all. Who’s with me?

Spider Woman

For the past couple days if you put a Geiger counter next to me it would beep like in the movies. So, I recommend the slippers for sure.

Foolish

At this moment the Fool has the support of the universe to make this jump into the unknown. Adventures await her in the river of life.

Small Plans

Spoiler alert – the following post contains mention of vomiting, hair loss and loss of taste and not in the context of the morning after a long night in Vegas. You have been warned.

Since having cancer I have never had so many people openly comment on my breast size, “Since your breasts are so small, we will have to do this rather than that.” This is said at pretty much every appointment.

I heard it yesterday from my medical oncologist. He said, removing a 3cm section from a larger breast wouldn’t really have a cosmetic effect. However, removing the same section from small breasts, such as yours, will most certainly have a cosmetic effect.

Which is why, along with the Tumor Board in my town, he recommended that I have chemo first to shrink the size of the tumors. Chemo will also off-set the little trip this cancer has taken into my lymph nodes (plural). Thereafter, surgery will take out the effected tumors and nodes. Then, for good measure, I’ll get zapped with Radiation.

Chemo is scheduled to start the day after my birthday. Maybe I’m being petty, but I don’t want to have my first treatment on my birthday. Remember Jesus? Even he decided to have a last supper. I’m going to do the same while I can still taste the food I’m eating.

Yea, you read that right. Chemo is like a nuclear bomb to your body. Pretty much any pleasurable physical experience you can think of is eliminated by the application of chemotherapy. This includes turning off those little bumps on the tongue that allow taste to happen. Out of all the things the doctor went over yesterday, this one was the most disturbing to me: not being able to taste.

I’m also not all that excited about the hair loss. Don’t get me wrong, I love bald heads (hey baby!); I just don’t love that my head will be bald. I guess I can just be thankful that I get to shop for scarves, hats and a couple wigs. Maybe I should be like Mr. Potatohead and get angry hair? (If you’ve watched Toy Story 2 you know what I’m referring to.)

Last but not least on the list of sucky things: vomiting. When I was 30 I basically decided to stop drinking because every time I had even one glass of wine, I would vomit. I don’t know what was up with that, but for a year I made that adjustment and viola! no more vomiting. Then, fast forward 5 years. During the 1^st trimester of my pregnancy I projectile vomited on what seemed like every block in New York City. I’m sure my neighbors thought I was a complete deviant. It was awful. Truly.

All of this is to say, when taking chemo every enjoyable thing about having a body is replaced by almost every pain you can imagine. And then a few more, just like the cherry on top.

Dormant

For a seed or a spore the period immediately before germination is known as dormancy. It’s a time when the seed seems as if it’s sleeping, waiting for just the right moment to sprout.

These past days I have been in my own kind of sleep. Resting, gathering information and waiting for the right moment.

Soon…flowers.

song

Just Be Negative

The results are in: the genetic test is negative for cancer. My genes are clean.

Because of this, the chance of recurrence is much lower and the treatment might even be tolerable. Ok, rose colored glasses on that last one. But this is very welcomed good news. 

One point for me.

Remember that lymph node though? That thing is full of cancer. As are those other two lesions. 

Doh ~ one point for cancer.

Does this mean me and cancer are even now?

Afloat

Did you know that the ballast of a ship acts as a righting device? Without the ballast, a heavy weight at the bottom of the ship, the vessel would sway this way and that, and eventually capsize. The sails on your ship might allow you travel far and wide but the ballast keeps you at an even keel so you can get where you intend to go.

Today, when I heard the pathologist say the cells from my lymph node are cancerous, I teetered. I nodded to her letting her know I understood. She said more words, which I can’t recall, and then she left the room.

I laid back onto the table, turned onto my side in the fetal position, closed my crying eyes and thought: I’m going to die. This may kill me. Soon.

I was capsizing.

As I turned over, Bryan got up from his chair, to stand next to me and hold my hands. That’s when I realized I was actually shaking. Have you ever shivered out of sheer terror? It’s different from shivering from being cold, when I shiver from the cold, the shaking starts in my belly and radiates outward. This shivering originated in my hands and feet and moved inward.

We were like that for awhile, me shivering, sobbing. Teetering on the verge of a shipwreck. All the while, he moved closer to me. Until finally there was that one moment, his arms were all the way around me and everything inside me just relaxed. The tears stopped, as did the shivering. I just knew it would all be ok.

I was righted again.

The ballast of a ship can be made from quarried stone, sand bags, metal weights or water. I suppose if you’re a person, your ballast can be made from just about anything. Glad I had mine with me this morning.

I don’t want to do this alone, and I don’t need to. So, I’m not going to.

Easy-Peasy

The good thing about cancer is that  it makes everything else seem really easy.

Remember that important presentation at work? It’s a snap! That big interview for your dream job? You got this! That speaking engagement at the Nudist Colony? Whatever!

Cancer: better than toastmasters. A wee bit more painful long-term, but works instantly with no practice necessary.

Shall we dance?

Woke up with this song in my head.

If you're looking at this on a phone, you can check which song I'm grooving to here.
 

 

poems

The Cancer Poetry Project

 

Here is a little more about finding poetry in cancer.

those things we tap into

When looking, finding, hoping, seeking...in times of need...we look around, or not look around, but pieces come to us either which way...so I will throw those pieces at you...to you...around you...in your sleep...and all around...you take what works for you, and only you...the mantra we have spoken in those mama support groups together, in the past...and now, here we are...in other ways...gathering...

...pieces for you, my friend...

The China Study...a book with info, on nutrition and how this relates to healing the body...

Stink Stick...yes, you heard right...a deodorant, with a chemical charge, that not only keeps the stink away...but, detoxifies the lymph nodes in the underarm area...Duggan sisters from Chicago company are founders...check the web...get rid of that stink!...

How do we get there from here?

Almost everything I thought I knew about cancer, and illness in general, turns out to have been very different from the reality of living with a disease. It’s way worse in some ways and more ok in others.

On the nuts and bolts side, what makes it tricky is that cancer isn’t neat and tidy; and doesn’t seem to fall into the trajectory of diagnosis, treatment, recovery. Cancer, like every other crappy thing in life, reveals the complexity of its devastation incrementally.

For me, the diagnosis phase of this experience has been pretty protracted. I would say energetically, this phase began when I went for the mammogram a month ago. Since that time the layers of my illness have been revealed (or not) with subsequent tests, retests and scans. All of this gathering of information though is vital in order to understand the scope of what is happening with my body. We need to know: what, where, how much.

This is what my surgeon reminded me of this week when she ordered that I have another biopsy on the 2 newbie tumors and the shifty-eyed lymph node. That will happen next Wednesday.

She didn’t seem at all concerned though about the 2 new tumors. They’re in the same area as the others and they’re all small, all under 2 cm. The lymph node didn’t seem to rattle her too much either, they don’t like to see that, she said, but it doesn’t necessarily mean that the cancer has taken the express train to other areas of my body. Having the cancer on the local train means I have a little time to get to the treatment phase.

I believe though, that there are limitations on just treating the tumor.

Although very different, this experience reminds me a little of pregnancy and birth. There is the physical side of growing a baby and then there is the work of pregnancy. That one question every woman has and must answer for herself. It’s that mysterious process of calming fears, finding yourself, and preparing to have your life inexplicably changed in an instant. I’ve seen this process in myself and many other women. This type of preparation is critical to the mother’s wellbeing throughout the childbearing year. It puts her in the driver’s seat of the experience, no matter the type of pregnancy and birth she has.

I’ve found myself returning to this idea many times in the past few weeks. Asking myself, if everything in life acts as a teacher, what is my cancer here to teach me? What is the work of this cancer? And why in this particular form and not another?

When I said I love the "pop in" cancer isn’t exactly who I had in mind would swing by. But, that’s who came. Someone yesterday shared with me that since cancer is here I could consider inviting my cancer in for tea. Have it sit, stay for a chat, see why it’s come over. This idea was shocking, but somehow makes perfect sense. Am I so afraid, that I can’t hear, even for a few minutes, what my cancer has to teach me? Or what my body is trying to say?

And this journey feels no different from a long, difficult run. (Which, incidentally for me is around 5 miles, don’t laugh people, I’m 40 over here.) When a run gets tough I don’t fight the pain or lack of air. I lean into it a little, see it there and then intentionally relax at the pain point. If I try to push it away, or get tense/angry/critical, the run is over.

BUT, if I can see the pain and/or be ok with a little gasping for air, I usually break through to the other side. That’s where the magic happens. My breath becomes even and the volume on the pain goes way, way down. My body moves like the perfect machine that it is. I feel like I’m flying. I free myself and in that moment I can do anything.

For me, the cancer conversation has to be broader than cells and mutation and genes and radiation. Much, much broader. It has to encompass figuring out the work of this disease. My body is trying to tell me something, teach me something. I won’t fight her on this one, I am going to listen. I trust that she will give me all the information I need to know in order to heal.

And when the pain points present themselves, whether those are physical or emotional, I won’t fight those either, I will lean in. I will surrender. I will let go in the deepest way possible so the magic can happen and I can fly.

Healing Blessing

Bless this day with healing, 
bless it with radiant sun energy,
fill each cell of the body,
bringing a flood of healthy energy to all the body,
banishing illness and disease, 
as healing grows.

May the abundant powers of health flourish within,
each day, may they expand and grow stronger,
bringing the gifts of vitality, strength and wellbeing,
Blessings flow now with ample energy and happiness.
~ Author Unknown

Thank you for sharing this, Brooke. I really love it.

At this point in my life, I have renounced fighting. In all of its forms. But I embrace healing with my whole being; with an open heart and open arms. I invite healing into every part of me, every corner. I wish to be so full of healing energy that it spills over into all of you. Making the sharp edges of your lives seem less so. And so that you, being full of healing energy can send it back to me. Or, to whomever else should need it. May it all be so. For everyone.

Bad things do come in 3's

The MRI and mammogram results are in: the scans are clean. Yea, you read that correctly, no tumor in sight.

I don't know about you but when I heard that, I secretly thought, "that was the easiest case of cancer I've ever heard of. It lasted about 2 weeks and I really didn't feel a thing. Wow, that wasn't so bad." Big sigh of relief.

Not so fast. 

As it turns out, some tumors won't show up on a mammogram or an MRI. Its rare, but it does happen. It happens more commonly in women with small dense breast tissue. Let me clarify something here, dense breast tissue is common in young women. Old women, not so much. 

At the ripe old age of 40 you would think I wouldn't have such problems, namely the breasts of a much younger woman, but there you have it. The tissue in my breasts is so dense that its more or less opaque. 

Getting an image of what's going on inside such dense breast tissue is kind of like driving in fog. Your lights are on and you know there's a car ahead, but you can't really see it. Get closer though, and there it is. Kind of like it appeared out of nowhere. 

Well, in this case, when the doctor pulled her car up to my tumor to get a better look via MRI and mammogram, she couldn't see anything. She was still too far away.

When she hopped into her ultrasound though, out of nowhere she saw the original tumor and two additional ones. A little off to the side, she saw something else which she very scientifically labeled as suspicious. The suspicious thing is one of the lymph nodes under my arm. 

I'm not sure if it was the shifty eyes of that particular node that made her feel so uneasy, or if it looks like it's filled up with cancer. Either way though, having a body part labeled as suspicious is never a good sign.

And, just to cheer this post right up, it became clear to me this morning that having more children will not be an option for me. My insurance doesn't cover the cost of freezing eggs and eggs don't like being hard boiled by cancer treatments. 

AND, on top of all this, I really need to go to the grocery store. 

I'm at a low point right now. I freaking hate shopping.

Far, Far Away