Lately

As of late I've been so critical of myself. Why you ask? Because I no longer look like this:

Bryan and I were going through our old photos this weekend and when I saw that beautiful woman, I cried, a lot. I wanted to run away and hide in a cave. I felt sorry for myself. Like everything's been taken and changed by this horrible disease. I don't even recognize the woman I see in the mirror. People I worked with 2 years ago don't recognize me. None of my clothes fit. I don't look like the woman my boyfriend fell in love with....and on and on.

As shallow as this may seem to you, it’s been a huge adjustment for me. Why? Because I went from that to this in 3 months:

When humans age, they have time, lots of time, to accept the gradual changes that occur within their bodies and minds. Cancer changes that equation though. Overnight it robs you of that element that allows you to continually evolve into your new and ever-changing body and spirit

My body has endured so much in this past year. My strong body. My body that now has extra curves, pounds and wrinkles and not nearly enough hair, breasts or estrogen.

When I look this photo I get back a little of what cancer took: the sense of time passing. And maybe, if I look long enough I can figure out how to be ok with where I am today. Alive, feeling well and doing the best I can to care for my body.

Loosing the battle

Against the deliciousnes

Survivor

If only I were referring to that TV show.

Early on in my treatment I went to a support group at the cancer center. It’s a spiritual support group designed to help women effected by cancer release some of the strong feelings that accompany this illness. You can cry, shout, sing, kvetch, do pretty much anything within reason to express whatever you need to.

The first time I went I was really surprised to discover that women who had been healthy for over a year were still attending the group. There I was, bald, nauseous, and pissed that I had to go through cancer. Right in the thick of my treatment, I sat next to these women and listened to their stories.

Honestly, I couldn’t relate. From where I was sitting, they had what I most wanted: hair. They also had a clean bill of health. And yet, they were having trouble adjusting. Trouble dealing with the residual feelings cancer left them with when it vacated their bodies.

The thing I heard the most was anger, followed by confusion. The kind you feel when you wake up from having napped too long on a summer afternoon. You look at the clock and it says 6:30, and you panic, thinking you’re late for work. It takes a couple minutes to sink in that evening has come, and you didn’t get the notice.

Not having cancer is a little like that. You know you’re well; your cells are working, humming like bees, and yet, there is worry, because an essential part of you didn’t get the memo that you’re cancer free. In other words, in spite of the fact that I look healthy, I don't feel it. I  still feel very much like I'm recovering from something big. Like my mind is just now sorting out all details of what my body has been through this past year.

In playing catch up, I wonder: How long will I live? That question is the scary one. Recently, I was talking with a woman, maybe 75 years old, maybe older, I’m not sure. She was old though. I could tell she was old because her hands were gnarled with bulbous knuckles. Looking at her hands, I felt a sadness wash over me. Followed immediately by an acute jealousy, she had something I might not get: a long life. Then, I felt sad again. There are no guarantees in this life for any of us, but, having been though cancer, I feel acutely aware of this fact, and it scares me sometimes.

Beyond the worry and possibility of a shorted lifespan there are other unknowns, specifically about my body: What is this body now? How does it feel? What does it need the most?

My body is very different than it was a year ago. There are scars. Too many, I think. Parts are missing, big parts. Important parts. I’m heavier to. Medications that cured me also made me gain weight, kind of a lot of it. On top of that, I ate whatever I wanted. When you’re in treatment for cancer, and feel so shitty, sometimes simple things, like a chocolate croissant and a nap, are the best part of your day. So I have curves now, the first one’s ever.

Also, what can my body do now? There are risks, since lymph nodes have been removed. I could contract swelling in my arm that will never go away. At first I thought about that every day. Now, it hardly comes up, but later in the fall when approximately 3.5 million leaves drop from the trees and onto my lawn, I can rake only for a little while at a time. Because, I like my arm the way it is now.

Raking in short stints isn’t so bad, not something that really hits home. Menopause though? That hits right where it hurts. Did I mention am 41 years old? The old ladies weren’t kidding about hot flashes. Those suck. Cuddling is challenging at times because of them. My body runs hot, and having a little critter on my lap, makes me break out in a sweat. There are other fun and exciting things that happen to the female body during menopause. I will spare you the details and just say, between that and the anti-cancer drugs I take, it will be a miracle if I have any bones left by the time I’m 65.

The chemo induced neuropathy is still with me as well. Its mild, but it’s still kicking around. I am still healing from the chemo, its clear. The damage from those drugs was system-wide, but slowly, I’m healing. I can tell when I peddle my bike as hard and as fast as I can. I feel energized, joyful even, because I can move fast. I can tell when I’m dancing with Bryan, the Rumba never felt so good. The foxtrot on the other hand, is a brutal dance. Either way though, I’m electric and excited at joining the human race again.

I know that it has to be at my pace. I have to meet myself where I’m at. I do what I can to listen to my body. Push myself, just a little, to get my body moving. Nourish when needed and sleep when tired. Hugs are good to, the best actually.

Knowing all this, I’m taking my cancer-free self, back to the support group. I’m going to sit there, with my head full of hair, and kvetch, complain and most likely cry some. I’ll keep going to the group to, until that deep down part of me finally gets the cancer-free memo.

Until I know what healthy means for me as my body is now, after having been on this long journey.

Thanks but...

When I was pregnant with Aidan I wanted to know as much as I could about pregnancy, labor and birth, so I decided to take a lamaze class.

The teacher, Harriet, was about 75 years old. She was 5 feet tall with jet black hair. In addition to knowing lamaze backward and forward Harriet also had lots of interesting stories about how birth used to be in the city.

She told us about illegal home births in Manhattan and in the outer boroughs where groups of women would gather at the laboring woman's home and all help the baby earthside. She shared with glee the first time a man (gasp!) was in the laboring room with his wife. He handcuffed himself to his wife's bed and refused to give up the key. And then there was that time when they all protested in front of city hall to advocate for a birthing center in Manhattan.

All this went down in the late 60's and early 70's and from what I could gather these acts of civil disobedience brought about a sea-change in maternity care in the city. What started them down this radical path? It was for many reasons, but I think it was primarily because western medicine had overstepped its bounds with regards to birthing.

As I have shared before on this blog, having cancer, in so many ways, is like being pregnant and just as those birth radicals observed and responded to the over-medicalization of birth, so have I seen the tendency toward the over-treatment of cancer, and I am responding.

Don't get me wrong, cancer can kill you, so its best to make sure to treat it until it's gone but continuing to treat after the cancer has been cured? I'm not convinced. Which is why I flew all the way to Philadelphia to speak with Dr. Lawrence Solin after I found an article he wrote about this very topic.

Dr. Solin, it turns out, was the perfect person to see. He told me that every opinion could be supported with the current research which says, yes, no and maybe, someone should receive radiation after a mastectomy, depending on the specifics of their situation.

After he said this he want to on talk to me about my cancer and my treatment and about what makes my situation a-typical: I had chemotherapy first.

Rather than go though the details of all the relevant studies and the specifics about my cancer and course of treatment like Dr. Solin did for me, I share with you an excerpt from the paper which helped me make my decision about radiation:

"Similarly, in 102 patients undergoing mastectomy with clinically positive nodes before neoadjuvant chemotherapy and pathologically negative nodes afterward, the risk of chest wall and regional nodal recurrence was between 0% and 10.8%. These locoregional recurrence rates fit into a low-risk category of patients who are unlikely to experience improved overall survival from radiotherapy."

Translation into English: when a gal with Stage 2 cancer has chemo first and it cures her cancer, like completely cures it, like on a cellular level, her risk of recurrence is between 0% and 10.8% and radiation can't make it any lower, because there is nothing lower than zero.

Whereas the short and long-term side-effects from radiation are pretty significant and the risk of getting at least some of those side-effects is pretty high, way higher than 10.8%.

So, thanks Radiation Oncologist, but, I think I'll pass and stick to getting my radiation the old fashioned ways: from space or from a tanning bed. 

Let's talk a little more about my breasts

When you're diagnosed with breast cancer what you don't realize is how much time you'll spend talking about your breasts. I have, in fact, spent so much time talking about my breasts that its a subject I'm rather tired of. 

Today however I will have to spend just a little more time on this topic. This may be the most important conversation that I'll have because I'm seeing a woman who will, hopefully, reconstruct my body after I've had my breast removed next week.

You know what they say, when life gives you lemons, made lemonade. Or, you know, grapefruit-ade, or melon-ade. Or whatever. 

That Funny Feeling

Peripheral Neuropathy = my internal alarm clock alerting me that I haven’t rested enough. Good times.

Ho-Hum-Hibernate

As you may have noticed, things have been pretty quiet here. Treatments every week have been a bit of a slog.

It's been going like this: chemo, recovery, catch-up, repeat. It feels like I'm in a kind of hibernation. Keeping it simple; focusing on those things in front of me which are most important. All while trying to ignore the myriad of shitty side effects brought on by the chemo.

I do have a couple posts rolling around in my head though. Those may make their appearance if they get insistent enough. We'll see.

Do check back on May 24th, the day after my last treatment, so you can read all about how happy I am do be done with chemo.

Until next time, Love and Muah


Image Source

Monkey Mind

Since I'm not a baseball player, competitive weight lifter, or looking to enhance my performance in any way, I've never delved into the wild world of steroids, nor had I planned to. I always figured I'd leave that to professionals.

Well, cancer will take you down many paths you didn't intend to travel down and these past couple weeks I have been receiving intravenous steroids once a week.

The intention with the steroids is to work with immune system so when it gets kicked to the ground by chemo, it doesn't fall so hard. It also helps with any possible allergic reaction that I may experience from this particular chemo drug.

In these two ways the steroids have mostly done their job. My white count has remained fairly stable and returns within a normal range in only 6 days after treatment. This is good, because it means I can keep receiving the treatments. As you can imagine, I want to stick to the treatment schedule so I can be done with this portion of the program.

Its also mostly kept the allergic reactions under control. I have a mild rash, which is itchy, but if I can keep from touching it, its like any other rash and will heal normally.

So I should write the steroids a thank you note, I guess.

I totally would do this (I'm old fashioned that way) but this drug has some pretty heavy side effects.

Ever head of steroid psychosis? Well, neither had I, until yesterday. After I'd explained to the nurse my strange mental state, she happened to mention it. I would say, given all that I've read about it since I heard the term, I had a pretty mild version.

I'm receiving a relatively low dose, only 25MG, but I also know I'm sensitive to medications. My body metabolizes medicines in a way I find very acute. To the medical ear, this may not make sense, but I know it to be true, even with something mild like Tylenol.

So pharmaceutically speaking, I'm a cheap date and 25MG of steroids have worked their evil magic on me. Yesterday, thankfully, I got only 10MG and can already tell that the monkeys have moved on. If I don't experience any allergic reaction this week, I'm not taking the steroids again.

Speaking from experience as a cancer patient, at the end of the day informed consent barely exists in this field of medicine.

I feel a bit bad saying this because I know my doctor and the nurses do intend to give the best care they can give. However, there is so much information that is simply not provided to the patient and I'm not sure why this is.

I'm not saying that knowing about steroid psychosis would have changed my decision to receive this medicine, but forewarned is forearmed. Had I known about it, I could have addressed it right away.

Instead though, I went through a really rough time. Alone. Too scared to tell anyone about it. And will do anything to avoid an encore performance, a la steroid style.

May it be so.

Port Authroity

I am excercisting my right to whine like a baby right now.

For the record: surgery hurts way worse than you think it will. Also, having something inserted into you, like a little box for administering chemo, hurts also.

Dr said it will be at least a week before the pain goes away. In the meantime I move like molasses and wince a lot. Its a bummer.

Yum Yum and Love

This is a shout out to everyone who brought my family a meal over these last 3 months.

A meal is such a simple thing, in a way. But for me, during what's been a very challenging time physically, even a simple thing like dinner felt like way too much.

So you all kept showing up. With your smiling faces, well wishes, prayers and warm, delicious meals. Food that fed us dinner, was the perfect mid-night (or mid-day) snack for me. Something ready to fill my belly which has been on the verge of being sick for 3 months.

One or two bites of something delicious at the right time can be so soothing. I felt your love, care and prayers in every bite, as did we all.

So thank you. You took the time out of your schedules, away from your own families and to-do list to do something that was so very needed and I am so grateful to you. And you, and you.

Love and Muah.

Down the Rabbit Hole

Went down the rabbit hole with this last treatment. Thankfully, I didn't go alone: Bryan, Karin, Sally, and Beni helped me as I was falling.

Foot rubbing, fetching tea, loving, supporting, hand holding, making meals, cleaning the bathroom; bringing an annoyingly specific lunch order, spreading love, cheer and sweet coconut aromas; bearing gifts of the most useful kind - dinner, desert (evil, btw), and a treat bag for my little; and a critical trip to the grocery store when I really needed it and didn't want to be alone.

All that helped me make it through yesterday and for that I am so grateful.

For now, I'm not nauseous or throwing up and for that I am grateful as well. But if I go down the rabbit hole again I know that many hands will be here to lift me out when its time.

photo source

Sunny Dreams

It will come as no surprise to you that outside my window the view is mostly white. On the ground, floating through the air. Layers and layers of white cover over everything. Its pretty, but its a bit chilly.

In the thick of this wintery mix I really don't think to much about summer. Winter, like anything else, is something to move through and really can't be rushed. So dreams of summer are not on my mental agenda usually. Funny though how something so small can instantly transport you to the middle of June without warning.

At our place, Bryan built a spot for our coats and gloves and its become the repository for hats to, both the winter and summer variety. One morning this week, when Bryan took his big winter coat off the hook, the hat he wears in the summer came down with it and landed in the middle of the floor.

Seeing that hat made me long for summer deep in my bones. In that moment, I really missed seeing him in that hat, doing work in the yard. I missed the bright sun and hanging out next to the blow up pool. I missed sunning myself and playing ball with the critter, barefoot in grass.

Getting there was effortless, coming back to winter was to. But, it got me thinking about summer. About how, by the end of the summer this will be finished. I will be cancer-free. No more appointments, treatments, surgery, poking, prodding and all the rest of it.

I will get to sit at our table on the patio, under the umbrella with a picnic laid out, with no where to be and nothing to do. Enjoying those summer days that seem to last forever and ever.

And the award for the most irritating chemo side effect goes to....

...drum roll please....

My constantly running nose.

Bryan said my nose is making up for all the work my feet aren't doing as of late.

But I'm not buying it.

Lost in Space

For those of you who have an interest in math, you will recognize the drawing and text above. On that page the father of geometry is making a triangle with a  few straight lines.

What I really love about Euclid is the simple and elegant way he presented his work. On the surface, its very neat and tidy. Sit with it for a little bit though and the complexities emerge. Sometimes subtly, sometimes they're in your face.

In the end though he wraps it all up so beautifully, "Therefore..." he says at the end of most of his propositions, then summarizes what the problem was about.

When you're walking into a math problem, even the simplest one, there is a comfort in knowing that the answer is there. Just waiting for you to get to it. Holding its glass and ready to say "cheers" when you arrive.

Its the steps in the middle that are a bitch sometimes. In order to get that little triangle drawing to look like that on your page, you've gotta do some work. That work become slightly more difficult if you're not on speaking terms with calculus or even algebra.

Suddenly, the words on the page, the one's you though you knew, become something different altogether. The known becomes strange and you're in the tick of it, not sure how you'll get to the "Therefore" of the whole thing.

In the beginning, I felt so open to learning what this current problem had to teach me. Looking back, its so clear that the openness came from not knowing what I would have to go through. Like the Fool from the tarot. The one who smiles as he leaps off the cliff with nothing to keep his body or heart from breaking but all the while certain he will land softly.

Now I'm in it and everything has changed. I can see the "Therefore", but I have no idea how I'll get there. The work that I have to do feels so overwhelming and I feel so unlike myself.

I want to yell. Lament aloud, tell you about my weak body, broken heart and confusion. Or about the rhythms, patterns and ways of being that I no longer inhabit. The one's that will never be mine again.

But I can't.

I'm lost in space and in the middle of that page. And this book is so long, and the next proposition just around the corner. Again and again.

Rebound from treatment #2

...Is taking longer. No vomiting this time though, but lingering hangover. Goodie.

Lost my hair and my taste for coffee. In other words, my head is cold and aching.

In other news, my post-Christmas house is very untidy. 

Until I feel better though, you can find me on the couch. 

Love and Muah.

Hair me out

A little trip through cancer as displayed by my hair.


Once upon a time I had perfect hair:

See:

This cut is courtesy of the amazing magic of Angie. After searching for many years for someone who understood my hair, I finally found her.

Angie held my hand and lead me down the path of embracing my hair and my quirks. (While at the same time I held her hand through the birth of her 2nd born, but that's another post for another time.)

 At one point a few years ago, Angie gracefully asked, "Are we to the point in our relationship were we can talk about mousse?" I just laughed and laughed. Right there in her chair, wearing the cape, with a wet head and half cut hair. Guess what I left the salon with that day?

I busted out crying the day Angie told me she was moving away. Not only is she an awesome person, she was my hair queen.

After I learned about the cancer, I got really protective of my hair. Cutting it was out of the question until absolutely necessary:

One week later, it became necessary:

This awesome cut was given to me by Jenn at Indigo Salon. For you local folk, Jenn is not only a wizard at hair but a super cool lady. If you need to get your hair cut, call Jenn. She'll have you looking fab in no time.

Did you know that hair can actually hurt when its about to fall off your head. Hence:

It looks cool enough, I guess.

Problem is, this bad ass style isn't work friendly. So, I have a wig for work:

Which, is ok. Its itchy though. And I'll never rock this style as well as Jenny G. Like, never.

I have mixed feelings about my flurry of new styles. On one had I like trying different things. On the other hand, I really loved my hair. Its a mixed bag.

Good thing it will grow again once this is all over. Who knows what it will be like then.


Confidential to my cancer crew (you know who you are): I'm writing a post for you girls. Been thinking about things since our last dinner and want to share some thoughts. Spoiler: I love you girls.

Remember Me?

Whenever I do busy work, data-entry, the dishes, folding clothes, I have to listen to music. Music seems to help my hands, body and brain all sync up to do the work that I need to do, but am not terribly excited about.

Today it was data-entry with Sea Wolf. Old World Romance is an album that reminds me of this last summer. All the fun things I did with my family, which kind of culminated in a quick trip to the Indiana Dunes, sans kiddo.

I’m not proud to admit it, but the trip came about not from careful planning or even by consulting Bryan. It was the result of the following, “I’m going. Would you like to come?” I’m one of those people that have to get away sometimes.

It starts with a little tic in my left eyebrow, which rises at pretty much everything I hear. After a while, this tic transforms into an irritation in my brain, like an itch that won’t stop being itchy. Then, every CVS or grocery store I see makes me want to ram my car through the double glass doors of said establishments. Thereafter, the breathing of other humans seems to be a personal attack against my inner peace.

It’s then I know, without a doubt, I need a change of scenery.

And that’s how we got to the Dunes. I pried my Introverted home-body away from his beloved home and into the driver’s seat of a car. I packed our camping gear but had no plan and no real clue about where we were going. I just wanted to go, so we pointed the car north and we went.

When we got there, I hoped that the fresh dune air and the seagulls would act as a kind of salve to the forced spontaneity and summer traffic. And it did. It was one of those rare weekends this summer where it was hot enough to feel like summer during the day but still chilly at night, perfect for camping. Once we had our fill of the dunes on that first afternoon, we went back to our camp. Bryan, who was a devotee of Vulcan in his last life, set to work on the fire. Once it was going, he got me a glass of champagne, cracked open a beer for himself and turned on Old World Romance.

Thinking about it now makes me smile. That trip will stave off that twitch in my left eyebrow for a long time. I felt so totally free. For that day I was: a solo trip with my man, sleeping under the stars, sand in front of a body of water that could be mistaken for the ocean out of the corner of one’s eye. No dishes. No chores, no screens. Not a care in the world, save how I might go about secretly consuming a cold beer on the beach.  Suddenly, the sound of other human beings was like music to me. Bliss, even. My plan worked.  

Fast forward to December; fast forward to today. Listening to that album brings all that back. I find myself smiling. Thinking, I remember that version of me: the carefree, cancer-free version. I miss that woman; things are so very different today.

Instead of thinking about how long pig-tails are the best camping hairstyle ever, I’m picking up my wig. Rather than reflecting on how champagne tastes just as good from a red solo cup, I plan my day around eating and drinking more cleanly. Rather than making a mini stone wall (from our chairs all the way down to the water) I’m resting in all my free time.

So many changes, I hardly recognize myself today. And tomorrow and Monday and Tuesday, when my hair is finally all gone, I will recognize myself even less. I miss that other woman. Maybe, someday, I can be her again, if only for one precious day.

Rebound

It’s been over a week since I had my first treatment. I can’t express how happy I feel to have passed that milestone.

Honestly though it wasn’t as bad as I thought.

When I’ve heard about or think about someone undergoing chemotherapy I have always imagined the worst. Namely, if they aren’t walking among us with their turban and pasty skin they are in bed on the brink of death.

Don’t get me wrong, chemo is certainly no walk in the park. It’s poison, there’s no way around that. After the chemo drugs leave your body, in about 2 days, your body is left to recover from the damage. And from what I know about these drugs, that damage is nuclear.

My body, the one who has been working tirelessly on my behalf day and night to keep this cancer contained in the best way it could, now has to deal with the effects of these toxic drugs.

These drugs though also happen to be what I have to endure in order to be cured. So I’ll take them. Willingly, lovingly and give my body every grace she deserves to help her, help me.

And what grace looks like today are the simplest of things: rest, nourishment and time with my family. Internally though it’s been about developing a practice of receiving love. In all its forms: meals, kind words, good thoughts, prayers, hugs, company and companionship. It’s not easy for me, but I’m soaking it all in. Letting you all help me and hold me in all these ways so I can heal.

The gratitude I feel and the love that I feel is indescribable. When someone shows up for you in the moment when you need it most, that is medicine; the best medicine. You all are my medicine and your love is helping me give myself the space I need to heal.

This time next year I will be cancer free and it will be in part because of you. And you. And you, and you. And for this I am eternally grateful.

Love and Muah and Namaste
(my spirit bows to the spirit within you)

Hangover

A chemo hangover is way worse than a regular one.

Sure, you have all the usual suspects: nausea, vomiting, headache, fatigue, and a general feeling of being unwell. 

With chemo though, it's like it's all turned up a couple notches, so all the usual hangover symptoms are a bit worse.

These first couple days have been rough. But now that I have the nausea mostly under control, life feels much more manageable. For the moment. 

I want to add, that all of your love, good thoughts, flowers, and little care packages have made so many hard moments easier these past couple days. And for that I am so grateful. 

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.