Resetting

While I know my presence in California has been most welcome for Kate and her family as she embarked on this latest detour in life, this past week it was time to come on home.

I need to vote! 

And, as Kate began to feel better, her energy returning and her pain (mostly) under control, I felt the tug of my life back in Kansas City. I missed the dog, my people at the gym, my own bed.

All the same, it's been a bit of a shock to my system. I left town in late summer, then stayed in late summer weather for the month I was in California, thus lulling my body into thinking time had taken a short break. 

Then, on my return to town, I stepped off the plane into a cool and rainy autumn day. Instead of the vista I'd become accustomed to, one of blue sky over brown grass, peppered by the green of the magically resilient trees of southern California, I was greeted by gray skies highlighting the yellow to orange of the turning leaves on the trees. 

Time had moved on after all.

I've been home almost a week, and still, when I wake in the night, it takes a minute to orient myself, to figure out where I am. I'm guessing parts of me decided to take a later flight; they'll arrive any day now. Probably.

My heart is divided. Part of it is back in California, tracking Kate's healing, doing what I can to support her on this difficult path. The other part is here, rediscovering the parts I love about the structure of life I've been working to build since I retired.

The past few days have been a blur of catching up on the tasks left undone while I traveled. Thanks to global warming (silver linings exist), I've had a bit of time to clean up the yard. I've started back at the gym, my body welcoming the return to the stretchiness of the yoga classes. 

One step at a time.

Working to Breathe

Kate has been working on breathing. Both in the literal sense as she retrains her system to work around the missing sections of rib and muscle to breathe in and out, and in the yogic sense of using breath to center and ground one's spirit.

Her oncologist has been doing a hard sell on starting the hormone treatments, like, NOW! Since this is metastatic cancer, she was telling Kate that there are most probably micro-tumors hidden throughout her system and the best way to keep them at the micro level is to start hormone therapy as soon as possible.

Kate was slated to start this week, but then took a deep breath and a step back. No question the doc is right about those little buggers hiding out. And yes - the 'run smack into a brick wall' method of entering menopause is her best bet at surviving, and she will start taking the drugs. But.

The histology report showed her cancer to be both likely to spread (we'd figured that much out...) and slow growing (which means !!no chemo!! Yay!!). Will waiting a few weeks to begin treatment really make a difference in her long term survival? After mulling it over this weekend, she decided the answer is 'probably not'.

But, starting the treatment now, when she is still recovering from surgery and slated to start radiation shortly, could and probably would complicate her recovery. It's hard enough to heal when you've been hit from two different angles. Add in a third simultaneous blow? Ouch. 

So the current plan is to start the hormone treatments near or just after the end of radiation. In the meantime, her chest will have had a chance to heal from the surgery so it should no longer cause pain to take each breath. 

Life is easier when breathing doesn't hurt. No question there.

One step at a time.

Healing Steps

I never thought I'd be grateful Kate found a lump indicating her cancer had returned, but here I am, grateful, because it was only because they were doing all the scans to determine how best to treat the lump that they found the larger spiky blob. 

I never thought I'd be grateful to know Kate might have to undergo another trial of fire via chemo, but here I am, grateful, because the possibility chemo might happen means this bout of cancer can be treated, and either vanquished or banished underground for another length of time. (The alternative would mean it was diffused through her system, and growth could only be slowed down, not halted for any length of time.)

Once the final surgery reports came in we received the wonderful news they'd been able to get clear margins after all. **!!whew!!** Game-changing news. 

With the removal of the last drainage tube last Friday, her energy has come bouncing back. It will still be quite some time before the roughly cookie-shaped hole in her chest will be healed; she is missing two 2-3" chunks of rib, along with the corresponding muscles in the intercostal region of her chest (the part of your body between the ribs and lungs - these muscles help you breathe freely). But. Her pain, while still never gone, is now manageable without the help of heavy duty painkillers and she is doing all she can to facilitate the healing process.

She won't know exactly what followup treatments will be recommended until the oncotype testing of the excised tumor is complete, which will be another week or two. She does know she has radiation and hormone therapy in the offing. The medical teams are still saying 'treatable' - no small blessing.

Treatable or not, this is scary stuff to contemplate, too scary. So for now, when we talk, we focus on the best steps to take to begin to heal her current set of bodily traumas. 

One step at a time.

Today, we are here. 

Goodbye, Duane

Duane is - *sigh* - was - my cousin. Three or four years younger than I, I can't recall I'd ever had a real conversation with him until we met up at a family reunion in Virginia a couple of decades ago. 

He opened the conversation by telling me how much he'd LOVED my green Schwinn ten-speed, which I'd saved up to buy when I was a teenager. I was surprised he'd remembered the bike; as we talked it quickly became clear he'd paid a lot more attention to me as we grew than I'd paid to him. (sorry, Duane)

Since then, I've talked to him a lot more. When I took off in my camper van, I stayed for a few nights with him and his wife, Tracey. One fine Saturday, they took me to Wisconsin and introduced me to the sport of Watercross. (For the uninitiated, this is where you wait until summer, find a good shallow pond somewhere, and see if you can drive a snowmobile across it. You just know the sport started with a couple of guys saying, "Here! Hold my beer and watch this!") I still chuckle when I think about that day.

I admired how Duane had worked to do well in life. He once told me he was a slacker in high school, went to college just because he was supposed to; had no idea how to succeed there. But once he got there, he took a look around, figured out how to study, kept working, and ended up as a chiropractor. Not an easy trick to pull off. 

He married young. Somehow, he and Tracey managed to work through all the things they needed to work through to stay and grow together all these years. Again, not easy to do. They had three boys; raised a group of fine young men.

I last saw him just a few weeks ago at yet another family reunion. There were quite a few people there, and though I said hello, I didn't get a chance to catch up with him. I texted him after I got home, telling him I was sorry I'd missed him. He texted back, said he felt the same, and he'd catch me on the next go-around.

The next go-around won't happen - he died from a sudden heart attack earlier this week.

Damn margarita truck!

I am in shock. Regretting my lost chance to talk with him, to find out how life was treating him. It's not like I think the conversation would have been consequential. I just hate it when I don't get a chance to say goodbye to those I hold in my heart.

So, goodbye, Duane. 

I hope you are where the fishing is good and the mosquitoes (mostly) leave you alone. When winter comes, I hope you and whichever buddies you have there (you'll probably add some new ones to the crew, knowing you and your charismatic ways), will be able to ride free on your sleds, flying though the snow, out in the wilderness you loved so deeply.

Peace.

Cancer Sucks. Still.

Man! This is some tough stuff!

Kate's surgery was last Friday afternoon. The first part went well - they were able to get the lump in her armpit out with clear margins and no difficulty. Her implant also came out cleanly, but then they started digging into ol' spiky; the mass that had been hiding behind the implant.

Although I'm told the surgeon was pleased with the final results, I'm not sure in what context that should be taken. I'm guessing it was that she was successfully able to plug up the holes in the two ribs she had to cut into to get the tumor out, because at the end of the long evening, she removed the biggest parts of the mass, then had to call it quits. Kate's chest wall was too compromised to dig further even though they still hadn't gotten clear margins. Because of the extensive cutting, they were also unable to insert a new expander - which means reconstruction will require a lot of creative effort.

(Beyond radiation, which was a given, clear margins or not, I haven't yet heard what treatments they will use to follow up now she's made it through surgery. I'm guessing they'll wait to decide until they get the detailed pathology back on the tumor, which will take a bit.)

Lexi and I ventured in to see her on Saturday. (She's not been alone there - Edwin, her partner, has been a rock.) She looked OK when we got there, but then took a sip of water. As soon as it hit her stomach, you could see the nausea rise, which made her cough, which made her pain levels spike.

We didn't stay long - she'd gotten to see her baby, I got to see mine is still breathing - because what she needs most of all is to rest and get better, not to stay awake to talk. 

She's made incremental improvements since then. They took out her chest drain yesterday, which instantly helped with her ability to keep her pain under control. She was able to eat most of a popsicle last night and keep it down. I'm hoping she'll be well enough to come home tomorrow.

I've been doing what I can to keep Lexi's life on an even keel, helping her get to and from her daily activities. 

I've been in an odd state of denial. My head and heart don't want to believe Kate is hurting so badly, and since she's not here at home, I find myself acting as if she were just off on a trip - that she'll come back soon, safe and sound.

Then the image of her in the hospital, pale and hurting, comes to mind, and I cry for a minute, trying to feel my feelings instead denying they exist and stomping them down. Then, I stop and breathe.

I remind myself of my hard-learned lessons and resolve once again to not let fear run roughshod over my day.

I can breathe.

I can Be. Here. Now.

I can rest for a moment in the beauty and lean on the love which has been SO in abundance already during this trial.

I will not let fear win. Not today.

*Not* Stressed

I'm not feeling stressed.

I often pretreat a couple of shirts to try to get some stains out, then start the washer - without putting the shirts into the machine. (I was, perhaps, a bit puzzled when I opened the machine at the completion of the cycle and found it empty.)

Fortunately for my shirts, Shout can safely sit on the fabric for a while, and the grease stains came right out when I re-ran the cycle.

OK. Maybe I'm a little stressed.

Mostly, I'm glad to be moving on this Kate surgery thing. Getting to this week has been a too-long process. Too much time to think and stew. I am scared, and my subconscious knows it. Time and time again, I've had to turn my thoughts away from the doomsday scenarios my imagination so easily conjures up when I let down my guard. 

So many unknowns. 

Soon, they will be resolved.

I've been busily nesting, getting my place ready for winter, so that when I return home at the beginning of November I can snuggle in without having to fret about all the fall chores I left undone. 

Truth be told, this is one of those times when it's hard for me to picture an 'after'.  Probably because I know surgery is just the first line of defense against her cancer, and getting through the follow-up therapies will be one long and hard slog.

Back to one step at a time.

What can I do to help her take *this* step? Don't worry about all the hard next steps. Just take *this* one.

It's worked for me, for us, before. I am pretty sure it'll work again.

Getting Real

Kate texted me this afternoon. She said her upcoming surgery is getting more and more real by the minute.

Yup. I'm there. "Not Yet"is quickly becoming "This Is Real".

My vacation in Minnesota was lovely. Lots of driving (*ugh*), lots of good family time and some quiet time to myself (*happy sigh*). There was a lovely wedding (*awwww, my heart!*) and I bought some new red boots (*bonus!*).

I'm back home and looking at my calendar and what was AN ENTIRE MONTH away is now the end of next week.

The idea of the upcoming surgery is frightening, but also oddly reassuring. She'll finally be able to GET IT OUT!!!! EEEWWW!!!! and know what she's dealing with. She'll be past the interminable waiting of the last few months, and moving on to whatever it is that comes next.

She will be in good hands. She has a team of three surgeons scheduled and ready to go a week from Friday. The plastic surgeon will remove the implant. The oncology doc will take care of lump #1, and then work with the thoracic surgeon to go in to see what that other scariness in her chest wall is up to. 

Nothing can change the fact these upcoming months will be hard for Kate and everyone who loves her, but I have a lovely group of friends at my back, ready to support me as I do my best to support her. They know there's nothing they can do to help, but they offer anyway. I know they'll be there when I need them. 

One friend has set us up for a pre-surgery pedicure later this week. (Pretty toes make things just a little better, it's true!) Another stopped me before my exercise class this morning to give me a box of my favorite butter cookies (the secret is in the touch of salt!) she'd picked up just for me.

One of my most enduring lessons from my cancer journey 12 years ago is that I am loved. 

I don't have words to describe how much it means to me to know this is still true; to know I don't walk life's paths alone.

Good Is. 

A Moment to Breathe

 

It seems the Universe is not vested in my martyr complex after all, and so I’ve been able to go on my long-scheduled trip back home to Minnesota this week. (Part of my heart still thinks of Minnesota as home, and I find that funny - it’s been 40 ??!!! years since I last lived here.)

It’s a chance to leave my to-do lists behind and pause in the Not Yet before Kate’s surgery at the start of next month.

Stop.
Breathe.
Relax.

Yes.

Welcoming Myself

In yoga the other day, the instructor invited us to settle onto our mats. Then, she asked us to envision a time when we felt welcome. Once we captured one such time, could we break it down just a bit, probe the feelings underlying the moment? Perhaps acceptance, perhaps joy because someone felt joy in our presence?

Then came the kicker - could we welcome ourselves to that room at that moment? 

I gave it a shot - and, I could! I envisioned myself opening my arms to me, pulling me into the space. I felt a frisson of the joy I feel when I am welcomed, and was able to carry that bit of self-acceptance into my movement practice.

That night, as I settled into bed, reflecting on my day, the moment came back to me. It made me realize how I take my presence in my life for granted.

I'm a good show-er up-per. I keep a list of things to get done each week, and usually make a good dent in the pile of tasks. I realize I can be a bit hard on myself, chastising me when I don't make sufficient progress in checking things off the list (using whatever arbitrary scale I'm using to define sufficient this week).

What I don't habitually do is welcome myself to my day.

Even the concept has a ... I dunno ... braggadocious flavor. (my word of the day!)

*sigh*

The message I once received to not think too much of myself is clearly deeply ingrained in my psyche. Be humble, put others needs first, don't be needy (God forbid!), work to blend in with the crowd, don't toot your own horn.

Hmmmm....

Perhaps, just perhaps, welcoming myself to my morning isn't showing off. I mean, it's not like I can avoid my presence anyways. What would it hurt if I greeted me with a pleasant 'Good morning. Welcome!' ? 

Perhaps this is a facet of the message I received while on the Camino last year - that my life would be easier if I relied on my strengths.

Perhaps.

The Grass Is Greener

Ah, September!

Many of my life's changes in direction have had their launch in late August and early September, and they've left their mark on my psyche.

My soul remembers all those first day of school moments, fresh supplies and at least one new outfit at the ready. Mom died in early September. I launched into motherhood one late August, started my camper van journey that same time of year several decades later. Last September found me walking across Spain.

The sun gets up a little later, the quality of the light shifts towards the softness of fall, and I'm ready to go. I woke up this morning wanting to explore beautiful places, to head off into the wild blue yonder, to transplant myself to new surroundings in anyplace that's not here, to start afresh.

Ain't happenin'.
Not this year.

I mean, I do have an important task on the near horizon. (All Kate's scans are done, the doctors are in agreement about what needs to happen in the operating room, and we're back to waiting for them to find a date on their schedules when all three surgeons will be available.) And while there's no place I'd rather be when the time comes, I'm sure you understand I'd just as soon not have this particular trip on my calendar. 

Perhaps now is a good time to remind me that this, too, shall pass. God willin' and the crick don't rise, I will have other Septembers for fun adventures. In the meantime, I have today to enjoy the beauty present in my life here and now. 

The summer heat has broken for today; we're having a fall preview in these parts. It's cool enough this morning to have windows open, to feel the fresh breeze. The sun is shining, there are still some late season flowers blooming in my yard. 

Beauty Is.