Advent I: Hope

After I sat down on Sunday night and lit the first candle of my Advent wreath, I just sat and watched the small flame flicker for a time. Such a small light. So much dark. Somehow, the small quietly overcame the much, and reached my soul and reignited a flicker of Hope.

Life carries no guarantees. None for me. None for my family and friends. None for the world.

Nobody ever said "treatable" meant this repeat cancer journey would be easy.

But I have today.

I can't undo what radiation has done to my system, but today, I can work on easing the long term damage. Today my mind works. Today my body is allowed to move again. No small blessings, these.

I am grateful to the parts of the Universe which have been working together to ensure I don't lose sight of Hope this year.

Time and again, my burdens feel heavy, and I just want to curl up on the sofa underneath my white fuzzy blanket and make it all go away.

Time and again, when I reach this point, someone unexpectedly reaches out to me, with a text or a card or a small gift or a letter or a phone call, and lets me know I am not forgotten. I am loved.

These gestures make a difference. They give me the oomph to take one more step. 

They are my light in the darkness. 

Such small lights.
Such great power.

Thanksgiving

It seems a bit counterintuitive, but these past couple of years, filled with news I'd rather not hear (both personal and out in the world), have heightened my awareness of all the good there is in my life. And so, I give thanks.

I give thanks for my people. The meal train page I set up to get me through the six-week recovery period from my latest surgery filled up immediately. Everyone who signed up delivered. It was a parade of delicious food, chosen and prepared (or, ordered and picked up) with love.

My people have walked my dog, cleaned up my leaves, and sent me 'hang-in-there-you've-got-this' gifts. They keep reaching out to let me know I'm missed and to make sure I'm doing all right.

I give thanks for the beautiful neighborhood where I get to live. I walk with Sylvester twice a day, and every time I set foot out the door, Beauty waves, trying to catch my attention. He likes to walk in the park that's just a few blocks away, and when time permits, I like to let him. 

There is a tree there, an oak that was mature before I was born. When we walk by, I try to take time to stop and lean against her trunk for a few minutes. I breathe. I listen. She is old and wise and gives good counsel. She doesn't speak in words, but when I straighten back up to continue on my way I always stand a little taller; my problems are cut a tad bit smaller.

I give thanks for lattes. Worth getting out of bed for.

I give thanks for all the researchers who came up with the medical advances and treatments that let me say "treatable" when I tell people my cancer and Kate's have both returned to set us on a new path. Treatable is huge, and most people whose cancer returns don't get to use the word - my heart aches for them. Their path could be mine. It might very well one day be mine. But for today, it is not mine.

I give thanks for the art class I took fourteen years ago. It woke up the inner voice that convinced me to jump out of my comfort zone and into my camper van. I gave up my routines, my job security, and the house I'd worked so hard to restore. In return, I gained a storehouse full of memories of beauty. They can't be tallied in an accounting book, but I've not regretted the tradeoff. Not for a minute.

I wouldn't have thought the blog I started then, as a way to let the people at home follow along on my adventure, would still exist, an ongoing chronicle of my days. Yet, here we are.

A story isn't truly a story until it is shared, and so I am thankful for you, the person reading these words - you complete the circle.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Frustration

I'd really hoped that by now, in this breast reconstruction surgery journey, I'd be leaving behind the "what the h-e-double-toothpicks was I thinking" camp and be well on my way to "this was a great idea".

Unfortunately my progress has been stalled by swelling on my right side. I'm guessing radiation side effects strike again. (My left belly boob is doing great, no small consolation.)

I've let the medical team know, several times, about the aching and itching associated with the swelling. Sadly for me, the doctor who did my surgery is out for a few weeks, and his nurse is in the wait and see camp of life. Clearly, the achy, itchy, heaviness doesn't bother her nearly as much as it does me. Go figure.

From a strictly medical point of view, I suppose I agree with her - waiting a week or two before telling me what is going on and if there is anything I can do to help healing get back on track isn't going to change the long term course of healing. Most probably. 

From the point of view of my right belly boob, however, I really, really want to tell her where she can stick her wait and see attitude. 

But, once again, on this journey, I don't get what I want. There's still a part of my brain thinking clearly-ish, and I do know sharing my feelings would NOT be in my long-term best interests. I will keep the 'stick it' part to myself.

But. I am SO disappointed. I thought, by following instructions and doing all the things, I would heal well.

No guarantees.

Not in the large things, not in the small.

My spirits have been falling all week. Can't SOMETHING in this god-forsaken journey go smoothly?? Please???

One more week. I will see her in one more week.

And in the meantime, I can take one more step. I can go for a walk, to help release some anxious energy. I can do the few stretches I am allowed to do, to give my tight muscles a bit of ease. I can stop and breathe and remind myself that this, too, shall pass.

Treatable doesn't mean the path is smooth or easy. 

But at least the path exists.

Autumn Walks

While Sylvester has enjoyed having me home most of the time these past weeks, I could tell he was missing the routine of our daily walks. Sure enough, last Monday afternoon, when the neighbor lad showed up to walk him, Sylvester went about a block, then sat down and declared, 'enough is enough'.

Even given the lure of treats, he wouldn't go any further. When Wyatt tried to tug him along, Sylvester just laid down in the grass. As soon as they turned for home, however, he jumped up and willingly followed along. 

I get it, my puppy, I get it. I started walking with my dog walkers. Problem solved.

I continue to heal, am a month out from surgery. Sylvester doesn't pull on the leash, so I was able to start walking him myself a few days ago - turns out he wasn't the only one missing our daily outings. (It just wasn't the same with someone else holding the leash.)

Today dawned clear and cold. I grumbled a bit to myself as I pulled on a jacket, hat and gloves, not wanting to leave the warmth of my cozy house. But the longer I walked, the less I minded the cold. 

Beauty won.

Last night's cold snap brought down a carpet of leaves; I hope I never get too old to scuff my way through them as I walk. There's something about the feel of their light touch on the tops of my shoes, the dry rustle of the sound they make as they scatter before me, that ignites a spark of happiness to lighten my mood.

So precious, these short days of beauty. For most of my adult life, my enjoyment of these days was limited to a quick appreciative glance through the windshield as I picked up and dropped off on my way to do all the things.

These days, I am grateful to have the time to be able to pause for a moment and take a long walk !IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY!, where I take mental snapshots of the vibrant colors to hold as a buffer against the day when all the leaves will be down, their hues quickly dimming to a tired brown.

I'm working to stay in the moment, to see what is before me. I want to savor the taste of the air, the chill on my skin, the feast before my eyes. I don't want to waste it by mourning its impending passage. Yes, all things pass, but...  today.

Today. Today, I am here. Today, there is beauty.

Today is the only day I have.

Still Healing

Three weeks in, I am healing well, but am also restless and grumpy. Good thing I live alone.

After I got the last drainage tube out, my doctor said I could walk as much as I wanted, as long as I didn't sweat, but to check with a physical therapist for specifics. So, I went back to Katie, who has been helping me counter the effects of radiation. 

She said, "that's right, you can walk as much as you want - as long as you stay in the house. Walk all you want from the kitchen to the living room, from the living room to the bathroom, from the bathroom to the bedroom... Outside, limit it to 2 miles a day, max."

She also made sure I knew to minimize all overhead reaching motions before giving me a limited set of allowed exercises.

*sigh*

Exercise has been my antidepressant of choice for a long time now, and don't-break-a-sweat walks, even when done daily, don't come close to giving me the balance I've gotten from my usual exercise routine these past few years. It's better than nothing, but.

Without structure, my days have been blending one into the next. Rather than tackle the things I want to get done, I've found myself spending too much time dozing and/or mindlessly scrolling on my devices. The more I sit, the less I want to move. The less I move, the more my body aches when I lie down for the night.

Back to my toolbox of coping mechanisms. Good thing I've kept it handy.

Future Janice has been helping a lot. When I find myself avoiding getting started on whatever-it-is because I'm caught in inertia, I try to remember to check in with her. "When bedtime arrives, how will future-me feel if I've stayed stuck vs jump-starting myself into doing the thing?" Not surprisingly, the contrasting mental pictures have been enough to get me started. And once I've started, it's not so hard to keep going.

The bright sunshine of the last three days, contrasted with the cool gray drizzly mist of the preceding couple of weeks, has also helped. I wasn't disliking those gray days, but they did have a way of convincing me to stay put on the couch. (Which, from a healing perspective, was perfect timing - I NEEDED to not move for a while.)

Those misty days jumpstarted the colors of fall. Instead of just going from green to brown, the trees have paused to dig out their mantles of red and orange and luminous yellow. The beauty calls to me; makes it easy to get outside for walks. The cool air makes it easy not to sweat. 

Three more weeks. Three. I can do this.

Starting to Heal

My surgery was successful - turns out the belly fat I've been carting around all these years is good for something after all.

Recovery, as advertised, has not been a cakewalk. The first 24 hours after surgery, they woke me up every hour to check on my new boobs. The whoosh, whoosh of healthy blood flow soon became a reassuring sound. All is well, all is well. 

The next day, it was every two hours. Needless to say, I was happy to get released to home the third day, where I could begin to think about getting some decent sleep (in between doses of pain meds). 

The drains were a bit less painful than I remembered from 13 years ago - medicine has figured out better ways to anchor the tails in place, and if they don't move, they don't hurt as much. Still, I was thankful for the assistance of modern pharmaceuticals the ten days they were in place. 

The last one came out last Thursday - which meant I was free to go back to sleeping on my side, where I normally sleep. I came home, and immediately fell onto my bed and into the sweetest 90 minute restorative nap I can remember. I woke up thinking I might make it through this after all. 

Julia, my sister, stayed with me the past two weeks; her presence made everything easier. She took care of dog walking and dishes, floor cleaning and laundry. All I had to do was to work on figuring out how to heal. 

She's gone home now, but the neighbors have taken over dog-walking duty, and I'm able to do dishes and laundry on my own again. The floors are just going to have to be dirty. 

The Meal Train has been oh-so-reliable, and oh-so-helpful. It'll be another month before I can lift more than 10 lbs, and having dinner show up every other night saves me from trying to figure out what I can safely cook. (On the off nights, leftovers rule!)

The surgery left me hurting in odd places. I expected the pain in my lower stomach, the fat donor site, and my chest, where whatever portion of it was grafted into place. What I wasn't expecting was the tightness across my mid-section. Everything from my ribs down is drum-tight. There are odd points of pain as my body attempts to sort out just what happened; my nerve endings don't know how to interpret the sensations. Today is two weeks out, and I am just now *almost* able to stand up straight. 

I am off the prescription pain meds, just need the occasional dose of Tylenol or Advil to quiet my poor jangled nerves when I've coughed too hard or moved wrong (still figuring out what that means!). My energy is limited, but that is to be expected.

I miss moving, I miss yoga. But I can walk, as long as I don't sweat - so am grateful I didn't have the surgery in July - and walking is better than nothing.

I'm not yet quite past "what the h-e-double-toothpicks was I thinking" phase of the healing process, but I'm getting there. Already breathing is easier; my chest can move more freely without the implants stretching my pec muscles 24x7. That, in itself, is huge. 

If I squint, I can almost see the "this was a GREAT idea" phase on the horizon. Assuming I can keep from messing up the surgeon's good work for the next month, I'll be left with warm, living breasts - belly boobs someone called them. I like that. 

One step at a time. I'll get there.

Goodbye, Dennis

Back in the day, I struggled to find a good hairdresser. Even after I started shelling out real money for my haircuts, the results were... variable (is the kindest word I can muster up).

Nancy, at work, always had nice looking hair, so I asked her for a reference, and she led me to Dennis.

I made an appointment, sat down in his chair, and he set to work. This was sometime back in the late eighties, and until last month when he retired, I can count on one hand the times my hair was cut by someone other than him between then and now.

It helped that I just wanted my hair to look presentable; I left the exact cut and styling to him, which worked because he had definite opinions. Together, we worked our way through poodle cuts and a sleek 90's bob. When I hit menopause and my hair decided it was time to be curly, he switched my cut to the mop I've worn for the past two decades.

That's a lot of one-on-one time in a chair in front of a mirror, and over the years, we became friends. We shared decorating ideas and paint swatches. We talked about politics and family. He watched my kids grow up - has been cutting Joe's hair for years. 

I understood when, a couple of months ago, he told me he was retiring. He had gone to Colorado for a month's vacation, and came back looking a decade older. His feet hurt. But I worried for him - without the anchor of conversation and care from his clients, I was concerned he'd lose his bearings. 

I talked to him, but he would hear none of it. He started packing up his life. He organized his things, put his house on the market, and then set up an estate sale for virtually everything he owned, to be held as soon as the house sold. Two weeks ago he climbed into his van and headed back west.

Yesterday, the news came - he'd ended his life's journey on his own terms. He had seen the ravages of age heading his direction, and decided he wanted none of it. I know the voice of depression - am sorry to know it spoke so loudly to him that he could no longer hear the voices of those who loved him.

Dennis - I hope, where you are, your energy has returned. I hope you are presiding over as beautiful a reunion feast as I can imagine, once again happily fussing over details of decorating and table linens, seating arrangements and centerpieces. 

I hope you are at Peace.

Such Love

I've been terrified of coming down with a something anything all week, but surgery is tomorrow, and I'm still healthy. (Don't jinx it! Don't jinx it!)

I've been diligently checking things off my to-do list all week. I've managed to get the 'musts' done and even a few of the 'it would be nice ifs'. Bonus.

It's a weird feeling, knowing I feel just fine today, but tomorrow around this time, I'll be waking up in quite some pain with a number of rearranged body parts. So grateful for modern painkillers - they'll make it much easier to get down this part of the road.

Aside: What kind of world do we live in that I can schedule when pain will begin? Amazing, when you think about it. As soon as I can also schedule when it will end, I'll be totally impressed.

As promised, radiation tightened up the scar pockets around my implants -  the closest I can come to describing it is that it feels like a tight bra I can't take off. While not looking forward to the recovery process, I AM looking forward to the part where the tightness in my chest will ease.

The biggest feeling I'm carrying into this complex and scary surgery tomorrow? I am loved.

One of my longtime friends came from out of town to be here for surgery. My sister is on her way; she will stay for the first two weeks, to get me back on my feet. If things calm down at her place, my college roommate will be in the following week.

I set up a Meal Train - food will be coming throughout the six week recovery period.

I won't have to worry about walking Sylvester - my neighbors are on it!

My people, near and far, are reaching out to me - you are in our thoughts and in our prayers and please let us know how we can help.

I don't have to do this alone. Not at all. Not for one minute.

I can let go of my delusions of control, release all the pieces to fall where they may, and still breathe easily. My people have my back.

*she sighs contentedly*

Good Is.

Running in Circles

When in trouble, 
When in doubt,
Run in circles, 
Scream and shout!

This old refrain has often been popping to mind this past week.

You see, while on one level I've been busy nesting, another part of me was in denial about the whole surgery thing - I was afraid it wasn't going to happen because I couldn't get healthy.

To summarize, the radiation gave me extensive burns. As those cleared up, I developed a case of cellulitis. Antibiotics cleared up that issue, but left me susceptible to fungal infections, and I developed a persistent ringworm infection, all over my keister. (Who ever heard of athlete's butt???) As advised, I tried to fix it with over-the-counter lotions for a good month, but I was playing whack-a-mole. It would clear in one spot and pop up in another. I finally got on oral medication two weeks ago. 

The meds seemed to be working, things were about clear, then a whole bunch more red spots showed up. Arrgh! In a panic, I called my dermatologist, and they were able to fit me in later that afternoon with the Nurse Practitioner. She listened carefully to my tale of woe, took a close look at the spots, then, puzzled, said, "there's no fungal infection here. This is eczema."

I had been doing the belt and suspenders things, still using the lotions while taking the meds. Turns out, once the fungus load dropped below whatever level, the lotions started to irritate rather than cure. Sometimes, I am my own worst enemy.

I was SO relieved. They won't do surgery if you have a fungal infection, but they don't care about eczema.

It's been an emotion-filled week. 

Another of my good friends has packed up her life here and headed back to her hometown. I heard one of my younger cousins is in hospice care. Another close friend's mother died unexpectedly. So many goodbyes. Goodbyes are HARD!

And. 

A friend's husband came over yesterday and spent much of the day building a rock ring around my tree, so I can put mulch down. People have been calling - "surgery is coming soon. How can I help?" I followed the dermatologist's instructions, and the eczema is almost cleared up. I was finally able to get in to see my massage therapist, and she took my locked up shoulder personally - an hour of hard work later, it now moves much more normally.

The wrenching and the heartwarming, interwoven with the ordinary moments of my week.

I've been working to hold to both truths. Life is hard and life is beautiful, all at the same time.

"But I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough can you see the stars"

- Martin Luther King, Jr. 

And Home Again

I'm pretty sure all cruises come standard with a complimentary take-home virus.

Unfortunately, mine turned out to be Covid.

Fortunately, it stayed in my right sinus. No cough, no fever, no sore throat, no loss of taste/smell. (The only reason I did the test was because I knew I'd been exposed on the trip, and had an appointment with the radiation team right after we got back. I wanted to make sure I wasn't sharing anything nasty with the people waiting in that room - they have enough on their plates.) 

This is the first time I have gotten Covid. I am so grateful I've had all the shots. I'm sure they are a large part of the reason I got off so lightly.

While the virus took just a few days to clear my system, I still isolated myself for the week. I wasn't feeling too bad, and so got a lot of things done around the house, albeit at a slower pace than I usually work.

I installed a new outlet and water descaler in the basement ceiling. I sure hope that thing lives up to its billing - I've had to replace the guts on one of my faucets twice in a decade because of scale buildup. 

I raked the lawn, put down (with Joe doing most of the work) some new dirt in a low patch, and reseeded.

And I got most of the windows washed.

Three weeks until my next surgery, which is going to have me down for the following six weeks. Which means ALL THE FALL THINGS need to be done before mid-October.

My inner nesting mama bird is quite happy with last week's restless isolation.

As I started radiation, I knew there was a good chance it was going to ruin my current implants. As advertised, it did. Last spring, as I was getting ready to start treatments, I met with a plastic surgeon about getting replacements - they need to replaced every 15-20 years anyhow. 

To my surprise, as we were talking about options, he very professionally leaned forward and palpated my belly fat, evaluating something. It was the oddest sensation. He leaned back with a satisfied grin, and told me I shouldn't get new implants; rather, I was a good candidate for DIEP flap surgery - the same surgery Kate had last spring (and is very happy with).

I am told the recovery process is two weeks of "what the h-e-double-toothpicks have I done???", followed by a long period of "that was a GREAT idea!"

It's a complicated surgery, will take 4-6 hours. It involves cutting out a section of fat, skin and blood vessels from my abdomen and migrating it northward to my chest. They somehow attach the lump, find blood vessels to feed it, and shape the tissue to become new breasts. (I dunno how they do it. Staplers, straws, and tape? Jello molds perhaps??)

While apprehensive about the six weeks I'll need to sit still and not lift more than 10 lbs, I am looking forward to the day I no longer have cold hard lumps where I once had breasts. I didn't admit to myself how much I disliked the tightness of the implants until not having them was an option. 

The new ones still won't have much sensation, but they will grow and shrink and move with me. No more Barbie boobs! I plan, once the surgery is healed, to get some sort of viney tattoo to cover all the scars. I am looking forward to the day when I can take off my shirt, look in the mirror, and not wince.

No small blessing, that.