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.

Alaskan Beauty

My cruise adventure was not as trouble free as I would have hoped. 

The hard part was living with a clogged sewer vent in the bathroom of my stateroom. I reported it as soon as I arrived, but the ship was full, and I couldn't switch rooms. For obvious reasons, leaving the ship altogether was also not a feasible option. So, I sucked it up. 

The first two nights, my entire room had an odor of cleaning fluid covering eau de stench. *sigh* The next day, after they sent a plumber down to check on it, and he wasn't able to fix the issue, I requested and was given a fan to use. This made the situation bearable - moving air does wonders for bad smells. The fourth day, I wrote a letter to the guest services manager; they found and fixed the problem on day five. So, I had two good days, better than none. 

As unpleasant as the odor in my room was, I was DETERMINED not to let that one piece ruin my entire experience, and I didn't.

The food on the ship was plentiful and the quality ranged from good-enough to delicious. I ate more than my fair share of the fresh-cut melon which was served with almost every meal, but it turns out that not everyone feels the way I do about fresh fruit, so there was plenty for all. 

Someone on the ship was in good with the weather gods, because while it was supposed to be chilly and rainy each day we were in port, we instead had blue skies with temps in the lower sixties each afternoon. Perfect weather for being out and about, learning about Alaska.

I saw glaciers and waterfalls and four-month old bald eagles. I saw baby orcas and a raft of otters. I got out of the van on a mountaintop while we were on a photography adventure, and just stood there breathing the air for a timeless moment. It was brand new, smelled of pine trees and glacier water and fresh beginnings.

The sight of the shrinking glaciers was heartbreaking, but the new life springing up on the bare ground left by their retreat spoke to me of hope. We, people, haven't managed to completely ruin the earth just yet. 

I spent hours each day just watching the beauty - mile after mile of stunning wilderness unfolding as we steamed by on the ship. It doesn't seem possible that there are that many pristine forested hillsides in the world. After a while, it made me feel small, in a good way.

The trees haven't read the news, don't appear to care about political divisions. They just are. 

They spoke to me. All is well, all is well, and all manners of things shall be well. 

Stop. Breathe. Relax.

North to Alaska!

Back in March, the week before I found my latest lump, I had just put down a $100 deposit on a cruise to the Alaska Inside Passage with my sister and her husband. As I went through the initial rounds of tests and evaluations, I told one and all that I NEEDED to take this cruise. After all, I didn’t want to lose my deposit! Or something like that.

Lo and behold, as treatment progressed, it looked like the trip might be able to go forward despite all the things. Once I recovered from my initial surgery at the end of April, we worked with the travel agent to solidify our plans. I still held my breath just a little (and made sure I had good travel insurance), but was thrilled to find, as the launch date drew near, that I’d be able to go!

I was uncharacteristically nervous last week as I procrastinated yet another day on packing, but Saturday came and I had run no obstacles which would stop me from going, so I decided the Universe was probably going to let me make the trip, got out my suitcase and threw in some clothes.

The last few days have been beautiful. We flew into Seattle and met up with friends there to share food and see just a few of the sights. Yesterday, we took the train up to Vancouver - it follows the coastline, and we enjoyed watching the beauty unfold outside the windows. Safely in Canada, we got to the hotel to find our travel agent had done an amazing job. Our hotel here is both luxuriously lovely and right across the street from the dock.

We board in another hour or so; I’m beginning to think this trip might actually work. (I mean, I hate to jump to conclusions, but the signs are good…)

I am so grateful to be here. To be well enough to travel. To get to spend time with Julia and Ed. To, for the first time in too long, be able see new beautiful places. 

To Stop. Breathe. Relax.

Garumph!!

They don't list grumpiness as a side effect of radiation treatment, but if my mood this past week is any indication, they should.

As the last of my burns began to heal up last week, the part of my skin which was last to be treated quit getting better, and turned red, warm, mushy, angry. I didn't expect much from the radiation team when I reported the change, but to my surprise, they had me come in the next day.

Turned out to be cellulitis. A bacterial infection.

I have (!!had!!) managed to make it over sixty years without needing antibiotics. I am sad and angry that radiation has broken my streak. I'm not going to get a second chance to equal it. The math doesn't work. *sigh*

The good news part is that if one has not taken antibiotics before they tend to be very effective, and this has proven to be the case with me. Within 48 hours the redness was fading, five days later, the skin was better, the swelling almost gone. 

I feel as if there are two of me running around in my body. 

One of me is glad to be healing; grateful for the intervention of modern medicine. These things which have hurt me are short term. When I get past this hump, they will have given me my best chance to have more good days. No small blessing.

The other me is grumpy and tired. Fatigue - whether it's from radiation or the aromatase inhibitor - is once again my frequent companion. I LIKED not being tired all the time, not having to push through a wall of fatigue to get things done, occasionally waking up feeling rested. 

Like last time I was here, the sad part is that naps don't necessarily help. Sometimes they do, but sometimes I just lie down and stare blankly at the wall, and sometimes I fall so deeply asleep I mess up my sleep at night. I haven't yet figured out where the balance lies, but I'm working on it. 

That said, gratitude is winning the tug-of-war. 

I'm tired, but I'm also not trying to fit in a full day's work. No small thing. 

My one daily commitment to myself is exercise. Because I know I will be less tired when I leave my daily session than when I arrive, it's not too hard to talk me into ignoring the fatigue long enough to get to the gym and get started. 

Beyond that, I peer closely into my energy bucket at the start of the day, and see how much is there. Fortunately, so far, there's always been enough to work on the things I really wanted/needed to get done. One step at a time.

When I was walking Sylvester around the park Sunday morning, I looked up and was surprised to see a rainbow arcing through the sky. A sign of hope.

Grumpy or not, Beauty Is.

No Can Do

My radiation burns have quit surfacing, the most painful ones have healed, and my energy is starting to slowly ramp back up. (For now at least - I'm told radiation fatigue can be a tricky beast.) I'm starting to wrap my mind around my reconstruction surgery, scheduled for the middle of October.

Which has tossed me back into nesting mode. If I'm going to be discombobulated for six weeks, the things must be finished first!

I started with my donation piles which have magically replenished themselves since I did a similar exercise in March. 

I gathered all the electronic waste and happily carted it to its recycle center. I arrived home, looked around, and found a stray old light fixture which hadn't made it into the pile. *sigh*

I gathered all the hazardous waste and happily carted it to its recycle center. I arrived home, looked around, and found a stray bottle of power steering fluid which hadn't made it into the pile. *grrr* (and how did I end up with a bottle of power steering fluid? I topped off the fluid in my Mustang zero times in 19 years...)

I'm beginning to think the Universe is trying to get a message across to me. Something about delusions of control and perfection. 

A part of me, deep down, despite all evidence to the contrary, is convinced that if I do all the things perfectly, everything will be OK. If the house is clean and the closet sorted through and the leaky drain is fixed and the things in the piles of clutter are dispersed to their proper homes and I hold my mouth just right and don't forget to reseed the grass in September, both Kate and I will return to health and have many more good days.

I am so scared to know this is not true.

I want guarantees. I want control. I want to be able to plan with confidence for tomorrow and the tomorrow after that.

Sorry, Buttercup. No can do.

The best I can give me is a reminder about the margarita truck. It's not just me who has no guarantees, who can't control life's path.

I can plan, I 'just' need to know the plans have an asterisk next to them. 

And, I have today. What will I plan to do with this one precious day I have?

Stop. Breathe. Live today.

Radiation Burns

When I finished my radiation treatments two and a half weeks ago, I looked at the burns I had then, and thought, I can get through this. 

I should have read the fine print, which states radiation burns can continue to develop for two weeks (or more!) after the treatments are finished. *sigh* As some sections of burn have healed up, others have surfaced in a slow and somewhat fascinating dance.

Most of the burns, while red and angry looking, didn't hurt as much as I would have thought. I wondered some about this, but have been too focused on using my set of *four* lotions which help them heal to spend much time on it.

Then, the latest burn bubbled up. It's on the rear part of my armpit, well towards my back. And, it hurts! Like a bad sunburn hurts. Don't touch me! Are you sure shirts are required? (Answer: not around the house, they're not.)

What was different about this set?

The answer stares at me every time I look in the mirror. Unlike the other burns, the skin in this section of my chest was not touched by my mastectomies. Which means ALL of the nerve endings are intact and speaking. Not nicely. 

Took thirteen years, but I've finally found a reason to be (temporarily) grateful for the nerve damage on my chest. If I'd have been living with this pain for the last month, I'd have been worn down by it. Especially when it was right in my armpit, I very well might have thrown in the towel and given up my yoga workouts. Which would have meant I would have lost my range of motion because radiation burns don't just affect the skin - they also disrupt nerve signals, and damage the ligaments and tendons beneath the surface. 

As it is, I've spent a LOT of time, in addition to yoga, trying to convince my shoulder to go back and down. The fitness director at my gym helped a lot last week by giving me a private PT-like session, showing me a set of exercises which have made a huge difference. So grateful.

There are two good news parts here. One, the burns have been healing well. My diligence in keeping them properly creamed is paying off. Two, no new burns have surfaced in several days. I think, I hope, when this current set heals, I will be past this latest set of bumps in the road. 

One step at a time.

Unexpected Beauty

The calendar tells me it has been a whole almost two weeks since I finished my last radiation treatment. My burns, while still pretty spectacular looking, are beginning to heal; instead of angry red, the skin is leaning towards maroon and brown. 

Fatigue is what it is. I am grateful naps are an option.

Yoga has saved my range of motion. *whew*

I think I SHOULD be in a happier place. But, no.

I'm tired of cancer. Unlike the Litany of Saints we used to sing in church, which, when done well, lulls one into a lovely meditative state, my litany of pains is a tedious and melancholy list. *sigh*

The heat wave receded this weekend, and I took advantage of the cooler weather to get out in the yard and clean up the multitude of weeds which had flourished in the heat. 

I stepped out Saturday morning to see a cluster of Naked Ladies, also known as Surprise Lilies, in the corner of the back yard. These flowers seemingly sprout from nowhere during the hot days of summer; they have no surrounding foliage - only a stem and the beautiful pink blossom, thus the name. 

Gazing at their beauty, working in the dirt, cleaning up the beds, my litany of pain evolved. 

For the beauty of the flowers, I gave thanks.
For the cool breeze, I gave thanks. 
For last week's rain, I gave thanks.
For a body healed enough to sit on the ground and weed, I gave thanks.
For the sight of my dog, gleefully wriggling on his back in the grass, I gave thanks. 
For the knowledge my cancer is currently NED - in hiding and on the run, I gave thanks.
For the fluffy white clouds, effortlessly floating in the sky, I gave thanks.

For the song of the birds, I gave thanks. 

For the chance to live THIS day, I give thanks.

Radiation: Complete

That's done!

I saw one of the residents after my last radiation treatment, and several times, he noted I've had 20 treatments, "so far". Each time, I corrected him - I've had twenty treatments, and I'm DONE. The distinction didn't seem to matter to him, not that that matters. I understand it.

I showed up. Yay, me! 

I quickly figured out, if I did yoga after a session, I could mostly loosen up what the radiation tightened up, so I mentally created a required part B to each treatment day and headed to the gym after I got zapped. My strategy worked - I lost very little range of motion over the course of treatments; no small gift.

Much of my frustration these past few weeks has been the tendency of the treatment team to treat only the front right quadrant of my chest - the part of me getting radiated. Unfortunately for me, my distrust of the process, and my many questions, I never did figure out how to bring only that piece of me to the clinic. The rest of me insisted on trailing along.

Last night, as I was trying to get to sleep, I found myself replaying conversations I'd had with the treatment team, trying to figure out how I could have worded things differently to convince them to listen to me; to treat my questions about my fears and my not-in-the-book side effects with respect and compassion, rather than indifferently dismissing them. After a fruitless thirty minutes, I finally convinced my brain that what is past, is past. To let it rest and move on. Not all problems are me problems. Not all issues need to be resolved.

I've not been surprised at the myriad emotions which have bubbled up since I loudly and fiercely rang the bell after completing my last session on Wednesday. In order to get myself to go each day, I'd kept a pretty tight lid on them. 

Relief, first and foremost. Now, I can begin to heal. Relief was followed quickly by sadness, grief, even; so many reasons. Gratitude for the chance I have been given to have more good days. 

My physical body is confused and angry, I don't understand why I did this to me. I feel tired; this one I understand all too well. The Universe has noted my fatigue, and I was gratified last week when several of my friends reached out to let me know, unless I said it should not be delivered, dinner would show up at my door this coming week.

My mama didn't raise no fool, so I told them, "Yes, please, and thank you!"

I found the radiation room to be a lonely place. I am grateful for the not-so-gentle reminder that I do not walk this road alone. 

My people care.

Family Reunion

Perhaps, if I had checked with my medical team, they'd have advised me not to spend fourteen hours traveling to the family reunion this past weekend, but I decided what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them, and off I went.

The trip had been arranged months ago - before I found out radiation would be delayed. Cancer has messed up enough of my summer that I didn't really even consider not making the 6-1/2 hour drive. Some lunches are important!

I did concede it, perhaps, wasn't wise to attempt doing the actual driving part myself, especially since the reunion was Sunday, and I had to be back in town early Monday morning for my next radiation treatment, which means I couldn't break it into stages.

Several weeks ago, as I was mulling over the list of people I thought I could ask to drive up with me, I happened to mention my predicament to my friend, Rhonda, from yoga class. I quickly discovered she's the sort of person who is willing to take a chance that an all expense paid, 36 hour trip to Decorah, Iowa, for lunch might actually be fun. I guess she couldn't resist the opportunity to choose anything she'd like from the extensive menus at Subway and Starbucks??

Unlike me, she actually likes the part where she sits behind the wheel guiding the car along the road; turns out she's a good driver. I enjoyed the hours we had to learn more about each other's lives - it's been decades since I took a road trip with someone whose stories I wasn't already familiar with.

I am so grateful for her assistance. We left Saturday morning in time to join my brother, Tony, and his wife, Susan, for a delicious hamburger and sweet corn dinner in Waterloo, where we also spent the night.

Sunday morning, we got up bright and early to drive on up the road to my cousin's house in Decorah, where the family was to gather for a potluck lunch. We had a good turnout, and I enjoyed spending the next few hours swapping what's-up-with-your-life stories with those gathered. 

Bonus, lunch was amazing. The older I get, the more I appreciate the chance to enjoy two big bites of most of the offerings at a good potluck. (Even limiting myself to two bites, and filling my plate twice, my stomach, sadly, didn't have enough room to sample all the deliciousness. *sigh*)

We got back on the road shortly after 2, talked our way back across Iowa and northern Missouri, and arrived home around 8:30. I slept pretty well, and while I am tired today, I am also content. Given the way radiation has been zapping my energy, if I hadn't gone, I'd have been tired anyways, AND I would have missed all the fun!

I figure I win when I don't give cancer more of my precious time than I must - and this weekend definitely counts as a win in my book!

Better Words

The veneer of 'OK' I wear in order to face the world is wearing thin these days. Radiation has been HARD!

These past two weeks, I can't easily get myself out of bed. I wake, then roll over and press my head into the mattress, futilely hoping it's not actually morning. I check in with my body, which curls up on itself. It doesn't understand what happens in the radiation room, but it knows it doesn't like it. 

It tells me, "Please don't squish my head again today. Please? Please? Please?" 

I give me a nod of sympathy, and tell myself, "Suck it up, Buttercup! Not going is not an option."

Then I roll out of bed.

It doesn't feel good. Not the getting up, not the radiation which follows. Not the sucking it up. 

I do it, but.

This past week, when I saw my onco-psychologist, who has been a helpful navigator as I negotiate the twists of this cancer recurrence path I'm on, I told him what I've been doing, then asked him if he would be willing to help me find better words. 

He readily agreed to help me brainstorm; said my current word choice, though effective, lacks compassion. My body is right. The radiation is part of my best chance of keeping my cancer gone for a time, but it is not kind to me. 

We spent the rest of Thursday's session working to find those better words. He is good at what he does, so when this morning rolled around, I was able to tell me:

"This is NOT OK. 

AND 

I want to have more good days, like [yesterday morning]* when [I got to spend time with my family on a lovely pontoon boat ride at Lake Jacomo]*. 

Both are true."

*[fill in these blanks each day with a good memory]

Then I gave little Buttercup a metaphorical kiss on the top of her head, and helped her to sit up and start her day.

Getting up was SO much easier.

Showing Up

This morning was a tough sell. My last radiation session last week did not go well. 

I was working with a new set of techs, and the lead person didn't care what I wanted. She ran the session the way she always did, my request for warning whether I needed to hold a breath for three seconds or thirty, ignored.

The resulting hyperventilation reactivated my dizziness. To add injury to insult, the crew didn't properly align my shoulder on the table; by the time I finished it was cramping and locked out of alignment. 

Fortunately, the long weekend allowed me time to stretch and exercise my upper right side back into place. The additional time also let my head heal up - by last night, the horizon had quit shifting on me. It was stable for the first time in two weeks.

I did NOT want to go back in and mess it all up again. 

But since I didn't let Libby quit in the middle of her tough chemo treatments, I could hardly look myself in the mirror if I bailed on the comparatively mild side effects of my radiation treatments thus far.

So, I showed up.

To my pleasant surprise, when I was called back for my session, it was Lynsey doing the calling - she's on what I've come to think of my A-Team. She and Natalie listen. They are quick, careful and compassionate. My apprehension level quickly eased. I was quickly strapped into place and treatment started.

Then. 

About halfway through the session, my meditation music suddenly stopped. 'What??' I recognized the strains of the song replacing the quiet tones - the Eagles, Hotel California.

Welcome to the Hotel California
It could be heaven, and it could be hell.

And in the master's chambers, they gathered for the feast

They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast
Last thing I remember, I was running for the door
I had to find the passage back to the place I was before
"Relax, " said the night man, "We are programmed to receive
You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave"

'Really??? Of all the songs in the world, someone picks THIS one?' I started laughing.

The song lasted for the rest of the session - when Lynsey came back in, I asked her why the switch. She apologized, said they hadn't touched a thing, but that sometimes Pandora, the streaming service, has a mind of its own.

Clearly, the Universe has not misplaced their sense of irony.

Rough Start

My twenty sessions of radiation got off to a rough start last week.

They did a simulation the day before I was to actually start radiation, to make sure they'd measured everything correctly. As part of the treatment, there is a customized plastic mold they put over my head (it covers my head, but not my face). The mask is strapped to the table, holding my head immobile in order to ensure my throat stays out of the line of fire. They're radiating the lymph nodes right next to my esophagus, so while I'm not fond of having my head held down, I am all about doing all that can be done to keep stray body parts out of the path of the destructive rays.

Unfortunately, they cranked down on the mask a bit too tightly, compressing the back of my skull into the underlying support. I didn't know what I was or wasn't supposed to feel; I wasn't expecting to be comfortable - but when I stood up I felt as if the back of my skull was asleep. The sensation quickly resolved into a dizzying pulse. Not painful, but definitely also not right. I had to sit for a moment or three before I felt steady enough to drive. 

Fortunately, rest helps. 

While they have been careful not to overcrank the mask since, the damage was done, and I've been fighting waves of dizziness all week, in addition to the expected fatigue and whatever yuck is coming from adjusting to the aromatase inhibitor. Each day, when I settle into the headrest of the treatment table, it feels as though I'm pressing on a healing bruise - not undoing the healing progress which happened overnight, but definitely setting it back a step or two. Each day, after treatment finishes, I stop in the handy chair in the hallway outside the nurses station and breathe and massage my scalp and neck until the horizon stabilizes and I can safely drive home.

Fortunately, the world stabilizes sooner each day. I am on the mend.

Having the weekend off helped immensely. I was fortunate to be able to get away and spend it at the Stockton lake cabin of some friends. My energy was limited, and I was sad to spend a good part of Saturday resting at the house instead of trolling about the lake with the rest of the crew, but there are worse consolation prizes.

While they were out, Sylvester and I sat on the porch. I read a book, Sylvester kept a watchful eye on the surrounding area. We both enjoyed the moment of peace. 

And, resting for the afternoon recharged my batteries. I had plenty of oomph available to fully join in the laughter and fellowship at the dinner table, which was a balm for my soul. I am so grateful for the support of my friends.

Four down, sixteen to go. One step at a time.

Why Bother?

"Why bother?" I asked myself.

Why bother to spend time learning Spanish or rebuilding my piano skills? Why bother to work on the various tasks on my to-do list? Why bother to clean, to repair, to sew, to read a book?

It was easier, last week, to spend my afternoons caught in a mindless and seemingly endless doom scroll on my iPad than it was to engage my brain. I actually found myself reading the political news at one point - and you know I've avoided that part of the paper since November 8th!

When I took a step back, it didn't take me long to uncover what was behind the spiral; there's a part of me that REALLY doesn't want to do radiation and hormone therapy. These things are scary! Chances are excellent my cancer will return one day anyway - why not let it just come back now? Why even try?

Um. Hold on a minute, girl. 

Why create, in a world that's going to hell in a handbasket?

Because I want to be on the side of the Universe that creates senseless Beauty. The peonies in my backyard lasted less than a week - was their beauty diminished because it was short-lived? A sunset lasts less than an hour - are the colors less vivid because they quickly fade to night? Music fades from the world just moments after the notes are heard - is that a reason to never be part of creating the sound, to never attend a concert?

Are my hours of practice wasted because I will never be a concert pianist?

Yeah, everything I create will fall apart, and sooner rather than later. So what?

I don't know where Beauty goes after its time. But if I compare an afternoon spent doomscrolling against one creating and learning, I do know which will leave me in a better mental space at the end of the day, which will lead to a more restful night's sleep.

I know I will fall into the doom scroll trap again. But next time, I'll try to remember, sooner, that I can choose better ways to spend my precious days.

One step at a time.

Taking a Break

I showed up. I went to my appointments last Wednesday. 

The oncologist and I spent about a half hour first thing in the morning, talking over pros and cons of the various treatment options. Based on our consensus, I started taking exemestane, an aromatase inhibitor, that night. (If my body tolerates the drug, and I hope it will, I will be on it for quite some time.) 

I went home and grabbed lunch, then headed back out to spend almost two hours in the radiology department. I am now properly marked and measured and scanned; I will start my sixteen sessions of radiation on 6/25.

Then, I took a break from cancer for the rest of the week. I dropped all those questions and concerns, obsessions and control issues, into a handy basket, firmly closed the lid, then tucked the whole package away for a few days.

My red-headed stepchild had come into town for the weekend.

Since she's somehow turned into a responsible and productive adult, chances to spend one-on-one time with her have become few and far between, and it was easy to set everything aside to focus on renewing our relationship.

We spent hours on my back porch, sipping coffee and just talking. We have both been dealing with world-rocking challenges these past couple of years, and it was wonderful to spend time leisurely reviewing our learnings and remaining conundrums. We provide good perspective for one another. 

I was sad to watch her drive off yesterday morning.

Once she left, I sat down with my calendar to get an idea of the shape of my days this coming week.

I had to laugh. Clearly the Universe doesn't want me to sit around moping as I wait to start treatment next week, because my friends have reached out from several directions to pull me off my couch and out from under my fuzzy blanket. (Probably a good thing - it'll be a bit warm this week for blankets.) I have coffee, lunch, dinner, Shakespeare in the Park - a something going on almost every day of this week. I'm sure I'll still manage to find time to obsess about cancer and its effects on my life now and again, but I won't have enough down time for it to take over my days.

I'm calling this a good thing.

Waiting Again

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

In contrast to my surgery date, which I was eagerly anticipating by the time it arrived (EEWWW! Get it oouuutttt!), I have found myself looking at the calendar this week with a fair amount of dread.

On Wednesday, I will see both the oncologist, where I anticipate 'we' will finalize the endocrine treatment regimen I will be taking, and the radiation oncologist, where I will get measured and scanned and given some tiny dot tattoos in preparation for my treatment sessions which will start in two weeks or so.

This past week, for the first time in ages, I've found myself, time and again, diving down internet rabbit holes. I've spent hours each day doing ALL the NYT puzzles, then reading all the parts of the paper. A couple of times, I even found myself actually reading the political news of the day (which I haven't done since November 8). *sigh*

I stop. I ask myself, "is this really how you wanted to spend your time?" 

And then I mindlessly keep scrolling. 

Avoidance much?

I'm working to crawl back out of my hole; I am tired of all that nothingness. It makes the backs of my eyes hurt. 

It helps that Kate is recovering well from her marathon surgery; things are healing up and she likes what she sees in the mirror. She is also tolerating the endocrine treatments well - they're not knocking her flat and her brain is still functional. This past weekend, when I talked to her, she sounded like herself for the first time since she found her lump last July. She is living proof that this, too, shall pass.

I tell myself I don't have to be strong. I don't have to stay positive. I can mope in the corner all I want as long as, when the time comes, I show up at those appointments.  

One step. I just have to take one step.

This, I will do.

Quilting

A few years back, Kate found a quilt top at an estate sale. She kept it for a bit, then decided a quilting project was not going to be completed in her near future, and passed it on to me. I took the piece and put it in the back of my closet, targeting its completion as a good task for winter's evenings.

There it sat for quite some time. I did take it out long enough to head down to a local fabric shop, where I picked up the batting and backing I needed to finish the piece. Back into the closet it went.

As I was busy nesting before my cancer surgery this spring, the quilt was one of the projects I decided NEEDED to be completed as I started this round of treatment. (Sometimes, it's just not worth the energy it takes to argue with me.)

So, I pulled it out, fully intending to use yarn in the center of each hexagon flower to hold the piece together; a quick way to finish the blanket. Then I took a closer look at it, and realized someone had hand-stitched the thousands of tiny hexagons together. 

I stopped.

I began to form a mental picture of a woman, seated in a comfy chair, next to a fireplace. She is tired, but wants to create beauty at the end of her day, which was filled with less creative tasks. She quietly wields the needle and thread, using the repetitive motion to soothe her mind and quiet herself for sleep.

I pictured her tying off the last knot, then spreading the completed quilt top over her nearby sofa to admire her handiwork. I can feel her pride in accomplishment. She folded it up, planning to complete the quilting soon, then. then. 

I don't know what happened then, but given that she never finished the piece...

I re-formed my plan for finishing her piece. I wanted to honor her handiwork, and so decided, instead of using yarn to quilt, I would dust off my embroidery skills and make sunny yellow daisies to hold the pieces together. (This is one of those times where I'm just fine living alone, because there was no one to grumble when the project took over my dining room table for the last two months.)

In that last hour before bed, I've been putting on some quiet music and sitting down to sew some flowers. The meditative motion has given my hands something to do and freed my mind to attempt to sort through all the feelings which have been churning since I first found out the lump was my cancer, returned.

I finished the last daisy last night; will begin putting the binding on the edge this week. To work on completing this unknown person's labor of love, a deliberate act of creation in the midst of the rubble of my delusions of control, feels good. 

Beauty Is.

Silly Girl

When I first talked to my medical team after confirming my cancer diagnosis, I was given a rough timeline. Surgery sometime in late April, radiation in June, hormone treatment somewhere in there, reconstructive surgery in September. (Treatable!) 

I found it reassuring to have a timeline for getting through the treatment, and blocked fun things into the treatment gaps. My initial surgery happened on schedule, all went well. I met with the radiation oncologist last week to talk about next steps, she reiterated that radiation would happen in June. Then her nurse called to schedule the radiation prep appointment which needs to happen two weeks before radiation can begin. 

"Mid-June work for you?"   **ARRGGGHHHH**

No, it couldn't happen before mid-June, all the slots were blocked. Nothing to be done, just part of being caught in the medical system.

What??? We've known this appointment needed to happen since early April. If there was going to be a problem getting me into the calendar, could we not have set up the appointment then, and moved it if there was a complication???

*sigh*   Too late now. What's (not) done is done.

Radiation will now happen in July. Lexi is also coming in July. 

Rumor has it most people don't have problems with radiation, but. Some people do. She's spent the last nine months watching her mom battle this same disease. I wanted to shield her from 'getting' to watch me hit a wall. 

*another sigh*   IF I hit that wall, we'll figure something out. (We. My people will help me.)

This also means reconstructive surgery needs to be moved - possibly to October, if not then, it'll be March.   **huge, heavy, sigh**

All because of sloppy scheduling.

As I was dropping off a box of food with my local food pantry, I was ranting about all the above to the lady who runs the mission; I've gotten to know and like her over the couple of years we've been interacting.

She said, speaking of herself, "Whenever I think I can control life, something happens. I stop and tell myself, 'Silly girl, thinking you could have controlled this. You know better. Life cannot be controlled.'"

I stopped. I laughed. She is absolutely right.

Every time my delusions of control are shattered, I hate it. I rant. I rave. I stew. Every time. 

Time to remind myself I do know the only thing I can control in my life is my reaction to what happens.

Silly girl.  

*she feels a wry smile on her face, then begins to take steps to adjust to what is and move on.*

Healing

The cancer medical teams at least try to be nice. I mean, they give you time to heal up before they do their best to make you sick again. That's something, right?

I talked to my radiation oncologist this morning. I will get another month to heal before they begin zapping my chest. 16 sessions, I will have.

I am more than a bit apprehensive, but.

She said, without radiation, the chances of my cancer recurring again within a few years are 20 - 25%. (Yikes!) With it, those chances drop to under 5%. I like those odds a lot better, so I'll face down my fears and show up when the time comes.

In the meantime. Here I am. Waiting. My favorite part.

I seem to have fallen off the path of "Not Yet" in the chaos of the past few weeks. Which makes sense, because Yet came. But it also went, and I'm ready to find my way back to Not Yet until the next thing starts.

I feel fine, physically. I was cleared for exercise last week, and movement has begun to work its magic. I'm sleeping better and my creaking joints are thinking about realigning themselves. Give it another week, and I'll be good as new.

Mental recovery has proven to be a bit more of a challenge. I find myself waiting for the other shoe to drop. (Another shoe? The Being of the Universe in charge of dropping shoes to disrupt people's lives clearly isn't just grabbing the shoes off their feet, because I've had more than two shoes drop on my head in quick succession here. Maybe they are just kneeling in their closet, tossing the pairs that no longer spark joy over their shoulders? Maybe they have more than two feet?)

I digress.

Tomorrow will get here soon enough.

Time to get back to reveling in the gift which is today.

Graduation Season

I have several graduation parties to attend these next few weeks; had a delightful evening this past Saturday as I joined the people from my old neighborhood in congratulating Eve as she crosses this significant life threshold.

I watched her for a bit as she warmly greeted her guests. So happy, her face, her whole body, proclaiming her joy in accomplishment - it did my heart good just to bask in her reflected light.

As I sat for a moment, my thoughts wandered back through the years. I could feel the echoes of her joy in my soul. And then I wondered how it can possibly have been more than forty years since I walked across a similar stage.

Every time I come across those memes which ask me what advice I'd give my eighteen year-old self, I draw a complete and utter blank. 

I'd feel a total hypocrite if I focused on the sunshine unicorn rainbow part of life. I mean, I smile every time those memories bubble to the surface, but they are all the more precious because they are the rare gems which have brought sparkle to my days.

Long-ago me wouldn't understand the value I now place on the pile of ordinary days which make up most of my memories. They are a jumble of ordinary rocks; the days I can only remember the sense, rather than the details, of. If you pick one up and study it, there is (usually) beauty there. As a heap, they are unmemorable. But. They are the background of the mosaic of my life story; without them the rest of the picture makes no sense. So precious.

I couldn't bear to tell her of the hard days ahead, those caches of sharp-edged stones which have cut so deeply as they were added to the picture. Best to stumble into those as they come - no need to worry in advance. 

I do wish I could give her the box of coping mechanisms I've developed along the way. These are the tools which enable me to step back and make sense of the developing picture as new stones are added to the story of my life. Sometimes, I can even use them to help shape the image. But like all tools, they are only useful if one understands what they are used for, and has a need to use them, so probably best she picks them up along the way.

Nope. No helpful advice from this corner. Young me is just going to have to figure out life the same way old(er) me is still working to figure it out - one step at a time.

The Easy Part

Surgery to remove my tumor was last Monday. It didn't take long at all - they started just before 10, and I was home for a late lunch! What the surgeon found matched the scans - the tumor was close to the surface and still well contained. Clean margins were not an issue.

*huge sigh of relief*

I took one heavy duty painkiller that first night, but after that, just needed Tylenol the first three nights to quiet things down once I stopped for the day. Since then, I've taken nothing. (My pain levels have been helped by the absence of nerve endings in that part of my chest from my mastectomy surgeries.) My sister, Julia, had come into town to help me last week, and her biggest jobs turned out to be playing chauffeur and reminding me to follow the after-surgery guidelines, so the incision can heal properly. To no one's surprise, I am not good at sitting still all day.

My emotional journey has been a bit rockier. My coping method of 'Not Yet' was no longer applicable once 'Yet' arrived, and I've been riding waves of sadness and anger and fear all week.

I got a double mastectomy thirteen years ago because I wasn't sure I'd have the strength to go through cancer treatment twice. And here I am. Sh*t.

Radiation will start sometime in June - I'm not looking forward to it, but I'm not dreading it either. I'm no longer trying to hold down a job, so I'll be able to go along with the flow of fatigue (the primary side effect) rather than trying to fight it. 

I talked to my oncologist last week, which is when the emotional roller coaster started. Once I'm healed, he wants me to start taking a shot which will stop my body from using whatever estrogen is circulating in my systems (fulvestrant, it is called). It didn't help things any when I got online and read the descriptions of how the shot is administered. Once a month, in BOTH butt cheeks, and it's painful. Which, of course, brought up the ghosts of that-damn-shot. I have zero good memories of living with the side effects of 'that-damn-shot.

Fortunately, I have a lot more tools in my coping belt today than I did back then. This shot, whatever its similarities, will not be that shot. I am better at advocating for myself now. Rather than just going home and being miserable, I know I can ask for help with the side effects. Not trying to hold down a job will also ease my path. 

I do not walk this road alone. My people have lined themselves up along the course. They are cheering me on and offering support. I don't have words for how much this helps.

I know that, however miserable I am in the moment, the moment will pass. One way or another, there will be an other side to this valley. 

And, I have today. 

Today, I am (almost) pain free. 
Today, my only job is to heal. 
Today, it is spring, the sun is shining, the birds are singing. 
Today, I am here, alive!
Today, I choose not to let cancer take this day from me.

One step at a time.

Excellent Distraction

My friends have been extra kind to me recently, reaching out to make sure I'm doing all right as I wait out the time until my surgery next Monday. Hoping to distract me for a bit, my friend Hilary texted a few days ago to see if perhaps Sylvester and I wanted to venture into the woods with her at the Shawnee Mission Dog Park; just on the other side of town.

The weather was gorgeous, and I figured the rest of the laundry could wait, so I happily said yes, and shortly after lunch we set out for the park.

We got there with no trouble, went through the gates, and let our respective dogs off the leash. Sylvester has gotten to run free a few times before. He has always loved the experience, and this time was no exception. I had a wonderful time watching him and Figaro scout back and forth, finding the bits of greenery that needed an extra dose of pee.

We made our way down through a nice patch of woods, then sat on a bench next to the water, idly talking, watching the other people and dogs, enjoying a quiet moment of just being.

Then, some new people came down to the water with their dogs, stopping 10-15 yards away. Sylvester trotted over to say hi. Shortly after that, I heard him yip, but wasn't alarmed. He can be a bit assertive, and I figured he'd been told what for.

A few moments later, he started crying in fright and pain. NO! 

I ran over to find him pinned on his back, blood on his face, surrounded by a group of dogs. I dimly remembered hearing one should never get into a dog fight, but I didn't care. I couldn't just watch. He is my dog. So, I reached in and started grabbing collars, heaving dogs out of the fray. Most of the dogs were just there because, excitement, and quickly trotted off, which left just one dude who didn't understand the game was over, and the dog biting at Sylvester's neck. 

As I reached to pull dumb dude back one more time, Sylvester's jaws caught my right hand. I knew better than to pull it back, so I left it alone while still yanking at the true attacking dog. He let go, Sylvester let go, I grabbed dumb dude's collar again because he was coming back in to play some more. By the time Sylvester had scrambled to his feet and I stood all the way up, the attacking dog and his owners were gone. Lily-livered cowards that they are. 

Hilary and Figaro had arrived to help shortly after I did, and she managed to calm Sylvester down enough to get a leash on him so I could see how badly he was hurt. To my gratified amazement, the only real damage was a cut on the edge of his ear. He wears a fairly thick collar; it had protected his neck. *whew*

I was still holding dumb dude's collar, and yelled to see if his people would come get him, but everyone just stayed frozen, staring at me. He hadn't bitten anyone or anything, so I just let him go. I had bigger things to worry about. As soon as I turned loose of his collar he trotted quietly off.

About this time I realized my hand was bleeding pretty good. I asked if anyone had any sort of a clean cloth or napkins, and a woman quickly offered me a few. I held them over the cut, and our little crew wearily started making our way back to the car. Hilary had called the cops, and we knew they were waiting up top with a first aid kit. 

The cop was more nervous than I was, and it took a bit to get him to calm down enough to put a field bandage on, let us know where the nearest urgent care clinic was, and to release us to get there. (In retrospect, I should have told him his papers would have to wait, but hindsight is 20-20.)

Hilary drove us to the clinic, and waited in the car with the pups while I waited just a few minutes before getting called in to get my wound cleaned and bandaged. Fifteen minutes later, tetanus shot in my arm, and antibiotics ordered from my local pharmacy, we were on our way home. (Fortunately, I knew it was Sylvester who had bitten me, and since he's up to date on his shots, I was able to avoid the painful rabies shot series.)

We stopped to pick up the drugs and more bandages, then went to my place where we let the dogs out of the car to see if they had any lasting ill effects. Sylvester's ear had already stopped bleeding before we got to the car, and a more careful check still found no other tender spots. Figaro was fine, just seemed disappointed that his time at the park had been cut short.

Hilary went to pick us up some dinner, and we swapped versions of the story over Chipotle burritos before she went on her way. If I had to get into trouble, I am glad she was there with me - she was amazing, making sure she'd done all she could to set me back on my feet before she left.

I will say this. It wasn't the distraction I'd anticipated, but it was certainly an effective one. I didn't think about cancer and operations for HOURS!

Good job, Hilary!

P.S. I sent a full disclosure message to my surgery team the next morning, to make sure the procedure wouldn't need to be cancelled, and quickly got a reply saying we were still good to go. *huge sigh of relief*