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*

So Many Feelings

As is my practice when life hands me round two of a something, as I face cancer treatment a second time, I've been trying to make different mistakes.

Long ago, I learned, when in a crisis, to shove my pesky and inconvenient feelings down and out of my way, the better to let me focus in the moment. This method actually works pretty well when powering through said crisis, but once the moment has passed, one of two things has happened. 

Most often, like a spring dandelion, the feelings find a way to pop through. Also like dandelions, they show up in inconvenient places, at times I'd rather not deal with them.

Occasionally, like after Kate's first bout with cancer, I find myself disconnected from them. When this happens, it is as if there is a fine screen between me and my feeling. I can sense there's SOMETHING there, but can't connect to it, can't tell quite what it is. It's a disconcerting, unsettling place to stay.

This time, starting last year when I found Kate's cancer had returned, I'm trying a new path.

Instead of looking at my inner churnings as a threat, I've been trying to stop to listen to them; to hear the message they're trying to convey.

Anxiety? I hear you. There are a lot of unknowns on the road ahead for this year. But as we travel, the way will reveal itself. I have a good medical team guiding my way. They will help me through the unexpected turns of the road.

Betrayal? I hear you. I thought, by getting a double mastectomy the first time I did this, I'd not have to travel this road a second time. Bah, humbug!

Reluctance, Fear of pain? I hear you. Treatment is unpleasant at best. But not treating the growth also leads to pain, so avoiding pain is not one of the options. Know the pain of the treatments will pass, and when it does, you will have bought yourself the possibility of opening your eyes to more good days. 

Fear of dying? I hear you. Cancer kills many people. But so do other diseases, and tomorrow is guaranteed to no one. Can you let this fear sharpen your appreciation of today? Today, you are not dead. Not Yet. Today, open your eyes and see the beauty of the flowers.

Sadness, Disappointment? I hear you. This is not a road to look forward to traveling down; not how you'd planned to spend your days this year. I cry with you.

Anger? I hear you. And agree. Cancer sucks. 

Nervousness? Oh, yeah. I hear you.

Determination? I hear you. I will walk with you. I know this, too, shall pass, and will travel this road one step at a time.

Gratitude? I hear you. As word spreads, my people have reached out. So many offers to help. So many reminders I do not pass this way alone. I am reminded I am loved.

Hope? To my surprise, I hear you, too. There you are, perched in my soul, singing the tune without the words. I am glad to know you are there. 

Surgery is a week from today.

Unfolding Beauty

Last time I had cancer, I ran away to find peace in the beauty of nature. During this current mortality awareness exercise, I've felt no such call, though I am grateful the dog shares my life because then I get out every morning for a walk. Every morning. Happy, cold, sunny, dark, sad, warm, rainy - whatever the weather, whatever my mood, we head out around the block.

These past few weeks, my determination to keep my focus in the now has allowed me to wallow in the beauty of spring. "Not Yet", I tell the part of me that wants to worry about my upcoming treatment regimen. "Now", it is beautiful.

As I walk, I take a moment to open my ears; to tune out the distant people noises and focus on the chorus of bird song accompanying my steps. I know the song of the cardinal and the sparrows, and there is the rat-a-tat of a woodpecker proclaiming his readiness to mate, but there are also many tunes I don't know.

On the clear days, I stop for a moment to focus my eyes on the quickly fading red-oranges of the sunrise. Nature's profligate waste of beauty. Ever new, there for all who take a moment to turn their eyes to the east and pause for a precious few minutes to take a long drink of beauty. 

I've watched in awe as the trees take turns blooming - first the tulip trees unfold their blooms, startling against the prevailing grays of the other trees, then the delicate pinks of cherry blossoms. The distinct scent of what I know of a bridal wreath bush - but this one is a tree - has recently brought me back to the days of yore. We had a row of the bushes planted along the south side of our house where I grew up. Now, the purple-pink of the redbuds is almost past. Spring's delicate greens are everywhere I look.

Just down the street, there are lilacs in bloom. I need take just a few steps off the sidewalk to bury my nose in their delicate scent for a few deep breaths. (I know the people who live there - I know they don't mind sharing just a bit.)

I've been out in the yard, cleaning up the detritus of the winter just past, plunging my fingers into the dirt, enjoying its touch, reluctantly yielding to common sense and donning garden gloves to keep the skin on my fingers intact.

I am here! 

Today, now. 

So grateful.

Treatable

The scan results are back, and for bad news, the news is as good as it gets.

Like Kate, I have gotten a different answer than most people whose cancer returns. The cancer is treatable.

There is one tumor, no obvious lymph node involvement. No sign of metastasis in my bones, liver, or lungs (the usual places this sort of cancer spreads).

They will do surgery to take out the lump, followed by radiation to discourage any remaining cancer cells from multiplying. Once the pathology on the tumor comes back, I will meet again with the oncologist to discuss further treatment options. I'm sure there's a something in the offing, but without the pathology information, given this is a recurrent cancer, there is not one clear path forward.

Breathing.

Appreciating my people. This is a tough path, no two ways about it, but I will not be walking it alone. My friends and family have been reaching out, offering to help when needed. They tell me this is not the time to be tough and power through. 

Accepting help is hard for me. For many years I thought I was on my own. I believed I was supposed to get through the hard things ALL BY MYSELF! (There are reasons I identify so well with my inner toddler.) I found out otherwise 13 years ago when I first had cancer. The message was clear - we love you; we are here. Please, let us help you. It was and is humbling, heartwarming, healing. 

My efforts to not let tomorrow's troubles ruin my todays have been going better than I'd have thought possible. I'm not in denial about what's ahead, but have managed to mostly stay in the "Not Yet".

Today, I don't hurt. Today, I am not recovering from surgery or exhausted from radiation. Today, the sun is shining and I woke to the music of a cardinal singing outside my window. 

Today, I am here.

That's all any of us gets.