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*

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.