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.

Living Now

I'm working with KU Med on this latest mortality awareness trip I'm taking, and, thus far, the people there have been wonderful. 

Even though I've been down this road before, I wouldn't know how to begin to coordinate the care I need, especially given the admittedly scattered state of my brain. I have been grateful to find out I don't need to know. From the time the biopsy results came back as positive and I was assigned Jessica as my nurse navigator, I've been caught in the net of the hospital referral system. They know who I need to talk to, and the right people have been calling to get appointments onto my calendar. (Or, in a couple of cases, where the appointments are harder to snag, they just put them on there unilaterally, letting me know I could cancel or move them if need be.) 

So far, I've seen a breast surgeon and a medical oncologist - the meetings were far more informative and productive than I could have imagined they'd be, given that we don't yet know the scope of what I'm facing. Next week is the radiation oncologist, then the scans which will tell me where the boundaries of my treatment will lie. (I should have a better view of the lay of the land early the following week.) Still waiting to hear from the plastic surgery team - I know they have a role in this somewhere.

So far, my insurance has not balked at any of the tests or appointments - and given the nightmare stories I've read, this is no small blessing.

Word of my returned illness has begun to spread without my help, for which I am grateful. I do want people to know - I need their help and support - but it's so hard to watch their faces when I share the news. No one wants this for me.

I've mostly stuck to my guns, and have not let the news-to-come ruin the days-I-have. 

I do have to laugh at some of my nesting choices. That quilt, whose parts have been in my closet for at least two years already? NOW it needs to be assembled?? !! 

That's OK. There are worse ways to spend my time - when my hands are busy embroidering the daisies I've chosen to hold the front to the batting and quilt back, my brain relaxes. When I focus on the task at hand, I let go of my concerns.  When I put it that way, perhaps I should give my gut a little more credit, eh?

One step at a time, this, too, shall pass.

Cancer Sucks. Still. Again.

Sometimes, it's hard for me to write the words I know I need to say. So, I'll just blurt it out.

My cancer is back.

I had three good weeks in there. When I visited Kate in February, I was heartened to see her responding well to her hormone regimen. She is still sleeping a lot but has color in her face, her energy is returning.

I returned home with a lighter step, and for a whole week began to look to the future; to think about things I want to do; start planning what comes next.

Then, I found my own lump. *sigh*

I went in for a biopsy the following week, and as I was pretty sure they would, the results came back as cancerous - a tumor analogous to the one I had removed 13 years ago. Now, I'm in the midst of tests and appointments - all the things that need to be done to determine what I'm facing. How far has the cancer spread, is it treatable? I won't have answers for these questions for a few more weeks. 

I am scared. No two ways about it.

But. 

I have a choice. The answers are going to be what they're going to be - I can't change them. I'm not in denial about the tough road ahead. But I can choose to not let the sword dangling over my head ruin the next three weeks. 

It is spring in these parts. The crocuses are popping up, the trees are blooming, the air is soft and welcoming (when the wind isn't trying to blow us off the map).

I can choose to be. here. now.

Like the birds, I am in nesting mode. Tidying up my space, finishing up a project or two, meeting up with friends. I have been tuning my ears to listen to the dawn bird song chorus as I take the dog around the block in the morning, enjoying the smell of spring on our long walks in the warm afternoons.

This approach works pretty well, until 4 AM. Then, I wake with my mind racing and my body tense and scared. It takes at least an hour most mornings to slow my breathing, relax my tense body, and purposefully turn my thoughts from a doom spiral that may well exist, but is not real here and now.

I choose to live today, the only day any of us ever have. 

So, there!

Fairy Wren Moves On

Fairy Wren continued to thrive in her house at the base of the tree outside of Louis' house all last summer, through the fall and into winter. She would leave him polished rocks and other small gifts. In return, he (with the help of his parents) would leave an occasional note asking about life in the magical world of fairies. At Christmas time, they left a card with their family photo on it, and a dog fridge magnet they'd made.

Each time I dropped off a toy, or a note replying to their questions, I smiled as I imagined a small boy's delight when he found the gift.

Then I had a dream one night about Puff the Magic Dragon. I've always loved the song; can't remember a time when I didn't know it. I woke singing the sad part of the song - "A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys", and I knew it was time for Fairy Wren to think about moving away.

Young Louis is five, soon to be six. Somewhere in there, logic begins to take hold as magic fades, and I wanted her to go while she was still real.

So, just after the turn of the year, I wrote one last note, telling Louis that Fairy Wren had gone to live with her friend Puff, in Honah Lee. She was going to play along Cherry Lane, where the two of them planned to enjoy sipping hot tea and reminiscing about the fun times they had playing with their human friends. 

I found a sun-catcher ornament showing a fairy contentedly walking in the woods, and gave it to them with my love.

I cried just a little as I dropped off the note and final gift. Fairy Wren didn't really want to go.

======

Were I in Louis' parent's shoes, I'd have been dying of curiosity, so last week, I sent them a note via the boring US Postal service, 'fessing up to my part in the story. I offered to meet them for coffee or tea, but haven't heard back. Perhaps they didn't get the note, perhaps they have been busy, perhaps they prefer to leave the magic as magic. It doesn't matter. 

I got to be part of the magic, and the memory will bring smiles to my heart for a long time to come.

Good Is.

Ashes to Water

Bob was set free from his gilded cage a year ago. 

You might recall, as I was doing my best to follow the requests he'd outlined in his will for how he wanted his death to be commemorated, I took some palm branches he'd once blessed and turned them to ash, so I could scatter them in the lake he lived next to, in the only home he'd ever owned, as he'd asked. (He wanted his real ashes scattered, but per the rules of the church, such was not one of my options, so this was the closest I could come.)

I took the ashes, tucked into the Salvadoran water jug he'd loved so well, to his funeral services, with all good intention of getting up to Lake Viking shortly thereafter to place them in the water. But, once all the dust had settled, I somehow never found the three hours I'd need to complete my task.

The jug has found a lovely home in the corner of my dining room, and I have taken comfort this past year in walking past and placing my hand on it for a few minutes, connecting to his symbolic presence.

As winter has turned to spring, I started to feel a tug. It was time to finish my task.

So, this past Sunday, a lovely spring day, I retrieved the ashes from their temporary home, and Bob's friend John and I climbed into my car to drive on up to the lake. We pulled up in the drive of Cory and Elaine's house (his good friends, across the street, who had let him keep his boat in a slip on their dock the entire time he lived there), stepped out into the cool quiet of the morning, and made our way down onto the corner of their dock.

We sat down. John said a prayer of letting go. I sang a final song of goodbye as I opened the pouch, took out the small bag of ashes, and carefully freed them just underneath the surface of the water.

We sat in silence for a long moment. I listened to the call of the geese standing on a dock a few doors down, watched them slip into the water, one elegant, the other awkwardly splashing off the platform. I felt the sun warm on my shoulders, saw its light glistening on the wavelets. I let the cold lake water dry on my fingertips without trying to wipe it off.

Time stopped for a bit as I watched a stream of ashes make their way from the corner of the dock out into the center of the channel, as if seeking the freedom of the open water just down the way.

Promise kept, I wept. 

DMV Moment

Once I got back from California earlier this week, one of my most urgent tasks was to get my new car properly licensed before the temp tags expired yesterday.

So, once I'd finished exercising on Wednesday morning (priorities!), I gathered my paperwork and something to read, and headed on down to the DMV.

There, I found myself with a 90 minute wait, which really isn't too bad given how close I was to the end of the month. (Procrastinators of the city, unite!)

I whiled away the time covertly watching the interesting characters gathered about the room, playing assorted games on my phone, reading articles I'd saved, and texting with a few of my friends. 

I tried to send this text to one group: "The DMV is certainly an interesting place to people-watch. Today's wait will be about 90 minutes. This close to the end of the month, I'm not complaining."

To be honest, I didn't even notice when my friends didn't reply - they do have lives after all.

Eventually my turn came, and I was a bit surprised when the gal behind the counter was genuinely smiling as I walked up. She said, "I agree - people watching is one of the bonuses of this job." I was a bit puzzled, but agreed. She then told me they'd seen my text, and had all laughed, trying to figure out who in the crowded room had sent the message. She'd bet on me.

They'd seen my text??? I wasn't sure how that could have happened, but went along with the banter, handed her my stack of papers, and was on my way within 10 minutes. 

Still confused after I'd gotten out the door, I checked my phone when I got to my car. To my dismay, I realized my text had not gone to my intended recipients (no wonder they didn't reply); instead I'd sent it to the (I thought) automated information number, the one which had texted me the link to check my place in line.

Oops! OK. I gotta admit it. I had no idea you COULD text those numbers back and have someone see the message. IF I had thought about it, I'd have figured any message sent there would go into a black hole.

Rereading the message, I can see why they thought I was intentionally sending the message to the office. I am most grateful, since I clearly wasn't paying close enough attention to whom at which I was typing, I was at least kind. 

Note to self...

Cancaversary #13

 

I must admit - back when my cancer diagnosis knocked me off the road and out of my camper van, I really didn't think I'd be alive thirteen years later, still trying to make sense of it all. 

But, here I am. wow!

So far, my cancer has stayed gone, at least so far as I know. The oncology team kicked me out several years ago; I never did have any follow up scans to make sure the surgery had caught everything. But, I have no reason to think it's actively lurking about; I have none of the symptoms which would signal it has resurrected itself.

This year, the knowledge is a bit bittersweet, given what Kate's still going through. Despite knowing the futility of the question, the thought still crosses my mind, "why her and not me???" I'd trade places with her, really I would...

But such is not within my control, so every time the question floats up, I let it go, let it float away again.

This year, knowing she is still here, knowing her cancer is undetectable (for now), I am SO grateful to be here in California to celebrate the anniversary with her. 

I think, somewhere in my head, she was still in the place she was when I'd last seen her in late October - complexion, tinged gray, breathing, a struggle. 

But between then and now, she's been busy doing all the things she can do to help herself heal - physical therapy, massage, acupuncture, yoga, rest - and she's made great strides in her recovery. She looks and feels worlds better than she did when I last saw her. *whew* 

She learned some valuable lessons about the price you pay when you attempt to push through it during her first bout with the disease; is actively working to not repeat those mistakes. When she returned to work two weeks ago, she returned on a part-time basis.

I am so proud of her.

We are here!!!!