I'm down to the last two radiation treatments. That means I've completed 31 out of 33. I'm near the top of the mountain and the view is fantastic. But I am exhausted and am looking forward to just healing. The 33 treatments flew by a lot quicker than I thought it would and I can hardly believe I'm almost done. But I couldn't have done it without a lot of help - from family, friends - all of you who continue to think of me, pray for me, reach out to me. But I dedicate this post to the ladies I have met along this hard climb over this very tall and seemingly insurmountable mountain.
You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, "I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along." You must do the thing you think you cannot do. - Eleanor Roosevelt
Many of the women I met from the very first day I looked my horror in the face were nothing but kind and loving to me. I have had the pleasure and the privilege to meet the bravest and most loving women I could have ever dreamed existed. They are mothers - mine and my husband's who have been there to support me whenever I needed it, and when I didn't know I needed it. They are my girlfriends who never tire of telling me my incredibly short hair is adorable and bold; or who reach out and ask me to lunch, how I'm doing, or just to say they are thinking of me. They are the doctors who understood my fear, but were pragmatic and perfect in their expertise. They are the nurses at the breast center, who hugged me and said everything would be OK, and that I was in the best hands. They are the nurses in IV therapy who helped me through chemo and are still happy to see me when I visit, but rejoice that I'm not there for chemo anymore. They are the nurses at radiation oncology who watch my skin closely and said to me today that they're happy I'm almost done, but they're not ready to lose me yet, and they are the therapists who know just what music to play when I walk into the treatment room - who share stories of their children, grandchildren, their weekend, and share their lives with me.
But there is one set of ladies I would like to acknowledge especially... they are the women who have survived cancer. They have bravely faced cancer -in whatever form, beat it back, and have moved on. And yet they so generously give of themselves when someone like me is unfortunate enough to join the club no wants to be part of. They are also the lovely women I've met in the waiting room during my radiation treatments. You are there with your mothers, waiting for your husbands or fathers, or are there, like me, waiting to go into the treatment room every day. You keep the same routine I keep - waking up to come to the hospital, change, wait, lie on a table, and do it again - waiting patiently for the weekend. You are amazing and brave and the days went by faster because of you.
You all do the thing you think you cannot do... and you are all surviving and moving on. You are pure strength, love and grace.
You are Kath, Paula, Amy, Suzy, Auntie Jane, Auntie Ding, Mary, Cleo, Maria, and countless ladies I admire and draw strength from every day. I wish I could name you all, but know that I love you all.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Knowing When to Rest
I have a problem setting limits... for myself. I push, and push, and push until I'm too tired, or too frazzled, too stressed, or at my wit's end. That can't be good - on all accounts. I don't think my stress levels brought about my breast cancer. I think it had more to do with my genes. Actually, I do know, because I was tested: BRCA1. (Attention, all female family members on my Dad's side: please get yourself tested if you can!) Back to stress... what I do know is that it probably didn't do me any good. It still doesn't and that's why I need to stop and smell the roses. Literally. I need to stop, look around me and take stock.
I've done quite a bit in the last six months of my life. I'm in the home stretch when it comes to beating this damn disease. I'm almost at the finish line. I just have roughly 6-7 weeks to go and a Monday to Friday date with the radiation machine at my hospital. And then I consider myself at the top of that mountain it's taken me so long to climb. I've armed myself quite well for this tiring trek... I've started this blog; I've told all my friends and family; I've asked for help when I needed it - when it made sense. But now I need to ask myself for help: I need to give myself permission to rest. I don't generally know how to do that - rest. I've realized that I don't know how to de-stress. So I've taken matters into my own hands - like I did when I shaved my head before I lost my hair to chemo. This time, I'm going on short-term disability. I'm giving myself the opportunity to rest during the hardest, most tiring part of radiation.
I've come to realize this: life is short. Even if I live to be 92 years old, I will still consider life short. There's so much to do! There's so much to see! There's so much to laugh about, dance about, sigh about. I don't want to miss a single day, a single moment of being able to do all that. So if that means four weeks of rest, no work, no worries, no stress... then so be it. I'm putting myself first and I'm going to enjoy it, damn it!
I've done quite a bit in the last six months of my life. I'm in the home stretch when it comes to beating this damn disease. I'm almost at the finish line. I just have roughly 6-7 weeks to go and a Monday to Friday date with the radiation machine at my hospital. And then I consider myself at the top of that mountain it's taken me so long to climb. I've armed myself quite well for this tiring trek... I've started this blog; I've told all my friends and family; I've asked for help when I needed it - when it made sense. But now I need to ask myself for help: I need to give myself permission to rest. I don't generally know how to do that - rest. I've realized that I don't know how to de-stress. So I've taken matters into my own hands - like I did when I shaved my head before I lost my hair to chemo. This time, I'm going on short-term disability. I'm giving myself the opportunity to rest during the hardest, most tiring part of radiation.
I've come to realize this: life is short. Even if I live to be 92 years old, I will still consider life short. There's so much to do! There's so much to see! There's so much to laugh about, dance about, sigh about. I don't want to miss a single day, a single moment of being able to do all that. So if that means four weeks of rest, no work, no worries, no stress... then so be it. I'm putting myself first and I'm going to enjoy it, damn it!
Friday, May 27, 2011
Half Full
It's been a long six and a half months since the day I found the lump in my breast. I've gone through an intense roller coaster ride that is by no means over yet. But a significant portion of it is in its home stretch. In just two weeks I will be done with chemotherapy. That's huge. And it's time to celebrate and be happy. In my climb to the top of Mt. Cancer-Free, it's time to stop for a second and survey how far I've come.
It's been hard. The hardest stretch of life I've ever overcome. I was just saying to Dennis last night that I still remember clearly the afternoon I heard the news that it was cancer. And as my Dad's third death anniversary approaches on Saturday, I can say that hearing I had cancer was about as devastating as the night my Dad died as I held his hand. My only consolation at my Dad not being alive now is that he didn't have to see me go through this. Having had non-Hodgkins lymphoma, my diagnosis would have broken his heart. On the other hand, having had my Mom with me and Dennis when I heard the news and as I went through the hardest part of waiting for more information, surgery, and the first, hardest round of chemo, was my saving grace. And yes, it broke her heart to watch me go through this, but as mothers' hearts go they are extremely resilient and strong, and so full of faith that for the longest time, she carried me with her and helped to strengthen mine.
Your best friend is the one person in the world that you run to when you hear the best news in the world, and the person you need to be with you when you hear the worst. Dennis, as always, has been my rock. He is my fixed object in the distance, guiding me so I don't get lost and drown when I'm in murky waters. Once again, I thank my in-laws - Bella and Anatoly - for having raised such an amazing person. I'm the direct beneficiary of their hard work.
And there have been murky waters for sure. I've heard this often in the last half year: every cancer patient's experience is different. From their diagnosis and treatment, to how they approach battling the disease. My approach has been to kick ass. I have refused to let breast cancer take over my life. Every day I wake up and I'm alive is a day not to be wasted. Getting treated is just one more thing I have to do. Yes - it's changed my schedule, but it's just another appointment I have had to fit in to my crazy life. And as many bright moments I've had - which I will of course end this post with - I've had the down moments. I've had my doubts and I've had my times when I wanted to curl up into a ball and cry my heart out. And I have. I haven't written about it much because I don't like to dwell. But when I'm looking back to see how far I've come, it's only fair to recognize the places where I almost fell.
Everyone that knows what I'm going through and has seen me has said I look great. Bless your souls. And for the most part, I feel great. In fact, truth be told, this is the healthiest I've felt in my life- ironically. I've changed my diet, cut out as much sugar as I can on a daily basis, I'm exercising more - I've actually dropped a dress size! But (there's always a but), I also lost my hair. I have no eyebrows, no eyelashes, and my fingernails are blue, brittle, and ugly thick. I have a mad scar across my chest where my right breast used to be. My toes are numb and tingly all the time. And since my surgery didn't just remove my right breast, it also took out all my lymph nodes, for the rest of my life I can never carry anything over five pounds using my right arm. It's very much a handicap. When I look in the mirror early in the morning sans wig, make up, and prosthetic boob, I'm not the same person I was a year ago. There are times I want to cry. There have been many times I have. But these are all cosmetic. I've been told every day after the last day of chemo that I will feel better and better, and more like my old self. I believe that.
The scariest moments for me have been when I'm feeling vulnerable, I'm feeling off and tired and stressed and tested. And that's when the worst fearful thoughts rear their ugly heads. It's when I start asking why did I get cancer? Why me? It's when I'm paralyzed by the thought of "what if?" What if I don't survive this? Last year I couldn't have known this would be my next year. What if I die next year? What if I die the year after that? And the worst what if thought... What if I die and Alyssa grows up not remembering me? That is the worst thought for a young mother, and when it crosses my mind, I know I've sunk to the depths and I'm letting cancer get the better of me.
And then it's time to snap out of it and think of how blessed I am. Time to look at the glass half full. That is frequently the biggest challenge to me, and yet, when I succeed it's the best prize. People around me have been the silver lining to my dark and stormy clouds. It's been family, friends who have supported me, Dennis and Alyssa. It's been Alyssa with her innocence and smiles, and "I laffs u!" that have lifted my spirits like nothing else can. It's been my doctors, nurses and physical therapist who have made the tediousness of hospital visits bearable... and even fun. Ironically, I will miss them and yet also would be happy to never have to see them again - at least where they work! They are the heroes - especially my nurses - in my battle to survive. You are amazing.
I'm not anywhere near the top of my mountain, but I can see the summit from where I stand now. And all the faces of my friends and family at the top who have survived cancer. There are many sad stories out there, and equally there are many happy ones. I still remember my family doctor saying this to me shortly after my diagnosis: "Frances, there is no reason to believe you can't live to be 97 and die in your sleep. You're just going to have to work a little harder at it than the rest of us." She is so right.
It's been hard. The hardest stretch of life I've ever overcome. I was just saying to Dennis last night that I still remember clearly the afternoon I heard the news that it was cancer. And as my Dad's third death anniversary approaches on Saturday, I can say that hearing I had cancer was about as devastating as the night my Dad died as I held his hand. My only consolation at my Dad not being alive now is that he didn't have to see me go through this. Having had non-Hodgkins lymphoma, my diagnosis would have broken his heart. On the other hand, having had my Mom with me and Dennis when I heard the news and as I went through the hardest part of waiting for more information, surgery, and the first, hardest round of chemo, was my saving grace. And yes, it broke her heart to watch me go through this, but as mothers' hearts go they are extremely resilient and strong, and so full of faith that for the longest time, she carried me with her and helped to strengthen mine.
Your best friend is the one person in the world that you run to when you hear the best news in the world, and the person you need to be with you when you hear the worst. Dennis, as always, has been my rock. He is my fixed object in the distance, guiding me so I don't get lost and drown when I'm in murky waters. Once again, I thank my in-laws - Bella and Anatoly - for having raised such an amazing person. I'm the direct beneficiary of their hard work.
And there have been murky waters for sure. I've heard this often in the last half year: every cancer patient's experience is different. From their diagnosis and treatment, to how they approach battling the disease. My approach has been to kick ass. I have refused to let breast cancer take over my life. Every day I wake up and I'm alive is a day not to be wasted. Getting treated is just one more thing I have to do. Yes - it's changed my schedule, but it's just another appointment I have had to fit in to my crazy life. And as many bright moments I've had - which I will of course end this post with - I've had the down moments. I've had my doubts and I've had my times when I wanted to curl up into a ball and cry my heart out. And I have. I haven't written about it much because I don't like to dwell. But when I'm looking back to see how far I've come, it's only fair to recognize the places where I almost fell.
Everyone that knows what I'm going through and has seen me has said I look great. Bless your souls. And for the most part, I feel great. In fact, truth be told, this is the healthiest I've felt in my life- ironically. I've changed my diet, cut out as much sugar as I can on a daily basis, I'm exercising more - I've actually dropped a dress size! But (there's always a but), I also lost my hair. I have no eyebrows, no eyelashes, and my fingernails are blue, brittle, and ugly thick. I have a mad scar across my chest where my right breast used to be. My toes are numb and tingly all the time. And since my surgery didn't just remove my right breast, it also took out all my lymph nodes, for the rest of my life I can never carry anything over five pounds using my right arm. It's very much a handicap. When I look in the mirror early in the morning sans wig, make up, and prosthetic boob, I'm not the same person I was a year ago. There are times I want to cry. There have been many times I have. But these are all cosmetic. I've been told every day after the last day of chemo that I will feel better and better, and more like my old self. I believe that.
The scariest moments for me have been when I'm feeling vulnerable, I'm feeling off and tired and stressed and tested. And that's when the worst fearful thoughts rear their ugly heads. It's when I start asking why did I get cancer? Why me? It's when I'm paralyzed by the thought of "what if?" What if I don't survive this? Last year I couldn't have known this would be my next year. What if I die next year? What if I die the year after that? And the worst what if thought... What if I die and Alyssa grows up not remembering me? That is the worst thought for a young mother, and when it crosses my mind, I know I've sunk to the depths and I'm letting cancer get the better of me.
And then it's time to snap out of it and think of how blessed I am. Time to look at the glass half full. That is frequently the biggest challenge to me, and yet, when I succeed it's the best prize. People around me have been the silver lining to my dark and stormy clouds. It's been family, friends who have supported me, Dennis and Alyssa. It's been Alyssa with her innocence and smiles, and "I laffs u!" that have lifted my spirits like nothing else can. It's been my doctors, nurses and physical therapist who have made the tediousness of hospital visits bearable... and even fun. Ironically, I will miss them and yet also would be happy to never have to see them again - at least where they work! They are the heroes - especially my nurses - in my battle to survive. You are amazing.
I'm not anywhere near the top of my mountain, but I can see the summit from where I stand now. And all the faces of my friends and family at the top who have survived cancer. There are many sad stories out there, and equally there are many happy ones. I still remember my family doctor saying this to me shortly after my diagnosis: "Frances, there is no reason to believe you can't live to be 97 and die in your sleep. You're just going to have to work a little harder at it than the rest of us." She is so right.
Friday, April 22, 2011
The Long Haul
It's been a while since I've posted and it's because things have felt fairly normal. And because I've felt "normal," I've also become very busy. That's been nice. But now I face a setback. My current chemo drug is doing weird things to my body and I'm realizing that I have to take things easy. I can't push myself to my limit... especially if I don't know what my limit is. That is very frustrating.
One of the lessons I learned early on when I started my treatment was that I need to relinquish control. That is not an easy thing to learn if you're a control freak like me. But I had to learn how to do it because for the longest time while I learned about the cancer I had and how to fight it, there was very little I had control over. As the days went on, tests came back, meetings with doctors were held, I started to gain more and more control. I started to figure out my limits, my boundaries; and within those limits I could push myself as far as I could go. Recently though, I've been lulled into a false sense of normalcy. Like when my life seemed to have no limits or boundaries. I fell for that... hook, line, and sinker.
So I'm learning the lesson all over again... I don't have limitless boundaries. I don't have ultimate control. Most importantly, I have to listen to my body. It has its limitations. It has its boundaries. I can control it, only up to the point it wants to and is willing to be controlled. I'm in it for the long haul, and I've got to make sure I make it to the very end of whatever life has in store for me.
One of the lessons I learned early on when I started my treatment was that I need to relinquish control. That is not an easy thing to learn if you're a control freak like me. But I had to learn how to do it because for the longest time while I learned about the cancer I had and how to fight it, there was very little I had control over. As the days went on, tests came back, meetings with doctors were held, I started to gain more and more control. I started to figure out my limits, my boundaries; and within those limits I could push myself as far as I could go. Recently though, I've been lulled into a false sense of normalcy. Like when my life seemed to have no limits or boundaries. I fell for that... hook, line, and sinker.
So I'm learning the lesson all over again... I don't have limitless boundaries. I don't have ultimate control. Most importantly, I have to listen to my body. It has its limitations. It has its boundaries. I can control it, only up to the point it wants to and is willing to be controlled. I'm in it for the long haul, and I've got to make sure I make it to the very end of whatever life has in store for me.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Heroes
Behind every cancer patient are literally, hundreds of heroes. I've come to understand that one person's fight against cancer is a whole village's battle. I am humbled by all the heroes in my life. And in the last five months I have met heroes of every kind...
The ones I knew would step up. Everyone has them - the people in your life you just know, without a doubt, will be there for you. Through thick and thin, and come hell or high water. You are my rock; you are my light. I never doubted you would be there for me; and I'm blessed that you have been. You know who you are. Thank you.
The ones I hoped would step up. There are people we just wish we had more time to get to know. People in our lives who we love and cherish, but we just keep missing them somehow; or they live just a little too far away; and have such a different schedule from ours. But I have hoped for you. I have wished that you would make time for me. And you have. Thank you.
The ones that have surprised me. And then there are those souls we once met and loved and then they faded away. Or maybe I faded away. Whatever the case, we've lost touch and lead separate lives. And yet, in my fight, you've stood by my side; reached out to me; thought about me; made an effort to let me know that in fact, you're very much around. Thank you.
The ones I never would have guessed. Some people have just flat out amazed me. You have not been part of my life in years. You barely know me. You barely remember me; or at least I think you barely remember me. And yet, somehow you've found me; heard about my fight; and you have stepped up. You are a new friend; an old friend; weren't even a friend - but are now. Thank you.
Behind every cancer patient are hundreds, and hundreds of friends and family who fight the same fight every day. You email me; text me; call me; visit me; Skype with me; pray for me; think of me; bring me dinner; send me a joke; bring me jelly beans; send me cards; hug me; kiss me; wink at me; eat lunch with me; Facebook me; laugh with me; cry with me; take care of my daughter for me; check on my husband; ask about me; take work off my plate; shop with me; chat with me; walk with me. You walk with me every step of the way. Know that I am grateful every day. And in June, here in Chicago, I will walk for you. I will walk because of all you do for me during the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer. I will walk because you have all stepped up for me and I am amazed by each and every one of you.
Thank you, my heroes.
The ones I knew would step up. Everyone has them - the people in your life you just know, without a doubt, will be there for you. Through thick and thin, and come hell or high water. You are my rock; you are my light. I never doubted you would be there for me; and I'm blessed that you have been. You know who you are. Thank you.
The ones I hoped would step up. There are people we just wish we had more time to get to know. People in our lives who we love and cherish, but we just keep missing them somehow; or they live just a little too far away; and have such a different schedule from ours. But I have hoped for you. I have wished that you would make time for me. And you have. Thank you.
The ones that have surprised me. And then there are those souls we once met and loved and then they faded away. Or maybe I faded away. Whatever the case, we've lost touch and lead separate lives. And yet, in my fight, you've stood by my side; reached out to me; thought about me; made an effort to let me know that in fact, you're very much around. Thank you.
The ones I never would have guessed. Some people have just flat out amazed me. You have not been part of my life in years. You barely know me. You barely remember me; or at least I think you barely remember me. And yet, somehow you've found me; heard about my fight; and you have stepped up. You are a new friend; an old friend; weren't even a friend - but are now. Thank you.
Behind every cancer patient are hundreds, and hundreds of friends and family who fight the same fight every day. You email me; text me; call me; visit me; Skype with me; pray for me; think of me; bring me dinner; send me a joke; bring me jelly beans; send me cards; hug me; kiss me; wink at me; eat lunch with me; Facebook me; laugh with me; cry with me; take care of my daughter for me; check on my husband; ask about me; take work off my plate; shop with me; chat with me; walk with me. You walk with me every step of the way. Know that I am grateful every day. And in June, here in Chicago, I will walk for you. I will walk because of all you do for me during the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer. I will walk because you have all stepped up for me and I am amazed by each and every one of you.
Thank you, my heroes.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Because My Mom Said So
The last time I cried as hard as I did today was the day I heard I had breast cancer. On that day my Mom was there, with Dennis, to hold my hand, hug me, and tell me everything was going to be OK. Today, after coming home from the airport to drop my Mom off on her trip back home to the Philippines, I cried so hard I couldn't breathe through my nose... and she wasn't there to hold me. Plain and simple: I want my Mommy!
My Mom was here for four months. She was here from the beginning of this life-changing ordeal that I'm still in the midst of. For four months she put her life on hold for me and she helped get me through the worst of it all. And now I miss her. While she was here, I could be the child; I could let myself feel that everything would be OK because my Mom was here to make it OK.
But this is what she told me before she left: she said, "I wouldn't be leaving if I didn't know, not just believe, but know in my heart that you will be OK." I believe her. Because as a Mom myself, I know that to be true. She needs to go home and resume her life; attend to her responsibilities; and get some much needed sunshine and warmth! She'll be back before I know it. So I will be OK. I will be OK because friends and family are rallying to our side. I will be OK because I have a husband who is my best friend, and my rock. I will be OK because my daughter needs me to be strong, and to be her Mommy whose job it is to make sure everything is OK for her. And finally, I will be OK... because my Mom said so.
Thank you, Mom. I love you more than words can ever express.
My Mom was here for four months. She was here from the beginning of this life-changing ordeal that I'm still in the midst of. For four months she put her life on hold for me and she helped get me through the worst of it all. And now I miss her. While she was here, I could be the child; I could let myself feel that everything would be OK because my Mom was here to make it OK.
But this is what she told me before she left: she said, "I wouldn't be leaving if I didn't know, not just believe, but know in my heart that you will be OK." I believe her. Because as a Mom myself, I know that to be true. She needs to go home and resume her life; attend to her responsibilities; and get some much needed sunshine and warmth! She'll be back before I know it. So I will be OK. I will be OK because friends and family are rallying to our side. I will be OK because I have a husband who is my best friend, and my rock. I will be OK because my daughter needs me to be strong, and to be her Mommy whose job it is to make sure everything is OK for her. And finally, I will be OK... because my Mom said so.
Thank you, Mom. I love you more than words can ever express.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Stages
The cancer removed from me back in December was stage 3. I don't think I've ever really said that out loud... to everyone. I didn't really have time to dwell on it because in less than six hours my surgeon had called to give me news on the completely opposite end of the spectrum - that my bone and CT scans were all negative of cancer: it hadn't spread. Thank you, God.
Life happens in stages. And life dealing with breast cancer - well, I've really learned how to tackle things one stage at a time. I don't often look back anymore - only to see if there's a lesson I can learn from the past, or just to savor how far I've come. And though there's still a long road ahead, I have already come a long way. I've made it through the worst time - the "not-knowing stage" and the "phone-call-where-my-whole-world-collapsed-because-I-heard-it-was-cancer stage." Then I made it through the "being-poked-and-prodded-to-determine-what's-next stage." I made it through the "got-the-phone-call-from-my-surgeon-we're-going-to-surgery-tomorrow stage." And then, who could forget, I've survived the "waking-up-from-anesthesia-feeling-like-crap-with-an-insensitive-nurse-at-your-bedside stage." (To be fair, she was the only one, and the rest of my hospital stay was great.)
Some of the best stages to have gone through were the following: "spending-the-holidays-at-home-recuperating-from-surgery-and-not-having-to-worry-or-stress-about-anything-because-my-Mom-and-Dennis-took-care-of-everything-for-me stage," the "my-house-looks-like-a-flower-shop-with-all-the-deliveries-from-friends-and-family-I-can't-believe-how-supportive-and-loving-everyone-is stage," and the "thank-heavens-my-surgical-drains-come-out-today-and-I-get-to-finally-feel-like-me-again-and-not-a-walking-Christmas-tree-or-bride-of-Frankenstein stage." Especially memorable were the milestones dealing with my hair (and it's impending loss): there was the "I'm-really-freaked-out-about-losing-my-hair-once-chemo-starts-so-I'm-going-to-get-my-hair-cut-short-really-short-so-I-feel-like-I'm-in-control stage," and then the "today's-the-day-I-shaved-off-my-hair-day-so-I-won't-have-to-watch-it-fall-out-in-clumps-a-week-from-now-and-become-a-wreck-in-my-bathroom stage." The funniest and heart warming ones with friends: the "day-I-got-my-wig-and-Jennifer-watched-me-try-on-blond-wigs-for-Dennis-yeah-that-was-a-miserable-failure-slash-hilarious-endeavor stage," the "proving-to-my-friends-at-work-how-real-my-prosthetic-boob-feels-so-picture-this-four-women-standing-by-the-elevators-and-three-of-them-poking-prodding-and-laughing-while-feeling-me-up stage," and last, but not least, the "day-my-friends-rallied-around-me-and-threw-me-a-hat-and-scarf-party-and-showed-me-how-much-they-love-me stage."
There are of course, the treatment-related challenges that are all stepping stones to the mountain-top goal of being cancer-free... my faves are (and in no particular order): the "realizing-everything-my-doctor-said-would-happen-is-actually-happening stage," the "yes-exercising-regularly-during-chemo-really-works stage," the "I'm-so-relieved-the-world-didn't-end-nor-did-I-burst-into-flames-because-I-walked-around-bald-at-my-gym stage," the "my-doctor-was-right-the-nausea-is-exactly-like-when-I-was-pregnant-but-this-time-I-can-take-meds...hell-yeah stage," the "OMG-I'm-spending-a-romantic-weekend-with-my-husband-he's-so-great-and-here-I-am-one-boob-short-bald-head-can't-imagine-how-I'm-going-to-pull-off-sexy-WTF?! stage," the "I-look-in-the-mirror-and-still-see-me-just-hairless-thinner-blue-fingernails-yes-it's-a-side-effect-long-road-ahead-asking-myself-can-I-do-this-of-course-you-can-crazy-person-talking-to-yourself-in-the-mirror stage," and, drum roll, please - my personal favorite: the "this-is-really-hard-but-it's-not-going-to-kill-me-hard-and-even-though-I-still-have-a-long-way-to-go-when-all-is-said-and-done-I'm-going-to-come-out-of-this-a-better-woman-daughter-wife-mother-friend-and-with-some-pretty-fucking-awesome-tits-I-swear stage!"
Life is a stage and this is my biggest performance yet. In less than two weeks, I'll be done with the first part of my chemo regimen; my Mom will be going home to the Philippines after exclusively dedicating the past four months of her life to me (yes, I panic at the thought of her leaving); and I will begin a 12 week regimen on a new chemo drug that will also mean after it's done in June, I'll only have radiation and then reconstruction surgery left (yes!). More stages, more surviving, more life. Act two here I come... BRING IT ON.
Life happens in stages. And life dealing with breast cancer - well, I've really learned how to tackle things one stage at a time. I don't often look back anymore - only to see if there's a lesson I can learn from the past, or just to savor how far I've come. And though there's still a long road ahead, I have already come a long way. I've made it through the worst time - the "not-knowing stage" and the "phone-call-where-my-whole-world-collapsed-because-I-heard-it-was-cancer stage." Then I made it through the "being-poked-and-prodded-to-determine-what's-next stage." I made it through the "got-the-phone-call-from-my-surgeon-we're-going-to-surgery-tomorrow stage." And then, who could forget, I've survived the "waking-up-from-anesthesia-feeling-like-crap-with-an-insensitive-nurse-at-your-bedside stage." (To be fair, she was the only one, and the rest of my hospital stay was great.)
Some of the best stages to have gone through were the following: "spending-the-holidays-at-home-recuperating-from-surgery-and-not-having-to-worry-or-stress-about-anything-because-my-Mom-and-Dennis-took-care-of-everything-for-me stage," the "my-house-looks-like-a-flower-shop-with-all-the-deliveries-from-friends-and-family-I-can't-believe-how-supportive-and-loving-everyone-is stage," and the "thank-heavens-my-surgical-drains-come-out-today-and-I-get-to-finally-feel-like-me-again-and-not-a-walking-Christmas-tree-or-bride-of-Frankenstein stage." Especially memorable were the milestones dealing with my hair (and it's impending loss): there was the "I'm-really-freaked-out-about-losing-my-hair-once-chemo-starts-so-I'm-going-to-get-my-hair-cut-short-really-short-so-I-feel-like-I'm-in-control stage," and then the "today's-the-day-I-shaved-off-my-hair-day-so-I-won't-have-to-watch-it-fall-out-in-clumps-a-week-from-now-and-become-a-wreck-in-my-bathroom stage." The funniest and heart warming ones with friends: the "day-I-got-my-wig-and-Jennifer-watched-me-try-on-blond-wigs-for-Dennis-yeah-that-was-a-miserable-failure-slash-hilarious-endeavor stage," the "proving-to-my-friends-at-work-how-real-my-prosthetic-boob-feels-so-picture-this-four-women-standing-by-the-elevators-and-three-of-them-poking-prodding-and-laughing-while-feeling-me-up stage," and last, but not least, the "day-my-friends-rallied-around-me-and-threw-me-a-hat-and-scarf-party-and-showed-me-how-much-they-love-me stage."
There are of course, the treatment-related challenges that are all stepping stones to the mountain-top goal of being cancer-free... my faves are (and in no particular order): the "realizing-everything-my-doctor-said-would-happen-is-actually-happening stage," the "yes-exercising-regularly-during-chemo-really-works stage," the "I'm-so-relieved-the-world-didn't-end-nor-did-I-burst-into-flames-because-I-walked-around-bald-at-my-gym stage," the "my-doctor-was-right-the-nausea-is-exactly-like-when-I-was-pregnant-but-this-time-I-can-take-meds...hell-yeah stage," the "OMG-I'm-spending-a-romantic-weekend-with-my-husband-he's-so-great-and-here-I-am-one-boob-short-bald-head-can't-imagine-how-I'm-going-to-pull-off-sexy-WTF?! stage," the "I-look-in-the-mirror-and-still-see-me-just-hairless-thinner-blue-fingernails-yes-it's-a-side-effect-long-road-ahead-asking-myself-can-I-do-this-of-course-you-can-crazy-person-talking-to-yourself-in-the-mirror stage," and, drum roll, please - my personal favorite: the "this-is-really-hard-but-it's-not-going-to-kill-me-hard-and-even-though-I-still-have-a-long-way-to-go-when-all-is-said-and-done-I'm-going-to-come-out-of-this-a-better-woman-daughter-wife-mother-friend-and-with-some-pretty-fucking-awesome-tits-I-swear stage!"
Life is a stage and this is my biggest performance yet. In less than two weeks, I'll be done with the first part of my chemo regimen; my Mom will be going home to the Philippines after exclusively dedicating the past four months of her life to me (yes, I panic at the thought of her leaving); and I will begin a 12 week regimen on a new chemo drug that will also mean after it's done in June, I'll only have radiation and then reconstruction surgery left (yes!). More stages, more surviving, more life. Act two here I come... BRING IT ON.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Chemo Princess
I don't know you. You are taller than me, slimmer than me, and paler than me. But you look determined every time I see you. You are always on the treadmill in that first row at the gym when I walk in most days. By the time I spy you it looks like you've already been running for at least half an hour. Your shirt is soaked and sweat is glistening on your beautiful bald head. Your focus and energy as you run is amazing and I always wonder what's going through your mind as you run, and run, and run. Where are you going? What is your goal?
Do you know that I have dubbed you my Chemo Princess? The moment I laid eyes on you I felt like you saved me in some way. To be honest, I was just so relieved that there was already one bald woman at my gym! I still had my short pixie cut when I first noticed you. I hadn't even started chemo yet - I think I was still a week away from starting. I was on a mission to establish my exercise regimen. I had taken my oncologist's advice to heart: switch to a Mediterranean diet (it's the healthiest one out there), try to exercise about five days a week, and drink lots and lots of water - all the time. So there I was walking into our gym that I hadn't really been to since I had Alyssa. I'm seriously doubting myself. Could I commit to going to the gym regularly (even for just half an hour for five days)? Could I go to the gym once I started chemo? And could I go to the gym once I was bald? The moment I saw you, Chemo Princess, I realized... yes. You broke ground for me. Thank you.
Whatever your reason for being bald (chemo, chronic hair loss, personal preference), in my mind, you are my Chemo Princess. I have created a story in my head about you; I have molded you into an idol - someone to emulate, someone to inspire me at the gym; you are a tangible reminder to me that I am not alone in this fight. That here is someone right in front me - only three or four machines away - going through what I'm going through and you are kicking ass. Mile after mile you sweat away the effects of chemo; I can too. Mile after mile you flush yourself with water hydrating yourself back to health; I can too. Mile after mile you are closer and closer to your goal - whatever your finish line might be; I can do that too.
I don't know that I'll ever try to talk to you. I wonder if as I walk past you in the morning either with my scarf on or my bald head, if you wonder about me too. Whatever your real story is, you have already given me the greatest gift any stranger could - you are there. And you can be whoever I need you to be for me. Thank you my Chemo Princess - and thank you to all the Chemo Princesses out there that have survived breast cancer and live every day reaching their goals, achieving those milestones, and living... just living for tomorrow.
Do you know that I have dubbed you my Chemo Princess? The moment I laid eyes on you I felt like you saved me in some way. To be honest, I was just so relieved that there was already one bald woman at my gym! I still had my short pixie cut when I first noticed you. I hadn't even started chemo yet - I think I was still a week away from starting. I was on a mission to establish my exercise regimen. I had taken my oncologist's advice to heart: switch to a Mediterranean diet (it's the healthiest one out there), try to exercise about five days a week, and drink lots and lots of water - all the time. So there I was walking into our gym that I hadn't really been to since I had Alyssa. I'm seriously doubting myself. Could I commit to going to the gym regularly (even for just half an hour for five days)? Could I go to the gym once I started chemo? And could I go to the gym once I was bald? The moment I saw you, Chemo Princess, I realized... yes. You broke ground for me. Thank you.
Whatever your reason for being bald (chemo, chronic hair loss, personal preference), in my mind, you are my Chemo Princess. I have created a story in my head about you; I have molded you into an idol - someone to emulate, someone to inspire me at the gym; you are a tangible reminder to me that I am not alone in this fight. That here is someone right in front me - only three or four machines away - going through what I'm going through and you are kicking ass. Mile after mile you sweat away the effects of chemo; I can too. Mile after mile you flush yourself with water hydrating yourself back to health; I can too. Mile after mile you are closer and closer to your goal - whatever your finish line might be; I can do that too.
I don't know that I'll ever try to talk to you. I wonder if as I walk past you in the morning either with my scarf on or my bald head, if you wonder about me too. Whatever your real story is, you have already given me the greatest gift any stranger could - you are there. And you can be whoever I need you to be for me. Thank you my Chemo Princess - and thank you to all the Chemo Princesses out there that have survived breast cancer and live every day reaching their goals, achieving those milestones, and living... just living for tomorrow.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
More of the Same
That's what my doctor said on Thursday right after my nurse was done pushing the drugs through my system - more of the same. Glad to hear it. She meant, of course, that I would probably experience the same side-effects I did last time. She also said I was a fabulous patient - exercising, eating right, staying upbeat and positive. What she didn't warn me about was this: I caught a cold. So, little ol' cocky me thought that I was immune to catching the cold that everyone in the house has... of course, I wasn't going to catch it! My bone marrow has been making white blood cells like crazy. Of course, I caught it. And truth be told, my side effects from the chemo are more of the same, it's the cold that's giving me a hard time. I'm stuffy, congested, my brain's fuzzy and I'm tired.
On top of all this, I've no desire to eat fish. Except for tuna - for some reason. I love the smell of coffee, and citrus is my best friend. If I didn't know better I'd think I was pregnant (which I'm not), but it's like take two all over again! Well, more of the same is not so bad. I just want to be over this darn cold. More of the same is better than worse. And for that I'm grateful. A cold is a cold. I've handled that before and I can handle it again. Right? Yeah, despite my fuzzy brain and congested sinuses, I'm grateful for more of the same. Just no more colds in the house, ok?!
On top of all this, I've no desire to eat fish. Except for tuna - for some reason. I love the smell of coffee, and citrus is my best friend. If I didn't know better I'd think I was pregnant (which I'm not), but it's like take two all over again! Well, more of the same is not so bad. I just want to be over this darn cold. More of the same is better than worse. And for that I'm grateful. A cold is a cold. I've handled that before and I can handle it again. Right? Yeah, despite my fuzzy brain and congested sinuses, I'm grateful for more of the same. Just no more colds in the house, ok?!
Friday, January 28, 2011
100%
I've heard the expression "it's all about the numbers" many times since I started battling breast cancer. There's a lot of numbers during treatment - like how high your white blood cell count is, how many more chemo sessions to go, how many days left until I get my life back again. There's also numbers involved in the everyday - like feeling just 90% of myself in terms of energy, enthusiasm, and well-being. As with most types of adversity, there's usually little mention of 100%. For example, you never hear "we are 100% sure", or "there's a 100% chance", and certainly, it's hard to ever just feel 100%. Except today...
Today, surprisingly, of all days - I felt 100%. Really. I felt I had 100% energy, and that I was 100% positive, and even 100% normal. That's the oddest part. Because of all days to feel normal, today was the day I least expected it. I started this day nervous and borderline petrified. I was going to shave all my hair off. I was taking the bull by the horns and not waiting for my hair to fall out - it was coming out on my terms. But despite the bravado I wanted to run for the hills. I told myself it would be OK to cry as the hair came off. I gave myself permission to cry. But I wasn't prepared to feel the exact opposite emotion. I wasn't prepared to find my bald self pleasing to look at. I certainly wasn't prepared to feel liberated. I've heard many gorgeous, brave women say to me - bald is beautiful and bald is liberating. Deep down a part of me thought they only said that to boost my spirits. But it's true. They were right - it truly is liberating! And the part of my identity that I thought was tied to my hair... well, funny, but when I look in the mirror I actually find myself fascinatingly beautiful without hair. (And I've actually never said, let alone thought that about myself - even when I had a full luscious head of hair!)
I had a day that started out anything but normal: my friend and stylist Tony shaved off all my hair with my husband full of love and support looking on, and my friend Paula - a survivor and successful warrior who came with liquid luck (mimosas) and croissants to toast the experience. And then I drove Dennis to the airport for a business trip. Came home to have lunch with the baby and my Mom. Worked and then late afternoon had the car cleaned, met up with Paula again for coffee and girl talk, and then bought some groceries. The latter half of my day was composed of mostly mundane yet blissfully normal events. And as I sat in my car waiting at a red light as I drove home with my groceries, it just hit me - for once, I felt great. I felt normal. I felt 100%. Wow. Today, I felt 100% truly me.
Today, surprisingly, of all days - I felt 100%. Really. I felt I had 100% energy, and that I was 100% positive, and even 100% normal. That's the oddest part. Because of all days to feel normal, today was the day I least expected it. I started this day nervous and borderline petrified. I was going to shave all my hair off. I was taking the bull by the horns and not waiting for my hair to fall out - it was coming out on my terms. But despite the bravado I wanted to run for the hills. I told myself it would be OK to cry as the hair came off. I gave myself permission to cry. But I wasn't prepared to feel the exact opposite emotion. I wasn't prepared to find my bald self pleasing to look at. I certainly wasn't prepared to feel liberated. I've heard many gorgeous, brave women say to me - bald is beautiful and bald is liberating. Deep down a part of me thought they only said that to boost my spirits. But it's true. They were right - it truly is liberating! And the part of my identity that I thought was tied to my hair... well, funny, but when I look in the mirror I actually find myself fascinatingly beautiful without hair. (And I've actually never said, let alone thought that about myself - even when I had a full luscious head of hair!)
I had a day that started out anything but normal: my friend and stylist Tony shaved off all my hair with my husband full of love and support looking on, and my friend Paula - a survivor and successful warrior who came with liquid luck (mimosas) and croissants to toast the experience. And then I drove Dennis to the airport for a business trip. Came home to have lunch with the baby and my Mom. Worked and then late afternoon had the car cleaned, met up with Paula again for coffee and girl talk, and then bought some groceries. The latter half of my day was composed of mostly mundane yet blissfully normal events. And as I sat in my car waiting at a red light as I drove home with my groceries, it just hit me - for once, I felt great. I felt normal. I felt 100%. Wow. Today, I felt 100% truly me.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Down Days
Soon after I was diagnosed with breast cancer a very good friend said two very important things to me: the first - "You will be fine, and even in the worst case scenario, you will still be fine!" The second - "You will get through this; it will be hard, and there will be some dark moments, but you will get through this."
I take those words to heart and hug them close to me on good days, and down days... like today. I feel fine today. I went to the gym, went to the office, I have an appetite, and I'm able to work. But my brain is fuzzy, my stomach is queasy, and I'm tired too. And as the day wears on I feel more and more tired. I don't like this. I don't like not having energy. I don't like not being focused. I don't like the thought of months and months of treatment still stretching out before me. I am definitely having a down day.
But then I think a down day for me could very likely be a really good day for someone else. I can think of two people in particular. On the news this morning I heard that Rep. Gabby Giffords (the Congresswoman from Arizona who was shot in the head weeks ago) was being moved to rehab. Hooray for her for getting to leave the hospital, and yet for her, recovery is going to take longer than a few months - it may take years. But undoubtedly, today was a good day for her. There's also this guy at the Fullerton Avenue on-ramp towards downtown Chicago that I see almost everyday. He wears a full orange jumpsuit over what seems to be many layers of sweaters underneath. He wears a dingy beard and cap and carries a sign asking people to spare him some change. I don't know what his story is, but on the occasion I've reached out to give him something it's occurred to me how hard it must be to ask for money from strangers holed up in their heated vehicles, many trying to avoid his gaze. Whatever his story is, that's no way to spend a frigid winter day in Chicago. And yet, when someone does roll down a window to hand him some change, he smiles and politely says thank you and have a nice day. That would be a good day for him.
I know I'm entitled to my down days. I know it's OK for me to let myself feel down on my down days. But it doesn't really help to sulk; it doesn't make me feel any better. So instead, I'll tell myself that my down day is a good day for many people in worse situations than I'm in. Because really, in a couple of hours I'll be sitting next to my husband, my best friend as he picks me up from work; I'll be hugging my giggling, squirmy, beautiful princess of a daughter; and I'll be coming home to my Mom who has put her life on hold to be with me during this time. Bit by bit, I'm sure this down day will start to turn into a good day for me too.
I take those words to heart and hug them close to me on good days, and down days... like today. I feel fine today. I went to the gym, went to the office, I have an appetite, and I'm able to work. But my brain is fuzzy, my stomach is queasy, and I'm tired too. And as the day wears on I feel more and more tired. I don't like this. I don't like not having energy. I don't like not being focused. I don't like the thought of months and months of treatment still stretching out before me. I am definitely having a down day.
But then I think a down day for me could very likely be a really good day for someone else. I can think of two people in particular. On the news this morning I heard that Rep. Gabby Giffords (the Congresswoman from Arizona who was shot in the head weeks ago) was being moved to rehab. Hooray for her for getting to leave the hospital, and yet for her, recovery is going to take longer than a few months - it may take years. But undoubtedly, today was a good day for her. There's also this guy at the Fullerton Avenue on-ramp towards downtown Chicago that I see almost everyday. He wears a full orange jumpsuit over what seems to be many layers of sweaters underneath. He wears a dingy beard and cap and carries a sign asking people to spare him some change. I don't know what his story is, but on the occasion I've reached out to give him something it's occurred to me how hard it must be to ask for money from strangers holed up in their heated vehicles, many trying to avoid his gaze. Whatever his story is, that's no way to spend a frigid winter day in Chicago. And yet, when someone does roll down a window to hand him some change, he smiles and politely says thank you and have a nice day. That would be a good day for him.
I know I'm entitled to my down days. I know it's OK for me to let myself feel down on my down days. But it doesn't really help to sulk; it doesn't make me feel any better. So instead, I'll tell myself that my down day is a good day for many people in worse situations than I'm in. Because really, in a couple of hours I'll be sitting next to my husband, my best friend as he picks me up from work; I'll be hugging my giggling, squirmy, beautiful princess of a daughter; and I'll be coming home to my Mom who has put her life on hold to be with me during this time. Bit by bit, I'm sure this down day will start to turn into a good day for me too.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
"Who Wouldn't Love a Diva?!"
"Who wouldn't love a diva?" were the parting words of my IV therapy nurse, Victoria, as I finished my first session of chemo today. The whole experience was so normal it was surreal. Dennis, my Mom and I arrived at the hospital shortly after 8am. First thing I did was run to the restroom as I'd been drinking water like crazy all yesterday and this morning. Before they even started my chemo meds I had to go again! Everything happened as they said it would - they took my vitals (they base how much meds I get on my height and weight); they poked me to start an IV line; then they led me to a comfy chair along with Dennis and Mom (who proceeded to bust out the computer and Harry Potter book, respectively); they gave me anti-nausea meds (in pill form) and then we sat around and chatted for a half hour or so. Finally, the medication (two kinds) came in a total of six syringes (three of each). They were manually pushed through my IV line by Victoria - the whole time we were chatting and having fun. I chewed on ice chips for the first fifteen minutes and then switched to a popsicle for the last fifteen. Victoria and I were joking around so much other nurses joined in the fun.
We talked business of course - things like what I'm doing to cope and all that - which is how we came to talk about this blog. I mentioned starting this as an outlet, among other things I had in place. Victoria gave me tips on what to expect in the coming days. Amazingly though I did not experience any of the immediate side effects: no puffiness, congested feeling around my nose and forehead; no immediate nausea; no feeling of warmth running through my body. Oddly, what I did experience right after we wrapped up was: hunger (which is why I had a huge bowl of seafood fried rice soon after); sustained energy (enough that we stopped by Whole Foods after lunch; St. John Berchmans for a brief visit; came home, chilled for a bit, then changed into work out clothes and went to the gym for half an hour); and then stopped by Target before picking up Alyssa at daycare. Tonight though after this quite full day, I feel tired and my tummy feels like I've drunk too much water (which is entirely possible as evidenced by more visits to the bathroom than when I was pregnant!).
So how am I coping? Pretty well for day one I think. There's a few more days to go of course and I'm projecting that I will do well. I'm projecting, as my friend Paula said to me this morning, that the meds are a magic potion that's coursing through my body cleansing and healing me. I'm projecting that I've taken great strides prior to today to help my body be healthy and cope with the effects of chemo. I'm projecting that I will be OK. After all, I'm a diva and who wouldn't love me? Even cancer fighting meds will hopefully give me a break, right?!
We talked business of course - things like what I'm doing to cope and all that - which is how we came to talk about this blog. I mentioned starting this as an outlet, among other things I had in place. Victoria gave me tips on what to expect in the coming days. Amazingly though I did not experience any of the immediate side effects: no puffiness, congested feeling around my nose and forehead; no immediate nausea; no feeling of warmth running through my body. Oddly, what I did experience right after we wrapped up was: hunger (which is why I had a huge bowl of seafood fried rice soon after); sustained energy (enough that we stopped by Whole Foods after lunch; St. John Berchmans for a brief visit; came home, chilled for a bit, then changed into work out clothes and went to the gym for half an hour); and then stopped by Target before picking up Alyssa at daycare. Tonight though after this quite full day, I feel tired and my tummy feels like I've drunk too much water (which is entirely possible as evidenced by more visits to the bathroom than when I was pregnant!).
So how am I coping? Pretty well for day one I think. There's a few more days to go of course and I'm projecting that I will do well. I'm projecting, as my friend Paula said to me this morning, that the meds are a magic potion that's coursing through my body cleansing and healing me. I'm projecting that I've taken great strides prior to today to help my body be healthy and cope with the effects of chemo. I'm projecting that I will be OK. After all, I'm a diva and who wouldn't love me? Even cancer fighting meds will hopefully give me a break, right?!
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
The Cost of My Care
I could turn this post into a lengthy rant about our healthcare system (since that's the current favorite topic on the news and talk shows right now), but I won't. Instead, I'll share some information with you about my treatment: On the day after each session of chemo (for the first four sessions) I will be receiving a shot that will tell my bone marrow to make more white blood cells. This shot is meant to keep my immune system from weakening. That is one talented type of medication - and for it's price, it had better darn be! I almost fell out of my seat today when the pharmacy person I was speaking to told me that the shot costs $3,000! Three thousand dollars! For one shot. Yeah.
So where am I going with this? Well, just that I am one lucky lady to have health insurance. I'm one lucky lady to work at an organization that chooses to provide its employees with the best health insurance it can afford (yes, that's right, I'm plugging my office). I'm one lucky lady to be in a location where I can get the best treatment around - and that I don't have to move or temporarily relocate in order to get it. I'm one lucky diva. And I don't say that tongue in cheek. I mean it. The cost of my care - just looking at what the insurance company is covering - is enormous. So I feel truly blessed that I don't have to worry about it. Others, however, are not so fortunate.
Back home in the Philippines, my Mom volunteers for the local hospice organization - the Madre de Amor Foundation. For years now she has served cancer patients who have no means to afford their care. One patient's story stands out for me - a young woman named Evangeline Clemente. She had breast cancer too. When she found out, she was only a stage I. Stage I is super early. But she had no money; no insurance; no way to cover the cost of her care. So she went about her life, living with the cancer growing inside her. By the time she became a hospice patient, under my Mom's care, she was stage IV and didn't have long to live. When I first heard about Evangeline, I was heartbroken. No one, and I repeat no one should die from breast cancer when diagnosed at stage I.
So what do I take away from Evangeline's story? She helps me put things in perspective. She helps me realize that here I am - one very lucky cancer-fighting-take-no-prisoners-diva: I have all that I need to fight back and succeed. I have NO EXCUSE to feel defeated, to lose hope, to lose faith. I do have EVERY EXCUSE to fight, to have faith, to have hope, to live. The cost of my care isn't just what the insurance company covers. The cost of my care is the investment of every single family member, friend and countless brave survivors in ME. You have all put your love, hope, and faith in me. I cannot fail. I will not fail. For you, for Dennis, for Alyssa, for my Mom, and for Evangeline and other women like her - I will succeed. I promise.
So where am I going with this? Well, just that I am one lucky lady to have health insurance. I'm one lucky lady to work at an organization that chooses to provide its employees with the best health insurance it can afford (yes, that's right, I'm plugging my office). I'm one lucky lady to be in a location where I can get the best treatment around - and that I don't have to move or temporarily relocate in order to get it. I'm one lucky diva. And I don't say that tongue in cheek. I mean it. The cost of my care - just looking at what the insurance company is covering - is enormous. So I feel truly blessed that I don't have to worry about it. Others, however, are not so fortunate.
Back home in the Philippines, my Mom volunteers for the local hospice organization - the Madre de Amor Foundation. For years now she has served cancer patients who have no means to afford their care. One patient's story stands out for me - a young woman named Evangeline Clemente. She had breast cancer too. When she found out, she was only a stage I. Stage I is super early. But she had no money; no insurance; no way to cover the cost of her care. So she went about her life, living with the cancer growing inside her. By the time she became a hospice patient, under my Mom's care, she was stage IV and didn't have long to live. When I first heard about Evangeline, I was heartbroken. No one, and I repeat no one should die from breast cancer when diagnosed at stage I.
So what do I take away from Evangeline's story? She helps me put things in perspective. She helps me realize that here I am - one very lucky cancer-fighting-take-no-prisoners-diva: I have all that I need to fight back and succeed. I have NO EXCUSE to feel defeated, to lose hope, to lose faith. I do have EVERY EXCUSE to fight, to have faith, to have hope, to live. The cost of my care isn't just what the insurance company covers. The cost of my care is the investment of every single family member, friend and countless brave survivors in ME. You have all put your love, hope, and faith in me. I cannot fail. I will not fail. For you, for Dennis, for Alyssa, for my Mom, and for Evangeline and other women like her - I will succeed. I promise.
Friday, January 14, 2011
My Hair... My Identity?
Today I am finally even - in the boob department, that is. Let me explain: I got my prosthetic boob today, complete with two new bras! I love my fake boob. It's heavy, like a boob should be heavy. It's squishy, like a boob should be squishy. And in the mirror I look even, like having two boobs should look. (Insert requisite *sigh* here.)
So I feel good. I've got my fake boob. I'm regaining my range of motion for my right arm with the help of my physical therapist. I feel energetic, upbeat, and ready to tackle the next phase of my treatment: chemo. So why then am I so anxious about one side-effect? Why is the prospect of my hair falling out so upsetting to me? Mind you, I have taken steps to prepare for this. I took the bull by the horns and cut my hair short about two weeks ago. I bought my very realistic, very expensive wig (even wore it to the office a couple of times this past week just to get used to it). I've even got girlfriends throwing me a hat and scarf party at the end of the month (ironically, on the day my hair is supposed to start falling out according to my doctor). And yet, here I am, deep down; honest to God truth; lay it out there for all of you to see - really dreading hair loss.
At the heart of it all is the understanding that for the longest time my hair has been a big part of my outward identity. I love my hair. I love taking care of it. I love having it styled, cut, coiffed, you name it, I love it. But that's a very small part of my identity. And yet, it's a part that a lot of people see. People who know me, and those who don't. Am I bothered by the fact that people who don't know me and who'll see the bald head will know I'm battling cancer? Why should I be bothered? It's a mark of a warrior in a worthwhile battle. Am I bothered because I don't want to see pity in other people's eyes? But what is wrong with pity? When I feel sorry for someone my heart goes out to them. I don't look down on them. I fervently wish that they didn't have to go through whatever it is they are going through. I feel for them. So am I bothered, as a fellow survivor put it, because I will finally look the way a breast cancer patient looks? Maybe that's it. I have overcome some of the most emotional aspects of being diagnosed with breast cancer by mentally battling this disease. I have learned that ninety percent of this battle is in my head. I have looked myself in the mirror many times and had many honest conversations - but always the person who looked back at me never looked like she had breast cancer.
The truth comes out: I do not want to look like I have breast cancer. And I don't. Instead, I look like I am battling cancer so that it can never have a chance to come back. I am fighting. So, standing in front of that mirror again, I say to myself these words: My hair is not who I am. It is not the core of me. I am happy and hopeful. I am caring and loving. I am optimistic and positive. I am resilient and strong. I am a fighter. I am all these things; these things are my identity... with or without my hair.
So I feel good. I've got my fake boob. I'm regaining my range of motion for my right arm with the help of my physical therapist. I feel energetic, upbeat, and ready to tackle the next phase of my treatment: chemo. So why then am I so anxious about one side-effect? Why is the prospect of my hair falling out so upsetting to me? Mind you, I have taken steps to prepare for this. I took the bull by the horns and cut my hair short about two weeks ago. I bought my very realistic, very expensive wig (even wore it to the office a couple of times this past week just to get used to it). I've even got girlfriends throwing me a hat and scarf party at the end of the month (ironically, on the day my hair is supposed to start falling out according to my doctor). And yet, here I am, deep down; honest to God truth; lay it out there for all of you to see - really dreading hair loss.
At the heart of it all is the understanding that for the longest time my hair has been a big part of my outward identity. I love my hair. I love taking care of it. I love having it styled, cut, coiffed, you name it, I love it. But that's a very small part of my identity. And yet, it's a part that a lot of people see. People who know me, and those who don't. Am I bothered by the fact that people who don't know me and who'll see the bald head will know I'm battling cancer? Why should I be bothered? It's a mark of a warrior in a worthwhile battle. Am I bothered because I don't want to see pity in other people's eyes? But what is wrong with pity? When I feel sorry for someone my heart goes out to them. I don't look down on them. I fervently wish that they didn't have to go through whatever it is they are going through. I feel for them. So am I bothered, as a fellow survivor put it, because I will finally look the way a breast cancer patient looks? Maybe that's it. I have overcome some of the most emotional aspects of being diagnosed with breast cancer by mentally battling this disease. I have learned that ninety percent of this battle is in my head. I have looked myself in the mirror many times and had many honest conversations - but always the person who looked back at me never looked like she had breast cancer.
The truth comes out: I do not want to look like I have breast cancer. And I don't. Instead, I look like I am battling cancer so that it can never have a chance to come back. I am fighting. So, standing in front of that mirror again, I say to myself these words: My hair is not who I am. It is not the core of me. I am happy and hopeful. I am caring and loving. I am optimistic and positive. I am resilient and strong. I am a fighter. I am all these things; these things are my identity... with or without my hair.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
No Choice But to Be Amazing
I have no choice but to BE amazing. That's the conclusion I've come to as I battle breast cancer. Everyone has been so supportive of me; everyone has been telling me how amazing I am - to be so brave, to be so strong, to be so resilient. Thank you, thank you, thank you! But really, I literally have NO CHOICE other than to be amazing! I have to be brave... for Alyssa, for Dennis, for me. I have to be strong... for Alyssa, for Dennis, for me. And I have to be resilient... for Alyssa, for Dennis, for me.
Little did I know when the 2010 holiday season came around that I would be facing the biggest challenge of my life. And here I am - in the thick of it. How have I been dealing with it? How do I plan to deal with it? I will write about it. I will express how I feel. I will chronicle the ups and downs of this battle - this battle that I consider to be already WON because that's where I want to be, that's where I am. A good friend, and a fellow survivor said to me, it's like climbing a mountain: it's tough as hell to get up to the peak, and along the way there will seem like moments when you don't think you can go on, but then you push just a little bit more and are rewarded with the most beautiful sight for all your trouble. And what do you have to look forward to afterward? The amazingly wonderful and easy trip back down.
I hope you'll follow me on my trip up to Mt. Amazing. Thank you in advance for reaching out a helping hand; for cheering me on; and for standing at the top waving to me, reminding me how beautiful the view is up there!
Little did I know when the 2010 holiday season came around that I would be facing the biggest challenge of my life. And here I am - in the thick of it. How have I been dealing with it? How do I plan to deal with it? I will write about it. I will express how I feel. I will chronicle the ups and downs of this battle - this battle that I consider to be already WON because that's where I want to be, that's where I am. A good friend, and a fellow survivor said to me, it's like climbing a mountain: it's tough as hell to get up to the peak, and along the way there will seem like moments when you don't think you can go on, but then you push just a little bit more and are rewarded with the most beautiful sight for all your trouble. And what do you have to look forward to afterward? The amazingly wonderful and easy trip back down.
I hope you'll follow me on my trip up to Mt. Amazing. Thank you in advance for reaching out a helping hand; for cheering me on; and for standing at the top waving to me, reminding me how beautiful the view is up there!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)