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.

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.

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?!