The Much Longed For Five Year Mark!

Today was my day to hear results from my CT scan. Everything was clear and looking good. I was worried because I had been anemic. I tested positive for blood in my stool. My colonoscopy was clear. But because of the anemia, they did an upper scope, where they saw mucus (fatty liver doctor had a fancy word for this). Then they decided to do a camera pill endoscopy. I'm not good at swallowing pills so that was an anxiety producing procedure. I was able to swallow it and (possible TMI alert) saw the blinking flash of the camera after I passed it. That didn't show any definitive answer. The fatty liver doctor thought my bleeding might be due to anastomosis. I'm no doctor, but when I looked that word up, I decided that was probably not the problem. By the time my team finally got together and discussed this, they also decided that wasn't the problem, because the surgery had been done so long ago.

By the time they arrived at the conclusion that this looked like dried blood (how can it be dry in such a wet environment?) my anemia had disappeared and I was back on track. They told me the blood could have been old, could have been from a hard stool, or severe diarrhea (again, maybe TMI for the average person). Keep in mind, I never saw any blood. I was anemic. They had to check it out.

It's hard when these possibilities are being discussed, when it feels like they take so long to let the patient know what is going on. This patient has an active imagination and has to do a lot of pre-worrying, and is generally convinced that this will be the time they are going to come back and tell her she's a goner for sure.

The patient firmly believes she finally got a direct answer from the fatty liver doctor because, after sending several patiently polite emails, she sent an email saying she assumed this was not a matter that need to be taken care of in a timely manner. Patient also mentioned that she was having trouble quelling her anxiety about that might be happening with her body.

Also, this patient loosened up on her healthy eating habits and was not as active as she had been. To be fair, the holidays are a challenge to most of us when it comes to trying to keep healthy habits. Additionally, this patient is sure everyone has noticed the entire world seems to be in a dark place right now. The patient might have spent a moment or two wondering "what's the point?"

I read somewhere about a hockey coach/player who had colon cancer. He was going through chemo and had decided he'd had quite enough. But he talked it over with his wife and he thought about how it was for him with hockey—when down 7-1, he still played to the end. That's what I want to remember, to play to the end. I sat around a little too much and I ate far too many sweets over the holidays (and before, if I am honest). I got discouraged and thought I'd never get to this five year mark, thought "They" would always find something else. Yet, here I am, having made it. And now I need to remember that even if I am down 7-1, I need—I want—to play to the end. The sad thing is, I've never actually even been down 7-1! That problem has always been only in my head, a product of my over-active and melodramatic imagination!

 

Today I was grateful and maybe a bit surprised when they told me I was ready to move to survivor care. I no longer have to do yearly CT scans and I only need to do colonoscopies every five years.

I came out with mixed feelings. I have a colonoscopy scheduled for April. I still need to work on getting back on the eating healthier and exercising regularly wagon. I still have several years of mammograms to get through before I'm ready for survivor care with breast cancer.

I felt whiny, felt like I was saying in my head, but, I still have all these other things hanging over my head. It's true. I have that and more hanging over my head. BUT, the word I need to use is not "but," it's AND. 

I'm still working on my breast cancer issues. I still need to work on building stronger bones. AND, I am a five year colon cancer survivor.

Spring Haiku and Dem Bones

One lonely azalea

blooming where she is planted

harbinger of spring

 At one time, I had a redbud tree in our front yard that was my harbinger of spring. Sadly, we had to cut it down. This weekend when I saw this single bloom on our (huge) azalea bush, I was reminded that spring is indeed on her way to us.

I've been working on my "build bone density" plan. I have a chart and every day I fill in the square on the things that I have done on my list. I've had to accept that I'll never do it perfectly and that just because I won't do it perfectly does not mean I should sit down and not even try. On some days, that is the temptation--to sit. This feels like an uphill battle and I am working on climbing that hill.

I've talked with our wellness person at work. She is helping me set up a strength training routine. I"m grateful to have that resource. I'm often surprised that more people around me do not take advantage of the various things the wellness person can help with. I'm doing that twice a week and hope to soon move up to three times a week.

Since we've switched to daylight savings time, I'm trying to walk 30 minutes 5 times a week (wellness lady's "prescription"). That gets me the 150 active minutes recommended by whoever recommends stuff like that! I may get back to playing tennis. It's been so long. I am afraid I won't have the stamina needed to play three sets (or 30 minutes, whichever comes first), much less do three 30 minute rounds.

Bumps in the Road

It's my birthday month. January was my checkup month (the first one of 2019, there will be more). For a month now, I have been pondering the news I was given at my last visit. The medicine I take to protect me from recurrence of breast cancer causes low bone density. I do not (yet) have osteoporosis but I do have osteopenia. They want to start me on bone medicine. The doctor (bone expert) prefers Prolia injections. He made it all sound so safe and simple. I resent him not being forthcoming with me. I want to give him "what for" and tell him how rushed I felt when I saw him. I wish I'd seen him before I saw my breast people. I feel like she would have taken time to talk things out with me. She did call me back after I left a message but the phone call felt rushed too.

I've been looking around and that stuff comes with some heavy duty (possible) side effects. Maybe none of them will affect me. But if they do, it could be debilitating. I think the truth of the matter is the people recommending this stuff do not really know what all it can do or how long it stays in your system. It does seem to help increase bone density. I mean, it's made from something in the ovaries of genetically engineered Chines hamsters, what could go wrong?

I've joined a Facebook group of people who have been on the injections or are considering the injections. Someone on the group mentioned dried plums (prunes) being good for building bone density. The study was sponsored by the plum folks so I'm taking it all with a grain of salt. But I have a little time before I have to decide what to do. I have a few options. None of them are all that great. For now, I believe I'm going to try the prunes (6-8 per day, a nice sweet little snack!), and get back with my regular walking program, along with a few other helpful things. We'll see how it goes.

The thing is, what good will it do me to not have a recurrence of breast cancer if I am laid down by this medicine? Granted, maybe that won't happen to me. Maybe it will all be just fine. But if it's not, what then? I've said I don't know how to make this decision. I've talked to a few friends. My GP is not at all alarmed by the prospect and praised Prolia. I have an appointment next week with our wellness nurse at work. I've laid things out for her in an email. I just want to talk about possible consequences of my choices.

This has been a discouraging development. I feel a bit like a lamb being led to the slaughter. I probably can't ignore osteoporosis but maybe I can live with osteopenia a little longer. The bone doctor says I'll likely have osteoporosis in six months.

I came across this Thoughtograph/thang when I was transferring files from my old laptop to my new one (let me say I now understand why they want a hundred bucks to transfer files over from old to new). I feel as uncertain as I have ever felt in this journey.

"Statistically Significant"

Earlier this week I went to MD Anderson, where I did blood work and had a bone density scan. The medicine I am taking to protect me from the return of the breast cancer affects bone density (thanks, Arimidex). The medicine is "a hormonal treatment that helps fight breast cancer by lowing the amount of estrogen in the body." Estrogen is rather necessary for strong bones.

My "statistically significant" numbers had not moved in the direction I'd hoped they would move. So I will return in six months to see My Colon People and My Breast People. I will see My Liver People, including the Livid Liver Lady, in April. Gosh, I hope I haven't forgotten anyone. I will also have to forge a new relationship with The Bone People. I'm sure they are friends I haven't met yet.

My PA told me she has seen women increase their bone density. She made suggestions. The last thing I told her was that I felt like a challenge had been issued.

Deep inside I am disappointed and discouraged. The odds are stacked against me. I've done a lot of reading about ways to increase bone density (you sure can find a lot of quack-a-doodles when you search for health issues/solutions). For me to expect a positive change as soon as six months is probably not realistic. One might be inclined to think "Why bother? I'm fighting a losing battle." I am not that one.

I'm positive I'm not the first cancer patient caught between a rock and a hard place. I could choose to go off the Arimidex. Plenty of women have done so because of intolerable side effects. One night I woke up due to pain in both of my hands. That pain comes and goes. Lots of times it feels like I've caught a fast thrown hard ball without a glove. I decided I could live with that. 

Closer to the surface, I am feeling hopeful. I know I need a plan. I will need to set goals, track my progress, and actually meet those goals. I can't afford to be lackadaisical about this. I need to charge full on at this beast. The doing is the hard part. I have ideas on what I could do. I'm already doing a lot of the right things. I need to be more intentional with those actions. I've brainstormed and written a list of ideas to help myself improve my health. Just need to keep on moving toward better health.

“The most effective way to do it is to do it.” --Amelia Earhart

Regrets

I was in a room somewhere, staring out at the Houston skyline, trying to think neutral thoughts for my last EKG done with the relaxation study people.

According to my husband, she plopped down in the chair next to his and asked, "Are you a patient here?" He was in the process of answering the woman when I came walking up. We introduced ourselves, the woman and I, she'd already introduced herself to my husband, and started telling our respective cancer stories. She'd had breast cancer around six years ago and now it was back, in her lungs and in her blood.  Her right arm was completely bandaged due to complications with lymphedema. Her left arm was swollen almost to bursting, it seemed to me. She mentioned the word "metastisized. I don't consider that a good or hopeful word (though I could be wrong, having cancer three times doesn't actually make me an expert).

(Let me insert this right here: If you're smart, when someone says they have breast cancer and it was estrogen positive, as yours is, and it came back after the sixth year, you will remind yourself that her story is not your story. Same thing with colon cancer stories. Don't even bother to compare. Every single cancer story has its own differences, along with similarities. But just don't think that just because this or that happened to her or to him, it will also happen to you. Back to the original story now...)

We talked about a lot of things in a short time. She'd been a nurse. We talked about sleeping and how she couldn't get situated at night due to a couple of broken ribs on the left and not being able to sleep on the right because of the lymphedema. She told us about a place that might do laser surgery on carpal tunnel syndrome.

She lives in the area we lived in when we were living in Houston, very close to NASA and on the water. What a small world it is.

We got around to the subject of art when she asked me about the relaxation study and we talked about the things that helped us to relax. She flat out said it, "I'm an artist"! We talked about how art soothes and calms us. She excitedly told me about how they'd converted her garage into a studio for her. She was most thrilled about having a sink! But she also got a full bathroom, with a shower. I told her a garage studio was my secret dream.

I'd already talked too long. I had to get to my next appointment. She was so engaging. I could have talked longer. I could have walked down to the coffee shop with her and visited all afternoon. We would have had so much to talk about, I just know it.

How I regret that I did not have the courage to just ask her if she would like to exchange emails so maybe we could keep in touch. 

Her name was Bess. 

Thresholds (and Horizons)

I go back to MD Anderson every 3-4 months for checkups. During the between times, I really don't think much at all about my history of cancer. But each time, as the time for the appointments gets closer, I do start to think and fret, just a little bit, over what they might find. I wonder whether or not the cancer has come back. I'm a realist, the return is always a possibility. I don't want to have a fatalistic attitude about the possibility, but I also never want to breeze in to my checkups with the mindset that this is a problem that has been completely and totally obliterated.

Sometimes I get aggravated about having to go back so often, about having to take so many days off work to go get checked out. It's just part of the process. And the times between appointments will eventually get longer, if I keep having clear scans. But right now, the 3-4 months seem to pass so quickly and I feel like I'm going again when I just returned from being checked! I'd like to put it all out of my mind and my sight and just move on with my life. Like it was before the cancer. Every time I go back, I am reminded of the vulnerable state of my health.

I've been thinking about thresholds this month. This past week, while I was in Houston, showing up for various tests and appointments, I realized, that's all this is--another threshold that I happen to be standing on. There is no need for me to fret or worry or resent having to stand here on this particular threshold. Every single time I stand on this or any other threshold, there is a horizon beckoning. I might not know what's waiting out there in the distance but it's always something and all I have to do is keep walking my path toward the beckoning horizon. 

We all have thresholds where we stand and look toward the horizon. I'm not the only one who has unpleasant and uncomfortable thresholds to cross (and cross again). I've decided I'm going to release the view of myself as vulnerable to my health. I am vulnerable to my health, to my own mortality, but so is everyone else so why should I whine about the vulnerability always being "in my face"? Lord knows I'm not near as vulnerable as some. I am more aware than some. But there is no need for me to whine and complain about it. The dang checkups are a part of my new normal now. I'll live with them and accept them as best I can. I decided early on that things like this can surely shape me, but they will not define me.

(All was clear this time around. I still have to go back in February for the breast cancer checkup, and return again in a few months for the colon checkup. I don't go back for a liver check until next January!)

"One never reaches a horizon...To move toward a horizon is simply to have a new horizon." James P. Carse

"Every horizon, upon being reached, reveals another beckoning in the distance. Always, I am on the threshold. W. Eugene Smith

The Problem With Radiation

One of the trickier things for me during the radiation process was navigating the radiation waiting room. The room (hallway might be a more accurate term, since it was open on both ends) was probably 12-14 feet long and maybe 8 or 9 feet across. There were chairs lined up all in a row on both sides with small tables located somewhat in the middle of the row that held books and magazines. One of the tables had an unplugged CD/radio combo sitting on it. Thankfully (for me, at least) there was no television.  There were a few inspirational things hanging on the wall and a bulletin board with all kinds of notes and messages for the staff, a collection of thank yous that I assume were built up over the years and had to be stuck somewhere.

There was a clock on the wall that I nearly tore off the wall and stomped to pieces one day when I was the only one waiting. The ticking was so loud and rudely intruded upon my thoughts. But most of the time there were other women around, waiting their turn with the Machine.

The tricky thing was that I never really knew how to behave, always had to wonder, "is it going to be an introvert day or an extrovert day?" I'm not good at initiating conversations so if the tone was left up to me it was always an introvert day. I'd come in, maybe the other woman (women) would look up and we'd make eye contact and maybe utter a small greeting, then we'd each disappear back into our own heads, or old magazines, silently waiting to be called.

Other days, I'd arrive and there would be hearty greetings and talk about the traffic coming in to the hospital, or about home and when we would return, or how many treatments we had left. In the beginning I heard a couple of women talking about the "red devil" chemo treatment. Inside I was horrified and grateful I didn't have to deal with that. Many times, I also felt slightly guilty over still having my hair.

I joked with a friend that on the days the waiting area was crowded my space was going to be invaded by someone sitting in the chair next to me. She laughed and said they were just friends I hadn't yet met.
Maybe true but the time was so fleeting.

I had a brief encounter a couple of days with this woman who seemed to be a little bit older than me. She usually wore all black and had a lithe body. When she told me she did Zumba 6 days a week, I told her I'd have a tough time with Zumba because I have no rhythm and can't dance. She answered that people say that but it's just like painting or other art, anyone can do it. They just have to practice and let go of...and then she was called back for her appointment. Dang it. After that, the story I built in my head about her was that maybe she was a dancer before, an eccentric artsy-fartsy type of woman who was very secure in herself and her body. I think I would have liked to have gotten to know her better.

There were others too. But only small snippets of conversation and a shared threat hold me to them. We never even exchanged names.

Still, I wonder sometimes how they are all doing.

Artful Play

This is a potato vine I have growing in a glass of water in the window. It has strong healthy roots. It's time to take it out and plant it in the ground.

I've been playing more with watercolors. The tree is a poorly rendered sketch of the rain tree we planted in our son's memory. The lettering was added via an app on my phone.

For several reasons, I'm toying with the idea of taking a Facebook sabbatical during the month of August. One thing I'd hope is that I'd devote more time to posting here on the blog. The other thing I'd hope is that I'd finally get brave enough to share my blog on Facebook. It's beginning to seem silly not to.

Life continues on. I'm recovering from the side effects of the radiation. I played tennis one night this week, the first time in over two months. I've started the new medicine that I will be taking for 5-10 years, added vitamin D and calcium to my pill regime, and I'm still trying to figure out what I'm supposed to be doing now that this latest chapter is behind me. :)

A Time to Go Home

I brought a limited number of art supplies with me to have things to do while I waited to be radiated again. I did a few things, one of them being that I played around with watercolor. I started out trying to do this from a silk flower and then things got out of control so I quit looking at the flower and went on and finished it up as best I could! I'm not great at any painting/sketching/drawing stuff but I do like to play around with it. It seems to relax me.

I am in the control group of a relaxation study at MD Anderson. The control group gets no input on relaxing. We just supply data in the form of questionnaires and sleep logs filled out. Today I had to do an EKG while trying to think neutral thoughts. They always have you keep your eyes open and you look at a picture on the wall. Today I was analyzing in my head how I would go about painting the picture which happened to be a watercolor print. I suppose that was neutral thinking!

Today I played around and painted this girl/woman. I'm beginning to think watercolor is about being willing to be loose and to lose a little bit of control. I'm having fun with it. She looked like she might have something to say and I tried to listen hard to what she might be saying. I really couldn't come up with anything other than "She was never alone." But I didn't really like that.

I remembered a "quick poem" my friend Connie had written and thought that might be what the girl/woman might be wanting me to remember.

So I added the poem and I like it. It seems a fitting reminder for me as I finish my last radiation treatment tomorrow and head back home to my more normal routine. My aunt has taken real good care of me and I've enjoyed being here with her. I've also gotten to spend time visiting with my sister who is recovering from own nightmare cancer surgery (she is doing much better now, but it was rough for a while). But I'm ready to be done and will be heading home tomorrow.

This was a note that was tucked into the corner of a picture frame that was in one of the radiation dressing rooms. It was an encouraging thing to read and to remember on the days I saw it. I'm grateful for all the hands that held me and encouraged me through this time.

Radiation

I am lying on my back, nestled in my custom made cradle. My eyes are mostly covered by a standard hospital washcloth. I am a strange and complex planet. The Starship Enterprise is poised above me. I understand the ship is on a mission of benevolence and mercy. 

The noises and movement can be intimidating. I lie perfectly still, listening as the big ship shoots healing harmful beams into my body.

I have learned to relax, and not to wonder what might happen if the ship suddenly lost its way and came slowly down and down until it crushed my body. I have learned to lie still, and breathe peacefully, to trust the huge disc that is the Starship Enterprise.

Some days, I am so relaxed that I am nearly asleep. And I am sad that my almost nap is being interrupted. 

The techs come in (turns out the Starship Enterprise is a remotely controlled vessel). They tell me I can lower my arm. I remove the washcloth and I am welcomed back to the real world.

I rise up off the table. I thank my people.

I walk out with gratitude.

Life Continues

Life continues to roll on. While I'm waiting for radiation, I think of things I want to write and when I get back to my aunt's house I forget what it was I wanted to say!

I saw my colon cancer oncologist today. All is well on that front (or end, as the case may be). I'll still be checking in with them several times a year. Everyone is going to try and coordinate the schedule so that I can see as many doctors as possible in one trip. Isn't that special? :)

There are days when I wonder if I will ever get back to the point where my health is not my first and biggest area of concern. There are days when I wonder if I well ever get to the point where I stay well, if I will make it to my five year marks with no more cancer occurring. There are days when I wonder what in heck I am supposed to be doing with my life, especially now, with being so aware of my mortality.

And then there are days (sometimes several all in a row) where I wonder all these things and more. It can be paralyzing for me. I don't know that I know what life is all about. I thought I did, at one point in my life.

I have six more radiation treatments to go and then I will return to my "normal" life.

Sometimes I don't know what to do with myself, or how to be a cancer patient. People call me brave, or intrepid, or courageous. They don't see how nerve-wracked I am while navigating Houston traffic, or when there is a change in the normal schedule and I have to park in a different garage. Maybe all I've really learned is I can only live by continuing to put one foot in front of the other and just keep on trudging the path, one step at a time. And also to share whatever light I can with others I meet along the way. That's no small job if you think about it.

There is a poem a dear friend posted on Facebook recently. I am not the woman I'd thought I'd be. And yes, I am softer from all my storms.

She is not the girl she used to be,

nor the woman that she had thought

she would grow up to become.

She was something different entirely.

Certainly not as together as she expected, 

but somehow more complete

than she ever would have imagined.

She was softer from all the storms

and not nearly as reckless with her heart

and, finally, she was completely unapologetic

in all of her tarnished glory. 

Becca Lee

Sometimes It's the LIttle Things

There was a bug who was quite methodical. I never saw the bug, only the results of his work. I imagine the bug was pretty small. This canna lilly stands almost six feet tall. This particular leaf has unfurled in spite of the damage done by the small bug chewing methodical holes in its edge.

I've thought tonight how, when one is going through things that are difficult, it's sometimes the tiny things that bring the most bitter disappointments.

Today was my first radiation treatment for breast cancer. The treatment itself went relatively well. In a day or two, I'll be accustomed to the routine and sailing in there like a pro.

The thing is, I was, I am, in a study they are doing on relaxation and radiation. I was very excited about this and I was looking forward to learning new skills in relaxation. I've already been keeping a sleep log and doing saliva samples for them to measure cortisol in my saliva.

There are three different groups. Two groups receive training and information on various methods of relaxation tactics. One group gets nothing until the end of the study (about four years later), when they well be invited to attend four free sessions of training. I wanted so badly NOT to get into the control group. Guess what group I am in? Yep, the group that gets nothing.

It was/is a disappointment to me. But there are so many worse things that could have happened. I'll accept the situation and move on. I still have much to be grateful for.

Dear Cancer (Letter #1)

I think I might start a new category of posts, called "Dear Cancer." I woke up with this one in my head one morning and wrote a draft. Having cancer (3 times) is not the worst thing that could happen to me, but it's also not the greatest. Some of this might not be of interest to anyone but me (and that's okay), but there are so many thoughts and feelings and slight indignities involved in being diagnosed with a life threatening disease, it seems good to me to write about my view of some of them. I will not be turning this into a cancer blog. I refuse to let it have that much attention. I am more than my cancer. We all have our things we have to deal with. Cancer happens to be one of mine. Sometimes it is front and center and sometimes it's just an annoyance in the background. I try hard to keep my balance!

Dear Cancer,

Here you are, again, intruding on my life. I can't help but imagine you as being one of those huge and gaudy tourist sombreros that is seemingly in the process of being permanently attached to my head. I don't know what to tell you about this, Cancer. I don't want to wear your damned ugly hat. I know I can't really refuse it. After all, your power is well known.

I also know I'll be stuck for quite a while with you looming over the top of my head, what with all the followup tests and visits. But I can certainly adjust my perspective. I can refuse to let you make my life miserable, and I can imagine myself shining radiant light from the shade of that god-awful sombrero you're trying to put on my head. Just so you know, dear Cancer, your shadow over me will only serve to make the light seem that much brighter.

Sincerely,
Me

Passion Vine: Trust Your Roots

We planted a few things last weekend, or rather, my aunt planted things while I watched and did something else that seemed important at the time, though I can't remember now what it was! One thing she planted was this Passion Vine. I've been trying wanting something to vine on the old gate and haven't had much luck. We will see how this effort goes.

I was sitting on the porch, drinking coffee and thinking. The vine looks rather pitiful here, almost like it's ready to give up and quit. I watered it real good but it still looks wilted. I couldn't help but compare it my own self, after this news about the breast cancer. I have had bouts of feeling pitiful, not quite ready to give up and quit, but feeling like maybe I'm not up to the struggle.

What I thought about the Passion Vine was that it just needed to get firmly rooted in the soil and accustomed to the new spot it's now in. That was Saturday.

It wasn't until Sunday, when I was sitting in the swing with my prayer flags behind me that I remembered a sermon I'd heard preached by a tiny little Texas preacher woman that resonated with me when I first heard it and now surfaced again to reassure me. She was talking about things to do when we're faced with problems. I can't remember all the details of the sermon but I distilled it down in my head to the two things she said that day that spoke the loudest to me. She was talking about the strength of trees. She said, when times of trouble come (and they always do), "trust your roots," and then, "feel the weight of your trunk."

The Passion Vine will never be a huge oak, but once those roots settle in and the vines grab hold and start shooting their tendrils out to grasp the wire of the gate, it should be all right. I've had my moments of being a bit shaken by this new spot I find myself in, but I've got some deep roots I know I can trust. And I've got a strong trunk that will help carry me through. I'm grateful for these two things, and for friends who encourage me in this spot.

(And I remembered I have two blank prayer flags that I wanted to use for the reminder to trust my roots, and feel the weight of my trunk. Maybe I'll write these words on them the next time I am up there.)

It was a beautiful day. I picked these flowers (they may actually be considered weeds) and got out in the sun to take their picture. It felt good. I felt very much alive. Life goes on. One of the harder parts of dealing with stuff like this is the waiting to find more information after being first informed of the problem. The temptation, for me, is to shut everything down, until I can hear "the rest of the story." But, yes, life goes on. And I really can't be wasting time shutting down every time something like this happens. So I'm trying to do better with the whole breathe while waiting thing!

On A Different Threshold

This is a shortened version of one of my all time favorite quotes. The (manipulated) photo is of an artificial plant I took in one of the waiting rooms.

I've been in Houston for the last five days, for tests and follow ups and checkups. I got good news on my colon. All is well with it (or with what's left of it)-no polyps and no irritated spots.

Over the weekend, I bought a new tennis racket. Have I mentioned here that I've started playing tennis again? I have. AND, I finally actually laid my own eyes on my sister, after her harrowing ordeal with her colon cancer surgery. She had several complications and different issues than I had. She is home now, but is still in the process of trying to heal from the surgery. We had a good visit. I know she's had a very tough time.

Today I was supposed to see my surgeon for a checkup (and for the results of the colonoscopy). But Houston had a humongous flooding rain and we couldn't get to MD Anderson because of the flooding. The surgeon called, and confirmed the news I'd already heard from the doctor who did the colonoscopy, that all was well in that area.

I was also supposed to see the liver doctor for follow up on the fatty liver issue. I'd done the ultrasound Friday. I haven't heard from his office yet. I'm hoping all is well there. But it might be a few days before I know.

Let me just say right here that Thursday and Friday were taxing, full days, with lots of unpleasant things happening on a very tight schedule. 

I've said all that to say something else. And that is, that I have yet another health issue.

I don't know what's on the next horizon but I'm standing on a threshold that I don't really want to be standing on. I'm now facing breast cancer. I don't know much about it yet, only that I have a referral with a surgeon and he will have my options when I see him.

There's hope on this threshold, but it's going to involve more surgery, more testing, more waiting, more trips back and forth, more stress, more life interruption, and more expenses. Lord knows, it's not the threshold I'd hoped to step over, but it's the one I find myself on, and I will deal with it the best I can. And as I told my sister, sometimes it's okay to stop and say "dammit all," as long as we don't get stuck there! 

I'm grateful today for loving family support and for a good solid base of friends I know I can turn to when I am unsettled with this news, both now and as treatment progresses. I'm grateful for good health care and for good insurance.

I'm working hard on not mullygrubbing here. I had looked forward to shopping for that tennis racket for several weeks. When I got the news that the mammogram needed follow up, and when I had the biopsy on Friday, I almost let that dissuade me from buying the racket, at least temporarily. But I decided to go ahead and buy the thing, as an act of faith and as an act of affirmation for me. I like my symbols, and this tennis racket is one for me. I hope I live long enough to wear that sucker out.

Holding The Tension

One of my favorite metaphors about life is the one of us holding the tension. I think of my grandmother, and my mother, and myself, sewing, and adjusting the tension that is necessary to keep the stitches even. When teaching me to hem a garment, my mother quoted my grandmother, saying "If you make your stitches too big, you'll hang your toe in them."

I think of my brother, who, when he was young built himself a bicycle out of scrap parts, and apparently, did not have the tension of the chain quite right, because, somehow, the chain slipped off, or locked up, and he tumbled off the bicycle and broke a leg.

There is a tension we must hold (and constantly adjust) as we raise our children. Some of us have to learn that saying "yes" is not always the most loving thing to say. That holds true in more than our parenting relationships.

I held a different kind of tension this past weekend, when I was in Houston for my second three month checkup. I wonder when I will quit numbering the checkups and just call it "my checkup"? My husband, for the longest time after my son died, knew the exact number of days our son had been gone. I suspect he might still be keeping that tally. I remember my son's words on the back cover of a notebook when he was in a rehab facility: "number of days I been here:" followed by his hash marks that numbered the days. We humans do love to count the days and mark our times.

I have to make five years before I'm declared truly cured. For the first couple of years, those years are measured in three month increments. I was particularly stressed this time around, mostly because they had me scheduled to have my port removed. Before I would see the oncologist. I asked the woman at the pre-procedure meeting if they would know my scan was clear and all was well before they took the port out. She said they wouldn't. That bothered me. I dealt with that, speaking to several people throughout the day, and eventually got the port removal changed to take place after seeing the oncologist (which is how the nurse said it was supposed to have been all along).

Sometimes you just can't make nice and do what the "authorities" tell you to do. Sometimes you just have to make a little noise. As it turns out, in this case, everything would have been perfectly okay whether my port was taken out that morning or that afternoon, but we didn't know that in advance and I was unwilling to take that risk. And that's another of the side effects of my cancer: I'm less willing to sit down and shut up and hang on for the ride.

To make a long story short (oops, too late!), my scan was clear and they did remove the port. As of now, I remain in remission, and I am working to let my life be.

Awareness of, and Patience With, the Cost Factor of Choosing

This is old news now, but I went for my latest appointment with the liver doctor last week, where I received the most excellent news that I do not have fatty liver disease. There is one other thing he wants to check my blood for, but he doesn't think I have that. I will have to see him again in six months and get an ultrasound.

When I saw him, the doctor said my diet was very important in taking care of myself in this matter. He talked about awareness when eating, saying I needed to say to myself something like "I'm eating this cupcake or this piece of meat, I know I'm eating this cupcake or this piece of meat, I'm choosing to eat this cupcake or this piece of meat."

Everything, from the things we choose to eat, to the ways we spend our money and time, comes with a cost. This is one of my new ways of living in the world, to keep myself consciously aware of what my choices are costing me. To remember how often it is true, "if I choose this, I can't also choose that."

Enjoy the Ice Cream, or Life, Whatever The Case Might Be

Going in to the labyrinth, when I was in San Antonio with my friends, was also an enlightening experience.

In the week after I was told I had no evidence of cancer, a classmate of my sister's died. I assume from cancer. My cousin died after a routine gall bladder surgery. Both were far too young. I was left wondering how things worked the way they did--why am I still here and others are not? What does this mean?

One of my wise friends mentioned to me that she had decided I'd been forced to join a club to which most folks don't want to belong. I'd always been aware of being in that "club" of parents who had lost a child, another club to which no one wants to belong, but I hadn't thought of having "the cancer" as being forced to join that club no one really wants to join.

And because she is a statistical type of thinker, she also mentioned that not only was I in the "cancer club," I was also in the subset of "survivors," where of course, we all want to be. But that brings it's own set of stresses and not everyone gets that privilege.

These things were on my mind as I was walking into the labyrinth, that I didn't know why I was blessed to have made it into the survivors club, that I was extremely grateful for the privilege, even while I was filled with sorrow for those I knew whose lives had ended way too soon. Life just isn't fair and I can't explain or understand why these things worked out the way they did.

I decided that day that "why" is a useless question, at least where things like life and death and the number of days we are allotted is concerned. I wanted to go back and ask my friends what they thought about the value of why as a question, but we got off on other things and I forgot all about it.

Fast forward to today, while I was reading backwards in a "daily book" that I read, looking for quotes to put in my calendar, in an attempt to add color and depth to the pages.

On July 15th, I was told there was no evidence of cancer. I was also told they would see me again in October. So, occasionally, when I pass on the news that "I am all clear," I whisper silently to myself words like, "at this moment," or "as far as I know now." The prospects of having to go back in October, and again, every three months for three years, and then every six months for two more years before I could be really declared "cured" weighed heavily on me. I joked that I was now that I was declared "clean," that I could now go out and start living again. In three month increments. Of such things are the stresses of the survivors (but I'll take that stress, I'm not complaining, just trying to figure things out in my head).

Anyway, somehow, during that walk into the center of the labyrinth, the weight of those three month increments was lifted and I came to realize how I just need to take my life one day at a time, and not waste a minute of it worrying about what might be. We all get what we get in terms of days to live.

Okay, I'm rambling here! Today, on the July 15th page of this "daily book," there was this quote. I don't know how it didn't scream "I'm significant!" on July 15th when I first read it. Maybe I hadn't heard the good news yet, I don't know.

But it seems to be a good philosophy for me to employ any time I let the "three month increment" blues take over.

"My advice to you is not to inquire why or whither, but just enjoy the ice cream while it's on your plate--that's my philosophy." Thornton Wilder 

A Convoluted Prayer of Thanksgiving

For all the people in my life who remind me

(who gently admonish me?)

to "Breathe!"

I must really need the reminder because it is a common thing for me to hear.

Or maybe it's just a good thing to say 

when there is nothing else to do.

Still, I am grateful 

for friends who can be present

with me

and breathe with me

when there truly is not much else

that can be done.

To sit in that rather helpless place

with another

is not an easy thing to do. 

Those who can do it well

are a balm to the soul.

Note to Self: Before I Die: Live

I've spent my whole life trying to stay out of trouble with people, some people more than others.

I have scurried around trying to guess what I should be doing, or should have done, so that I am not in trouble with anyone. And sometimes, there are precious few clues as to how to avoid being in trouble.

It is a pitiful way to live.

On the "before I die" board I wrote "live."

I walked an outdoor labyrinth when I was visiting my friends this weekend. I'd only previously walked the canvas labyrinth laid out in the gym of a local church. While walking the labyrinth I was given, among other things, the word "freedom." I felt guilty because I'd told my friend I'd come to the kitchen to visit while she did her thing. She didn't need any help. That's what she said, and I trusted her enough to have meant what she said--there was no need for me to try and find some hidden message in her communication (and that's a related blog post for another day). But the labyrinth called me. My mind was quieted as I walked to the center. Still, on the way out, I fretted because I was being gone so long. Thirty, forty minutes, what is that in the whole grand scheme of life?

And yet, that is how we waste our lives, a minute here, and a minute there.

But I digress.

While walking out from the center of the labyrinth I discussed with myself the option of skipping the path laid to complete the labyrinth and to just stop the walk and go to my friend, like I said I would.

And my spirit told me I, and I alone, held the freedom to choose. Feeling the tautness of freedom placed like a graft in hopes of creating new skin, I breathed a sigh of gratitude and chose to continue the walk.

(And I was in no trouble at all with my friend.)

Today I bless myself with the hope that I will feel the weight of my own (hard earned) freedom and may I truly live before I die.

Thinking about this right now, I know my thoughts are partially influenced by a sermon I had not yet heard when I walked the labyrinth on Friday. The pastor was speaking of troublesome times and referred to the strength of trees, admonishing us to "feel the weight of your trunk" in times of struggle. She also said to "trust your roots." Those two phrases will remain with me for a while. And will eventually show up in one of my thangs, I imagine.

One of the things I loved about the idea of "feeling the weight of your trunk" is that we talk all the time about feeling the weight of negative things (depression, loss, grief, cancer), so why not focus on feeling and being aware of, and grateful for, the weight of more positive things (strength, growth, healing, love)?