Ken has been wanting a pool, and I've been resisting. I like having a yard, and I don't like grass-covered, wet feet traipsing across warp-able laminate flooring. The idea of floating alone in a lounge chair with a drink and a book is appealing, but I can imagine sinking my Kindle. Also, of course, the drink would be water.
Water, water, and more water. Drinking it serves the triple purpose of aiding the dry mouth brought on by the chemo, knocking out the constant thirst brought on by the prednisone, and flushing the chemo out of my system so my body can return to "normal" more quickly after each treatment. Officially, I need to drink four 20-ounce bottles a day. In reality, I drink closer to six or seven. I have a reddish colored bottle I purchased at Target nearly two years ago to reduce my carbon footprint, and I fill it repeatedly. If you have seen me in the past 6 weeks, you have seen the little handle of my bottle looped through my index finger on my left hand. It's American Express: I don't leave home without it. In my wallet, I carry a note from Dr. Fox advising any interested parties that I am required to have water with me at all times. Anyone who wouldn't let me would be violating the ADA. So ha, theater and museum attendants.
The drinking water part isn't bad at all. What's worrisome is when my supply runs low and the chance to refill is not imminent. I moderate, saving those last few sips for when they're desperately needed, and I feel my energy drain in those circumstances. It becomes a bit panicky, actually. I can become light-headed and clammy very quickly.
As a result of nausea, acid reflux, and my full-time task of sipping water, I burp loudly and frequently, with carefree abandon. It feels so good, I won't be apologizing for it. So fair warning: I am the wild and crazy burping girl.
During the extreme heat, I only made it to a pool one day, when Barb invited me on a Sunday afternoon. My water bottle warmed quickly, but Barb kept me quenched with iced green tea (or green iced tea?). We lounged in the built-in seats in her gorgeous new pool. Refreshing, but not as refreshing as tea with ice. Would I ever use a pool, or do I just need my water on the inside? Hard to say, but I can tell you I am relieved to be tabling the pool issue until next summer.
In the meantime, I've finished the 20-ounce bottle I started sipping at the beginning of this post. Burp. Now it's time for a refill. I had my third treatment of the second group today (6th treatment since beginning on June 15), and so I am flushing. Literally, figuratively, you name it. Water. Burp. Flush. Flush, chemo, flush. And don't bother me for the next two weeks. Pretty please!
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
Ding Ding, Round Two
I think I'm starting to get a handle on things, mentally and physically. Before, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to anything. It was one horrifying experience or thought after another, with very little relief. Getting diagnosed the way I did threw everything into tumult. Suddenly I was a patient again, on chemo again, and that took a backseat to the morbidity that ensued. And then time, which has its way of healing any tortured soul, moves on and life begins to make sense again in its new way.
Now I know that if I drink 40 ounces of water during the first hour I'm awake, I won't be nauseous. I need to sleep most of the day on Friday. On Thursday food doesn't taste good, but I can run errands. It's not much, but it provides a system of planning for me. In yoga I've learned that I can make my breathing the center of my attention, and there's no space left for any other thought. I don't cry nearly so much anymore. I don't have any more answers, but I'm starting to accept that I'll do the best I can with the time I have left, and that's really all I can do. Strangely, despite my new lifestyle, which includes a lovely port protruding from my chest, life isn't really all that different day to day. I still shower and dress and spend time with my kids. I drive my car, go to the market, cross items off my to-do list. We still laugh during family dinners and the kids still fight or get along. I have to get school supplies and fill out the band camp forms and make sure Jonah has bus snacks. This is still my life, mundane and comforting.
I'm not a ghost. When I sign my name and write the date, it's not the last signature, nor the last date. I'm here, and it's good to be here.
Now I know that if I drink 40 ounces of water during the first hour I'm awake, I won't be nauseous. I need to sleep most of the day on Friday. On Thursday food doesn't taste good, but I can run errands. It's not much, but it provides a system of planning for me. In yoga I've learned that I can make my breathing the center of my attention, and there's no space left for any other thought. I don't cry nearly so much anymore. I don't have any more answers, but I'm starting to accept that I'll do the best I can with the time I have left, and that's really all I can do. Strangely, despite my new lifestyle, which includes a lovely port protruding from my chest, life isn't really all that different day to day. I still shower and dress and spend time with my kids. I drive my car, go to the market, cross items off my to-do list. We still laugh during family dinners and the kids still fight or get along. I have to get school supplies and fill out the band camp forms and make sure Jonah has bus snacks. This is still my life, mundane and comforting.
I'm not a ghost. When I sign my name and write the date, it's not the last signature, nor the last date. I'm here, and it's good to be here.
Monday, July 11, 2011
3:04 am
That's what time it says on the cable clock. I fell asleep at 11:30, and woke up at 12:20. Nausea will do that. Nausea has become my alarm clock, and it's not as precise or consistent as, say, a rooster. So here I sit, after watching Bill Maher and a cable movie, after about eight rounds of Sudoku on my Kindle, finally posting an update. And lucky you, it's about nausea.
How odd is it that this chemo I'm taking does not cause nausea, but the cancer I have does. One point for cancer. I should keep a tally. Chemo: why I don't get mosquito bites this summer. Cancer: why I've lost 6 pounds and can't seem to get them back. Chemo, cancer -- one poisons me, one kills me. A dichotomy, at last (I've always wanted to use that word in this blog).
I did not have chemo last Wednesday, so I assumed I'd feel pretty good by now. So stupid to have forgotten that cancer doesn't feel wonderful, either. It's 3:14 am, but Wawa and CVS are open if I must have ginger ale. Ken fell asleep on the sofa, so I'd have to sneak past him. He tries to do everything for me, and I do not want him to do this. I can make it to CVS and let the poor guy sleep.
Man, I have big plans for tomorrow, too: I need to get to the Verizon store, and to Whole Foods. Allison's safely ensconced in North Carolina and Jonah will be at daycamp. Lunch at Whole Foods is part of the agenda with Jason, who loves their pizza. Will we make it to Whole Foods? Must cancer muscle its way into every plan I make for the rest of my life? I'm not being dramatic.
* I wonder: Will I be able to teach first grade this fall? I have a contract to teach first grade until Thanksgiving, but at this point I'd give it a 30% chance of happening. First, the principal has to allow me a half day off most Wednesdays for chemo. Second, I have to be able to regularly summon the energy not only to get out of bed, but to TEACH FIRST GRADE. Third, my immune system has to remain strong enough for my oncologist to clear it.
* I wonder: Will we make it onto our planned and paid for cruise in December? Can it revolve around a chemo treatment? Will I go parasailing with a bald head? Will I choose to be photographed for formal night? Will I ever get out of the cabin, or have the energy to explore the ship? Which will be winning in December: chemo or cancer?
Nausea. It's not terrible at the moment. I bet I could sleep. My eyes are on the prize: the Verizon store, and Whole Foods with Jason.
How odd is it that this chemo I'm taking does not cause nausea, but the cancer I have does. One point for cancer. I should keep a tally. Chemo: why I don't get mosquito bites this summer. Cancer: why I've lost 6 pounds and can't seem to get them back. Chemo, cancer -- one poisons me, one kills me. A dichotomy, at last (I've always wanted to use that word in this blog).
I did not have chemo last Wednesday, so I assumed I'd feel pretty good by now. So stupid to have forgotten that cancer doesn't feel wonderful, either. It's 3:14 am, but Wawa and CVS are open if I must have ginger ale. Ken fell asleep on the sofa, so I'd have to sneak past him. He tries to do everything for me, and I do not want him to do this. I can make it to CVS and let the poor guy sleep.
Man, I have big plans for tomorrow, too: I need to get to the Verizon store, and to Whole Foods. Allison's safely ensconced in North Carolina and Jonah will be at daycamp. Lunch at Whole Foods is part of the agenda with Jason, who loves their pizza. Will we make it to Whole Foods? Must cancer muscle its way into every plan I make for the rest of my life? I'm not being dramatic.
* I wonder: Will I be able to teach first grade this fall? I have a contract to teach first grade until Thanksgiving, but at this point I'd give it a 30% chance of happening. First, the principal has to allow me a half day off most Wednesdays for chemo. Second, I have to be able to regularly summon the energy not only to get out of bed, but to TEACH FIRST GRADE. Third, my immune system has to remain strong enough for my oncologist to clear it.
* I wonder: Will we make it onto our planned and paid for cruise in December? Can it revolve around a chemo treatment? Will I go parasailing with a bald head? Will I choose to be photographed for formal night? Will I ever get out of the cabin, or have the energy to explore the ship? Which will be winning in December: chemo or cancer?
Nausea. It's not terrible at the moment. I bet I could sleep. My eyes are on the prize: the Verizon store, and Whole Foods with Jason.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Better ... what on earth does that mean?
What a challenge to explain or even comprehend what is considered good news in this situation, when everything is volatile, vulnerable, unknown (sorry I couldn't complete the alliteration).
It is a relief to know the chemo is working. An amazing relief. On June 14 Dr. Fox gave me 40% odds that this chemo would be effective at fighting the evil cells in my liver, and now he's certain of its success. In two weeks I've gone from far abnormally high bilirubin in my liver, to the discovery last week that my coloring was no longer looking jaundiced at all. This week he was eager to show me how the bilirubin numbers had changed, and that now my level is good normal. I had been watching my body's signs, and was pleased but not surprised. I feel better every single day. I feel stronger, I walk farther, I eat better. I can't feel the tumor lumps so strongly in my abdomen. I have exceeded all expectations. It buys me potential, which I need more than anything right now. If I do this, my body will do that. So far, so good.
However, it doesn't erase the fear. I have a good chance of going into remission, but that could last anywhere from 6 weeks to 10 years. It will be followed by another fight, then another, until my body gives up. At some point in the not distant enough future I will die of cancer, in pain. The upcoming milestones never leave me: Allison's high school graduation, Jason's high school graduation, Jonah's bar mitzvah, two college graduations, then another high school and another college. The big prizes: the weddings, the grandchildren.
How much can I effect with stellar treatment of my body and mind? I am so greedy for these milestones. I need a center, and I'm hoping I can conjure more faith. My logical brain could ruin this entire process if I can't get it to shut the hell up. I have lots of work to do.
Well, at this point improvement means a small surgery to insert a port to help with indefinite chemo treatments. Thank goodness! No more IVs. And I am confident we'll make it for our first milestone: a family cruise we've booked for December.
Shout outs to so many of you for so many things, including a special one for Ira's big bowl of candy that was picked at enough before reaching my house that it still makes me laugh. Thanks to all of you for the outpouring of love and support that always makes me/us feel so blessed. And to Ken, who has become the perfect breast cancer husband without even reading the book.
It is a relief to know the chemo is working. An amazing relief. On June 14 Dr. Fox gave me 40% odds that this chemo would be effective at fighting the evil cells in my liver, and now he's certain of its success. In two weeks I've gone from far abnormally high bilirubin in my liver, to the discovery last week that my coloring was no longer looking jaundiced at all. This week he was eager to show me how the bilirubin numbers had changed, and that now my level is good normal. I had been watching my body's signs, and was pleased but not surprised. I feel better every single day. I feel stronger, I walk farther, I eat better. I can't feel the tumor lumps so strongly in my abdomen. I have exceeded all expectations. It buys me potential, which I need more than anything right now. If I do this, my body will do that. So far, so good.
However, it doesn't erase the fear. I have a good chance of going into remission, but that could last anywhere from 6 weeks to 10 years. It will be followed by another fight, then another, until my body gives up. At some point in the not distant enough future I will die of cancer, in pain. The upcoming milestones never leave me: Allison's high school graduation, Jason's high school graduation, Jonah's bar mitzvah, two college graduations, then another high school and another college. The big prizes: the weddings, the grandchildren.
How much can I effect with stellar treatment of my body and mind? I am so greedy for these milestones. I need a center, and I'm hoping I can conjure more faith. My logical brain could ruin this entire process if I can't get it to shut the hell up. I have lots of work to do.
Well, at this point improvement means a small surgery to insert a port to help with indefinite chemo treatments. Thank goodness! No more IVs. And I am confident we'll make it for our first milestone: a family cruise we've booked for December.
Shout outs to so many of you for so many things, including a special one for Ira's big bowl of candy that was picked at enough before reaching my house that it still makes me laugh. Thanks to all of you for the outpouring of love and support that always makes me/us feel so blessed. And to Ken, who has become the perfect breast cancer husband without even reading the book.
Friday, June 24, 2011
A little more rational
I know my last post must've been unexpected by those who know me well, and I appreciate how so many of you managed to find a bright side to my dark thoughts. It actually helped, the whole thing. Dumping the damn feelings there, and then to have so many of you compliment my writing. I am feeling a bit more like me. Enough to get by. There's more to it, too. I understand at last that I'm not going to walk down the street today and collapse, dead. I have a tomorrow, and some sort of stake in the number of tomorrows after that.
I've been debating where to start my official story of this discovery. Some versions had me going back to January 1st, the opening battle of the war of 2011, when our beloved golden retriever Rudy suddenly died of cancer. Some had me accepting a wonderful long-term teaching assignment, thinking with a laugh that at least it wouldn't end with cancer, the way the last teaching assignment had.
The teaching assignment, then, which began unexpectedly on May 2. Oh, how wonderful to be back in first grade, but I didn't get the sort of start I needed to make things work optimally. I ended up with huge amounts of stress I probably mostly put upon myself. My back was coiled into layers of knots, my stomach started to hurt, my hair started to fall out. The stomach pain was strange, felt like bloating, like nothing I'd felt before. Amazing what stress could do. It's quite clear now that the stress precipitated the inevitable return and then served to hide the symptoms. I'd been to Dr. Fox in late March and was pronounced perfectly fine at that visit. G-d, what happened in less than three months.
On June 8 we celebrated Allison's confirmation from religious school, and then later we went to dinner to celebrate Jason's and Esther's birthdays. Jason had chosen to go to Chickie's and Pete's. I agreed for the sake of his birthday, but I do not enjoy seafood. My dinner was tasteless or worse, and I woke up in the middle of the night feeling horrible. Nothing alleviated the nausea, and I couldn't settle back to sleep. I had no appetite the next morning, and felt dizzy the whole day at work. Instead of my usual anal retentive preparation for the next day, I only stayed a half hour after the kids left, and fell asleep as soon as I arrived home. I awoke feeling no better. More tired, if possible, and I still couldn't eat. I missed the mandatory band parents' meeting, I couldn't get out of bed. And I felt extremely itchy, first in the middle, and then head to toe.
On June 10 I dragged myself off to school, figuring that somehow I'd summon the energy to walk all the way from my classroom to the main office. My energy had drained to the point that it was hard to talk and I was giving the kids worksheets to do (very unlike me, I like to be actively involved). I went home at lunchtime to nap. Allison woke me up with barely enough time to make it back to get my class. After school I hit the bed and did not emerge except to use the bathroom. Something was wrong with my urine. That's when I started to get concerned. I looked up my symptoms on the Internet, and discovered it could be hepatitis, gall stones, gallbladder ... or cancer. Ugh. I was too sick to worry too much about it. I went back to my curled up in a ball position, and missed the Larchmont Carnival. But! I did make it to see Super 8 that night with Jason. We'd been planning it for months and months, and we made it! I even stayed awake and enjoyed the movie.
June 11: Missed Jonah's baseball team's celebration of an excellent season. I laid in bed, trying to accept how I'd gone from Monday's avid cheerleader at the championship game to the unfed lump sweating in the sheets. I called the doctor, and was told that I needed to be seen and should consider a trip to the ER. Ken was more than ready, but not I. I had to get pictures of Jason leaving for his 8th grade dance. It was so important to me, I spent the entire day psyching myself for the 10-minute photo op. And I barely lasted 10 minutes. I swayed in the street, put on a great act for the other moms, and then couldn't handle it anymore. I would collapse. With an excuse of getting dinner ready, I rushed out of there.
That's when we went to the new Virtua hospital, where triage placed us behind every college aged moron with a cut foot. I saw the iCarly/Victorious special TWICE, and I wasn't even home with Jonah. I was starting to comprehend that I could have cancer, that I could die in the ER without being seen. Nobody noticed I was yellow until after the CT Scan ran hours later showed cancer chunks all over my liver. Then suddenly they couldn't understand how WE didn't see the jaundice.
The gastroenterologist who told me the news the next morning, after I'd been admitted to a beautiful room and become friendly with the nurse (who has an 8th grade son), was awkward and obviously unaccustomed to passing a death sentence to a youngish patient. He gawked and said the wrong things, then left. Then returned. Then left. Then returned. He did get me sedated quickly, though, because I was completely freaking out at the news, and by the sight of the nurse crying over my condition. My mom was with me, thank G-d, but I'd sent Ken home for a well-needed rest.
There was no reason for me to stay in the hospital. The IV sedation worked for a few hours, and I had a handful of scripts for nausea, itching, anxiety. I had to get to Dr. Fox. It wasn't like I would ever let Virtua treat me in 2 million years. So we went home, and found Barb and MJ waiting on my front porch. Then Civia arrived, and Jill, until we needed to move our little party to the backyard. My friends and family stayed for hours, distracted me, made me laugh.
Thank G-d for them.
Still, I wasn't able to eat. I suffered two more days, living on crackers and ginger ale, before I got to see an uncharacteristically miserable Dr. Fox. He had no answers to my questions of why, and he said I needed to start chemo immediately, the next morning. He put me on prednisone to make me eat, and my appetite returned immediately after losing 6 or 7 pounds in 6 days.
So here I am. I've now had two chemo treatments (3 weeks of chemo, 1 week off) and it seems to be working. My coloring is back to normal and I don't feel the tumors the way I could a week ago. I don't know what happens next, but I know I'm on this regimen indefinitely and that I'll do everything I can to extend and extend and extend my life. Like I said, I love it here, and I love you, and I'm grateful for your prayers. Please remember to keep my family in your hearts. An 8-year-old boy shouldn't be worrying about his mommy leaving. My teens need me as much as ever. My husband, too.
Well, this was the whole tale, and now you're caught up, and my state of mind is what it is. It's time for me to end this post and get out of the house.
I've been debating where to start my official story of this discovery. Some versions had me going back to January 1st, the opening battle of the war of 2011, when our beloved golden retriever Rudy suddenly died of cancer. Some had me accepting a wonderful long-term teaching assignment, thinking with a laugh that at least it wouldn't end with cancer, the way the last teaching assignment had.
The teaching assignment, then, which began unexpectedly on May 2. Oh, how wonderful to be back in first grade, but I didn't get the sort of start I needed to make things work optimally. I ended up with huge amounts of stress I probably mostly put upon myself. My back was coiled into layers of knots, my stomach started to hurt, my hair started to fall out. The stomach pain was strange, felt like bloating, like nothing I'd felt before. Amazing what stress could do. It's quite clear now that the stress precipitated the inevitable return and then served to hide the symptoms. I'd been to Dr. Fox in late March and was pronounced perfectly fine at that visit. G-d, what happened in less than three months.
On June 8 we celebrated Allison's confirmation from religious school, and then later we went to dinner to celebrate Jason's and Esther's birthdays. Jason had chosen to go to Chickie's and Pete's. I agreed for the sake of his birthday, but I do not enjoy seafood. My dinner was tasteless or worse, and I woke up in the middle of the night feeling horrible. Nothing alleviated the nausea, and I couldn't settle back to sleep. I had no appetite the next morning, and felt dizzy the whole day at work. Instead of my usual anal retentive preparation for the next day, I only stayed a half hour after the kids left, and fell asleep as soon as I arrived home. I awoke feeling no better. More tired, if possible, and I still couldn't eat. I missed the mandatory band parents' meeting, I couldn't get out of bed. And I felt extremely itchy, first in the middle, and then head to toe.
On June 10 I dragged myself off to school, figuring that somehow I'd summon the energy to walk all the way from my classroom to the main office. My energy had drained to the point that it was hard to talk and I was giving the kids worksheets to do (very unlike me, I like to be actively involved). I went home at lunchtime to nap. Allison woke me up with barely enough time to make it back to get my class. After school I hit the bed and did not emerge except to use the bathroom. Something was wrong with my urine. That's when I started to get concerned. I looked up my symptoms on the Internet, and discovered it could be hepatitis, gall stones, gallbladder ... or cancer. Ugh. I was too sick to worry too much about it. I went back to my curled up in a ball position, and missed the Larchmont Carnival. But! I did make it to see Super 8 that night with Jason. We'd been planning it for months and months, and we made it! I even stayed awake and enjoyed the movie.
June 11: Missed Jonah's baseball team's celebration of an excellent season. I laid in bed, trying to accept how I'd gone from Monday's avid cheerleader at the championship game to the unfed lump sweating in the sheets. I called the doctor, and was told that I needed to be seen and should consider a trip to the ER. Ken was more than ready, but not I. I had to get pictures of Jason leaving for his 8th grade dance. It was so important to me, I spent the entire day psyching myself for the 10-minute photo op. And I barely lasted 10 minutes. I swayed in the street, put on a great act for the other moms, and then couldn't handle it anymore. I would collapse. With an excuse of getting dinner ready, I rushed out of there.
That's when we went to the new Virtua hospital, where triage placed us behind every college aged moron with a cut foot. I saw the iCarly/Victorious special TWICE, and I wasn't even home with Jonah. I was starting to comprehend that I could have cancer, that I could die in the ER without being seen. Nobody noticed I was yellow until after the CT Scan ran hours later showed cancer chunks all over my liver. Then suddenly they couldn't understand how WE didn't see the jaundice.
The gastroenterologist who told me the news the next morning, after I'd been admitted to a beautiful room and become friendly with the nurse (who has an 8th grade son), was awkward and obviously unaccustomed to passing a death sentence to a youngish patient. He gawked and said the wrong things, then left. Then returned. Then left. Then returned. He did get me sedated quickly, though, because I was completely freaking out at the news, and by the sight of the nurse crying over my condition. My mom was with me, thank G-d, but I'd sent Ken home for a well-needed rest.
There was no reason for me to stay in the hospital. The IV sedation worked for a few hours, and I had a handful of scripts for nausea, itching, anxiety. I had to get to Dr. Fox. It wasn't like I would ever let Virtua treat me in 2 million years. So we went home, and found Barb and MJ waiting on my front porch. Then Civia arrived, and Jill, until we needed to move our little party to the backyard. My friends and family stayed for hours, distracted me, made me laugh.
Thank G-d for them.
Still, I wasn't able to eat. I suffered two more days, living on crackers and ginger ale, before I got to see an uncharacteristically miserable Dr. Fox. He had no answers to my questions of why, and he said I needed to start chemo immediately, the next morning. He put me on prednisone to make me eat, and my appetite returned immediately after losing 6 or 7 pounds in 6 days.
So here I am. I've now had two chemo treatments (3 weeks of chemo, 1 week off) and it seems to be working. My coloring is back to normal and I don't feel the tumors the way I could a week ago. I don't know what happens next, but I know I'm on this regimen indefinitely and that I'll do everything I can to extend and extend and extend my life. Like I said, I love it here, and I love you, and I'm grateful for your prayers. Please remember to keep my family in your hearts. An 8-year-old boy shouldn't be worrying about his mommy leaving. My teens need me as much as ever. My husband, too.
Well, this was the whole tale, and now you're caught up, and my state of mind is what it is. It's time for me to end this post and get out of the house.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Really. Don't read this.
It's horrible, it's ghastly, and I'm not writing it. I'm not me. I'm gone, and I don't know when or if I'll be returning. Cancer can take a life before it's over, and now I'm this ghost in the world, breathing down your necks, leading you to tears, dark places, the shadiest shadows of your souls.
You see me and you hug me and express whatever wishes or hopes you want, and I don't hear it. I see your eyes, the fear, the sadness. You don't want me to go, and if I were me, that alone would be enough to break my heart. I suppose it's for the best that I bear the brunt as a wisp of a human. I don't know how else to do this. I've never felt old, never once. Even with all I went through before, I never lost confidence in my body's ability to remain strong and hang tough. I'm so betrayed by myself.
I don't know how to look out at a world I've loved with my whole being. From the first daffodils of spring I breathe it all in: the first blades of green grass, the seeds that sprout into leaves on my trees, the stretching daylight hours. Most of all, I live for the emergence of the children on the street. The sounds of their playing into the later evening hours provides the soundtrack of freedom to me. What else is there to do when the homework is done and the kids' baseball championship games are in the record books? Head to Rita's for some water ice, swat the mosquitos, and gather the fireflies. It's so beautiful.
Four tissues already and I've been writing about 20 minutes. I dare not mention my own children. I can barely look at them. I'll save an entry for them.
I don't know how to look at time. Time, which I have recorded day by day, carefully, for more than 30 years of my life, in little datebooks. But I have not had nearly enough of it. I love it, I want to drink it up, remember it. I am the keeper of the memories. I tell everyone about every occasion. If you're reading this, I probably know your birthday.
This is it, in a nutshell. I don't want to go. And yet I am gone. I want to be me, but where am I? I am lost. Can you find me?
You see me and you hug me and express whatever wishes or hopes you want, and I don't hear it. I see your eyes, the fear, the sadness. You don't want me to go, and if I were me, that alone would be enough to break my heart. I suppose it's for the best that I bear the brunt as a wisp of a human. I don't know how else to do this. I've never felt old, never once. Even with all I went through before, I never lost confidence in my body's ability to remain strong and hang tough. I'm so betrayed by myself.
I don't know how to look out at a world I've loved with my whole being. From the first daffodils of spring I breathe it all in: the first blades of green grass, the seeds that sprout into leaves on my trees, the stretching daylight hours. Most of all, I live for the emergence of the children on the street. The sounds of their playing into the later evening hours provides the soundtrack of freedom to me. What else is there to do when the homework is done and the kids' baseball championship games are in the record books? Head to Rita's for some water ice, swat the mosquitos, and gather the fireflies. It's so beautiful.
Four tissues already and I've been writing about 20 minutes. I dare not mention my own children. I can barely look at them. I'll save an entry for them.
I don't know how to look at time. Time, which I have recorded day by day, carefully, for more than 30 years of my life, in little datebooks. But I have not had nearly enough of it. I love it, I want to drink it up, remember it. I am the keeper of the memories. I tell everyone about every occasion. If you're reading this, I probably know your birthday.
This is it, in a nutshell. I don't want to go. And yet I am gone. I want to be me, but where am I? I am lost. Can you find me?
Friday, April 16, 2010
Spring Again
I'm down to posting once a quarter? How can that be possible? I have far too much to say, and it's not like I haven't been enjoying my Internet time. However, the point to the Internet, as of late, has been to turn off my brain for awhile. We all need it sometimes, and I play word games in lieu of naps when I'm tired. It could be that I've not posted BECAUSE I've had so much to say. That's a guess. I couldn't tell you the workings of my own mind. How sad.
So I left off in January, when I first started to run. Yes, that has been an adventure. I'll start with running. All was going well, and I hit my first goal (to get 5 miles in one hour) at the end of February. Incomprehensibly, the weather turned nice for March -- yes, I know it's not supposed to be incomprehensible, but after February here in New Jersey, you understand. I went outside for a run on March 9, and felt too warm in my long-sleeve shirt. I made it a little more than a mile, then decided to walk a bit. Then run a bit, then walk a bit. I had Allison's iPod, which is an amazing device. That girl has the most impressive music collection. I was nearly home, on my own block, and Ton Loc started to play. I burst into a last sprint, enjoying the pre-spring, warm air and the sunshine, and the music, and the feel of my legs gaining strength ... and then it all went wrong. I needed to slow down a bit, and I tripped over my own stupid right toe, crashed onto the concrete. Glasses flying, iPod scraping, and my head. Oh, dear G-d. How on earth did I land on my left eyebrow, for the second time in my life. The swelling was immediate, and too disturbing to touch. I stayed on the ground for a moment, discovering my injuries. The only witnesses were a few birds, and a squinting cat. Once I had a thorough grasp of the situation, I started to wail. Tears, blood, and wailing, more from self-pity than from pain. My poor head. And my shoulder, and my scraped hands, and my ribs. My hands, my left hand, the threat of lymphoedema looming as ever with impressions of concrete imbedded in my palm where skin should've been.
I heard the school bus. Mary would stop and scrape me off the sidewalk, I knew it. Mary is awesome. The problem was, Mary is awesome. She would've felt guilty if she didn't stay with me, yet she had a school bus full of 5th and 6th graders. So I got myself off the ground and stumbled home, wailing all the way. I called Civia, who couldn't even understand what I was saying for a few minutes. We called the doctor, and Ken. My first running injury: mild concussion, nasty shiner, bruised ribs. Most people hurt ankles.
Within two weeks I was back to running, slowly but surely. I have never gotten back to that 5 miles in an hour, and at this point it's too lofty an ambition for the next two weeks. I'll do what I can for the Broad Street Run. Hopefully I won't finish last, as I did in my first 5K. Which, in all fairness, I ran in the mud at Laurel Acres Park with a bunch of teenagers. I met the other last place finisher along the way, and we jogged and walked along, discussing our ailments and medical histories. Man. Jill, who'd finished with the group, met me on the path with a soft pretzel, figuring they'd be gone ... heck, everyone would be gone ... by the time I made it back. Not an auspicious first race! So we'll see with Broad Street.
Moving on to breast cancer: not so much excitement, but some really good stuff! I had a follow-up with Dr. Fox in March, and he said I can blame everything on tamoxifen. Even the forgetfulness? Yes. Even the female issues? Of course. Even the Internet word game addiction? Well, yes, if that's what I'm doing instead of napping. So yay! I don't suck. Tamoxifen sucks! Of course, I'll finish taking it just in time for the onset of senior moments, I suppose.
Last weekend was the best: I've been on a message board through breastcancer.org for people who started chemo in March 2009. We obviously went through so much together, and I often knew I was still sane only because I recognized myself in their posts. Several of the members got together last week in NYC, and I was thrilled to be able to join them. We had so much fun, and though yes, we did talk about it a bit, we were not defined by our status as breast cancer survivors. We were a group of women with something big in common, enjoying a great mini-vacation. I will have to edit this post later to add a picture and maybe more writing, because now I have to leave for a subbing assignment. In PE. Wish me luck!
So I left off in January, when I first started to run. Yes, that has been an adventure. I'll start with running. All was going well, and I hit my first goal (to get 5 miles in one hour) at the end of February. Incomprehensibly, the weather turned nice for March -- yes, I know it's not supposed to be incomprehensible, but after February here in New Jersey, you understand. I went outside for a run on March 9, and felt too warm in my long-sleeve shirt. I made it a little more than a mile, then decided to walk a bit. Then run a bit, then walk a bit. I had Allison's iPod, which is an amazing device. That girl has the most impressive music collection. I was nearly home, on my own block, and Ton Loc started to play. I burst into a last sprint, enjoying the pre-spring, warm air and the sunshine, and the music, and the feel of my legs gaining strength ... and then it all went wrong. I needed to slow down a bit, and I tripped over my own stupid right toe, crashed onto the concrete. Glasses flying, iPod scraping, and my head. Oh, dear G-d. How on earth did I land on my left eyebrow, for the second time in my life. The swelling was immediate, and too disturbing to touch. I stayed on the ground for a moment, discovering my injuries. The only witnesses were a few birds, and a squinting cat. Once I had a thorough grasp of the situation, I started to wail. Tears, blood, and wailing, more from self-pity than from pain. My poor head. And my shoulder, and my scraped hands, and my ribs. My hands, my left hand, the threat of lymphoedema looming as ever with impressions of concrete imbedded in my palm where skin should've been.
I heard the school bus. Mary would stop and scrape me off the sidewalk, I knew it. Mary is awesome. The problem was, Mary is awesome. She would've felt guilty if she didn't stay with me, yet she had a school bus full of 5th and 6th graders. So I got myself off the ground and stumbled home, wailing all the way. I called Civia, who couldn't even understand what I was saying for a few minutes. We called the doctor, and Ken. My first running injury: mild concussion, nasty shiner, bruised ribs. Most people hurt ankles.
Within two weeks I was back to running, slowly but surely. I have never gotten back to that 5 miles in an hour, and at this point it's too lofty an ambition for the next two weeks. I'll do what I can for the Broad Street Run. Hopefully I won't finish last, as I did in my first 5K. Which, in all fairness, I ran in the mud at Laurel Acres Park with a bunch of teenagers. I met the other last place finisher along the way, and we jogged and walked along, discussing our ailments and medical histories. Man. Jill, who'd finished with the group, met me on the path with a soft pretzel, figuring they'd be gone ... heck, everyone would be gone ... by the time I made it back. Not an auspicious first race! So we'll see with Broad Street.
Moving on to breast cancer: not so much excitement, but some really good stuff! I had a follow-up with Dr. Fox in March, and he said I can blame everything on tamoxifen. Even the forgetfulness? Yes. Even the female issues? Of course. Even the Internet word game addiction? Well, yes, if that's what I'm doing instead of napping. So yay! I don't suck. Tamoxifen sucks! Of course, I'll finish taking it just in time for the onset of senior moments, I suppose.
Last weekend was the best: I've been on a message board through breastcancer.org for people who started chemo in March 2009. We obviously went through so much together, and I often knew I was still sane only because I recognized myself in their posts. Several of the members got together last week in NYC, and I was thrilled to be able to join them. We had so much fun, and though yes, we did talk about it a bit, we were not defined by our status as breast cancer survivors. We were a group of women with something big in common, enjoying a great mini-vacation. I will have to edit this post later to add a picture and maybe more writing, because now I have to leave for a subbing assignment. In PE. Wish me luck!
Pictures:
Okay, so I'm back from PE. A lovely afternoon, if only I hadn't gotten stuck behind the buses. You know how I get with driving, and that was an arduous ride home! My weekend in NYC was fantastic because of the time spent with others with similar fears, doubts, and resolve. I also lucked into being there for some of Lori's pre-wedding festivities. On Friday night I left Manhattan at 10 pm and landed at a big bar in Jersey City in time to drink a beer with Lori and Dave's friends who'd come to celebrate their upcoming nuptials. On Saturday I went with Lori for her fitting, but unfortunately had to leave Kleinfeld's before getting anywhere near that bustle. That evening, my breast cancer group arrived at Carmine's just moments before Lori and her friends arrived for Lori's bachelorette party. Thank goodness I ate with my breast cancer friends, a far more frugal group. But we had plenty of celebrating back at Lori's, later. This wedding is in one week and two days. And I sent out Jason's Bar Mitzvah invitations two days ago. Lots of occasions, lots of fun. What a wonderful spring!
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