One of the harder parts of going through radiation was that I was unable to do any overnight travel.
Because I had to receive treatment everyday, I was literally grounded for January and February.
It felt a lot like one of the times I was grounded by my parents. How because I did something terrible (told a lie) I was not allowed to go to the St. Bonaventure Carnival.
My sisters, who didn't really have the capacity of love for me that they do now, felt really bad.
You see the Carnival was one of the most anticipated social events of the year. And since our house was only a block away, we would spend 3 straight days there, riding rides, tossing dimes into glasses, eating a lot of carnival food (it is no wonder I had cancer).
I could also hear all the fun from my bedroom window, for three straight days.
All the fun I was restricted from.
Anyway, apparently my sisters tried to win a stuffed animal to cheer me up, but all they could win was a sad little goldfish.
Walking home they ran into a neighborhood boy, who I happened to have a crush on, and who also happened to have in his mitts, a stuffed animal.
I am not sure how much, or what type of persuasion it took, but a trade was made, my sisters came home with a stuffed animal for me, and my crush went home with a goldfish for his mom.
That carnival goldfish ended up living for over a decade.
The stuffed animal, a bird, was long forgotten.
But my restriction never was.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Day 305 - Not how I wanted to start
In January 2011 I found myself fulfilling a goal I had set for myself ever since we moved to Portland. I started my new job at Nike.
It had been a long time since I had been the new kid anywhere, and anyone who works or has worked at Nike can tell you the first months you feel like you have landed on a different planet.
No one speaks the same language you do, you are set adrift on your own to figure things out, and don't get me started about the "Matrix Organization".
Three months later I would be diagnosed.
My peers have been amazing throughout this entire ordeal (remember the balloons), and today they surprised me with a bottle of champagne to toast the end of my treatments.
I was taken aback when the group thanked me for being so open, and willing to share my cancer experience with them. They felt really connected to me, and I was able to take the fear out of what they felt was an intensely scary situation.
For me they were a daily source of normalcy.
Going to work made me feel like I was alive.
Made me feel connected.
Made me feel relevant.
Until today I really didn't think of how the last few months have been for them. How simply watching my physical transformation must have been alarming.
But I also realized that my presence provided a needed dose of reality. A vivid reminder of what is important in life.
I mean we are selling sneakers people, not curing cancer.
This wasn't the way I wanted to start my career at Nike.
But it sure did make an impact.
It had been a long time since I had been the new kid anywhere, and anyone who works or has worked at Nike can tell you the first months you feel like you have landed on a different planet.
No one speaks the same language you do, you are set adrift on your own to figure things out, and don't get me started about the "Matrix Organization".
Three months later I would be diagnosed.
My peers have been amazing throughout this entire ordeal (remember the balloons), and today they surprised me with a bottle of champagne to toast the end of my treatments.
I was taken aback when the group thanked me for being so open, and willing to share my cancer experience with them. They felt really connected to me, and I was able to take the fear out of what they felt was an intensely scary situation.
For me they were a daily source of normalcy.
Going to work made me feel like I was alive.
Made me feel connected.
Made me feel relevant.
Until today I really didn't think of how the last few months have been for them. How simply watching my physical transformation must have been alarming.
But I also realized that my presence provided a needed dose of reality. A vivid reminder of what is important in life.
I mean we are selling sneakers people, not curing cancer.
This wasn't the way I wanted to start my career at Nike.
But it sure did make an impact.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Day 304 - survival rates
I have no idea why I would spend any time googling "Breast Cancer Survival Rates".
Well actually I know why I would do such a thing (Days 1-303), but what pops up is even more confusing than how I, of all people, ended up with stupid cancer in the first place.
The internet is great, but it can also be tourture.
So unless there is a great article out there that suggests a cure for cancer can be found in drinking red wine and eating french bread and cheese I am done googling.
Perhaps I should have given it up for Lent - would have helped if I was Catholic.
But really what I am going to give up, Catholic or not, is worrying about it.
I think I have enough people out there (mom, pete, sue, doug, andrea, kristy, ali, aimee, jenny...) doing that for me.
Instead I am going to blissfully live in the moment.
And let cancer take a back seat to all the fun it wanted me to miss.
Well actually I know why I would do such a thing (Days 1-303), but what pops up is even more confusing than how I, of all people, ended up with stupid cancer in the first place.
The internet is great, but it can also be tourture.
So unless there is a great article out there that suggests a cure for cancer can be found in drinking red wine and eating french bread and cheese I am done googling.
Perhaps I should have given it up for Lent - would have helped if I was Catholic.
But really what I am going to give up, Catholic or not, is worrying about it.
I think I have enough people out there (mom, pete, sue, doug, andrea, kristy, ali, aimee, jenny...) doing that for me.
Instead I am going to blissfully live in the moment.
And let cancer take a back seat to all the fun it wanted me to miss.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Day 303 - Well...
Now what.One of the questions that I have been asked the last several days is what happens to my blog.
Honestly I am not quite sure.
I would like to think that I will continue to have experiences that I want to write about. That I will shift from living with cancer to living without cancer.
So, if you are willing to give it a try, I will too.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Day 301- When one door closes...
It was a spectacularly beautiful day here in the Pacific Northwest. The sky is clear, the sun is shining, and by 9am I was finished with my active cancer treatment.
My last radiation was exactly like the previous 33 treatments. Except that it was not.
Sitting here I am not sure how to feel. If you were to walk in and see me, you would never have any idea what the last 301 days have been like for me, for Doug, for my friends, for my family.
I had a celebratory breakfast with my BFF, at the end of it she asked, "what is the one thing you take away from this whole experience?"
"Make vacation plans," was my answer.
But you really couldn't walk away from what I have been through with just one thing. So indulge me for a moment if you would.
My incomplete list of things you learn from living with cancer for a year:
1. Your family loves you. While this is no real surprise, the way your family will show up for you is pretty incredible.
2. Your friends love you. People you have known your whole life, people you met 3 months ago, people you have not spoken to in years will do things, unselfish things, that you will begin to wonder what you did to deserve all the attention.
3. You will have good days.
4. You will have bad days.
5. You will be lying in bed while your husband tucks your children in for the night, and you will hear their sweet banter, and you will beg the universe to not take you away from that.
6. You will crack open your heart. You will forgive that which was once unforgivable. You will be compassionate. You will show vulnerability.
7. You will never say thank you enough.
8. You will receive a lot of hats.
9. You will look at someone having a carefree day and want to strangle them.
10. You will look at your best friends and cry from sheer gratefulness for being smart enough to have such beautiful people in your life.
11. You will never look at friends who have been through cancer the same way again.
12. You will walk into your first surgery, pass someone in the hall who is being wheeled out, and wonder, "am I going to look that sick".
13. You will write.
14. You will receive chemotherapy. You will dread it. You will look forward to it. You will finish it.
15. You will run into people who do not recognize you. You will run into people who pretend you are not there.
16. You will go bald.
17. You will wear hats.
18. You will refuse to wear pink.
19. You will juice.
20. You will lay in bed playing go fish for hours.
21. You will weep on Christmas Eve.
22. You will loose your boobs.
23. You will reach your breaking point.
24. You will wallow, for one day, in self pity over learning you will have to undergo radiation, and then you will get over yourself.
25. You will celebrate - everything.
26. You will be told, "you are my hero" more than you deserve.
27. You will sit, sleepless in bed, thanking God, Buddha, anyone who will listen, for marrying the man sleeping soundly next to you.
28. You will go to work.
29. You will google. You will read statistics. You will absorb survival rates.
30. You will think of your father.
31. You will love your sisters, more than they can ever understand.
32. You will wear hats.
33. You will disappear.
34. You will be disappointed.
35. You will stop wearing hats.
36. You will be scarred.
37. You will wonder, "what next".
38. You will forget you have cancer.
39. You will never forget you had cancer.
40. You will survive.
My last radiation was exactly like the previous 33 treatments. Except that it was not.
Sitting here I am not sure how to feel. If you were to walk in and see me, you would never have any idea what the last 301 days have been like for me, for Doug, for my friends, for my family.
I had a celebratory breakfast with my BFF, at the end of it she asked, "what is the one thing you take away from this whole experience?"
"Make vacation plans," was my answer.
But you really couldn't walk away from what I have been through with just one thing. So indulge me for a moment if you would.
My incomplete list of things you learn from living with cancer for a year:
1. Your family loves you. While this is no real surprise, the way your family will show up for you is pretty incredible.
2. Your friends love you. People you have known your whole life, people you met 3 months ago, people you have not spoken to in years will do things, unselfish things, that you will begin to wonder what you did to deserve all the attention.
3. You will have good days.
4. You will have bad days.
5. You will be lying in bed while your husband tucks your children in for the night, and you will hear their sweet banter, and you will beg the universe to not take you away from that.
6. You will crack open your heart. You will forgive that which was once unforgivable. You will be compassionate. You will show vulnerability.
7. You will never say thank you enough.
8. You will receive a lot of hats.
9. You will look at someone having a carefree day and want to strangle them.
10. You will look at your best friends and cry from sheer gratefulness for being smart enough to have such beautiful people in your life.
11. You will never look at friends who have been through cancer the same way again.
12. You will walk into your first surgery, pass someone in the hall who is being wheeled out, and wonder, "am I going to look that sick".
13. You will write.
14. You will receive chemotherapy. You will dread it. You will look forward to it. You will finish it.
15. You will run into people who do not recognize you. You will run into people who pretend you are not there.
16. You will go bald.
17. You will wear hats.
18. You will refuse to wear pink.
19. You will juice.
20. You will lay in bed playing go fish for hours.
21. You will weep on Christmas Eve.
22. You will loose your boobs.
23. You will reach your breaking point.
24. You will wallow, for one day, in self pity over learning you will have to undergo radiation, and then you will get over yourself.
25. You will celebrate - everything.
26. You will be told, "you are my hero" more than you deserve.
27. You will sit, sleepless in bed, thanking God, Buddha, anyone who will listen, for marrying the man sleeping soundly next to you.
28. You will go to work.
29. You will google. You will read statistics. You will absorb survival rates.
30. You will think of your father.
31. You will love your sisters, more than they can ever understand.
32. You will wear hats.
33. You will disappear.
34. You will be disappointed.
35. You will stop wearing hats.
36. You will be scarred.
37. You will wonder, "what next".
38. You will forget you have cancer.
39. You will never forget you had cancer.
40. You will survive.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Day 300 - "Our Hearts are Broken"
I must warn you - this is not a happy, one more day of radiation post. I hope to get to that place tomorrow, but right now I need to tell you a story that may leave you with a broken heart too.
Readers of this blog will recall that around Day 114, a few days after Kayla died, I wrote a post about a friend who was experiencing a recurrence of Breast Cancer.
My friend, "S", had been incredibly supportive to me during the first dark days of diagnosis. She reached out, told me her story, and promised to help me in any way possible. I loved writing to her, since she was 4 years ahead of me in her cancer experience, and was living a full happy life with her husband and two sweet children.
On Day 114 she let me know that her greatest fears had been realized. Cancer was back, this time it was in her bones and, "having a party in her liver".
Not the party any of us would ever want to be invited to.
I remember the day vividly. We were up at our mountain house with my Mom and Doug's parents. I sat in my room for a bit in total shock.
My first selfish thought was, "wait, this can come back?!?"
Up until that point I thought, chemo, surgery, maybe radiation, done. No mas. Cancer Free. Long life.
"S" brought me back to reality, quickly. She knew I was going to struggle with he news, and immediately reminded me in the most beautiful of ways, "you are not me. This is not going to happen to you".
But it is happening to her. Let's take me completely out of the equation - this is not about me.
This is about a friend, who at 41, has just been told that there are no longer any options. She has been told her life can now be measured in, "weeks".
Her children will learn this harsh reality today.
I cried my way through a hot shower, through brushing my teeth, through getting dressed. When I told Doug I cried some more.
Her husband said it best:
"I always thought she would beat it. She could always handle doing a hundred things at once. If she wanted to do something; she was always successful at it. I figured this would be another thing she accomplished. She is the strongest person I know."
Trust me, if you knew her, you would agree. She is totally kick-ass.
I LOVE YOU "S"
Struggling to H+D today.
Readers of this blog will recall that around Day 114, a few days after Kayla died, I wrote a post about a friend who was experiencing a recurrence of Breast Cancer.
My friend, "S", had been incredibly supportive to me during the first dark days of diagnosis. She reached out, told me her story, and promised to help me in any way possible. I loved writing to her, since she was 4 years ahead of me in her cancer experience, and was living a full happy life with her husband and two sweet children.
On Day 114 she let me know that her greatest fears had been realized. Cancer was back, this time it was in her bones and, "having a party in her liver".
Not the party any of us would ever want to be invited to.
I remember the day vividly. We were up at our mountain house with my Mom and Doug's parents. I sat in my room for a bit in total shock.
My first selfish thought was, "wait, this can come back?!?"
Up until that point I thought, chemo, surgery, maybe radiation, done. No mas. Cancer Free. Long life.
"S" brought me back to reality, quickly. She knew I was going to struggle with he news, and immediately reminded me in the most beautiful of ways, "you are not me. This is not going to happen to you".
But it is happening to her. Let's take me completely out of the equation - this is not about me.
This is about a friend, who at 41, has just been told that there are no longer any options. She has been told her life can now be measured in, "weeks".
Her children will learn this harsh reality today.
I cried my way through a hot shower, through brushing my teeth, through getting dressed. When I told Doug I cried some more.
Her husband said it best:
"I always thought she would beat it. She could always handle doing a hundred things at once. If she wanted to do something; she was always successful at it. I figured this would be another thing she accomplished. She is the strongest person I know."
Trust me, if you knew her, you would agree. She is totally kick-ass.
I LOVE YOU "S"
Struggling to H+D today.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Day 299 - A sign?
I had lunch today with a former coworker turned friend. She reminded me that I had signed up, a long time ago, to climb Mt. Ranier in order to raise money and awareness for Breast Cancer.
Until that moment, I had totally forgotten about that long ago quest. My sister in law, Lynn had lost her best friend to Breast Cancer, and in honor of her, she signed up for this 3 day challenge.
At the time I had 2 small children, and I was looking for a way to get back into shape. So I decided to join Lynn in this adventure.
I was reminded today that in my letter I said I was climbing/raising money/raising awareness in the hopes that my daughter would never have to worry about Breast Cancer.
Oh the irony.
As part of the training I had to hike with a 45lb backpack. On my first training hike, I stuck Graham on my back in a kid carrier, and hit the trails. About 20 minutes into it I realized this was going to be much harder than I expected.
A few weeks later I understood why. I was pregnant with Harris.
Unfortunatley for Lynn she was going to have to go about this adventure on her own. Which in the end turned into spending 2 days in a total whiteout sharing a tent with 2 dudes she didn't know. They never made it to the top.
I regret missing that trip, even though Lynn never made it to the top, she raised a ton of money, and had a few days stuck in a tent, honoring her friend.
Until that moment, I had totally forgotten about that long ago quest. My sister in law, Lynn had lost her best friend to Breast Cancer, and in honor of her, she signed up for this 3 day challenge.
At the time I had 2 small children, and I was looking for a way to get back into shape. So I decided to join Lynn in this adventure.
I was reminded today that in my letter I said I was climbing/raising money/raising awareness in the hopes that my daughter would never have to worry about Breast Cancer.
Oh the irony.
As part of the training I had to hike with a 45lb backpack. On my first training hike, I stuck Graham on my back in a kid carrier, and hit the trails. About 20 minutes into it I realized this was going to be much harder than I expected.
A few weeks later I understood why. I was pregnant with Harris.
Unfortunatley for Lynn she was going to have to go about this adventure on her own. Which in the end turned into spending 2 days in a total whiteout sharing a tent with 2 dudes she didn't know. They never made it to the top.
I regret missing that trip, even though Lynn never made it to the top, she raised a ton of money, and had a few days stuck in a tent, honoring her friend.
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