After 3 years of absolute chaos, I think I've hit the wall.
I'm tired and emotionally exhausted.
You know you are hitting the wall when you are watching tv and start crying over commercials and someone's singing.
What I don't know is whether I've hit this point because of the drugs I'm on, or simply because I'm human and at some point, enough is enough.
The good news is, the wall isn't hitting back.
Today wasn't an exceptional day. Nothing really went wrong, nor did it really go well. It just was. But still, I walked in the door, got the dog her dinner and then proceeded to completely fall apart. Maybe it's because there's nothing in the fridge for dinner. Maybe it's because I don't feel like getting on the treadmill, even though I know I should. Maybe it's nothing at all.
What I do know, what I have learned this past year, is that you need to let yourself feel what you are feeling if you have any hope at all of moving forward. You don't have to know why you are feeling a certain way to let yourself experience it. You just need to feel it, and then make a conscious choice to move forward; to move beyond the feelings that bring you down and onto the feelings that raise you up.
I'm not clueless about the stress of the last 3 years. Between my parent's health issues, my mother's death, my cancer and the health and relationship issues of others that I love and care about deeply, it's been a lot. But I'm also not foolish enough to forget that there are so many people that have it so much worse. I'm not foolish enough to ignore how unbelievably blessed I am and how lucky I am to have the relationships and the love I have in my life; how very fortunate I am to have a safe and warm place to live, the comforts of a secure job, and the advantages of a good education.
So when I hit the wall, I just count the bricks - the building blocks that are my life, my faith, my family, my friends; and I let them give me the strength I need to move beyond.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Friday, October 12, 2012
Cancer Sucks
I had my 5 month check-up and everything is looking good. My blood work is good. I'm having minimal side effects from the anti-estrogen drug I'm on, which is amazing considering so many women have really horrid side effects from it. Then again, I've had really nasty side effects from most of the rest of the drugs I've had so it's entirely possible that these just seem more tolerable as a result. Kind of like how you don't mind a 2 inch snow after you've shoveled the 2 foot snowfall - everything is relative.
I'm on my way toward reconstruction, with a couple surgeries coming up in the new year. All in all, I'm doing well.
Except that I'm starting to get really ticked off.
But since I've had cancer I think most people just don't admit those things to me anymore. Seems a little silly to tell someone who's had a mastectomy that you're not getting a mammogram because "it hurts".
Just like it would feel wrong to tell someone who's lost a loved one to cancer that you haven't had your screening because you're afraid they'll find something, when you know they are thinking how they'd wished a screening would have caught their mother's/ father's/ spouse's/ child's cancer earlier.
Still, the fear is real. It exists because of how prevalent cancer is.
But more often the real reason we don't get our annual checkups is that we just don't prioritize it. In our busy "human-doing" lives, we just don't make time for taking care of ourselves. We don't take time to eat right. We don't take time to exercise regularly. We don't take time to rest. And we don't take time to get our screenings.
October is breast cancer awareness month, but let it be your Cancer Awareness month. Schedule your screenings and make sure those you love are doing the same. And if you won't do it for you, then do it for your children, for your parents, for your husband or wife or partner in life. Do it to bring purpose to what I've gone through.
And do it so that, if you should get cancer, you will live to pester someone else into getting their screenings.
And as my mother would say: "end of lecture".
I'm on my way toward reconstruction, with a couple surgeries coming up in the new year. All in all, I'm doing well.
Except that I'm starting to get really ticked off.
My friend's colon cancer is back already. Another friend was diagnosed with a different cancer in May. And just the other week the husband of yet another friend was diagnosed with yet another form of cancer.
My father had cancer, my father-in-law died from the same cancer that my father has survived. Multiple of my cousins have had cancer, so far everyone's made it through.
At my 30th high school reunion there were 4 of us there that had gone through breast cancer, and 1 that wasn't there because she lost her battle 2 years ago. We lost at least 4 others to cancer, and it may have been more, I got too depressed counting. One girl never even made it to graduation.
And all this cancer is making me angry.
Odd thing is, I wasn't angry when it was just me. I figured there's no good in being angry... no good in asking "why me" - because the real question to me was "why not?". There is nothing so special about me that would make me exempt from getting cancer, so it sure didn't seem productive or helpful to get angry about it.
But now, I'm getting angry. There is just too much cancer.
Is it our environment? Our diets? Do people all around the world have as much cancer as we do in the United States? Or do we just have better health care, so we are able to diagnose it correctly?
I know cancer has been around for a long time, but it sure seems like it's more and more prevalent. Perhaps we're just diagnosing it more often now... and I suppose that it's good that we can identify it, but seriously, this whole thing seems so out of control.
Cancer is the 2nd leading cause of death in the US, and the leading cause of death in people aged 45-64. It's also the 2nd leading cause of death in children 5-14. And although the incidence of cancer in children under 15 dropped by 10% from 2005-2009, there is still something horribly wrong with 1286 young children dying from cancer.
The cancer society says that in 2012 we will have averted over 1 million deaths from cancer - and that is good news. But we will also diagnose over 1.6 million new cases of cancer, for which about a quarter million will be breast cancer, a quarter million will be lung/bronchial and a quarter million will be prostate.
Cancer is the 2nd leading cause of death in the US, and the leading cause of death in people aged 45-64. It's also the 2nd leading cause of death in children 5-14. And although the incidence of cancer in children under 15 dropped by 10% from 2005-2009, there is still something horribly wrong with 1286 young children dying from cancer.
The cancer society says that in 2012 we will have averted over 1 million deaths from cancer - and that is good news. But we will also diagnose over 1.6 million new cases of cancer, for which about a quarter million will be breast cancer, a quarter million will be lung/bronchial and a quarter million will be prostate.
So we walk and run and relay to raise money to find a cure... but cancer keeps on coming.
For many cancers there is no reliable screening, like uterine and ovarian cancer. So the cancer sneaks up and takes hold and by the time you have symptoms it's too late.
For for some, like breast cancer and prostate cancer and colon cancer, there are screenings. They may not be perfect at detecting cancer, they may not be pleasant to go through, but they help many people catch their cancer in time.
Before I had cancer I would hear people talk about avoiding the doctor, avoiding the screenings because they were uncomfortable. I would hear about people not feeling well, having clear symptoms that something in their body wasn't right, but so afraid of hearing bad news that they postpone going in to the doctor, when the reality is if the news is bad they've just made it a whole lot worse by waiting.
For many cancers there is no reliable screening, like uterine and ovarian cancer. So the cancer sneaks up and takes hold and by the time you have symptoms it's too late.
For for some, like breast cancer and prostate cancer and colon cancer, there are screenings. They may not be perfect at detecting cancer, they may not be pleasant to go through, but they help many people catch their cancer in time.
Before I had cancer I would hear people talk about avoiding the doctor, avoiding the screenings because they were uncomfortable. I would hear about people not feeling well, having clear symptoms that something in their body wasn't right, but so afraid of hearing bad news that they postpone going in to the doctor, when the reality is if the news is bad they've just made it a whole lot worse by waiting.
But since I've had cancer I think most people just don't admit those things to me anymore. Seems a little silly to tell someone who's had a mastectomy that you're not getting a mammogram because "it hurts".
Just like it would feel wrong to tell someone who's lost a loved one to cancer that you haven't had your screening because you're afraid they'll find something, when you know they are thinking how they'd wished a screening would have caught their mother's/ father's/ spouse's/ child's cancer earlier.
Still, the fear is real. It exists because of how prevalent cancer is.
But more often the real reason we don't get our annual checkups is that we just don't prioritize it. In our busy "human-doing" lives, we just don't make time for taking care of ourselves. We don't take time to eat right. We don't take time to exercise regularly. We don't take time to rest. And we don't take time to get our screenings.
October is breast cancer awareness month, but let it be your Cancer Awareness month. Schedule your screenings and make sure those you love are doing the same. And if you won't do it for you, then do it for your children, for your parents, for your husband or wife or partner in life. Do it to bring purpose to what I've gone through.
And do it so that, if you should get cancer, you will live to pester someone else into getting their screenings.
And as my mother would say: "end of lecture".
Friday, September 21, 2012
The life I'm intended to live
Those of you that know me, know that I tend to analyze pretty much everything in my life, myself included. When you throw cancer into that mix you get a lot of introspection. I've always been a believer that we are the sum of our actions, not our beliefs. Believe all you want that you are a good person, but if you act like a heel, then you're a heel. And I believe that no matter how hard we try, and I've tried really hard in my life, we cannot control what happens; but we can choose how we respond to the things that happen in our lives.
And I believe that I am living the life I've chosen to live, not the one that "fate" threw at me.
I know there are things I wanted to do, which I haven't done yet, like go back to school, and write a book; but I believe I am doing what I was intended to do now, at this time in my life. And there is still time to do those things that I want to do, if I chose to make them a priority.
When I first graduated college I was going to teach, and I did for awhile. But I made a choice to move back to Minnesota from Colorado and to live in the Twin Cities, where teaching jobs were scarce. So I ended up back in retail part-time while I did substitute teaching; and part-time led to full-time and full-time eventually led to where I am today. I could look at my life and say, if only the economy had been better, I'd still be teaching, but the reality is, I made a choice. And it turns out it was a good choice; one that has allowed me to provide for myself and my daughter and for a while, when things were really tough, for my parents. Taking care of those I love is more important to me than anything else.
Once, when I was younger, I made a bunch of poor choices about money, and ended up greatly in debt. And then I lost my job. I didn't chose to lose my job, but I did realize that I could chose to look at it as an opportunity to find better employment. And the reality is that losing my job helped me find myself. In having to "sell" my worth to prospective employers, I had to find worth in myself which I had never been able to see before. In time, that grew into being content with who I was, and eventually even happy with who I was and where I was headed in life.
I can honestly say I don't regret any of the decisions I have made in my life, and when asked what I would change, the answer is "nothing." I don't believe in regret, I believe in learning. Which is not to say that I'm not remorseful for the times when my words or actions have hurt someone else, but still I would not change my past. Understanding that actions can be hurtful has taught me the importance of saying "I'm sorry" and accepting responsibility for the mistakes I make. Whether they were right or wrong, I've learned from the decisions I've made and what I've learned has influenced my life and my future choices.
Our decisions are like our DNA, they create a string, a sequence that defines who we are. They tell the story of our life and if we were to go back in time and change one of those decisions, we would change the person we've become. Denying that our decisions were our own is like denying our DNA. Instead of wishing that we could change our decisions, or blaming someone else when we don't like the outcome of those decisions, we need to accept responsibility for and learn from our decisions.
When something bad happens in our life, we can choose to wallow in the unfortunate circumstance allowing our selves to become victim or we can choose to focus on what we are going to do to improve our circumstance, allowing ourselves to become victor.
There are two kinds of people in this world, those that believe the world happens to them and who believe their choices play only a small part in the life they live; and those who believe they happen to the world - that they can in fact affect the world, not control it, but influence it.
Which brings me to this: If you're not living the life you wanted, then how come your actions led you here?
If you're wanting something different out of life, you need to do something different with your life and your decisions. If you're not living the life you want, it's because you have prioritized something above those things that you believe you want. Perhaps you've made a choice to raise a family, and that means you put off your desire to be a rock star. Then you've prioritized raising a family over rising to fame, and that's okay. It's not that you "can't" pursue your dream, it's that your real dream has changed, at least temporarily. It's not that you "have to be responsible" - you don't, unless you chose to. No body makes your decisions for you, and that's the cool thing about free will. We all get to chose.
I believe God has a plan for me, and if I ask for His will to be done in my life, it will. And I will still make decisions that take me in the wrong direction, because I'm human and I have free will; but I will continue to ask for God's guidance and I know that when I prioritize God's will above my own, I am choosing to live the life I'm intended to live.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Is that a hot flash or is your AC just out?
It's been some of the hottest weather in recent history here in the Twin Cities, and my 40 year old air conditioner decided it had had enough and checked out once and for all. For 3 weeks I closed up the house during the hot hours and opened all the windows and turned on the fans during the "cooler" hours..."cooler" being relative in this case. I also purchased 2 new fans to join my existing 3 fans in blowing around the hot air.
Just moving around our house during July was enough to cause me to break out in a sweat, never mind turning on the oven or trying to run the clothes dryer or dishwasher. Even having the lights on would bring the temperature into the high 80's. It's no surprise with all that heat figuring out what was "hot hot" and what was "hot flash" was nearly impossible. So, in my heat induced haze, I blamed everything on the temperature and figured the frequency of hot flashes was slowing down. Alas, a few hours after the new AC was installed the house cooled down to a more comfortable temperature... I, on the other hand, did not.
Men-o-pause.
My mother's generation called it "the change of life". Those were the days when the stork delivered babies, cancer was called "the big C", and there was a long list of things, most things of substance really, that you just didn't discuss in polite, let alone mixed, company.
But in this day of Viagra commercials, and recurring ads for hormone replacement therapy ("it's not just for women anymore"), I figured talking about menopause was fair game. And to be honest, since half of the population is going to experience it first hand, and the other half is going to live with the "second hand smoke" of it, it's probably a good topic to put out there... so out there it goes.
To start, let me just say menopause would really suck if chemo hadn't set such a high standard for suckiness. But chemo has set the standard, and chemo launched me head over tail into menopause. And, what chemo started, the hysterectomy wrapped up in a tidy little package with a great big ugly bow on the top. Whoever said good things come in small packages never met my ovaries. Handy little buggers when you want to get pregnant, but time bombs when you have BRCA gene. So out they went, and in settled menopause.
To be fair, at my age... a robust 48 years old...I was driving in the menopause express lane anyway. But through the miracle of chemo meds - viola - menopause on speed; and there's probably something to be said for moving through the "peri" stage quickly. Many women trudge through "the change" for years, and the journey can be more irritating than political ads in October.
"The change" - what a phrase; like we're stepping into the fitting room at Neiman Marcus and coming out with a whole new outfit. Not quite that easy. Yet in some ways, maybe not that far off, either.
For many women, menopause can be the trigger for a fresh perspective on life. It can be the impetus for getting in shape, getting healthy - mentally and physically, and coming into not only an acceptance but an appreciation for the person they've become. I think the challenges that menopause brings physically and emotionally either knock you on your tail or force you to push back and become stronger.
Most women seem to gain weight once they've gone through menopause - and I can see why. Your metabolism grinds to a halt and your emotions are in an upheaval. Ben and Jerry become regular guests in your kitchen - their visits short but frequent. And while a Hallmark commercial can send you leaping for the kleenex, there are often times when you could and do cry for absolutely no reason at all. All this gets you to thinking that you must be going crazy, or maybe you're depressed - but you can't think of any reason why you would be depressed - so you must be crazy.
But you're not.
What you are is menopausal. Your hormones are going up and down like the stock market during an election year. Meanwhile Pfizer is pushing viagra and the TV ads are telling you that hormone replacement therapy will put the bounce back in your boudoir, but all you really want is a good night's sleep, a whole 8 hours without night sweats, or waking up at 1am... and 3am... and 5am, because being emotionally charged for the last 24 hours is exhausting. But what's really exhausting is keeping your cool and pretending like everything is perfectly normal while you're sweating like John Candy one minute and shivering as if hell froze over and you're in it the next; because while menopause sucks, being treated like an overly emotional woman who's about to explode is even worse.
So you're crying and gaining weight and you go into your doctor and she says "let's get a bone density baseline" and you do, and you find out that despite the pints of ice cream being succumbed to on a regular basis you're not getting enough calcium and it's time to start popping calcium pills, with vitamin D, and magnesium, and take a couple of B-complex while you're at it for the stress and don't forget the iron and probably a multi-vitamin too, because in order to get the nutrition you need you'd have to eat something in the vicinity of 2500 calories, but you're only burning 1000 every day because your metabolism has taken the slow boat to your hips to meet up with Ben and Jerry who have settled there indefinitely.
Ahhhhhhhhh...
And then you realize that exercise is the key- and the great thing is that exercise is actually key to a whole lot of things, like managing stress, and keeping a healthy weight both of which will reduce your risk of getting cancer, and those are all good things.
So you exercise and you become stronger physically and mentally, and the menopause symptoms come less and less until one day you look in the mirror and you don't see a 17 year old girl who's gotten really old, you see you. Older, wiser and better for the living. A few wrinkles, maybe some gray hair, but a whole lot of life left in you and a whole lot of will to go out and live it.
Menopause is not life-on-pause, it's life. And if you are lucky enough to live long enough to go through it, then you are truly lucky in life.
Just moving around our house during July was enough to cause me to break out in a sweat, never mind turning on the oven or trying to run the clothes dryer or dishwasher. Even having the lights on would bring the temperature into the high 80's. It's no surprise with all that heat figuring out what was "hot hot" and what was "hot flash" was nearly impossible. So, in my heat induced haze, I blamed everything on the temperature and figured the frequency of hot flashes was slowing down. Alas, a few hours after the new AC was installed the house cooled down to a more comfortable temperature... I, on the other hand, did not.
Men-o-pause.
My mother's generation called it "the change of life". Those were the days when the stork delivered babies, cancer was called "the big C", and there was a long list of things, most things of substance really, that you just didn't discuss in polite, let alone mixed, company.
But in this day of Viagra commercials, and recurring ads for hormone replacement therapy ("it's not just for women anymore"), I figured talking about menopause was fair game. And to be honest, since half of the population is going to experience it first hand, and the other half is going to live with the "second hand smoke" of it, it's probably a good topic to put out there... so out there it goes.
To start, let me just say menopause would really suck if chemo hadn't set such a high standard for suckiness. But chemo has set the standard, and chemo launched me head over tail into menopause. And, what chemo started, the hysterectomy wrapped up in a tidy little package with a great big ugly bow on the top. Whoever said good things come in small packages never met my ovaries. Handy little buggers when you want to get pregnant, but time bombs when you have BRCA gene. So out they went, and in settled menopause.
To be fair, at my age... a robust 48 years old...I was driving in the menopause express lane anyway. But through the miracle of chemo meds - viola - menopause on speed; and there's probably something to be said for moving through the "peri" stage quickly. Many women trudge through "the change" for years, and the journey can be more irritating than political ads in October.
"The change" - what a phrase; like we're stepping into the fitting room at Neiman Marcus and coming out with a whole new outfit. Not quite that easy. Yet in some ways, maybe not that far off, either.
For many women, menopause can be the trigger for a fresh perspective on life. It can be the impetus for getting in shape, getting healthy - mentally and physically, and coming into not only an acceptance but an appreciation for the person they've become. I think the challenges that menopause brings physically and emotionally either knock you on your tail or force you to push back and become stronger.
Most women seem to gain weight once they've gone through menopause - and I can see why. Your metabolism grinds to a halt and your emotions are in an upheaval. Ben and Jerry become regular guests in your kitchen - their visits short but frequent. And while a Hallmark commercial can send you leaping for the kleenex, there are often times when you could and do cry for absolutely no reason at all. All this gets you to thinking that you must be going crazy, or maybe you're depressed - but you can't think of any reason why you would be depressed - so you must be crazy.
But you're not.
What you are is menopausal. Your hormones are going up and down like the stock market during an election year. Meanwhile Pfizer is pushing viagra and the TV ads are telling you that hormone replacement therapy will put the bounce back in your boudoir, but all you really want is a good night's sleep, a whole 8 hours without night sweats, or waking up at 1am... and 3am... and 5am, because being emotionally charged for the last 24 hours is exhausting. But what's really exhausting is keeping your cool and pretending like everything is perfectly normal while you're sweating like John Candy one minute and shivering as if hell froze over and you're in it the next; because while menopause sucks, being treated like an overly emotional woman who's about to explode is even worse.
So you're crying and gaining weight and you go into your doctor and she says "let's get a bone density baseline" and you do, and you find out that despite the pints of ice cream being succumbed to on a regular basis you're not getting enough calcium and it's time to start popping calcium pills, with vitamin D, and magnesium, and take a couple of B-complex while you're at it for the stress and don't forget the iron and probably a multi-vitamin too, because in order to get the nutrition you need you'd have to eat something in the vicinity of 2500 calories, but you're only burning 1000 every day because your metabolism has taken the slow boat to your hips to meet up with Ben and Jerry who have settled there indefinitely.
Ahhhhhhhhh...
And then you realize that exercise is the key- and the great thing is that exercise is actually key to a whole lot of things, like managing stress, and keeping a healthy weight both of which will reduce your risk of getting cancer, and those are all good things.
So you exercise and you become stronger physically and mentally, and the menopause symptoms come less and less until one day you look in the mirror and you don't see a 17 year old girl who's gotten really old, you see you. Older, wiser and better for the living. A few wrinkles, maybe some gray hair, but a whole lot of life left in you and a whole lot of will to go out and live it.
Menopause is not life-on-pause, it's life. And if you are lucky enough to live long enough to go through it, then you are truly lucky in life.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Room to Merge
Last week I had my first rush hour driving experience in many many months, and in my new found "calm" I found myself observing a behavior I've witnessed many times before with a new found philosophical tilt.
Have you ever noticed how cars coming down an on-ramp to the highway will line up, almost bumper to bumper, as they attempt to merge with vehicles already on the road? It's crazy to think that you'll be able to smoothly merge with moving traffic if you've failed to leave room for anyone else to take the place in front of you. It's just counter-intuitive. Then there's those yield signs - yield means to "give way", but on we go, bumper to bumper, only giving way at the last moment. Heaven forbid someone
gets in front of us.
And that made me think: life is like rush hour - we need to make room to merge and yield, otherwise we crash.
Right now I'm on that on-ramp from one road, my life before cancer, to the next, my life going forward; and I know it's going to be important to yield and merge. I know if I don't leave room, some space in my life and in each day, to practice new behaviors, that merging into my new life will be difficult. And chances are, if I continue to drive bumper to bumper through my life, leaving no room for change, or dodging in and out of new behaviors, I will crash and burn. But it takes time to create new habits and being in a state of "construction" may require a few detours now and then; like my recent surgery which put my exercise routine on temporary hiatus. And, I know there will be bumps in the road, some "overheating" and possibly a few "breakdowns" along the way - the new hormone therapy brings a lot of new adventures. But detours don't mean I end the journey or turn around and go back where I started. Focusing on the destination, a new healthier life, enables me to keep moving in a positive direction.
Merging into my new and improved, and heavily reconstructed life is going to take some time, and I'm thankful each day for all the people that are allowing me that room to merge.
Then there's yielding
Giving way. Letting go.
For me, this comes in the form of relinquishing control in some aspects of my life. Or, more accurately stated, accepting the fact that I never really had the control in the first place.
"Control" is like a rainbow, but not as pretty. We think we can see it, but it always alludes us. Cancer taught me that, no matter what you do, there are just some things you can't control. So we leave the rainbows to God; we yield, we let someone else take the lead, and we give way for change.
And change leads to letting go.
In 6 short weeks my daughter will leave for college. And as proud of her as I am, and excited for this new adventure for her as I am, I know it will be hard to see her go.
This year has taught us both so much, and if you had asked me last summer how I felt about her leaving for college this fall, I would have told you I was freaking out, terrified at how much I was going to miss her and worried about how she would handle so much change.
This last 8 months changed all that. Cancer reminded me:
“If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together.. there is something you must always remember. you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. but the most important thing is, even if we're apart.. i'll always be with you.”
Christopher Robin was one smart kid.
So, while I know I will miss her, I also know that living apart is not the same as living without her; and letting go and allowing her to grow, is different than letting her go - because she'll always be with me, and I will always be with her.
Merging and yielding...making way for the new, letting go and allowing change to happen. Sometimes we are our own biggest roadblocks. But all it takes to clear a jam is a little room to merge.
Have you ever noticed how cars coming down an on-ramp to the highway will line up, almost bumper to bumper, as they attempt to merge with vehicles already on the road? It's crazy to think that you'll be able to smoothly merge with moving traffic if you've failed to leave room for anyone else to take the place in front of you. It's just counter-intuitive. Then there's those yield signs - yield means to "give way", but on we go, bumper to bumper, only giving way at the last moment. Heaven forbid someone
gets in front of us.
And that made me think: life is like rush hour - we need to make room to merge and yield, otherwise we crash.
Right now I'm on that on-ramp from one road, my life before cancer, to the next, my life going forward; and I know it's going to be important to yield and merge. I know if I don't leave room, some space in my life and in each day, to practice new behaviors, that merging into my new life will be difficult. And chances are, if I continue to drive bumper to bumper through my life, leaving no room for change, or dodging in and out of new behaviors, I will crash and burn. But it takes time to create new habits and being in a state of "construction" may require a few detours now and then; like my recent surgery which put my exercise routine on temporary hiatus. And, I know there will be bumps in the road, some "overheating" and possibly a few "breakdowns" along the way - the new hormone therapy brings a lot of new adventures. But detours don't mean I end the journey or turn around and go back where I started. Focusing on the destination, a new healthier life, enables me to keep moving in a positive direction.
Merging into my new and improved, and heavily reconstructed life is going to take some time, and I'm thankful each day for all the people that are allowing me that room to merge.
Then there's yielding
Giving way. Letting go.
For me, this comes in the form of relinquishing control in some aspects of my life. Or, more accurately stated, accepting the fact that I never really had the control in the first place.
"Control" is like a rainbow, but not as pretty. We think we can see it, but it always alludes us. Cancer taught me that, no matter what you do, there are just some things you can't control. So we leave the rainbows to God; we yield, we let someone else take the lead, and we give way for change.
And change leads to letting go.
In 6 short weeks my daughter will leave for college. And as proud of her as I am, and excited for this new adventure for her as I am, I know it will be hard to see her go.
This year has taught us both so much, and if you had asked me last summer how I felt about her leaving for college this fall, I would have told you I was freaking out, terrified at how much I was going to miss her and worried about how she would handle so much change.
This last 8 months changed all that. Cancer reminded me:
“If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together.. there is something you must always remember. you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. but the most important thing is, even if we're apart.. i'll always be with you.”
Christopher Robin was one smart kid.
So, while I know I will miss her, I also know that living apart is not the same as living without her; and letting go and allowing her to grow, is different than letting her go - because she'll always be with me, and I will always be with her.
Merging and yielding...making way for the new, letting go and allowing change to happen. Sometimes we are our own biggest roadblocks. But all it takes to clear a jam is a little room to merge.
Monday, July 2, 2012
the road less traveled
At Cathedral of the Pines camp there is a spot high up on the hillside overlooking the lake and the camp; they call it 'Solitude' - a very befitting name for this very beautiful spot. Taking a hike to Solitude is no small undertaking. For awhile the trail is flat, you can walk along the dirt road and paths with no difficulty, but soon the path begins upward and the way becomes less trodden as you duck under branches and step over roots and fallen trees. For the inexperienced hiker, the walk is challenging but doable; and the reward for the effort is beyond word.
There are many beautiful spots throughout the camp and the surrounding areas that don't require hiking shoes and can be seen with little effort, but hikers that set Solitude as their goal are guaranteed a reward.
At times I wonder who found Solitude, and what made them seek out this new destination. Were they headed for some other destination? Were they wandering, with no specific destination in mind? Or were they looking for solitude when they found Solitude?
Chances are, at some point, they made a decision to go off the beaten path and take on a more challenging trail. They must have hoped they would find something new, something worthy of extra effort, worthy of the risk. People rarely take the beaten path expecting to find something new and beautiful, the most they hope for is to reach their destination with as little effort and risk as possible.
I've thought a lot about the journey that I've been on lately. Like the walk to Solitude, it was challenging, but doable. When I started on this journey, I had a specific destination in mind and I hoped to take the beaten path. But sometimes we don't get a choice in the road that we take. So instead, I took the road less traveled, and as Robert Frost wrote, "that has made all the difference".
Had the road been easy, I may not have been motivated to change. Had the road been customary and uneventful, I may not have learned the importance of giving up control and asking for help. Had the road been short, I may not have had time to realize just how strong and capable my daughter is, and neither might she. Had the road been other than what it was, I would not be other than what I was.
I started out with "life without cancer" as my destination, but I got something more important:
I got Life.
Today, I am cancer-free. Tomorrow I may not be. But I'll be here and I'll be a living testament to the road less traveled. Living is what it is all about.
Living for my daughter.
Living for my dreams and my goals.
Living for my friends and my family and my faith.
Living to learn.
Living to love.
Living.
And on that road less traveled, I found a peace which comes from solitude.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Life goes on
Isn't life interesting? I had a PET scan a few weeks ago. When I went in for the scan, the technician hooked up an IV line in my arm and then brought in a vial of liquid that was so radio-active it came encased in a lead container, (yes, a lead container) with just the tip of the vial accessible. Made me feel a wee bit like superman, but also had me wondering about the tradeoffs of having this particular test done. In fact, since I was diagnosed I have been exposed to so many toxic and radio-active chemicals it amazes me that a body can survive the cure. Still, over the course of my treatment, I had been looking forward to the day when I would have this PET scan done. You discuss it with other patients and hear people talk about it in the lobby and treatment areas, and you smile when you overhear someone say "I got a clean PET scan." The PET scan would tell me that the cancer is all gone; the PET scan would provide closure. But going with my friend to her "results" appointment changed that.
It was at that appointment that I was made aware that a PET scan will only catch cancerous tumors that are at least 1 cm large. And suddenly it made sense how another friend of mine could have a "clean" PET scan one day and 30 days later be told her cancer had returned - had metastasized to her bones. The PET scan would not be the be-all and end-all of this journey. I was left looking for another mode of closure.
The good news is my friend received a "clean" PET scan at the end of April and at the end of May so did I; but on the flip side, in between those scans, another friend was diagnosed with uterine cancer. Two steps forward and one step back is still one step in the right direction. And the next step for me would be the first step for her, a total hysterectomy.
Over the last few weeks we have both undergone our surgery. Soon I will begin hormone therapy and she will begin her chemo and radiation treatments, and I will be there for her, however she needs. The journey continues.
Closure continues to be elusive, but I'm thinking that's okay. We don't really get to walk away from cancer, there is always the lingering concern that the cancer will return, there are always friends and relatives that get diagnosed, and the fear that we've passed a cancer gene onto a child; but, beyond all that there are the lessons we take with us and pass on. Lessons in navigating medical jargon, treatment options and the health care system. Lessons in managing side effects, tying a scarf and picking out hats. Lessons in eating healthier, exercising more and managing stress. Lessons in faith, patience, and overcoming fear. Lessons in friendship and gratitude and grace.
So on we go, taking with us what we've learned, paying it forward.
Life goes on and life...is good.
It was at that appointment that I was made aware that a PET scan will only catch cancerous tumors that are at least 1 cm large. And suddenly it made sense how another friend of mine could have a "clean" PET scan one day and 30 days later be told her cancer had returned - had metastasized to her bones. The PET scan would not be the be-all and end-all of this journey. I was left looking for another mode of closure.
The good news is my friend received a "clean" PET scan at the end of April and at the end of May so did I; but on the flip side, in between those scans, another friend was diagnosed with uterine cancer. Two steps forward and one step back is still one step in the right direction. And the next step for me would be the first step for her, a total hysterectomy.
Over the last few weeks we have both undergone our surgery. Soon I will begin hormone therapy and she will begin her chemo and radiation treatments, and I will be there for her, however she needs. The journey continues.
Closure continues to be elusive, but I'm thinking that's okay. We don't really get to walk away from cancer, there is always the lingering concern that the cancer will return, there are always friends and relatives that get diagnosed, and the fear that we've passed a cancer gene onto a child; but, beyond all that there are the lessons we take with us and pass on. Lessons in navigating medical jargon, treatment options and the health care system. Lessons in managing side effects, tying a scarf and picking out hats. Lessons in eating healthier, exercising more and managing stress. Lessons in faith, patience, and overcoming fear. Lessons in friendship and gratitude and grace.
So on we go, taking with us what we've learned, paying it forward.
Life goes on and life...is good.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
All cancered out
I'm all cancered out. It's probably why I'm having a bit of a dry spell in writing on my blog. As it says at the top of the page, this blog is about "me, my life and my relationship with breast cancer", but over the last months it's been primarily about my relationship with breast cancer. And now... well, I'm all cancered out. My hope is that cancer is all "barbed" out too.
Seven months is a long time to have most of your day spent thinking about, dealing with and planning for cancer-related things. I'm so past ready to move on. Mentally, I'm so cancered out - but physically, well, the body isn't keeping up with the brain on this one.
When cancer hit, it was the other way around... my body was moving ahead of my brain. My body had cancer before my brain knew it did. My body had to go through surgery and chemo before my brain had fully accepted or comprehended exactly what was about to happen. Now, my brain is moving on, but my body is lagging behind. My body has a PET scan to get through, a preemptive hysterectomy to get through, a reconstructive surgery (or 3) to get through. My body is not yet done, but my brain is moving on.
It's thinking about how I'm going to apply to my daily life all those things I learned about being healthier, eating better, exercising more and managing how I respond to stressful situations, even if I can't prevent them from occurring. It's thinking about all the things that need to get done and wishing my body were able to start doing some of them. It's looking to the future and envisioning a time where cancer isn't part of my daily language.
In other words, it's trying to get back to normal, but a new normal - where, instead of going back to the way things were, we go forward to the way things need to be. Healthier, more balanced, and aware of, but not in fear of, the realities of cancer.
And it's making lists.
Lists of things that need fixing and improving around my house, which has been sorely neglected for a few years.
Lists of things that need to be prepared for my daughter's graduation, and for college in the fall.
Lists of things I'd like to accomplish - I've spent a lot of time thinking about things that I'd like to accomplish, like writing a book, and spending more time on volunteer activities, maybe even continuing my education, but definitely living a simpler life.
But for now its time for patience. Patience with my body while it catches up to my brain in its recovery. Patience in wanting to check things off my lists, but accepting that there is plenty of time for working the list once I've recovered more fully. Patience with wanting to be done with cancer, but knowing there's still a bit of a road to go.
Cancer has forever changed me and the way I look at life and myself, and I hope what I've gone through and learned will continue to influence my actions and goals in a positive way.
But frankly - I'm all cancered out.
Seven months is a long time to have most of your day spent thinking about, dealing with and planning for cancer-related things. I'm so past ready to move on. Mentally, I'm so cancered out - but physically, well, the body isn't keeping up with the brain on this one.
When cancer hit, it was the other way around... my body was moving ahead of my brain. My body had cancer before my brain knew it did. My body had to go through surgery and chemo before my brain had fully accepted or comprehended exactly what was about to happen. Now, my brain is moving on, but my body is lagging behind. My body has a PET scan to get through, a preemptive hysterectomy to get through, a reconstructive surgery (or 3) to get through. My body is not yet done, but my brain is moving on.
It's thinking about how I'm going to apply to my daily life all those things I learned about being healthier, eating better, exercising more and managing how I respond to stressful situations, even if I can't prevent them from occurring. It's thinking about all the things that need to get done and wishing my body were able to start doing some of them. It's looking to the future and envisioning a time where cancer isn't part of my daily language.
In other words, it's trying to get back to normal, but a new normal - where, instead of going back to the way things were, we go forward to the way things need to be. Healthier, more balanced, and aware of, but not in fear of, the realities of cancer.
And it's making lists.
Lists of things that need fixing and improving around my house, which has been sorely neglected for a few years.
Lists of things that need to be prepared for my daughter's graduation, and for college in the fall.
Lists of things I'd like to accomplish - I've spent a lot of time thinking about things that I'd like to accomplish, like writing a book, and spending more time on volunteer activities, maybe even continuing my education, but definitely living a simpler life.
But for now its time for patience. Patience with my body while it catches up to my brain in its recovery. Patience in wanting to check things off my lists, but accepting that there is plenty of time for working the list once I've recovered more fully. Patience with wanting to be done with cancer, but knowing there's still a bit of a road to go.
Cancer has forever changed me and the way I look at life and myself, and I hope what I've gone through and learned will continue to influence my actions and goals in a positive way.
But frankly - I'm all cancered out.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
changing of the seasons
Once again I find myself looking out my living room window at our beautiful maple tree. The red leaves are slowly returning despite the wind's efforts to blow them away. At times it seems as confused about this weird weather we are having as I am; but the squirrels are back and the birds are back and my dog is enthralled with watching every move they make.
When I bought this house the maple was one of the selling points even though, from the street side, it had the definite appearance of an apple with one bite taken out. Big, beautiful, red and round... except the spot where no leaves would grow and the branches had died. But from the inside of the house, the view of our tree was beautiful and perfect. I once had a professional look at the tree and they informed me that the tree had been hit by lightning quite some time ago, leaving this permanent scar. Each year takes a larger bite out of our maple and now a fourth of the tree is missing leaves. Funny thing is, the view from my window has improved, the tree is older and more colorful than ever. The "bite" is only obvious on the outside.
And that's how I feel today. From the outside I am scarred - no breasts, no hair, no eye lashes, spotty eye brows, and finger tips and nails that are decaying. It's as if a lightening bolt hit me last fall and over the last 7 months I have continued to lose my "leaves". But when I take a different perspective, I can see that I am much the same as I ever was and maybe even a little bit better - from the inside, the view is improving.
When I first was diagnosed, I remember joking with friends about having to wear pink and participate in walks now. Then a few weeks ago, while talking with a friend, she mentioned how it seems that there is a lot of pressure on cancer patients to take something away from their illness, "cancer has changed me" is commonly said by those who have gone through it, and shouldn't it be enough that we fight and survive? It was a great observation.
But here's the thing - sometimes you do change, because sometimes you want to.
But for me, I can't imagine going through all of this and not finding someway to learn from it...to change for the better. At the end of the day, I want more from this journey than to survive - I want to thrive. And I don't want this to just be about the cancer, because if it's just about cancer, then I've turned over 7 months, 10 months, a year to cancer and I refuse to give cancer that much power. In many ways, I need this to be about something more than cancer.
So don't be surprised if in the future I wear pink and walk walks. If, like my maple, I am older and more colorful than I was before. But don't say that cancer has changed me - because the truth is, if anything changes it will be because I choose to change.
And I choose to change.
When I bought this house the maple was one of the selling points even though, from the street side, it had the definite appearance of an apple with one bite taken out. Big, beautiful, red and round... except the spot where no leaves would grow and the branches had died. But from the inside of the house, the view of our tree was beautiful and perfect. I once had a professional look at the tree and they informed me that the tree had been hit by lightning quite some time ago, leaving this permanent scar. Each year takes a larger bite out of our maple and now a fourth of the tree is missing leaves. Funny thing is, the view from my window has improved, the tree is older and more colorful than ever. The "bite" is only obvious on the outside.
And that's how I feel today. From the outside I am scarred - no breasts, no hair, no eye lashes, spotty eye brows, and finger tips and nails that are decaying. It's as if a lightening bolt hit me last fall and over the last 7 months I have continued to lose my "leaves". But when I take a different perspective, I can see that I am much the same as I ever was and maybe even a little bit better - from the inside, the view is improving.
When I first was diagnosed, I remember joking with friends about having to wear pink and participate in walks now. Then a few weeks ago, while talking with a friend, she mentioned how it seems that there is a lot of pressure on cancer patients to take something away from their illness, "cancer has changed me" is commonly said by those who have gone through it, and shouldn't it be enough that we fight and survive? It was a great observation.
But here's the thing - sometimes you do change, because sometimes you want to.
Like everything else on this journey, this too is a personal decision. I can understand those who need to focus every ounce of mental and physical strength just to get through each day, each moment. And I can understand those who want everything to remain the same and just put cancer behind them and pretend it never happened.
So don't be surprised if in the future I wear pink and walk walks. If, like my maple, I am older and more colorful than I was before. But don't say that cancer has changed me - because the truth is, if anything changes it will be because I choose to change.
And I choose to change.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
We
Another chemo down, 3 to go. The road is shorter, but steeper... but with so many holding me up, cheering me on, even pushing me on when I need it... well that makes all the difference in the world.
I posted that on my facebook wall tonight, and in response a friend of mine posted the following: "I think I can, I know you can. I think I can. I know you can. I think I can. I know you can. I think I can. I know you can. I think I can. I know you can."
We.
I find myself often writing in pronoun "plural" - like today's CaringBridge update: "I can't believe we are 13 chemo treatments in, with only 3 to go." I wrote that, and posted it before I realized I had written in the plural again... and so I found the inspiration for today's blog: We.
We are going through chemo.
We: I, and my daughter - most definitely, my daughter
We: I, my dad and my extended family
We: I, and my amazing, wonderful guardian angels
We: I, and my friends
We: I, and my God - most definitely, God.
We are going through this cancer journey together.
No one takes a journey on their own, there are always those that are there, side by side, step by step; and those there in spirit, if not in body.
For many weeks there was someone with me for almost every day, all day; especially those after chemo. Seeing that I took my meds, drank enough water, got sleep, taking me to the clinic for appointments and the hospital when things went bad. And being there to support my daughter.
Now, when I sit in my chemo chair, there is always someone with me, keeping me company, hanging out while I fall asleep from the drugs, seeing me home safe. And the room is full, physically and spiritually. There are nurses, volunteers, physicians assistants and doctors all whom I am getting to know more as the weeks go by. There are the messages I get from people checking in and sending wishes for a good outcome; and the comfort I get knowing so many are there in thought and prayer.
We are in chemo together. I providing the body, you contributing to the spirit.
The journey is long, but I am daily amazed at how tirelessly you stay with me: holding me up, cheering me on, pushing me when I need it... it makes all the difference in the world.
Thanks for being with me on this journey.
I posted that on my facebook wall tonight, and in response a friend of mine posted the following: "I think I can, I know you can. I think I can. I know you can. I think I can. I know you can. I think I can. I know you can. I think I can. I know you can."
We.
I find myself often writing in pronoun "plural" - like today's CaringBridge update: "I can't believe we are 13 chemo treatments in, with only 3 to go." I wrote that, and posted it before I realized I had written in the plural again... and so I found the inspiration for today's blog: We.
We are going through chemo.
We: I, and my daughter - most definitely, my daughter
We: I, my dad and my extended family
We: I, and my amazing, wonderful guardian angels
We: I, and my friends
We: I, and my God - most definitely, God.
We are going through this cancer journey together.
No one takes a journey on their own, there are always those that are there, side by side, step by step; and those there in spirit, if not in body.
For many weeks there was someone with me for almost every day, all day; especially those after chemo. Seeing that I took my meds, drank enough water, got sleep, taking me to the clinic for appointments and the hospital when things went bad. And being there to support my daughter.
Now, when I sit in my chemo chair, there is always someone with me, keeping me company, hanging out while I fall asleep from the drugs, seeing me home safe. And the room is full, physically and spiritually. There are nurses, volunteers, physicians assistants and doctors all whom I am getting to know more as the weeks go by. There are the messages I get from people checking in and sending wishes for a good outcome; and the comfort I get knowing so many are there in thought and prayer.
We are in chemo together. I providing the body, you contributing to the spirit.
The journey is long, but I am daily amazed at how tirelessly you stay with me: holding me up, cheering me on, pushing me when I need it... it makes all the difference in the world.
Thanks for being with me on this journey.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
a box of magazines
I grew up in a modest story and a half home in southwest minneapolis. My parent's had the home built in 1952 and lived there until 1998 when they moved to what could be called their dream home in Eden Prairie. After 46 years in the same home, neither packing nor tossing was something they had developed an aptitude for; and when moving day finally came, it is safe to say that almost everything was transplanted into the Eden Prairie house.
The home was duly decorated, and boxes containing things that were too good to toss, too important to give away, but which had no immediate use, were relegated to the basement... unfinished and plenty of room for storage. Among the heirloom china, silver, photos and other family mementoes was a number of WWII magazines my father was keeping. My father was always interested in the stories that came from those who served, as he did, in WWII. He had started a subscription, but since he continued to work full time he had not found the time to read them, and so kept them for when he retired.
In 2004, working part-time and wanting to be closer to their old neighborhood, my parents traded their home in EP for a moderately sized condominium in Edina. As we culled through the various boxes, I asked again about the magazines. I had found another 6 years worth in various boxes...untouched. My Dad was sure that he wanted to keep them to read once he retired. My Mom rolled her eyes, failing to see the symmetry with her collection of un-started and partially completed sewing projects being saved for that same magical day. Picking my battles, I consolidated the magazines into a single box and stored it away for another day. Where the sewing went, I had no idea.
In 2008, not liking the condominium living and contemplating where to move, my parents sold their condo and moved temporarily into a rental town home. Four years had taken its toll on my parents' health, and despite my encouragement, nay pleas, that we hire packers as well as movers, I found myself packing up another home, but this time with my daughter's help. We pulled out the box of magazines, added 4 more years to the stack and re-closed it. Still no sign of the sewing... was it possible it had been "cleaned out"?
Summer 2009 was a crazy string of medical issues and Fall 2009 found both my parents in care facilities with no sign of them being able to return to independent living. With the help of friends and family, we packed up again, but with little time or emotional energy to filter through the 58 years of collected possessions, including the box of WWII magazines.
As many of you know, we lost my mother in Feb of 2010. I've moved my father 2 more times and the box has moved with him. He has gone through various illnesses, and stages of dementia. His days are pretty quiet now, but some times he reads; comprehension comes and goes. He loves the large print Bible we got for him, and reads it somedays with success, somedays without. The print in the magazine is too small though, and the process of using a magnifying glass to read is frustrating. So the box sits in the closet, at least until I am healthier and can spend more time there reading to him. Reading together is one of our joys.
It can make me sad to think of this box, but I know there is something to be taken away. The magazines represent many things: lost time; the putting off of our passions for our daily routine; life's ever surprising turns and twists that take simple pleasures and make them complex challenges; and yet, it also represents an opportunity to connect over shared pleasures - mine of reading, his of WWII stories.
And it makes me wonder, what have I "stored away" for that magical day when I'll "have more time"?
I was fortunate enough to take a trip to England and Paris with my daughter last spring. We had talked of doing that for years, and as her graduation loomed I didn't want to put it off any longer. So glad we didn't. And I have always wanted to write. I wrote in college and took every course I could, and then, just stopped. Life's "priorities". But here I am, blogging ... it's a start, and one I plan to continue. Then there are the relationships... people I had lost touch with when all it would have taken is a call, or an email. I am working through that list to get in touch with each one.
And I do this, not because of cancer, but because of that box. Life is surprising and it all goes by so fast. Whether you live to 50, 70 or 85, as my Dad will be this year, life goes by and before you know it, you have a "box" of things you meant to do. Things you were passionate about and somehow let life, and work, and chores and tv, push aside. And you can start small, taking just a little time to focus on a loved one, to volunteer, to travel, to draw or paint or sculpture, or learn to swim or sing or go back to school, to reach out to old friends, make new ones, or mend broken relationships. But it won't happen if we don't start.
When my time comes, God-willing a long long time from now, I hope it will be said that I followed my passions: time with with family and friends, time of service to others, and writing. Life provides the opportunity if we only open our eyes, and our hearts and our minds, and it doesn't have to take a life-altering event for each of us to take that first step; but if you feel you need one, please borrow mine...
p.s., I found the sewing, it was in a box. I have it at my home, along with my mother's beautiful sewing machine. It is also my motivation. With the help of a dear friend, whom I reconnected with recently, I plan to re-learn to sew and complete a service project - an idea that "hatched" over the last few months. Don't you love how life comes full-circle?
The home was duly decorated, and boxes containing things that were too good to toss, too important to give away, but which had no immediate use, were relegated to the basement... unfinished and plenty of room for storage. Among the heirloom china, silver, photos and other family mementoes was a number of WWII magazines my father was keeping. My father was always interested in the stories that came from those who served, as he did, in WWII. He had started a subscription, but since he continued to work full time he had not found the time to read them, and so kept them for when he retired.
In 2004, working part-time and wanting to be closer to their old neighborhood, my parents traded their home in EP for a moderately sized condominium in Edina. As we culled through the various boxes, I asked again about the magazines. I had found another 6 years worth in various boxes...untouched. My Dad was sure that he wanted to keep them to read once he retired. My Mom rolled her eyes, failing to see the symmetry with her collection of un-started and partially completed sewing projects being saved for that same magical day. Picking my battles, I consolidated the magazines into a single box and stored it away for another day. Where the sewing went, I had no idea.
In 2008, not liking the condominium living and contemplating where to move, my parents sold their condo and moved temporarily into a rental town home. Four years had taken its toll on my parents' health, and despite my encouragement, nay pleas, that we hire packers as well as movers, I found myself packing up another home, but this time with my daughter's help. We pulled out the box of magazines, added 4 more years to the stack and re-closed it. Still no sign of the sewing... was it possible it had been "cleaned out"?
Summer 2009 was a crazy string of medical issues and Fall 2009 found both my parents in care facilities with no sign of them being able to return to independent living. With the help of friends and family, we packed up again, but with little time or emotional energy to filter through the 58 years of collected possessions, including the box of WWII magazines.
As many of you know, we lost my mother in Feb of 2010. I've moved my father 2 more times and the box has moved with him. He has gone through various illnesses, and stages of dementia. His days are pretty quiet now, but some times he reads; comprehension comes and goes. He loves the large print Bible we got for him, and reads it somedays with success, somedays without. The print in the magazine is too small though, and the process of using a magnifying glass to read is frustrating. So the box sits in the closet, at least until I am healthier and can spend more time there reading to him. Reading together is one of our joys.
It can make me sad to think of this box, but I know there is something to be taken away. The magazines represent many things: lost time; the putting off of our passions for our daily routine; life's ever surprising turns and twists that take simple pleasures and make them complex challenges; and yet, it also represents an opportunity to connect over shared pleasures - mine of reading, his of WWII stories.
And it makes me wonder, what have I "stored away" for that magical day when I'll "have more time"?
I was fortunate enough to take a trip to England and Paris with my daughter last spring. We had talked of doing that for years, and as her graduation loomed I didn't want to put it off any longer. So glad we didn't. And I have always wanted to write. I wrote in college and took every course I could, and then, just stopped. Life's "priorities". But here I am, blogging ... it's a start, and one I plan to continue. Then there are the relationships... people I had lost touch with when all it would have taken is a call, or an email. I am working through that list to get in touch with each one.
And I do this, not because of cancer, but because of that box. Life is surprising and it all goes by so fast. Whether you live to 50, 70 or 85, as my Dad will be this year, life goes by and before you know it, you have a "box" of things you meant to do. Things you were passionate about and somehow let life, and work, and chores and tv, push aside. And you can start small, taking just a little time to focus on a loved one, to volunteer, to travel, to draw or paint or sculpture, or learn to swim or sing or go back to school, to reach out to old friends, make new ones, or mend broken relationships. But it won't happen if we don't start.
When my time comes, God-willing a long long time from now, I hope it will be said that I followed my passions: time with with family and friends, time of service to others, and writing. Life provides the opportunity if we only open our eyes, and our hearts and our minds, and it doesn't have to take a life-altering event for each of us to take that first step; but if you feel you need one, please borrow mine...
p.s., I found the sewing, it was in a box. I have it at my home, along with my mother's beautiful sewing machine. It is also my motivation. With the help of a dear friend, whom I reconnected with recently, I plan to re-learn to sew and complete a service project - an idea that "hatched" over the last few months. Don't you love how life comes full-circle?
Monday, February 27, 2012
The Treatment
Three down, nine to go in this current chemo regimen, and I am successful most days at taking one day at a time. Chemotherapy is the third step of this cancer journey with more to come. In scanning my past blog posts, I realized I had not shared the complete "treatment" picture with you yet... so, for those of you interested, here it goes:
Step 1: The Diagnosis - 4 words: "get your routine screenings". It is so important! And what's a little discomfort for a few seconds to increase your probability of catching cancer early when it's still treatable? Had it not been for my routine mammogram, my cancer would have quickly spread through my lymphatic system to other organs.
Step 2: The Surgery - For some people this is a lumpectomy, a removal of the cancerous tumor and surrounding tissue. I opted for the double (bi-lateral) mastectomy early on, and later found that based on both the outcome of the surgery and the genetic test results, a double mastectomy was inevitable. Along with the surgery comes the lymph node removal and biopsy, a critical step in identifying whether the cancer has likely spread, and to what degree. It's not fail proof, but testing the lymph nodes gives a good indication. For me, cancer had spread to 1 lymph node, and only in a small way; while not "perfect" this is good news.
Step 3: The Chemotherapy. Phase 1 is the administration of 2 drugs (adriamycin and cyctoxan) which work together to kill off any cells that are replicating quickly: cancer cells, hair follicles, white blood cells. These are the drugs that give breast cancer chemo it's bad reputation, as the side effects can be severe. Thank goodness for new anti-nausea drugs. Phase 2 swaps the 2 drugs for 1 (taxol), which attacks the bone marrow and temporarily shuts down the production of new blood cells in hopes of killing off any cancer cells that may have eluded the 1st round. This is my current phase.
Step 4: The PET Scan. When the chemo is done, a PET scan is done of the body from head to toe to see if any signs of cancer remain. Breast cancer typically goes from the breast to the brain or the reproductive organs. A PET scan is what gives us the "all clear". Limited lymph node involvement gives us reason to be very hopeful as to the outcome of my future PET scan.
Step 5: The Prescription. For women who's cancer feeds off of estrogen pills are prescribed that will block the normal production of hormones. Different drugs are given based on whether "at risk" reproductive organs will be removed or remain. Having tested positive for the breast cancer gene, mine will be removed, which takes us to...
Step 6: The 2nd Surgery. There are currently no reliable screenings for ovarian or uterine cancer, so removal of these organs is an important step in reducing the risk of cancer reoccurrence with women who test positive for the breast cancer gene. Once the PET scan provides the "all clear", surgery is scheduled for a full hysterectomy. Chemotherapy typically shuts down the normal reproductive process, essentially throwing you into a chemically induced menopause; the surgery takes care of the rest.
Step 7: The Reconstruction. After a period of healing, breast reconstruction can be scheduled. Reconstruction requires 3 separate surgeries, separated by a period of healing. Each surgery becomes less invasive and has a shorter healing period.
Step 8: The Recheck. Once cancer free, there are regularly scheduled rechecks scheduled to make sure you remain cancer free. This is a life-long process.
And that, in a rather large nutshell, is the treatment. So we take one day at a time, and try to focus on the process at hand and not what may or may not occur in the future.
Live for today, learn from the past, have faith in the future.
Step 1: The Diagnosis - 4 words: "get your routine screenings". It is so important! And what's a little discomfort for a few seconds to increase your probability of catching cancer early when it's still treatable? Had it not been for my routine mammogram, my cancer would have quickly spread through my lymphatic system to other organs.
Step 2: The Surgery - For some people this is a lumpectomy, a removal of the cancerous tumor and surrounding tissue. I opted for the double (bi-lateral) mastectomy early on, and later found that based on both the outcome of the surgery and the genetic test results, a double mastectomy was inevitable. Along with the surgery comes the lymph node removal and biopsy, a critical step in identifying whether the cancer has likely spread, and to what degree. It's not fail proof, but testing the lymph nodes gives a good indication. For me, cancer had spread to 1 lymph node, and only in a small way; while not "perfect" this is good news.
Step 3: The Chemotherapy. Phase 1 is the administration of 2 drugs (adriamycin and cyctoxan) which work together to kill off any cells that are replicating quickly: cancer cells, hair follicles, white blood cells. These are the drugs that give breast cancer chemo it's bad reputation, as the side effects can be severe. Thank goodness for new anti-nausea drugs. Phase 2 swaps the 2 drugs for 1 (taxol), which attacks the bone marrow and temporarily shuts down the production of new blood cells in hopes of killing off any cancer cells that may have eluded the 1st round. This is my current phase.
Step 4: The PET Scan. When the chemo is done, a PET scan is done of the body from head to toe to see if any signs of cancer remain. Breast cancer typically goes from the breast to the brain or the reproductive organs. A PET scan is what gives us the "all clear". Limited lymph node involvement gives us reason to be very hopeful as to the outcome of my future PET scan.
Step 5: The Prescription. For women who's cancer feeds off of estrogen pills are prescribed that will block the normal production of hormones. Different drugs are given based on whether "at risk" reproductive organs will be removed or remain. Having tested positive for the breast cancer gene, mine will be removed, which takes us to...
Step 6: The 2nd Surgery. There are currently no reliable screenings for ovarian or uterine cancer, so removal of these organs is an important step in reducing the risk of cancer reoccurrence with women who test positive for the breast cancer gene. Once the PET scan provides the "all clear", surgery is scheduled for a full hysterectomy. Chemotherapy typically shuts down the normal reproductive process, essentially throwing you into a chemically induced menopause; the surgery takes care of the rest.
Step 7: The Reconstruction. After a period of healing, breast reconstruction can be scheduled. Reconstruction requires 3 separate surgeries, separated by a period of healing. Each surgery becomes less invasive and has a shorter healing period.
Step 8: The Recheck. Once cancer free, there are regularly scheduled rechecks scheduled to make sure you remain cancer free. This is a life-long process.
And that, in a rather large nutshell, is the treatment. So we take one day at a time, and try to focus on the process at hand and not what may or may not occur in the future.
Live for today, learn from the past, have faith in the future.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Changing my stripes
Over the years I've had multiple signs, one might even say flashing neon signs, that there were things in my life that needed to change. When I had health issues nearly 10 years ago, I knew I needed to find more balance in my life, and less stress - or at least better ways of coping with the stress. After a lengthy hospitalization then, I took time to refocus on the things that were really priorities in my life. I found a job that would give me better balance between work and home. I began exercising again. I let more of the little things bounce off me, and I silently pitied those people that were still getting wound up over the traffic jams, lines at the grocery store or normal mistakes that were made in the course of daily life. At least for a while.
It didn't take long for me to side back into old patterns. Somethings stayed - the balance between work and home has been pretty consistent, thanks to some amazing people at work who have been incredibly supportive of my goals. But somethings slid away - and somethings never really changed. Habits, especially those that define who we are, are really tough to break.
In my last post I wrote about independence, and I've known for years I needed to learn to be a little less stubbornly independent, and learn to ask for help, or even just accept it when it was offered; but it seemed each time the opportunity presented itself, I just couldn't change my stripes.
I've known for years I needed to start getting daily exercise, for my physical and mental health. Each minor ailment that came up over the years was like an additional bulb on the flashing neon sign that said "Start Exercising!" But I didn't.
Eat healthier - I mean really, how many food allergies can one person get before they get the message. Here I had no choice, but should my body have had to wage all out war before I got the message?
And the topper of them all - relinquish control.
Part of being stubbornly independent is trying to maintain control. Intellectually, I know that control is simply a mirage, a figment of my imagination. But still, I needed to hang on to the notion that somehow, if only I maintained control, I could manage the outcome of the situation I was in. Control my actions, control my emotions, control the flow of information, and control the plan. Ah, yes, "the plan".
A big part of being "in control" is having a plan, a plan for everything and every contingency that might come up. Some things are serious (what if my Dad gets sick and I can't be there for him?); but many are superfluous (what are all the routes to work, in case I run into traffic). Analyzing the situation and having a plan for what to do, no matter how serious or how small the situation, somehow fools me into believing I have the maximum level of control on the outcome. But the reality is all that analyzing and planning is exhausting, and stressful, and doesn't result in any more control over the situation at all. But it's part of my stripes, and stripes are hard to change.
Our boldest stripes, our best traits, are those that we build to become the people we want to be, but they often become our greatest achilles heals when we over shoot the goal. In work and personal life, I've leaned heavily on the ability to analyze situations and find solutions. The challenge for me is learning to identify and hang on to the positive aspects of how these stripes define who I am and who I want to be, while relinquishing the negative behaviors that cause stress, strain relationships and affect my overall well-being. The goal is not to become someone new, but to become a better, more balanced version of me, the one I was created to be and the one I can hold onto for all the years to come.
Balancing.
Balancing being an independent and unique individual with being part of a community of people that depend and support each other.
Balancing being an introvert who recharges by "going within" with getting daily exercise.
Balancing the love of a good chocolate souffle with eating healthy.
Balancing the impulse to analyze every situation with letting go and living, not planning, life.
Balancing being true to myself while changing my stripes.
It didn't take long for me to side back into old patterns. Somethings stayed - the balance between work and home has been pretty consistent, thanks to some amazing people at work who have been incredibly supportive of my goals. But somethings slid away - and somethings never really changed. Habits, especially those that define who we are, are really tough to break.
In my last post I wrote about independence, and I've known for years I needed to learn to be a little less stubbornly independent, and learn to ask for help, or even just accept it when it was offered; but it seemed each time the opportunity presented itself, I just couldn't change my stripes.
I've known for years I needed to start getting daily exercise, for my physical and mental health. Each minor ailment that came up over the years was like an additional bulb on the flashing neon sign that said "Start Exercising!" But I didn't.
Eat healthier - I mean really, how many food allergies can one person get before they get the message. Here I had no choice, but should my body have had to wage all out war before I got the message?
And the topper of them all - relinquish control.
Part of being stubbornly independent is trying to maintain control. Intellectually, I know that control is simply a mirage, a figment of my imagination. But still, I needed to hang on to the notion that somehow, if only I maintained control, I could manage the outcome of the situation I was in. Control my actions, control my emotions, control the flow of information, and control the plan. Ah, yes, "the plan".
A big part of being "in control" is having a plan, a plan for everything and every contingency that might come up. Some things are serious (what if my Dad gets sick and I can't be there for him?); but many are superfluous (what are all the routes to work, in case I run into traffic). Analyzing the situation and having a plan for what to do, no matter how serious or how small the situation, somehow fools me into believing I have the maximum level of control on the outcome. But the reality is all that analyzing and planning is exhausting, and stressful, and doesn't result in any more control over the situation at all. But it's part of my stripes, and stripes are hard to change.
Our boldest stripes, our best traits, are those that we build to become the people we want to be, but they often become our greatest achilles heals when we over shoot the goal. In work and personal life, I've leaned heavily on the ability to analyze situations and find solutions. The challenge for me is learning to identify and hang on to the positive aspects of how these stripes define who I am and who I want to be, while relinquishing the negative behaviors that cause stress, strain relationships and affect my overall well-being. The goal is not to become someone new, but to become a better, more balanced version of me, the one I was created to be and the one I can hold onto for all the years to come.
Balancing.
Balancing being an independent and unique individual with being part of a community of people that depend and support each other.
Balancing being an introvert who recharges by "going within" with getting daily exercise.
Balancing the love of a good chocolate souffle with eating healthy.
Balancing the impulse to analyze every situation with letting go and living, not planning, life.
Balancing being true to myself while changing my stripes.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Learning to lean
If you know me well, or maybe even just a little, you know that I am staunchly independent, even, sadly, proudly independent. I don't like to ask for help, it makes me feel like I am imposing on someone else, and while I know they have the option to decline, I also feel like human nature is such that most people won't decline a flat out request for help from someone they know. So I try not to ask.
But you can't fight cancer with a one person army.
From the beginning, my daughter and I were in this together. I knew every decision made would affect her as profoundly as it would affect me. So, she was there to hear the options from the doctor, to receive all the information I received and to have a voice in the decisions made. She turned 18 before my first surgery and with that took over my medical power of attorney; should I be unable to make my own medical decision it became hers to make. And she has been amazing, through complication after complication she's stayed strong and wise beyond her years.
But she needed to be at school, and I needed someone with me as I struggled to adjust to the treatment and medications. So she asked for help, and it came flooding in. "Guardian Angels" - friends and family who rotated help when my daughter wasn't able to be there.
As chemo continued, I took over the task of asking for help. I put together a schedule and I sent out a request to friends and family. But with each request, I lost a piece of myself and my confidence in my ability to be independent. And with each complication that arose, the need for help increased, the fear rose higher, and anxiety kicked in. I was at home, but needing someone there most days when my daughter wasn't there. Someone to be there just in case; in case there was another drug reaction, in case there were new side effects from the chemo, in case i had a migraine episode - scary little "seizure-like" events that were coming almost daily.
Then came the hospitalization, 9 days, followed closely by 3 more spent in the hospital. When it was time to go home we were faced with a decision on whether or not I was ready to be back home by myself. I wanted so badly to be home, to be independent, to make everything go back to how it was before the complications and hospitalizations, even if I couldn't make it go back to how it was before cancer. But down deep I knew it wasn't time.
I needed to focus on getting my strength back, on getting strong enough to start my next phase of chemo. To focus on healing.
And I was finally was able to accept that I needed help; and that help needed to come from somewhere other than my daughter's shoulders, so she could be my daughter and not my caregiver.
Funny thing, in acknowledging that I needed help, in accepting that help and in moving forward knowing that it takes more than an army of one to fight cancer, I found that I had the strength of mind and body and spirit to become more independent. I'm learning to lean on others without letting it diminish my sense of self or independence. I'm learning that there is a strength in community that increases strength of self. I'm learning that fear and anxiety might come from within, but can be battled from without, with the help of friends.
I have a long way to go, but I'm learning, and for once in my life I'm willing to envision a life where I'm not so independent, and it doesn't scare me as much as it used to.
The time will come when it's my turn to be someone someone else can lean on, but for now, I'm learning to lean.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
The unexpected hospital stay
Seven hours after my last post I was in the emergency room at Methodist hospital. My wonderful daughter had the intelligence and determination to insist that we call for help despite my fever-hazed resistance, and thank-goodness she did. It was a close call, sepsis and infectious colitis triggered by extremely low white and red blood cell counts; but here we are on the other side of it, healing and hoping and praying for a complete recovery, that the infection clears completely and there is an end to the fever. And a beginning to the end of chemo.
My chemo has been moved out at least a week, there needs to be some additional healing and time without fever before we proceed. And there is a new plan for chemo, moving to a less aggressive approach that will hopefully keep me out of the hospital. 12 weeks instead of 8, and chemo every week instead of every other. More dependency on others to get to chemo weekly, but hopefully I will be stronger and can drive myself to my other appointments soon. And, I am staying with family for a short while, until I have my strength back. More walking and exercise is the key there.
And I'm learning more about healing and the role of my mind and attitude.
I may not be strong, but I can act strong; I may not be healthy, but I can act healthy; I may not be brave, but I can act brave; and I may struggle to be happy, but I can chose to think of happier thoughts and times; because the first step in being the person you want to be is to demonstrate the qualities you wish to have. And I want to be strong and healthy and brave and happy... for me, but mainly for my daughter, who is all these things and more.
p.s., My daughter and friends are keeping a caring bridge site updated now (caringbridge.org, search on my firstnamelastname). I will continue to write my blog as I'm able.
My chemo has been moved out at least a week, there needs to be some additional healing and time without fever before we proceed. And there is a new plan for chemo, moving to a less aggressive approach that will hopefully keep me out of the hospital. 12 weeks instead of 8, and chemo every week instead of every other. More dependency on others to get to chemo weekly, but hopefully I will be stronger and can drive myself to my other appointments soon. And, I am staying with family for a short while, until I have my strength back. More walking and exercise is the key there.
And I'm learning more about healing and the role of my mind and attitude.
I may not be strong, but I can act strong; I may not be healthy, but I can act healthy; I may not be brave, but I can act brave; and I may struggle to be happy, but I can chose to think of happier thoughts and times; because the first step in being the person you want to be is to demonstrate the qualities you wish to have. And I want to be strong and healthy and brave and happy... for me, but mainly for my daughter, who is all these things and more.
p.s., My daughter and friends are keeping a caring bridge site updated now (caringbridge.org, search on my firstnamelastname). I will continue to write my blog as I'm able.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Hope
I've just passed my 4th of 8 chemo treatments, a point that marks a half way point in my chemo. I have been very lucky to not have any of my sessions pushed off so far; but tonight I am running a low-grade fever from a secondary infection caused by the chemo, and my fear is if we can't get this infection under control, I will not be able to undergo chemo next week and that would be devastating.
I find I need these sessions to stay on track to get me through the mental strain of this. Not only that, I worry that the treatments will be pushed passed the point where my short-term disability will cover me, adding additional stress. With all the challenges my body has had in managing the drugs, it has been impossible for me to maintain a normal routine and I have been unable to return to work. I am still hopeful that the next round of drugs, which are different than the 4 treatments past, will cause fewer side effects. The staff at the cancer center have said, while there is no guarantee, given what they've seen with other cancer patients, there is reason to hope.
And so I hope.
Hope is such a powerful word, but it is something I continue to struggle through when my body is being ravaged by the drugs... and I hate that. It's as though my personality is being altered by the chemo as much as my body. Finding hope, even moments of hope, each day is what gets me through.
The smile on my daughter's face, letting me know that she loves me.
A Bible verse, giving me strength to get through the next moment, and the next, and the next.
A friend, calling to check in, letting me know that no matter how hard it is to ask for help, no matter how many times I have to ask through this journey, that friends and family will be there - getting me through, supporting my daughter, giving hope.
I've never had such a hard time drawing on hope when I really need it. Finding hope, especially drawing on my faith to sustain and provide hope, has been instinct since I was a young girl. But now it's like a tug-of-war between me and the cancer, and sometimes the cancer is stronger and I fail.
And when I fail, and I am finding it hard to find hope, I find it hard to do the things that help get me through - like writing this blog, or even writing in my journal. Because writing about this cancer journey when I am struggling is just too depressing and depression is the opposite of hope. And I need to hang on to the hope.
The hope that tomorrow will be better.
The hope that it will somehow become easier to get through these treatments, if only mentally.
The hope that March will come, and with it will come the end of chemo and the start of something fabulous - the healing of my body and my mind.
I find I need these sessions to stay on track to get me through the mental strain of this. Not only that, I worry that the treatments will be pushed passed the point where my short-term disability will cover me, adding additional stress. With all the challenges my body has had in managing the drugs, it has been impossible for me to maintain a normal routine and I have been unable to return to work. I am still hopeful that the next round of drugs, which are different than the 4 treatments past, will cause fewer side effects. The staff at the cancer center have said, while there is no guarantee, given what they've seen with other cancer patients, there is reason to hope.
And so I hope.
Hope is such a powerful word, but it is something I continue to struggle through when my body is being ravaged by the drugs... and I hate that. It's as though my personality is being altered by the chemo as much as my body. Finding hope, even moments of hope, each day is what gets me through.
The smile on my daughter's face, letting me know that she loves me.
A Bible verse, giving me strength to get through the next moment, and the next, and the next.
A friend, calling to check in, letting me know that no matter how hard it is to ask for help, no matter how many times I have to ask through this journey, that friends and family will be there - getting me through, supporting my daughter, giving hope.
I've never had such a hard time drawing on hope when I really need it. Finding hope, especially drawing on my faith to sustain and provide hope, has been instinct since I was a young girl. But now it's like a tug-of-war between me and the cancer, and sometimes the cancer is stronger and I fail.
And when I fail, and I am finding it hard to find hope, I find it hard to do the things that help get me through - like writing this blog, or even writing in my journal. Because writing about this cancer journey when I am struggling is just too depressing and depression is the opposite of hope. And I need to hang on to the hope.
The hope that tomorrow will be better.
The hope that it will somehow become easier to get through these treatments, if only mentally.
The hope that March will come, and with it will come the end of chemo and the start of something fabulous - the healing of my body and my mind.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Finding Myself
I found myself today. It took until this afternoon, but finally I was back. It is truly amazing what all these drugs can do to not only your physical, but mental health. They can make it hard to recall who you are with out the drugs, which makes it difficult to draw on your usual coping mechanisms.
This morning was a challenge, still feeling sick, but needing to make a morning appointment at the cancer center. Back in October, after finding out that I was positive for the breast cancer gene, I scheduled a meeting with the oncology therapist. With high demand and limited resources, the earliest appointment I could get was January 5; but the appointment couldn't have come at a more opportune time. I spent an hour talking with the therapist, and receiving affirmation that what I was going through was within the normal boundaries of what occurs when we are diagnosed with cancer, and also confirmation that for someone with my issues metabolizing drugs, drug therapy was not a good option.
Regardless of how well we try to cope, some form of mental health intervention is typical for cancer patients. Anti-anxiety and anti-depression medications are are common part of cancer treatment, but therapy also comes in the form of conversation, musical therapy and more holistic mind-body-spirit therapies, such as self-realization exercises, acupuncture and massage. These non-drug modes are what I will need to pursue, and so starts another journey.
In writing this, I am aware that there is still a continued stigma attached with mental health issues, but I think it is an important aspect to explore and to continue to uncover. Health and illness are by nature tri-fold, with the body, mind and spirit all being tightly intertwined. If we are lucky, when our body is frail, our mind and spirit can compensate pulling us through to health; and when our mind becomes frail, we can leverage the physical and spiritual aspects to help pull us through. But often the body, mind and spirit need help returning to health and balance.
Help for me comes in many forms. It comes in call from a friend, checking in to see how I am doing. It comes in a card, with beautiful verse to renew my spirit and remind me of my faith. It comes in the form of the love and support I receive from my family and friends. But it also comes in the form of formal therapy and mental health practices, and I am happy to live in a time where there is so much available to help me through the mental health aspects of having cancer. And I know one of the things I will take with me from this experience, is how important it is to treat all aspects of oneself in order to return to health, and that like the body, the mind can and does heal.
This morning was a challenge, still feeling sick, but needing to make a morning appointment at the cancer center. Back in October, after finding out that I was positive for the breast cancer gene, I scheduled a meeting with the oncology therapist. With high demand and limited resources, the earliest appointment I could get was January 5; but the appointment couldn't have come at a more opportune time. I spent an hour talking with the therapist, and receiving affirmation that what I was going through was within the normal boundaries of what occurs when we are diagnosed with cancer, and also confirmation that for someone with my issues metabolizing drugs, drug therapy was not a good option.
Regardless of how well we try to cope, some form of mental health intervention is typical for cancer patients. Anti-anxiety and anti-depression medications are are common part of cancer treatment, but therapy also comes in the form of conversation, musical therapy and more holistic mind-body-spirit therapies, such as self-realization exercises, acupuncture and massage. These non-drug modes are what I will need to pursue, and so starts another journey.
In writing this, I am aware that there is still a continued stigma attached with mental health issues, but I think it is an important aspect to explore and to continue to uncover. Health and illness are by nature tri-fold, with the body, mind and spirit all being tightly intertwined. If we are lucky, when our body is frail, our mind and spirit can compensate pulling us through to health; and when our mind becomes frail, we can leverage the physical and spiritual aspects to help pull us through. But often the body, mind and spirit need help returning to health and balance.
Help for me comes in many forms. It comes in call from a friend, checking in to see how I am doing. It comes in a card, with beautiful verse to renew my spirit and remind me of my faith. It comes in the form of the love and support I receive from my family and friends. But it also comes in the form of formal therapy and mental health practices, and I am happy to live in a time where there is so much available to help me through the mental health aspects of having cancer. And I know one of the things I will take with me from this experience, is how important it is to treat all aspects of oneself in order to return to health, and that like the body, the mind can and does heal.
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