Imagine That

I had to fight my way back from the last one.

Round four was the toughest yet.
A few days ago, I felt like giving up
...whatever that means.

Today, I am finally beginning to feel like myself.
I need more days like this.

Live long enough, and you've felt bad at some point.
But imagine feeling so bad that you don't or can't remember
what feeling good feels like.

That's chemo.

Round five is nine days away.
Yes, I'm counting,
counting on the hope that Taxol won't tear me up the same way that AC did.

Tonight, I need to imagine that.

Ready for Round Four

Today is Cameron's 10th birthday.
Before turning in for the night, he said it was the best birthday EVER.
I was happy;
It felt good to have a distraction.

I have my fourth treatment tomorrow, and I'm trying hard not to over think it.
I already know the next several days won't be good for me:
that I'll have to fight back the anticipatory nausea,
take something to help me sleep, and
hope that my blood counts are good
...and that's all before 10:00 a.m. tomorrow morning.

As I struggle to find the silver lining,
I pray that it exists in the fact that I get my final treatment of AC drugs tomorrow.

It's time to put on my Super Hero Suit and hope that it doesn't rip.

The Best Thing to Say

Sometimes people don't know what to say when they learn I have been diagnosed with breast cancer.


One family member called because he heard I was a little under the weather.
Oh, you mean like when I have cramps?
Then there was the kids' bus driver, who wanted to know if I'd been sick.
I nodded and mouthed: BREAST CANCER.
"For real?" She recoiled in disbelief.
I nodded again, perhaps expecting too much.
"Okay. See you later," she said before grabbing the handle to pull the door shut.
Did I say something wrong?
My children have also had their moments.
According to my youngest son, he was dressed up, like "an old women, with a bald head and wig."
Did he call me old?

But the best comment came earlier tonight.
As we watched the Olympic speed skating competition, my ten year-old son turned to me and asked, "is your cancer getting better?"
I smiled and told that my cancer was gone.
It had been removed months ago.
Without realizing it, Cameron knew exactly what to ask.

Happy Valentine's Day

On this Valentine's eve,
like chocolate,
I savor the bitter-sweet memories that we've lived over the past 16 years:

Introduction by a mutual friend.
The unexpected death of a mutual friend.
Your marriage proposal;
First sips of Dom Perignon.
Stephanie's diagnosis of breast cancer;
Her survival.
Wedding covenant.
An overseas move, away from all things familiar.
Pregnancy;
Miscarriage.
Pregnancy with complications.
Faith.
A perfect baby boy.
Deployment to Saudi Arabia.
Birth.

09/09/2001
Death.

Birth.
Operation Iraqi Freedom;
Sweet reunion.
USMA Class reunion.

Breast cancer...
Survival...
The future


Jeff,
Thank you for finding room in your heart for me and for opening it a bit wider each day. You are more than the man I married nearly 15 years ago; you are my love of a lifetime.
Deneitra

The Hair All Over

"Oh, I forgot to mention that you would lose hair all over," my sister explained after my first round of chemo.

She would know.

She'd already endured six rounds of chemo.

I couldn't complain, this was my first,

hopefully my last.

As I contemplated my future,

I begin to consider the "upside" of hair loss.

Sure I would lose the hair on my head,

but think about it:

there would be no need to shave underneath my arms;

wax my bikini line; or

shave my legs.

When the snow melted and spring break rolled around,

I wouldn't have to "deforest" before donning a bathing suit.

My sister was mostly right.

To quote Aunt Dorothy,

"What in the world?"

I was looking down at my big toe, and there were hairs on it!

Are you kidding me?

"What about the chemo? What about the hair all over!" I wanted to shout.

Some day, hopefully soon, I imagine a world without cancer.

Until that day arrives, can I please get a chemo cocktail that gets rid of toe hair?

The Power of Words

I received an unexpected email today
from someone I met just days before being diagnosed with breast cancer.
It wasn't so much that I didn't expect to hear from her.
It was more in the words she expressed.

In an email she revealed that her mother had succumb to the disease 20 years earlier.
Unlike me, she never bore witness to her feelings during chemotherapy and radiation,
...at least not to her daughter.

Myself a mother: I expect that it wasn't that she didn't want to share,
she simply did not want to burden.
I imagine that she felt worried and guilty and fragile.
I imagine that she only wanted to be MOM.

Words convey a power:
behind them, in front of them,
revealed and otherwise unspoken.
They never fade completely away because they abound,
waiting for someone to come along,
give them voice
and speak.

Thank you, for connecting a part of your Mom with me.

Round 3

First of all, I'm blogging
so that's a good start.
I finished my third round of chemo a few hours ago.
These are the good hours,
the hours before the lonely ones.


The day didn't begin so well.
I was nervous about the snow predictions for the afternoon,
afraid that it would interfere with my treatment.
As much as I didn't want chemo,
I wanted on-time chemo because it could affect my outcome.


It's called anticipatory nausea.


I thought I would make it to the hospital before it hit,
but when my anxiety evolved into stomach pains,
denial left the building. I picked up my bible and read Ephesians 6:10-18.
When I'd finished reading my stomach had relaxed and my anxiety level abated.


We drove to Johns Hopkins.
My blood pressure was 120/65...not bad, considering.
Blood counts were good.

The side-effects are starting now.
I've got to go.
Look for me in a couple of days.

Preparing for the Lonely Hours

It's that time again.

I hate to think about it:
Chemo.
I call the aftermath, the "Lonely Hours."
Not much happens during the treatment itself, except of course, treatment. But once I return home and shut the bedroom door, the affects of the chemo take over:
nausea;
vomiting;
dehydration;
body aches;
fatigue; and finally
exhaustion.


For the next 48 hours, I am trapped in an underground tunnel, hidden in a breathless world. Even with Jeff sitting across the room - watching, I am lost and alone until the chemo decides to release it's menacing grip.


It's hard to believe feeling that bad could be good for me.
It's difficult to trust my gut when it's twisted inside out.


Yet, I'll keep going back,
again and again,
and then some more,
until I have exhausted all remaining 14 treatments.

Pass the chemo, please.