In Honor of Father's Day

In honor of Father's Day, this week's Parade Magazine discusses "What I learned from my dad."
In it, Luke Russert remembers his late father, Tim Russert, who died three years ago this weekend.
Luke calls his dad his compass and shares life lessons learned from his father.

As I think of my own father,
I am transported to his room
in a nursing home in Texas.
I think of him,
laying there,
G-Tube feeding him nutrition,
trachea assisting his breathing,
eyes wide, staring.

This is not the father of my childhood.

Daddy is strong.
He is funny.
He is the guest you invite to a party and really hope that he will show.
He's the neighbor who offers work to the kid down the street.
He is the master gardener, king of the bar-b-que brisket and great storyteller.

He is the father who assured me that God said I would be fine,
when diagnosed with breast cancer in 2009.

Today, of all days, I think of him
and want to share Daddy's optimism.

I Remember (as written Friday, June 10)

I am sitting in the chemo room...again... waiting to undergo treatment.

I am forcing myself to write before the meds kick-in and take me under.

I usually disapear this way.

Seated around me are women, most of whom are black.
They are surrounded by other women, various shades of mocha.
We are a village.
A custodian walks in to empty the trash cans.
She comments that we all look the same.
She is right; we are the original Village People.
But today, I don't feel like much of a "Macho (Wo)Man."  


I know I should be grateful. At least I'm not getting chemo.
I only need my infusion of Rituxan.
Yet being here,
having to be here, 
causes a flood of memories to overwhelm me.


I find myself fighting back tears when the chemo nurse, working on the patient across the room, has trouble accessing her port. I watch as the woman's feet flutter in an anxiety-ridden avalanche.

And I remember.


Her15th treatment doesn't diminish the nervousness that I witness.
It's a process you never get used-to; it never gets easier.
Relief is only temporarily achieved after the chemo nurse has successfully accessed the port and there is a return blood flow.


I remember.


My nurse is ready to begin. She dons her mask and pulls out the port-access kit. I kindly remind her for the second time this morning that my port has been removed. She smiles, searching for a vein instead. The one she selects is hardened, the product of last year's Adriomyocin. She tries another, but it won't give up the blood.

A second nurse is called over.
"Maurene can always get a vein." 
Success,
but the blood return is slow, which means my counts will be unreliable, possibly wasted.

I remember.

It is 11:00 a.m. now.
The Rituxan is hung, and I realize I won't be leaving the hospital before
1:00 p.m. I thought I'd waltz in, take my medicine and disappear for seven days.

This is much harder than I anticipated. Jeff is not here, and I find the loneliness unfamiliar. 



Two more villagers enter the treatment room.
I am depressed. 
I need sleep NOW!

My Struggle to Break Free

I've stalled again.
I haven't written anything lately.

Maybe it's because I am struggling to hold on to this blog
while, at the same time,
writing about ANYTHING other than breast cancer.

Intellectually, I am convinced that there is life beyond breast cancer,
but I find it hard to break free.
I am forever connected to people who currently have,
or whom have had,
or who will have the disease.
Doctors no longer like to use words like "remission" - not the way you think.

Once the disease is confirmed, you either have it or you don't; you are never cured.
For the past 20 months, I have been part of a community in which I will never be alone.

Too bad.
It is sometimes easy to forget that this disease called cancer,
has a dark side.
It can be hard to recognize the dark cloud amid the blur of pink ribbons. 

Last week, I was brutally reminded that cancer is still a killer.
And no ribbon isn't going to save us.
"Until there's a cure?" - How about - "Until there's no need for a cure?"

At the end of the day,
I am convinced that there will be something worth writing about,
something beyond breast cancer.
I just have to wait until it inspires me.

Tell me, what inspires you?