("Bestie" here...) Imagine your best day. BEST. For me it would include sleeping in. Having a chef bring me some crazy egg dream dish, but not in bed because, well, gross. Then Sara and I go shopping with Stacy and Clinton from What Not to Wear, with credit cards they provide because after 9 kids between us we need someone else to tell us what jeans fit, remind us why we actually should care about how we look, and remind us that showering every day IS what grown-ups do. Then my hubby and I go to a movie of my choice and have some yummers Indian dinner. At some point I take my kids to the perfect playdate, blah blah, blah...there are endless ways to write this story.
Now get cancer.
I think Sara's dream day looks like this: Get up at 8, feeling normal. Make breakfast for my kids. Have the energy to then do laundry. Clean the garage. Be normal. Bake some cupcakes to eat after the simple dinner I made. Put the kids to bed before 9. Sleep without waking up until the next morning. Repeat.
Oddly enough I know her perfect day does not include interferon treatments. There are good things about hanging out at the Cancer Care Center at Regions. Like a mini fridge with soda and the awesome nursing staff brings around a snack basket. Pretty posh. I hung out with Sara there for one of her treatments, and I can also say they place the bathroom nice and close so you only have to take a short walk with your IV to use it. We also go to hear a sweet little ditty a nurse sang (same tune as "Happy Birthday") to someone who was finishing her chemo. Hello?! Lorna Doones AND entertainment? How did I get in here without tickets? Oh right, my best friend has cancer. Maybe I'll have another packet of Oreos.
Sitting with Sara plugged in to her drug cocktail, you talk. You sit. Most of all you wonder. What are all the other people in here for? I imagine the same thing goes through the minds of jail inmates. But the woman in the corner with the lovely lavender scarf on her head did not steal a car, she got cancer. She is not being kept away from family, from her life to insure our safety or protect our way of life. She is being kept from her normal life to save hers. We wonder about her story. About all the stories.
You wonder what Sara's body is doing. How is it going to react today, tomorrow, to the drugs being pumped in. Well right now, she is tired. Feeling a lot like the worst first trimester (you know, ladies) you can imagine. She is an experiment for the nursing staff because they have very almost no experience with her kind of treatment. Sheryl (her fantastic nurse) checks in with her every day to see what changes. Are you nauseous? Tired? How are the bowels? Oh, you haven't slept in three days? We'll get you something for that. It isn't often that the medical staff can't really tell you what to expect. They can guess. They can wonder.
More than anything, we hope. We hope the other inmates will get out soon. To their families. To their normal. We hope the tired isn't forever, or the sleep will come, maybe the nausea was the virus the kids passed around. We hope that Sara will get through the next year of treatment without being wiped out all the time, and that she will get back to her monotonous, magical routine. We hope for Doritos tomorrow in the snack basket.
Maybe then Sara can reinvent her perfect day. I actually hope mine will start to look more like the one she wishes for now. So I'll try to find joy in the every day. Really, I make a pretty good egg white omelet, when I remember to eat. And Stacey and Clinton need to relax, and lower their hygiene expectations. We don't have time for perfect. It doesn't exist, anyway. We have now, and it makes that kitchen cleaning I'm avoiding look pretty darn romantic.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Monday, August 12, 2013
I Am Alive. You Are Alive. Nothing Bad News.
How have I fared the first week of treatment? As the title of the post mentions - I am ALIVE. That is good news. And just for fun, say the title of the post in a Russian accent - especially since it is a direct quote from a sweet Russian man after receiving some bad news. The bearer of the bad news apologized to him and immediately he responded in the positive, "I am alive. You are alive. Nothing bad news."
Those 3 short sentences became my mantra for the week. Literally.
I have been trying to write this post for the past 3 days. I still don't know what to write. Do I write the specifics of what I go through each day? Do I write about my feelings? Do I tell other stuff? I don't know (imagine me shrugging my shoulders). I am tired. Waaaaaay tired. The tiredness didn't hit until the 4th day - Thursday of last week. I also have insomnia. So because I am tired and then can't sleep even though I am really tired, it makes for one crabby ME. As for feeling sick, the first couple of days were terrible. I had the chills, the aches and fevers. But, thank goodness for miracle workers (aka my nurse and doctor) they have me taking tylenol and ibuprofen every two hours and that keeps all the symptoms at bay. So, that is very good news.
The hardest part of the week for me would be my people watching skills. When I get to the cancer care center, sometimes I'm in a private room and other times I am in a big room with other people getting cancer treatment. I realized, the first time I was with a bunch of other people, I was the youngest person there by at least 20 years. And that made me sad. Here, these people have lived their whole lives with no major health issues only to be smacked with cancer at the end. And then all of that reminds me of my dad. He retired and then a year later, he was diagnosed with colon cancer and then 11 months later, he died. I couldn't help but feel the injustice of it all.
But one thing that got me through those dark thoughts are the cancer patients themselves. Most of them would have family members or friends with them while they sat and got the treatment. They would all talk and even laugh. When we would converse, we never complained about having cancer. We would ask each other how the treatment was treating us and then give each other encouragement to kick its butt. The atmosphere at the cancer care center may seem somber but there is a sense of hope in the air as well. More hope than somberness and that is what I look forward to each day. I am not alone in this. I may be young but I am fighting the same fight they are and we are all in this together.
Me in one of the private rooms.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Orientation
Orientation. I've had a couple of those in my life. One for when I went to college. One when I started a new job. I would even consider taking a class on having a baby for the first time a type of orientation. I can honestly say all of those orientations were a bit cheesy, a bit ridiculous, and really did nothing to prepare me for the real thing (ie CHILDBIRTH).
On Thursday of this last week, Jeremy and I went to what we have dubbed "cancer orientation." We went to the hospital's cancer care center and there we were given a tour of the place that will be my home for 3 hours a day, Monday-Friday, for the next four weeks starting tomorrow (gulp). Before going, I pictured this experience to be a lot similar to when Jeremy and I went to this same hospital to take a class on having a baby. I pictured a room full of chairs with couples sitting in them all a little nervous and anxious to hear what was going to be shared with us. I pictured the person giving the orientation to be dry and not really wanting to be there but had to because it was their job. My expectations were extremely low and since my dad passed away from colon cancer 11 years ago, I also felt I knew everything already from his battle with cancer. Plus, I went with my dad once when they gave him chemo. Really - what more could they share with me? I felt I knew and experienced everything.
I WAS WRONG.
First of all, there were only four of us in this class. Me, my husband, another cancer patient and her very close friend. The nurse in charge of this orientation ushered us into this room that looked and felt like a cozy living room with very comfortable chairs (not the folding kind, but like a real to honest, sink my booty into and read a good book for hours chair). The nurse left to get us some refreshments and all four of us immediately, I felt, became instant friends. The other cancer patient asked me what cancer I had and we exchanged our information - Me: Melanoma. Her: Breast Cancer. I introduced my husband and she introduced her friend. We were all a little nervous but were able to find humor in our situations as well.
Our nurse came back and she sat down and began our "orientation." There were no movies we had to suffer through or a script she had to follow or there were no role playing stuff either (I really hate that kind of stuff). It was only her many years of experience as a nurse in oncology that gave her the right to be our orientation leader. Since my cancer treatment is different from my new friend's cancer treatment, our nurse took turns addressing us specifically on what we can expect from start to finish with our treatments. While she talked to my new friend about her treatment, I would ask questions about it. When she would talk to me about my treatment, my new friend would ask questions that I didn't think about asking about what I could expect as well.
We were suddenly a team and I LOVED IT. Since being diagnosed with stage 3 melanoma, there has been a little part of me that felt alone. Just a little part. Rather minuscule. Actually, until that "orientation" I never labeled that feeling in me as feeling "alone." I am surrounded by an amazing family - immediate and extended and all my in-laws are wonderful - and amazing friends - old and new, ones that live close by and ones that live far away. I have never felt alone in that sense. Those people are here for me when I need to vent, cry and attempt to explain how I feel. And to just hug me or make me laugh or let me make them laugh. I am incredibly blessed. Really, REALLY blessed.
But our nurse shared with us what that "alone" feeling was. At least for me. She said what were going through was a "loss." A loss of predictability, a loss of time, even a loss of self. She told us it was normal and it was a sense of grief. And to let ourselves grieve. I think as a whole, we grieve for the most part when someone we care and love have passed away. That is one of the ultimate losses in our lives. But, when our nurse used the world "loss" I felt all the pieces fall into place and a burden was lifted off of me.
I do feel a loss. I had plans. I was diagnosed in April while still in school. I remember going to Chemistry that very day, an hour after finding out I had cancer and all I could do was sit there in class and repeat in my head, "Oh my gosh. I have cancer. I have a very aggressive cancer." over and over again. There was a loss of 50 minutes of Chemistry (I admit - to some that may not have been a loss. But I loved that class!).
My first surgery was in May and my recovery took about 3 weeks. I couldn't walk. I was in a lot of pain. And I didn't get to ride my bike with the kids to their school on their last day of school. There was a loss of my physical self and the chance to hang out with my kids and celebrate their last day of school.
Because they found the cancer in my lymph node, I had to go in from 8 am - 3 pm to get a series of scans done (PET and CT). No one wants to be at the clinic/hospital for a whole day. Unless they are getting paid to be there. Here, there was a loss of time.
Those scans were done on Wednesday. We didn't find anything out until we met with our oncologist on Friday. Those were the longest days of my life. One of my main losses was sleep. Jeremy too. We spent lots of hours at night just talking about it. Truth be told, I was scared. I remembered what it was like when the oncologist came into my dad's hospital room and literally gave him a cap in his life. 3 months to 3 years was his life expectancy. I DID NOT WANT THAT. I didn't want to be that person. I was already that other person who somehow attracted two different types of cancer. But I wanted to LIVE. I think it's safe to say I lost a little of my mind those couple of nights as well.
I could go on with my "losses" but I think you have the gist of it. I am grieving. I am feeling losses. But that minuscule part of me that felt alone no longer feels alone. Heavenly Father, God, the Big Guy up there, the Great Spirit - that one person a lot of us pray to and believe that he is there for us - anyway, I believe and know he takes care of me the best through other people. And on Thursday of this week, it was through my new friend who is fighting her battle with breast cancer and the nurse who gave my feeling a label. And that that feeling was mutual and normal. And I love them for that. Yay for orientation.
On Thursday of this last week, Jeremy and I went to what we have dubbed "cancer orientation." We went to the hospital's cancer care center and there we were given a tour of the place that will be my home for 3 hours a day, Monday-Friday, for the next four weeks starting tomorrow (gulp). Before going, I pictured this experience to be a lot similar to when Jeremy and I went to this same hospital to take a class on having a baby. I pictured a room full of chairs with couples sitting in them all a little nervous and anxious to hear what was going to be shared with us. I pictured the person giving the orientation to be dry and not really wanting to be there but had to because it was their job. My expectations were extremely low and since my dad passed away from colon cancer 11 years ago, I also felt I knew everything already from his battle with cancer. Plus, I went with my dad once when they gave him chemo. Really - what more could they share with me? I felt I knew and experienced everything.
I WAS WRONG.
First of all, there were only four of us in this class. Me, my husband, another cancer patient and her very close friend. The nurse in charge of this orientation ushered us into this room that looked and felt like a cozy living room with very comfortable chairs (not the folding kind, but like a real to honest, sink my booty into and read a good book for hours chair). The nurse left to get us some refreshments and all four of us immediately, I felt, became instant friends. The other cancer patient asked me what cancer I had and we exchanged our information - Me: Melanoma. Her: Breast Cancer. I introduced my husband and she introduced her friend. We were all a little nervous but were able to find humor in our situations as well.
Our nurse came back and she sat down and began our "orientation." There were no movies we had to suffer through or a script she had to follow or there were no role playing stuff either (I really hate that kind of stuff). It was only her many years of experience as a nurse in oncology that gave her the right to be our orientation leader. Since my cancer treatment is different from my new friend's cancer treatment, our nurse took turns addressing us specifically on what we can expect from start to finish with our treatments. While she talked to my new friend about her treatment, I would ask questions about it. When she would talk to me about my treatment, my new friend would ask questions that I didn't think about asking about what I could expect as well.
We were suddenly a team and I LOVED IT. Since being diagnosed with stage 3 melanoma, there has been a little part of me that felt alone. Just a little part. Rather minuscule. Actually, until that "orientation" I never labeled that feeling in me as feeling "alone." I am surrounded by an amazing family - immediate and extended and all my in-laws are wonderful - and amazing friends - old and new, ones that live close by and ones that live far away. I have never felt alone in that sense. Those people are here for me when I need to vent, cry and attempt to explain how I feel. And to just hug me or make me laugh or let me make them laugh. I am incredibly blessed. Really, REALLY blessed.
But our nurse shared with us what that "alone" feeling was. At least for me. She said what were going through was a "loss." A loss of predictability, a loss of time, even a loss of self. She told us it was normal and it was a sense of grief. And to let ourselves grieve. I think as a whole, we grieve for the most part when someone we care and love have passed away. That is one of the ultimate losses in our lives. But, when our nurse used the world "loss" I felt all the pieces fall into place and a burden was lifted off of me.
I do feel a loss. I had plans. I was diagnosed in April while still in school. I remember going to Chemistry that very day, an hour after finding out I had cancer and all I could do was sit there in class and repeat in my head, "Oh my gosh. I have cancer. I have a very aggressive cancer." over and over again. There was a loss of 50 minutes of Chemistry (I admit - to some that may not have been a loss. But I loved that class!).
My first surgery was in May and my recovery took about 3 weeks. I couldn't walk. I was in a lot of pain. And I didn't get to ride my bike with the kids to their school on their last day of school. There was a loss of my physical self and the chance to hang out with my kids and celebrate their last day of school.
Because they found the cancer in my lymph node, I had to go in from 8 am - 3 pm to get a series of scans done (PET and CT). No one wants to be at the clinic/hospital for a whole day. Unless they are getting paid to be there. Here, there was a loss of time.
Those scans were done on Wednesday. We didn't find anything out until we met with our oncologist on Friday. Those were the longest days of my life. One of my main losses was sleep. Jeremy too. We spent lots of hours at night just talking about it. Truth be told, I was scared. I remembered what it was like when the oncologist came into my dad's hospital room and literally gave him a cap in his life. 3 months to 3 years was his life expectancy. I DID NOT WANT THAT. I didn't want to be that person. I was already that other person who somehow attracted two different types of cancer. But I wanted to LIVE. I think it's safe to say I lost a little of my mind those couple of nights as well.
I could go on with my "losses" but I think you have the gist of it. I am grieving. I am feeling losses. But that minuscule part of me that felt alone no longer feels alone. Heavenly Father, God, the Big Guy up there, the Great Spirit - that one person a lot of us pray to and believe that he is there for us - anyway, I believe and know he takes care of me the best through other people. And on Thursday of this week, it was through my new friend who is fighting her battle with breast cancer and the nurse who gave my feeling a label. And that that feeling was mutual and normal. And I love them for that. Yay for orientation.
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