I have finally finished chemotherapy and I am on the precipice of finding out what the next direction in this journey will be. Has the cancer metastasized further or has the chemo done it's job and eradicated the cancer and rendered me cancer-free? Can I allow myself to hope for that? To pray for that miracle? I think I can, and I feel that it will be gone. Tuesday holds a lot weight for me and my family. We are all going through our days as if nothing has changed, but in the back of all of our minds April 1 is beckoning us. These scans are different from all of the rest because they are the game-changer.
The chemo that I was on is not sustainable any longer. It is an aggressive course of treatment that strips your body to its core, killing off everything in its path. The result is a body that is weak, fatigued, a shell of itself. I've gone through blood transfusions, been so low on platelets that I could have bled to death from a fall, been dehydrated and nearly fainted, and felt beaten and bruised from shots. Chemo has been a vicious cycle of bloating, exhaustion, pain, and fear. Where does the fear come from? The fear is from the not-knowing. Are you allowing them to intentionally poison you, only to have it not work? Are you weakening yourself only to have yourself become susceptible to other illnesses? If I were to continue with this chemo, we would start to defeat the purpose of it. We have come to an impasse. I have to have scans on April 1 and blood work to determine where we go from here.
I have given my body up to this treatment, in hopes that this will heal me, that I have a chance for a cure. I bravely walked into HemOc every three weeks, awaiting my hours of treatment, feeling that this was my way of knowing that I was fighting the good fight. After 6 rounds, I have learned so much about myself and my family and friends. Countless people have offered to take me to chemo, and for that I am thankful. But I only allowed a few close people to be there with me, for many reasons. Chemo is no walk in the park. It's hours long, there are needles involved, poison is hung, and I am surrounded by people who are just as vulnerable as me, if not worse off. Many people that I would have liked to have been there with me, were not allowed. Mainly my best friend, Katie, because she is pregnant. Can't have her around that stuff! But I always chose those that were going to make me laugh, if I knew I would be up for it. Or those that would simply sit there and let me sleep, if it was my second or third day. Mom always went with me on my last day. She gave me warm blankets, kept me hydrated, and let me sleep. Others, like Jimmy, Jimbo and Mary came on long days to make me laugh. Jimmy even said the last time that he had a story that would have to wait until my first bag was hung. And he got used to the needles, so the nurses tolerated him! Jimbo forgot his iPad once, which scared the crap out of him. Mary brought her fellow nurses candy canes and made me last day of chemo signs! Kathryn traveled up here several times to be here for me. It was like having a mini-mom with me. Warm blankets, lots of sleeping, and she kept me fed. Aunt Nancy and Aunt Holly were awesome. They brought me doughnuts, juice, and drove me through a blizzard to get me there. Elizabeth came and cracked me up once. And my husband was there most weeks to hold my hand. He surprised me on my last day with a beautiful bouquet of flowers. As Mary said, "you got yourself a keeper, Jod." and she is right. These 6 rounds have been about me, and my close friends and family have been there to make it more bearable, to try and do their part to make it better for me. Some of them put their own fears aside, to be there. For that I am eternally thankful.
I know when I told people back in November that I had Cancer it was a shock to most if not all of them. I called some, texted others, and shared it on my facebook page. Many family and friends were on my doorstep within minutes. Some hung up the phone in a daze, unable to comprehend what I had said. Others never showed, never called or fell of the face of the earth. I can only chalk this up to their own fears. Hearing that one of your good friends, that you've known for so much of your life, who has shared both ups and downs with you, has a terminal illness has got to be scary. I think, or rather I know, that my diagnosis rocked everyone's world. I was young, very much alive, and just became a new mom. Life doesn't go in that order. You don't get everything you want, only to have it swiped cruelly away. But I am proof, that yes, yes, life can throw you a curveball.
I'm not harboring anger toward anyone, that is such a fruitless way to be especially when I am dealing with this. If anything, I am admiring those who have stepped up to the plate, have taken the opportunity to put their fears and lives on the backburner, to be there for me to unselfishly take the time out their days to simply send me a text or a Facebook post, to let me know they are thinking of me. Others are pulling out all the stops and planning an amazing benefit for us, that I can't even begin to comprehend. People are putting all their extra time and energy into this, to make sure my family is comfortable and can focus on the fight ahead. How do you thank people for that? These people have been my army, the people that have literally held me up, made me realize each and every day that I have so much to fight for, and haven't allowed me to give up because they can't envision a world without me in it.
Did everyone come around all at once? No. Some needed to come to terms with what I was facing, to have their own cry about me, to grasp what it was that was happening, before they could join my team. Others have had to have people knock some sense into them. To be told the gravity of the situation and to get their heads out of their asses, for lack of a better term. One thing is for sure, I don't have the time or energy to coax people out of their fears. One of my aunts told me, that this is a time that is all about me. I have to be selfish in this moment, take care of me and do all I can to survive, focus on a healthy me and if that means losing touch with others who can't seem to get it, than so be it.
Does it make me sad to see some that either just don't get it, or can't get out of their own way? Yes. I miss them. I would have liked to see their faces during this battle, heard their voices....known that they cared. But I can't force anyone out of their comfort zone. I don't know how it feels to see your family or good friend facing death in the face at such a young age. Does it make you ache inside every morning when it hits you? Does it make you cry at random moments when a memory flashes before your eyes? Does it make you sick to your stomach, and want to throw up at the thought of what they are going through? I think it does. I think it is very similar to how I feel day in and day out. Real family, real friends their connection to you allows them to feel your pain and know your plight. They don't let petty arguments, silly feuds and stubbornness get the best of them. They reach out, they don't ignore you, they make peace. Whether that be coming to your house after not seeing you in over a year (at other people's coaxing) or simply a phone call, text or email saying "How are you doing?" That's what real friendship and family is about.
I'd like to think that with cancer, the gloves came off. Bygones became bygones. Forgiveness and love was more important than egos and fears. For the most part, that has been the case. However, there are some that still don't get it, and never will. At this point in my journey, I have no regrets. Everyone I want to have in my corner is there. The ones that count, who wish they could take this all away, they have reached out, taken my hand either virtually or in reality, and told me what my diagnosis has meant to them.
My cancer has made some people grow up. It has made them bury hatchets, open doors they never opened, brought old friends back into my life. But it hasn't mended every fence, and that is ok. If you want what's best for me and for my family, you will be here. Negativity is not allowed in this house. Those that I feel I owe an apology to, have gotten it. I've come to a point in this journey where I am done worrying and being the people-pleaser. I'm taking my aunt's advice, and making it all about me.
My sister and husband both told me this weekend that they wished they had the kind of friends I have. They said that they don't know that anyone in their lives would step up to the plate as my friends have. I've always known I was blessed with some of the best of friends. Unfortunately they have had the opportunity to show me how much they love me. I wish it didn't take cancer to show me that.
I would be remiss not to mention my cousins in this moment. There is a saying that your cousins are the first friends you make, and that couldn't be more true for me. Pauly, Tony, Adam, Missy, JB and Jill were my first friends and have remained my most loyal of friends. Have our lives always traveled the same path and have we spent tons of time together in our adult lives? No, we each have our own things going on. However, this diagnosis hit them all hard, and I can tell. Especially my cousins Tony and Paul. We have been a part of eachother's lives since the moment we were born. Every Sunday we were together, we went to school together, and spent summers swimming and growing up together. Now, I get text messages from them, sometimes in my weakest moments, and it brings a smile to my face. I can't explain it, but every interaction with them makes me think of our youth, how far we have come, and how much we mean to eachother. We were our first friends. And one of us is suffering, so we rally. Our grandma would be proud of us, for being there for one another. We are the family she wanted us to be.
It is late, and I am restless thinking of April 1. I hope my body does not "trick me" this April Fools Day. My husband and I will hold our breath that day, our hearts will pound in our chest as we await the doctor and his news. When he speaks, I know my ears will burn, my palms will sweat, and I will clench my teeth in anticipation. All the while I will be picturing my baby boy in my head, and trying to keep the focus on him and hear the positive in whatever is said. I know no matter what, I will not give up because I have so many friends and family who believe in me.
I feel there are good things on the horizon. I envision a future that is bright. I see myself holding Sam's hand for a long time to come. I believe that "We got this!"
We Got This!
Me and the husband
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Pity Me No More, Positivity
I've been struggling with balance this week. I'm feeling tugged in many directions. On the one side, I feel good, better than I have. You can't feel my liver anymore, I have my humor back, and want to tackle new things. Bill and I went to the gym, something I haven't done in over a year. Yes, I was one of those sloppy pregnant ladies who enjoyed indulgence and little activity. After the baby came, the whirlwind of sickness took over our house and it's taken me months to seem back to normal. I want my body back or at least some semblance of it.
At the gym, Bill warned me not to overdo it. I assured mom and dad, I wouldn't overdo it. (We all know, I would overdo it). Being back on the machine Mary Suehs and I affectionately call The Monster, I was determined to get the healthy me back. I was wearing a do-rag as not to scare the other patrons, my staple yoga pants, and a new gym shirt (have to have a new shirt to get you through the door ladies). I climbed on the machine and slowly rocked my way into some exercise. I let my music just flow and take me into a zone, trying to remember what it was like to be healthy and in-tune with your body. The first five minutes weren't that bad, but I was determined to do 30 minutes. 30 minutes would make me feel like I accomplished something the BC Jodie could do. I wanted desperately to be her again, in charge and in control. Probably wasn't my brightest idea.
By the time Bill joined me next to my machine, I had 3 minutes left....and they were the longest three minutes of my life! Longer than that last .2 miles of a marathon. My body was quickly assuring me that we weren't ready for this, that this wasn't a matter of adding a little oil to the Tin Man and cranking away. I have had months of poison cycling through my body. My blood cells have been ravaged, my muscles deteriorating. My hips have been going out of joint at times due to lack of exertion. Who had I become? There was a time when I could do 2 hours on The Monster! And here I was heavily panting, my face tomato red, and feet aching. I felt light-headed and defeated when I got off the machine. I sat in the locker room and removed my do-rag, letting my prickly, white hair breathe again. I changed my clothes and into my HOA of CNY long-sleeve. All reminders of what I was dealing with unlike most people in that gym. I was conquering cancer and getting my life back. I was showing cancer that I wasn't going down without a fight.
I held my head high as I left, loving that I had done this. I had made my first step toward recovery. Full of determination to become a fighter on this last leg of my cancer journey. It was short lived. Your cancer body is nothing like your healthy body. It takes patience and care to not overdo so that you don't end up paying for it later. I woke up Monday morning with aching feet and my neck and back sore as could be. I know I am older too, and I've had a baby, so things are not going to snap back into place, but it was somewhat of a shock to me that I was in so much pain....from an elliptical. The fatigue was the worst. I could have stayed in bed all day....in fact I think I did stay in bed all day. And it wasn't just a one day recovery, it rolled into the next day too. This led to me becoming an emotional mess. I was down, I was tired, I was sick of being sick.
Cancer, you see, has a way of affecting everything in your life...good and bad. As my husband said, "You can't just have a neck ache." And he's right, any bruise, pain, blood, stomach ache, nausea, headache, fever....you name it, your mind races. Every night I lay in bed and feel my liver. Is it different from yesterday? Different from November? Or is it worse? Was this ridge there before? Should I have drank more green drinks, should I have more water, did I eat something that wrecked all my progress? Your mind plays through so many scenarios in those dark hours alone and quiet. I enjoy the peace of being able to think my thoughts on my own, for not seemingly bothering anyone else with my "pity party." But I often start thinking of what cancer has taken from me, but also from my loved ones. I'm unable to lead at this point, I need help more than I ever have. They can't depend on me as they have in the past. I can't be up with Sam all night long, or else I am in bed all the next day. I can't work because my energy is all being put toward this fight, and so I am not a breadwinner anymore. My husband, bless his heart, still loves all of me, and therefore wants to be intimate with me....and cancer has taken that from me. The worst was the other night when I did attempt to show my husband affection, only to break down in tears afterward, sobbing, because we will never make a baby again. Cancer, you took that from me. I know that I am blessed with Sam, but to have that choice, that decision ripped away from you, makes me angry and it shows you just how unfair this disease can be.
I found myself up and begging God that if I can't have any more babies, please let me be the mother to Sam that he needs. Please don't rip me away from him. There is so much I have to teach him, so much I want to love him through, so much I want to learn from him. I know you aren't supposed to beg or barter with God, but when your emotions take over, it's hard not to.
In one of these emotionally charged moments, I took to the Internet to search a girl I had seen on Say Yes to the Dress a few years ago. Her story was calling out to me that night. I didn't know why, but I had to find her. Being the sleuth that I am, I was reading her blog in no time. She was named Margo, and had been battling cervical cancer when she was on the show, picking out her wedding dress. She was a sweet, bubbly girl, at only 24 who was looking forward to finding a dress with her bald head and all and marrying her best friend. She was so vibrant and young, I remember thinking. To my shock, and to many others, the show ended with her passing a month after her wedding.
Now in this place that I am in, I wanted to revisit her story, see how she thought, read her blog and for what reason? I don't know. I just felt compelled. I mean, I am writing a blog, and I wanted to see if we were the same...if we were on similar journeys.
I found her blog and started from the end and worked backwards. She was very sick at the end. Her leg was swollen, she had had two surgeries, radiation, and finished chemo. I got stuck there. I'm finishing chemo this week. She was preparing for her scans, I am preparing for my scans. We both were playing the waiting game. I can't explain it to you unless you live through it. You can be in a place of joy and laughter and then WHAM! It slams you in the heart that a few hours will determine if you take the light road or the dark road. Will the cancer metastasize? Are you having more aches and pains? Is that a regular cough or are your lungs in danger? Do I feel something in my breast? All these questions race through your head as you walk a tightrope trying not to lose your mind and remain catatonic in your room. You will not let Cancer take everything, you MUST live in these weeks leading up to scans. You must breathe. You must love the tiny moments, no matter how hard it is to push the thoughts from your head. You have to remain positive.
Believe me positivity does not come easily to me. I have never lived in the moment and let things just be spontaneous. Anxiety sits on my back and pushes every one of my buttons. It has since I was a little girl. I've talked about the ulcers, the sleepless nights, the worries about my body, my face, my career, my loved ones. Now add your own life to that. It's enough to make you even more sick. So what do you do? Do you let the anxiety pile on with the Cancer and make you into a hermit? Or do you put it in a compartment of your mind and soldier on? The only way you can turn the anxiety off is through positivity. And I'm not talking about the "Aw shucks, Jodie, hang in there, you can do this." I mean the positivity that comes from inside yourself, the little positive moments that make you smile in a day, even in the darkest of moments, so that you can give this fight your all. If you let the negativity in, it's a slippery slope to giving up. And believe me, there are days when I want to give up. Not because of the pain, the chemo, the fatigue....but because of the loss of the old Jodie. I want to be her again, and I never really can be. I've been branded a member of the Cancer club at this point, and I can't go back. This diagnosis has shaped me, made me stronger, made me have a clearer sense of purpose, but robbed me of the carefree delight I had in having a beer, and laughing until my sides hurt at just ridiculousness. There is now a seriousness to me, the lightness is gone. And I don't know if it will ever come back.
That lightness can only come back if I let the positivity stay. If I pocket all the smiles of my baby, the laughter when he's tickled, the feeling of my husband's hand clasped around mine at night, the long hug from my Dad when I am leaving for chemo...letting me know he's there, my mom's hand wiping away my tears when I just breakdown, the times when my sisters call just to tell me they love me. I put that positivity in my back pocket and when the pity party starts, I open that pocket up and let those memories, that love flow. It makes me feel less alone, less scared of what is to come. Slowly but surely, the darkness drifts away, and I find myself ready to fight. Not because I am this all powerful, super human. I am anything but. I am scared, and mourning the life I had BC. But I have to force myself to lose the anxiety and wonder, allow myself to wonder, of a bright future. I have to think of this as a new beginning. It will be rewritten very differently from the version my 10-year-old self had (thank god in many ways for that!), however, it is far from over. My hair will be shorter, my body scarred in many ways, there may be more chemo in the future, I will have hot flashes from the medication, and other twists and turns. However, I will also ALWAYS have a reason to fight, a reason to have faith, a reason to believe. God hasn't given me any other reason to not believe at this point. I have been given the gift of redefining who I am and why I am on this earth. I will not let the negativity in and I will not give up. I can't. I'm not done yet. I am a force to be reckoned with Cancer, and I am just getting started. Don't worry team, I've got this!
At the gym, Bill warned me not to overdo it. I assured mom and dad, I wouldn't overdo it. (We all know, I would overdo it). Being back on the machine Mary Suehs and I affectionately call The Monster, I was determined to get the healthy me back. I was wearing a do-rag as not to scare the other patrons, my staple yoga pants, and a new gym shirt (have to have a new shirt to get you through the door ladies). I climbed on the machine and slowly rocked my way into some exercise. I let my music just flow and take me into a zone, trying to remember what it was like to be healthy and in-tune with your body. The first five minutes weren't that bad, but I was determined to do 30 minutes. 30 minutes would make me feel like I accomplished something the BC Jodie could do. I wanted desperately to be her again, in charge and in control. Probably wasn't my brightest idea.
By the time Bill joined me next to my machine, I had 3 minutes left....and they were the longest three minutes of my life! Longer than that last .2 miles of a marathon. My body was quickly assuring me that we weren't ready for this, that this wasn't a matter of adding a little oil to the Tin Man and cranking away. I have had months of poison cycling through my body. My blood cells have been ravaged, my muscles deteriorating. My hips have been going out of joint at times due to lack of exertion. Who had I become? There was a time when I could do 2 hours on The Monster! And here I was heavily panting, my face tomato red, and feet aching. I felt light-headed and defeated when I got off the machine. I sat in the locker room and removed my do-rag, letting my prickly, white hair breathe again. I changed my clothes and into my HOA of CNY long-sleeve. All reminders of what I was dealing with unlike most people in that gym. I was conquering cancer and getting my life back. I was showing cancer that I wasn't going down without a fight.
I held my head high as I left, loving that I had done this. I had made my first step toward recovery. Full of determination to become a fighter on this last leg of my cancer journey. It was short lived. Your cancer body is nothing like your healthy body. It takes patience and care to not overdo so that you don't end up paying for it later. I woke up Monday morning with aching feet and my neck and back sore as could be. I know I am older too, and I've had a baby, so things are not going to snap back into place, but it was somewhat of a shock to me that I was in so much pain....from an elliptical. The fatigue was the worst. I could have stayed in bed all day....in fact I think I did stay in bed all day. And it wasn't just a one day recovery, it rolled into the next day too. This led to me becoming an emotional mess. I was down, I was tired, I was sick of being sick.
Cancer, you see, has a way of affecting everything in your life...good and bad. As my husband said, "You can't just have a neck ache." And he's right, any bruise, pain, blood, stomach ache, nausea, headache, fever....you name it, your mind races. Every night I lay in bed and feel my liver. Is it different from yesterday? Different from November? Or is it worse? Was this ridge there before? Should I have drank more green drinks, should I have more water, did I eat something that wrecked all my progress? Your mind plays through so many scenarios in those dark hours alone and quiet. I enjoy the peace of being able to think my thoughts on my own, for not seemingly bothering anyone else with my "pity party." But I often start thinking of what cancer has taken from me, but also from my loved ones. I'm unable to lead at this point, I need help more than I ever have. They can't depend on me as they have in the past. I can't be up with Sam all night long, or else I am in bed all the next day. I can't work because my energy is all being put toward this fight, and so I am not a breadwinner anymore. My husband, bless his heart, still loves all of me, and therefore wants to be intimate with me....and cancer has taken that from me. The worst was the other night when I did attempt to show my husband affection, only to break down in tears afterward, sobbing, because we will never make a baby again. Cancer, you took that from me. I know that I am blessed with Sam, but to have that choice, that decision ripped away from you, makes me angry and it shows you just how unfair this disease can be.
I found myself up and begging God that if I can't have any more babies, please let me be the mother to Sam that he needs. Please don't rip me away from him. There is so much I have to teach him, so much I want to love him through, so much I want to learn from him. I know you aren't supposed to beg or barter with God, but when your emotions take over, it's hard not to.
In one of these emotionally charged moments, I took to the Internet to search a girl I had seen on Say Yes to the Dress a few years ago. Her story was calling out to me that night. I didn't know why, but I had to find her. Being the sleuth that I am, I was reading her blog in no time. She was named Margo, and had been battling cervical cancer when she was on the show, picking out her wedding dress. She was a sweet, bubbly girl, at only 24 who was looking forward to finding a dress with her bald head and all and marrying her best friend. She was so vibrant and young, I remember thinking. To my shock, and to many others, the show ended with her passing a month after her wedding.
Now in this place that I am in, I wanted to revisit her story, see how she thought, read her blog and for what reason? I don't know. I just felt compelled. I mean, I am writing a blog, and I wanted to see if we were the same...if we were on similar journeys.
I found her blog and started from the end and worked backwards. She was very sick at the end. Her leg was swollen, she had had two surgeries, radiation, and finished chemo. I got stuck there. I'm finishing chemo this week. She was preparing for her scans, I am preparing for my scans. We both were playing the waiting game. I can't explain it to you unless you live through it. You can be in a place of joy and laughter and then WHAM! It slams you in the heart that a few hours will determine if you take the light road or the dark road. Will the cancer metastasize? Are you having more aches and pains? Is that a regular cough or are your lungs in danger? Do I feel something in my breast? All these questions race through your head as you walk a tightrope trying not to lose your mind and remain catatonic in your room. You will not let Cancer take everything, you MUST live in these weeks leading up to scans. You must breathe. You must love the tiny moments, no matter how hard it is to push the thoughts from your head. You have to remain positive.
Believe me positivity does not come easily to me. I have never lived in the moment and let things just be spontaneous. Anxiety sits on my back and pushes every one of my buttons. It has since I was a little girl. I've talked about the ulcers, the sleepless nights, the worries about my body, my face, my career, my loved ones. Now add your own life to that. It's enough to make you even more sick. So what do you do? Do you let the anxiety pile on with the Cancer and make you into a hermit? Or do you put it in a compartment of your mind and soldier on? The only way you can turn the anxiety off is through positivity. And I'm not talking about the "Aw shucks, Jodie, hang in there, you can do this." I mean the positivity that comes from inside yourself, the little positive moments that make you smile in a day, even in the darkest of moments, so that you can give this fight your all. If you let the negativity in, it's a slippery slope to giving up. And believe me, there are days when I want to give up. Not because of the pain, the chemo, the fatigue....but because of the loss of the old Jodie. I want to be her again, and I never really can be. I've been branded a member of the Cancer club at this point, and I can't go back. This diagnosis has shaped me, made me stronger, made me have a clearer sense of purpose, but robbed me of the carefree delight I had in having a beer, and laughing until my sides hurt at just ridiculousness. There is now a seriousness to me, the lightness is gone. And I don't know if it will ever come back.
That lightness can only come back if I let the positivity stay. If I pocket all the smiles of my baby, the laughter when he's tickled, the feeling of my husband's hand clasped around mine at night, the long hug from my Dad when I am leaving for chemo...letting me know he's there, my mom's hand wiping away my tears when I just breakdown, the times when my sisters call just to tell me they love me. I put that positivity in my back pocket and when the pity party starts, I open that pocket up and let those memories, that love flow. It makes me feel less alone, less scared of what is to come. Slowly but surely, the darkness drifts away, and I find myself ready to fight. Not because I am this all powerful, super human. I am anything but. I am scared, and mourning the life I had BC. But I have to force myself to lose the anxiety and wonder, allow myself to wonder, of a bright future. I have to think of this as a new beginning. It will be rewritten very differently from the version my 10-year-old self had (thank god in many ways for that!), however, it is far from over. My hair will be shorter, my body scarred in many ways, there may be more chemo in the future, I will have hot flashes from the medication, and other twists and turns. However, I will also ALWAYS have a reason to fight, a reason to have faith, a reason to believe. God hasn't given me any other reason to not believe at this point. I have been given the gift of redefining who I am and why I am on this earth. I will not let the negativity in and I will not give up. I can't. I'm not done yet. I am a force to be reckoned with Cancer, and I am just getting started. Don't worry team, I've got this!
Friday, March 14, 2014
You're Never Too Old to Come Home....
First off, I'm alive and well. I know it has been a long time since I posted last. As one of my oncology nurses said, "Jodie it's been since February 21...it's now MARCH!" My cousin, Pauly, summed it up perfectly when he said, oh so eloquently, that he was telling people I wasn't writing because "Dude, you're doing good, right?" And yes, he was correct. I've been busy soaking up the limited sunshine was have had, taking Sam out to "see the light" and smell the spring air. I found that I had an extra spring in my step, my color wasn't so sallow, my ability to get out of bed was just a little easier. Then of course, a blizzard hit! And with the blizzard came pain and bloodwork and x-rays on my end. I guess my medical journey is like a page out of the weather forecast for Syracuse, NY. All sunshine and roses one day, then gusty winds and white outs the next. That's what a cancer diagnosis is, I suppose.
These past few weeks have been mostly great. I felt more like myself than I had in a while. My energy seemed to come back and I spent a lot of my day laughing and playing with Sammy. He's getting up on all fours now, so it is a matter of days, not weeks, before he starts crawling. Oh boy. Life has been good. We visited with people and took walks, in my weak attempt to "get back in shape." I joke and say that Sammy takes me on lunch dates and shopping trips....he's quite the shopper!
Of course, in having these big adventure days, I didn't often take into account how the chemo was going to affect me. After a long day of feeling like myself, I would be knocked on my butt and in bed all day completely fatigued. Then I would beat myself up for not being a mommy on those days and for being tired. I would have to remind myself that this was my body's reaction to chemo and not me being a lazy lump. But it is hard to let yourself off the hook at times. Especially when you go a day feeling almost as if you are cancer-free! Getting knocked down again, just serves as a torturous reminder that your body is in the fight of its life.
Last night was a bad night. I had been battling what felt like a stiff neck or pulled muscle all day. I attributed it to lugging 23 lb Sammy around town. (Seriously, you put him in one of those carriers and you get yourself a nice arms workout!) As the night progressed, the stiffness and muscle spasms became worse. Now, because my cancer is in my liver, I can't just toss back some drugs and sleep it off. I have to be careful what I take because of that and also because I have had some bleeding, so Aleve and blood thinners are a no-no too. I've become the anti-med patient at this point, scared of what may happen if I try to take something. I feel like I have made so much progress with my liver (the nurse practitioner agreed with me the other day when she examined me....it is NORMAL SIZE now, which is HUGE!). I don't want to take two steps back and start tearing away at the progress I have made. And I don't want to end up back in the hospital with bleeding again because as good as I look in a hospital gown, it ain't worth it.
Well, stupid me didn't take anything and tried to go to bed. I took my sleeping pill and sort of sighed myself to sleep because it wasn't exactly a pain-free arrangement. I figured my pill would knock me out and I would be ok. It did, for about 2 hours. Then I woke up and couldn't lift my head off the pillow. I was scared because the pain was so intense, it took my breath away. I've thrown out my back before and experienced similar pain then, but when you have cancer, everything seems ten times worse.
I woke my mom up as I stood over her stuck in a cockeyed position. I couldn't move my head, it hurt so much I was crying, and I needed my mom. She helped me down the stairs, set up a bed on the couch and went to work. Cupboards were opening, she was shuffling around, the microwave was buzzing, and pill bottles were rattling....all at 1 a.m., and she has to go to work at 5. All the while I was laying on my pillows with tears streaming down my face. My head had already gone to that dark place. What if the cancer had metastasized to my bones? Was this how it would feel? If so, it was agony. Or what if it was meningitis? My immune system is compromised after all, and it hurt to touch my chin to my chest and I had had a headache the night before (oh the joys of being a nurse's kid who knows too much!). As my mom put moist heat under my head along with a heating pad she had in her car (god knows why), I shakily lifted my head and sucked in a deep breath because of the pain. When I laid down and let the air out, I sobbed to her "Promise me it hasn't metastasized to my bones! Promise me!" How awful of me to put my mom in that position! But she is my mom, and always has taken care of me. I needed her to tell me it was going to be ok, that I was not going down a darker road. She couldn't promise me anything. All she could say was that it appeared to be muscular and that was a good sign. I told her to go upstairs and sleep with my baby. She insisted she stay downstairs and sleep with her "baby." Mom didn't leave my side. She continued to make sure I had heat on my neck and dried my tears. I know, if I had asked, she would have scooped me up and rocked me to sleep, even though we are the same size nowadays. Because she is a mom, first and foremost.
The beauty of my parents is that they put their kids first....always have. My mother called in sick because she wanted to be by my side when I went to the doctor and to hold my hand if they did find something. She wanted to keep me comfortable and checked on me all morning long as I lay in bed suffering in pain. She wanted to quiet my fears, as best she could.
My dad, for as tough and gruff as he looks, can't stand to see me in pain. He and my mother are a team in these situations. Dad took on Sammy, and I could rest assured listening to the two of them spitting at eachother and Sam laughing. He was feeding him, playing with him, making sure I didn't worry. He and mom discussed what they should do for me, when they should call the doctor and how I would get there. They both have been worn down by this cancer diagnosis. My father's body is reacting against it and he developed a stress rash that he has to take steroids for in order to function. Mom is so beat. She is getting up at night with Sammy so I can rest, then going to work on her feet for 10 hours a day and sometimes the weekends too. They put me first and have shown me what parents are supposed to do, how to be their support when they are weak. I know that both of them would walk through fire for me. I'm reassured on a daily basis by my mom that if she could take on my suffering, instead of me, that she would.
That's a parent's job, and their love and support has shown me just how much I need to survive for Sammy. I ache at the thought of not getting to pick up the pieces of his broken heart some day, or not being able to sleep next to him when he has a nightmare, or kissing his boo-boos like only a mom can do when he falls down. Moms and Dads are there to pull you up when you fall, give you a reassuring hug, and send you back out to figure out the world on your own. But they are always there in the background if you need them.
Now at 35 years old, I need my parents just as much as I did when I was five. They are the reason I am winning this fight, plain and simple. They have opened their home to us, fed us, cried with us, and rejoiced with us. Today, as I sat in that office waiting on the results of my scan, I looked at my mom. She looked tired, scared, but ready to catch me if I fell. She is as dependable as they come. She's my rock, just as her mother was her rock to her. Her hands have aged, but they are the same soft hands that dried my tears as a child, and held me when I broke down and needed a hug. Those same hands now clasp mine in the quiet moments...just to reassure me she is there.
My dad, he just got up and made me soup and rice for dinner, after I slept all day. He watched over me as I ate it, making sure I got the potassium I needed and ate my vegetables. Then he hugged me hard before he went to bed and told me to keep on fighting. That's what a Dad does. He makes you feel safe and supported no matter what your age.
What I guess I have learned through the twists and turns of this journey is you are never too old to come home. My parents have literally carried me through this hard time, protecting me, holding me and assuring their grandson that he is loved and cared for no matter what. So even though I may roll my eyes when my mom chases me around with a water bottle telling me to "Drink!" or when my dad makes me eat all the spinach because I need to fix my anemia, I still love them for what they are doing. They are putting me first, as they always have, and shooting the moon to make sure I win this fight.
Every night while I say my prayers in bed, I thank God for being born to these two people. I couldn't imagine not having their love and support through all of this. I don't know that I would be surviving without it. But I also pray for them because I don't know that they know how much they mean to me and my sisters. I pray that my dad stop smoking and drinking because if you were to see Sammy's face light up when he comes in the room, you would want him to be around forever too. I understand that cigarettes are like heroin and drinking numbs the pain and anxiety of what is going on, but we need you Dad. I need you, Sam needs you. And Mom, I pray that she take care of herself for once, instead of everyone else. Putting yourself on the backburner mom, is not the answer. Stop drinking the damn diet soda. You deserve to live a long happy life. I need you, Sam needs you.
I'm happy to report that I don't have meningitis and my x-rays showed no mets to my bones. A huge sigh of relief on all our parts. But that didn't mean that my parents stopped caring. I was given time to rest and relax once I got home, to cry a little and be by myself. Mom told me she wished she could take it all away. Dad told me to keep on getting better. All the while, they were taking care of Sam, Bill and me. The thing is, Mom and Dad, you are taking it all away and making me get better. If it weren't for you, I would be struggling to stay afloat and feeling alone. You have shown me how to be for Sam and what being a parent is all about. Thank you for carrying me and loving me through all of this. Having you both on my side, I know, we got this.
These past few weeks have been mostly great. I felt more like myself than I had in a while. My energy seemed to come back and I spent a lot of my day laughing and playing with Sammy. He's getting up on all fours now, so it is a matter of days, not weeks, before he starts crawling. Oh boy. Life has been good. We visited with people and took walks, in my weak attempt to "get back in shape." I joke and say that Sammy takes me on lunch dates and shopping trips....he's quite the shopper!
Of course, in having these big adventure days, I didn't often take into account how the chemo was going to affect me. After a long day of feeling like myself, I would be knocked on my butt and in bed all day completely fatigued. Then I would beat myself up for not being a mommy on those days and for being tired. I would have to remind myself that this was my body's reaction to chemo and not me being a lazy lump. But it is hard to let yourself off the hook at times. Especially when you go a day feeling almost as if you are cancer-free! Getting knocked down again, just serves as a torturous reminder that your body is in the fight of its life.
Last night was a bad night. I had been battling what felt like a stiff neck or pulled muscle all day. I attributed it to lugging 23 lb Sammy around town. (Seriously, you put him in one of those carriers and you get yourself a nice arms workout!) As the night progressed, the stiffness and muscle spasms became worse. Now, because my cancer is in my liver, I can't just toss back some drugs and sleep it off. I have to be careful what I take because of that and also because I have had some bleeding, so Aleve and blood thinners are a no-no too. I've become the anti-med patient at this point, scared of what may happen if I try to take something. I feel like I have made so much progress with my liver (the nurse practitioner agreed with me the other day when she examined me....it is NORMAL SIZE now, which is HUGE!). I don't want to take two steps back and start tearing away at the progress I have made. And I don't want to end up back in the hospital with bleeding again because as good as I look in a hospital gown, it ain't worth it.
Well, stupid me didn't take anything and tried to go to bed. I took my sleeping pill and sort of sighed myself to sleep because it wasn't exactly a pain-free arrangement. I figured my pill would knock me out and I would be ok. It did, for about 2 hours. Then I woke up and couldn't lift my head off the pillow. I was scared because the pain was so intense, it took my breath away. I've thrown out my back before and experienced similar pain then, but when you have cancer, everything seems ten times worse.
I woke my mom up as I stood over her stuck in a cockeyed position. I couldn't move my head, it hurt so much I was crying, and I needed my mom. She helped me down the stairs, set up a bed on the couch and went to work. Cupboards were opening, she was shuffling around, the microwave was buzzing, and pill bottles were rattling....all at 1 a.m., and she has to go to work at 5. All the while I was laying on my pillows with tears streaming down my face. My head had already gone to that dark place. What if the cancer had metastasized to my bones? Was this how it would feel? If so, it was agony. Or what if it was meningitis? My immune system is compromised after all, and it hurt to touch my chin to my chest and I had had a headache the night before (oh the joys of being a nurse's kid who knows too much!). As my mom put moist heat under my head along with a heating pad she had in her car (god knows why), I shakily lifted my head and sucked in a deep breath because of the pain. When I laid down and let the air out, I sobbed to her "Promise me it hasn't metastasized to my bones! Promise me!" How awful of me to put my mom in that position! But she is my mom, and always has taken care of me. I needed her to tell me it was going to be ok, that I was not going down a darker road. She couldn't promise me anything. All she could say was that it appeared to be muscular and that was a good sign. I told her to go upstairs and sleep with my baby. She insisted she stay downstairs and sleep with her "baby." Mom didn't leave my side. She continued to make sure I had heat on my neck and dried my tears. I know, if I had asked, she would have scooped me up and rocked me to sleep, even though we are the same size nowadays. Because she is a mom, first and foremost.
The beauty of my parents is that they put their kids first....always have. My mother called in sick because she wanted to be by my side when I went to the doctor and to hold my hand if they did find something. She wanted to keep me comfortable and checked on me all morning long as I lay in bed suffering in pain. She wanted to quiet my fears, as best she could.
My dad, for as tough and gruff as he looks, can't stand to see me in pain. He and my mother are a team in these situations. Dad took on Sammy, and I could rest assured listening to the two of them spitting at eachother and Sam laughing. He was feeding him, playing with him, making sure I didn't worry. He and mom discussed what they should do for me, when they should call the doctor and how I would get there. They both have been worn down by this cancer diagnosis. My father's body is reacting against it and he developed a stress rash that he has to take steroids for in order to function. Mom is so beat. She is getting up at night with Sammy so I can rest, then going to work on her feet for 10 hours a day and sometimes the weekends too. They put me first and have shown me what parents are supposed to do, how to be their support when they are weak. I know that both of them would walk through fire for me. I'm reassured on a daily basis by my mom that if she could take on my suffering, instead of me, that she would.
That's a parent's job, and their love and support has shown me just how much I need to survive for Sammy. I ache at the thought of not getting to pick up the pieces of his broken heart some day, or not being able to sleep next to him when he has a nightmare, or kissing his boo-boos like only a mom can do when he falls down. Moms and Dads are there to pull you up when you fall, give you a reassuring hug, and send you back out to figure out the world on your own. But they are always there in the background if you need them.
Now at 35 years old, I need my parents just as much as I did when I was five. They are the reason I am winning this fight, plain and simple. They have opened their home to us, fed us, cried with us, and rejoiced with us. Today, as I sat in that office waiting on the results of my scan, I looked at my mom. She looked tired, scared, but ready to catch me if I fell. She is as dependable as they come. She's my rock, just as her mother was her rock to her. Her hands have aged, but they are the same soft hands that dried my tears as a child, and held me when I broke down and needed a hug. Those same hands now clasp mine in the quiet moments...just to reassure me she is there.
My dad, he just got up and made me soup and rice for dinner, after I slept all day. He watched over me as I ate it, making sure I got the potassium I needed and ate my vegetables. Then he hugged me hard before he went to bed and told me to keep on fighting. That's what a Dad does. He makes you feel safe and supported no matter what your age.
What I guess I have learned through the twists and turns of this journey is you are never too old to come home. My parents have literally carried me through this hard time, protecting me, holding me and assuring their grandson that he is loved and cared for no matter what. So even though I may roll my eyes when my mom chases me around with a water bottle telling me to "Drink!" or when my dad makes me eat all the spinach because I need to fix my anemia, I still love them for what they are doing. They are putting me first, as they always have, and shooting the moon to make sure I win this fight.
Every night while I say my prayers in bed, I thank God for being born to these two people. I couldn't imagine not having their love and support through all of this. I don't know that I would be surviving without it. But I also pray for them because I don't know that they know how much they mean to me and my sisters. I pray that my dad stop smoking and drinking because if you were to see Sammy's face light up when he comes in the room, you would want him to be around forever too. I understand that cigarettes are like heroin and drinking numbs the pain and anxiety of what is going on, but we need you Dad. I need you, Sam needs you. And Mom, I pray that she take care of herself for once, instead of everyone else. Putting yourself on the backburner mom, is not the answer. Stop drinking the damn diet soda. You deserve to live a long happy life. I need you, Sam needs you.
I'm happy to report that I don't have meningitis and my x-rays showed no mets to my bones. A huge sigh of relief on all our parts. But that didn't mean that my parents stopped caring. I was given time to rest and relax once I got home, to cry a little and be by myself. Mom told me she wished she could take it all away. Dad told me to keep on getting better. All the while, they were taking care of Sam, Bill and me. The thing is, Mom and Dad, you are taking it all away and making me get better. If it weren't for you, I would be struggling to stay afloat and feeling alone. You have shown me how to be for Sam and what being a parent is all about. Thank you for carrying me and loving me through all of this. Having you both on my side, I know, we got this.
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