Oh, August

As this month came with all of its anniversaries, I thought, oh, August, what will you have for me this year?

In the summer of 2019, my mother and I were fighting for our lives. In this picture below, she’s in hospice, her battle almost over. The date of this photograph is August 10th.

I was with her every day, and some were harder than others. On the day she passed, I remember standing outside her room and staring back at the window, knowing her body was still in there, yet she wasn’t. I pretended I was waiting on her to walk out of that place, tell me it had been a terrible mistake.

I went home, and took pictures of the moon that night.

Today, August 18th, marks the one year anniversary of her passing. August 26th, she would have been 84. ❤ 

One of my favorite pictures of her. Taken in August (of course) 2015.

Other “anniversaries” this month . . . in August of 2012 we lost our beloved little Yorkies, “the girls,” Bella and Kiwi. Bella, on August 2nd, and then Kiwi, on August 23rd.

It was August, 2nd 2017 I received my official cancer diagnosis, and began a rigorous treatment plan of chemotherapy and radiation that lasted into late October.

Oh yes. We’re very happy! Final chemo, October, 2017

They’re still there, helping people fight. The final radiation treatment, 30 in all.

Best card ever from my warrior sister, Keilah Goff.

                                                                          **************************************

Yesterday, August 17th, I was back at Duke Raleigh Hospital for my three month check-in. These have been ongoing since my diagnosis because the monster, a.k.a. as cancer, keeps wanting to rear its ugly little head up in new places, like my lung in 2018, and then my liver in 2019. When I started back on chemotherapy last summer for the liver metastasis, my final treatment was on August 23rd, the day after we had the service for Mom.

Since then, I’ve had three clear scans, November 2019, (PET) February 2020, (PET) and May of 2020, (CT). Clear scans in this case doesn’t mean there are no lesions, or nodules. Btw, everyone has these, unbeknownst to most of you unless tests are done and they’re  found, but it’s also important to note, most are benign.

I haven’t posted about the previous scans because cancer is tricky, and the results of tests are often a lot like riding the Tilt-a-Whirl, slinging you one way, good news! then the other, bad news! The results of a scan and what is said by the radiologists sometimes leave a bit up to interpretation depending on word choices. Things like “less conspicuous” and “less discernible,” or “not well seen,” can make you sit back and question, are they there or not? What does that even mean?

Basically, I decided to wait until I was one year post chemo treatment to do any sort of update because the longer things go with no change, the better. Yesterday’s scan shows “stability,” meaning the liver lesions seen have been there, and are unchanged. In the words of the radiologist to Dr. Smith, my oncologist, “their stability is definitely reassuring.” Are they cancer? We don’t know. The key word is “stability” because to the best of what I can gather no change means they could simply be benign.

Imagine. Some good news in August. Here I am looking a little tired, (typical writer appearance) but hey! Look! My hair came back. (!!!)

The capacity of the human will, the strength of a human body is never fully realized, until it is tested. 

Battle Scarred

We’re called warriors. That word and others like fighting, survivor, and journey, are used to describe this experience and never before did I fully grasp it until that day in 2017.

We are battle scarred. In my case, I’ve been tattooed, four permanent little bluish dots which pinpointed where the radiation machine would target. That’s another word to add to the repertoire – target. Like throwing darts, we wanted those beams to hit the bullseye and kill the cancer. Kill it, not me.

I have scars from the radiation burns, from lung surgery, and now I have this one from the skin cancer recently removed. In the grand scheme of things, this was easy-peasy.

“Oh, this little ole basal cell skin cancer? That’s nothing,” I declared to the dermatologist as he stitched up my leg. (I tell you though, skin cancer is nothing to fool with. What I had was literally about this size –> O, if that. That turned into taking out that chunk of my leg like what you see below and eleven stitches.)

That “dip” will go away – eventually. Hopefully before shorts season!

The longer you talk cancer, experience cancer, deal with cancer, the more you realize you are in a war zone, albeit self-contained. There are the inner scars too. These are memory scars, the ones formed over PET scans with outcomes we don’t want, the idea it could resurrect it’s ugly little presence any old doggone time it wants. Our future is at stake until we pass the magic time of two years and five years. At five years cancer free, none of us have any more chance of getting it again than the rest of the population who’ve never had it.

I do my best to ignore it. I’ve gotten pretty good at it too, as these pictures show.

Attended the Women’s National Book Association Bibliofeast

Honored a cherished friend . . .

Accepted this award at the SELA/SCLA Annual Yearly Conference

Thanksgiving at our house with family

Decorated the tree . . .

Somebody doesn’t like their reindeer horns  . . .

You get the idea! 

I have concluded I am proud of my battle scars. I am glad I have them. The fight is over for now. I am completely cancer free – again. I will get through PET scans, and continue to look forward, never backward. 

The hair has come in nicely btw.

I continue to . . .  dream.

Stage IV

A friend of mine wrote a comment on my last post, and in reading it, I looked at the date and realized it had been a while since I wrote anything about what’s going on. To be honest with you, I guess you could say when it comes to that, picture my face like this:

Enough already.

It’s been almost three weeks since the surgery which went as expected. No surprises. Wedge resection was done, wore a chest tube for about a day, and was quite (very) happy sitting propped up in my hospital bed, with a morphine pump and other opiods dripping into the IV. It was like a trip back to the 70’s, all psychedelic and woo woo.

The nurses asked, “What’s your pain level, zero to ten?”

“Zzzzzeeeerrrrooooo,” said I, with a loopy grin.

I checked out the next day, and since then have been at home, recovering. Actually to say recovering is a stretch because the overall effects of the actual surgery weren’t too bad. The worst came the first two days after as the general anesthesia wore off. I drifted about the house feeling zoned, out of it, really. Then, for the following week I prayed I wouldn’t need to sneeze, or cough.  Beyond some oddball annoying muscle spasm that created a sharp pain when I breathed in too deep, and what I’ve called the mad itch from adhesives on the dressing, I have felt pretty good.

I saw the surgeon October 9th and got the stitches out. That was when I heard about the pathology of what they removed. A bunch of staining was done to try and identify cells, some squamous, some with basaloid features, but as seems to be the case with the metastases I get, a hodge-podge of crap that is poorly differentiated, and morphing into unknown . . .  cancerous stuff.

Ick.

Here’s what I’ve learned. When you have cancer, you tend to listen very carefully for the positive news while analyzing every word coming out of a doctor’s mouth.

So, while I heard about all those nasty cells, I also heard him say something about Stage I.

I said, “So this is Stage I.”

I think he misunderstood my question. I was trying to understand if my lung cancer was Stage I while I realized my original cancer was Stage IIIB.

He said, “Oh no. You’re Stage IV because of the metastasis to the lung.”

Then he followed up with a couple of comments that sounded encouraging. One was it was better for me to come in with this now versus having had it when the original, primary cancer showed up. The second thing he asked was how long it had been since I was diagnosed.

I said, “Fourteen months.”

He said, “Well this may be it. The longer you go without anything else showing up, the better.”

I got to thinking about those other little spots, and we discussed them too. He showed me they are in both lungs. (refer again to that girl pictured above).

He said, “I would get another PET in three, no longer than four months. And we can always go back in and remove that left lobe, if they’ve changed.”

“What about the right lung?”

“Well, you have enough lung function we could remove some of it, or it could be treated systemically with more chemo. But I’d not recommend that for a few weeks, until you recover fully from your lung surgery, and that’s really Dr. Smith’s call.”

I went home and got to thinking about the doggone spots. For some reason, I thought he was the first person to bring them up, but then I recalled I’d started off with “nodules” already on my lungs (and liver) when I was first diagnosed last year. That’s why I was sent to an oncologist, pronto, and with everything going on, I had not thought to look back at my previous scans.

I went into the Duke portal and checked. Sure enough, all the way back to the original PET scan from August 2017 there is a mention of nodules in both right and left lungs. This is good news! (strangely) Why? Because I’ve had these spots he’s pointing out all along, and I’ve had a total of three more PET scans, and the spots haven’t changed. The one they took out was new as of the June 2018 scan, hence his comment, “This may be it.”

Let’s hope and pray it is!

In other news – remember my title on the last post?  (Running with Lung Cancer)

Weeellll, I won’t be able to do that anytime soon. I suppose that’s what I get for thumbing my nose at the Universe.

Getting radiation to the hip/pelvic area can cause weakened bones. This was a risk, but I suppose it’s hard to really know you’re at risk without going through yet another scan for bone density. So, I was out on a run and immediately felt pain and in hindsight, I should’ve stopped right then. I didn’t. My thinking was I could run through it because over the course of the years I’ve been doing this, I know that weird pains show up at the beginning of a run, and most go away within half a mile or so.  So, I kept on. It stayed with me the entire time, which should’ve been a big red flag. Once I finally did stop, I knew I’d made a mistake. So, I’m sidelined with a pelvic fracture, the type that needs nothing but time. It’s going on six weeks this coming Tuesday, and while there is still pain, it’s much better.

But – I’m not done YET. (!!!)

Let’s add some icing to the “what else could go wrong” cake.

A week ago today, I went to a dermatologist for a possible  . . .  skin cancer. We’ve all heard the saying “it comes in threes,” right? Is “it” karma? IDK, but whatever “it” is, mine apparently comes in fours.

I’ve had a “funny” area on my lower right leg since chemo ended last year. Actually, I thought this tiny wound was some odd thing my skin was doing because of the chemo since it showed up right after I was done with that treatment. It’s been there changing, doing it’s thing, bleeding now and then. Since my Dad had skin cancer, and I inherited his olive complexion, I thought, the way my luck is going  . . .

I went to see a dermatologist a week ago. They took a biopsy, and the pathology on it will be back in about two weeks, so that was a Charlie Brown moment, as in good grief!

Let’s see, what else . . . kidding! Because, yeah, that’s enough, already, isn’t it?

Despite all this, you wanna know exactly how I feel? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Running With Lung Cancer

How’s that for a title?

Those of you who live in my neighborhood, yes, that certainly has been me you’ve seen jogging along the streets recently. You might have thought, but, wait. Didn’t I hear she now has . . . lung cancer? 

That would be right too.

I asked my oncologist about running weeks ago, and his answer was “Yes, you can run!”  That made me really happy. So, that’s what I’ve been doing. I figure if I’m in as good a shape as I can be – considering – I will recover faster after surgery.

Which is what I’m here to talk about, recovering from the surgery I mentioned in my last post. I went to see a thoracic surgeon yesterday.

By the way, in case you missed that Instagram post I did on Monday, here’s the picture I sent out.

Talk about timing. These two pieces of mail arrived together. This actually made me giggle but maybe I have a weird sense of humor.  (French Sojourn, you can see I took your advice – thank you)

Back to the surgery visit. It was really enlightening and what I hoped and prayed for will happen. The doctor is David White, and while I was having a pulmonary test, the nurse said, “If I had to have any sort of surgery on my lungs, Dr. White is who I would want. He’s the best and I’ve worked all over the place.”

I love it when nurses volunteer tidbits like that. Either way, even after meeting him I was still curious so I Googled his name. Here’s a short video taken about three years ago where he introduces himself:

I really like him. Like my oncologist, he was thoughtful and caring.  It showed in how he talked, explained things, and the time he and his PA took.

We started off by comparing our fitness watches. Ha! We had very similar looking running watches – same color – black/lime green.  Then we looked at the PET scans I’ve had. He can’t be 100% sure of what type of cancer it is until they biopsy it. At this time however, because of the characteristics (round), he believes it’s actually a recurrent cancer and that the original cancer metastasized to the lung. My oncologist has said this would be a highly “unusual pattern.” (I’ve always joked how I can’t ever just have a common cold. If you knew my entire medical history, you’d understand what I mean.)

Dr. White said, “I bet when we look at the PET from January, we’ll see it.”

He flipped to that scan and scrolled through, but, we didn’t see anything.

He said, “Huh, that’s interesting.”

At any rate given the placement, back of the lower left lobe, (he placed his hand on my back midway to indicate about where it is, whereas all along I’ve been thinking it’s up front) he still thinks it’s recurrent. He also talked about the shape – round – and said other lung cancers tend to not be that shape, meaning the shape points to recurrent.

He scrolled through the scan and showed me other “spots.” I’d not heard about other “spots.” I honestly can’t recall how many there were, but I’d say 2-3. His PA said, “these are so small we wouldn’t be able to find them (during surgery), but we need to watch them, and see if they grow.” The watching will come from PET scans.

For the surgery it will be laparoscopic (so relieved), and he will do a “wedge resection.”  This will mean cutting out the nodule, and some of the good tissue. He said they literally cut it like a wedge. I like pictures, so I went out and found one. Like this, but in that lower part of the lung.

There will be a tube in my chest for about a day – and that will be removed before I leave. This is the best surgery for maintaining most of the lung tissue. Regardless, your body has to adjust to less lung capacity, but this is the optimum for keeping the most of the lung.

He said I shouldn’t have to stay more than a night, maybe two depending on how things go with the chest tube and its removal. At home, recovery beyond that is about ten to fourteen days. He said one of the hardest things is getting over the anesthesia, and the pain. Still, all this was right in line with what I’d been hoping for – minimal hospital stay, and a pretty quick recovery.

He then said, “Once I’m in there, if I find out it’s actually a primary cancer, that will mean a larger incision (still laparoscopic) and a lobectomy, where we would remove the lower lobe entirely.” It means a longer hospital stay – maybe an extra day, and a few more days tacked onto recovery.

So, that’s the deal. The surgery is September 24th. This was the date I was hoping for because of the SIBA Tradeshow in Florida, and the Stanly County Library Annual Friends of the Library meeting where they’ve sent out 250 invitations.

Not having it ASAP doesn’t mean increased risks. It was sort of funny because when I asked about that, and I was prepared to start emailing people to say, “I’m real sorry, but I won’t be able to make it,” he said, “No. It doesn’t make a difference. If it grows, it will only make it easier to find.”

It still sounds encouraging and hopeful despite hearing about the other spots. We’ll just have to keep the faith they won’t grow, and hope from this point on I’ll get clean scans.

As always, I find myself listening to certain songs, and the lyrics to Seals and Crofts’ We May Never Pass This Way Again, are fitting.

“Cast away our fears, and all the years, will come and go, and take us up, always up. . .”

 

Peace and love,

Donna

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Round Two

What a roller coaster ride it’s been the past few days. Some of you know this past Saturday I posted about receiving the Southeastern Library Association’s (SELA) 2018 Outstanding Author award in fiction for THE ROAD TO BITTERSWEET. And now, for the past fifteen hours or so, I’ve been scratching my head at the latest news based on my PET scan.

I’ve been a runner for 30 years, and I mention this because, you know, exercise, eating right, etc., fights cancer, right? (Btw, I’m back into it, to the best of my ability, despite lymphedema problems. But hey, there’s some spiffy compression socks for that!)

At least they’re in style these days!

Rarely do I eat fast food. Only on occasion do I eat fried foods. And honestly, do you know how anti-southern that seems??? I mean come on, we’re supposed to eat fried food daily! But no, what do I eat? Lots of cereal, fruit, salads, vegetables, not too much meat, etc.

Cancer is ignoring this evidently.

In the last post after the one about the PET scan which showed two new areas, I updated everyone on having an x-ray which ruled out bone cancer for the new spot on my hip. (double yay on that!) But there was that pesky spot on the lung – and the only thing we could do was wait at least two months and have another PET scan.

Well, yesterday was the day. I went and had it in the morning, and I was really surprised to get a call in the late afternoon from my oncologist.

He cut right to the chase and said, “It’s good news and bad news. The bad news is that spot on your lung. It’s grown, and it’s the only area that lit up with the tracer. It’s a problem.”

He asked if I had ever smoked.

“Yes.”

Y’all – it’s been so long ago, I can barely remember it. I put the last cigarette in my mouth 32 years ago. I guess that doesn’t matter.

Part of the good news – it’s small, and they will simply take it out. It can hopefully be done via laparoscopy, and, it’s slow growing.

He also said “once it’s out, it’s out.”

Then he said, “The other good news, it’s literally the only spot that took the tracer, even where your original cancer was, there’s nothing. No sign of it. With this, you won’t go through chemo, you won’t need radiation.”

Of course that is GOOD news – yet my thoughts stalled on lung cancer. He doesn’t know if it’s metastatic, or a new one. He tends to think it’s new because the type I had, if it’s going to spread, usually goes to the liver.  We won’t know until it’s taken out and biopsied.

What I’m going to do until I know when all this will take place is this. I’m going on a ten day trip to the mountains of North Carolina and Tennessee. I’m going to attend my book events, and I’m glad for them, glad for the distraction, and for getting to spend time doing what I love which is talking about books and writing.

It didn’t go unnoticed I’m almost exactly a year out from when I found out I had cancer last year.  That was on August 2nd. Ten days later, on August 12th, I knew what kind.

As I wrangle with this news, this song came to mind. While it sounds melancholy – it’s not! It’s about feeling blue and singing it out.

 

Still fighting. Onward.

 

 

 

Better News

This is a quick update to say I (finally!) had that “good old-fashioned x-ray” as my oncologist called it which showed nothing significant – only a few calcifications which could come from the running.

Phew!

There is no bone involvement which would have meant a completely different view of my future.

There is still the PET scan to do in August, but I’m feeling pretty optimistic that too will prove to be something ordinary, some benign process going on versus cancer. Of course I can’t feel 100% at ease until I hear that, but I do feel a LOT better than I did when I wrote that other post a little over a week ago.

In the meantime, I forgot to mention  . . . I got a hair cut. (!!!)  You might be wondering how that’s possible, but yep, I actually needed one to shape things up.  And  . . . the other day?  I actually used – wait – hairspray!

Such a tiny thing, but emotionally huge in significance.  Anyone out there who’s lost hair due to treatments – you know what I mean.  If you’re going through this and you’re staring at your bald head, wondering when, when, when, it took about eight months (for me), to get back to something where I look more like myself. It will take longer if you had long hair.

So, from this:

The hair decided to leave. It had had enough.

To this:

To, finally, this.

In Davidson NC yesterday for a book event. The first picture where I felt like I didn’t need to wear a hat!

That’s the thing with cancer. When treatment is going on, you’re fighting the devastating results to your internal systems, and praying hard it all works out. There’s a deep emotional quotient too, some of which is affected by outward appearance. Once you’ve gone about in the world in a particular way, cancer alters that, whether you like it or not.

I learned you have no control over it. You simply fight it, then wait, and hope and pray you can be you again one day, an altered you, but still you.

I look at pictures taken before I had cancer, and those taken now. I look pretty much the same, although I’ve lost weight, have shorter short hair, yet I also know I’m quite different physically, and emotionally.

And, I’m okay with it.

 

 

Mixed News

I’ve been wanting to do an update for some time now, and I suppose with this past week’s news, now is as good a time as any. I had my third PET scan Tuesday, June 12th. My oncologist called me Wednesday, and I could hear frustration in his voice.

He began quizzing me, verifying what he knew, and simply confirming my history. “I’m looking at your PET scan. You’ve had nodules in your lungs . . .?”

“Yes. I had a CT scan before I came to you, but it only caught the lower area, not all of my lungs, and that showed some nodules. Then we did another one at Duke, and it showed those, and a few more but they didn’t light up on the first PET scan.”

“Right, right. Well, I think this latest PET scan looks fine, but I have a call into the radiologist who read this. You know they have two people read it before they sign off, and I want to talk to the resident, make sure he’s comparing this to the one in January.”

I said, “Ooo-kay.”

Then he says, “Have you fallen recently?”

“Uh, no.”

“Didn’t you tell me you fell, or something?”

(my brain has been having some fog, so I was thinking hard here)

Finally, I said, “Not that I know of.”

“Have you started back running?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, I have, I was going to tell you about that when I came to see you in July. Yes, I’m running again, with walking in between until I feel back up to par.”

There were more questions about being ill, had I had bronchitis, or done a lot of coughing – anything like that? No, no and no, but by now I wished I HAD fallen and had suffered double pneumonia.

I could tell something wasn’t quite right.

All the questions had to do with the fact there were two new areas seen on the PET scan that weren’t there in January.  One is a new nodule in my left lung, and there is a spot on my right hip bone. This was NOT what I wanted to hear, needless to say. When you get a PET scan, they give you a “tracer” with glucose in it. You can’t eat or drink anything except water/black coffee/unsweetened tea, for example, the morning of – so the glucose in this tracer will stick to potential cancer, because, cancer likes sugar. When they look at the PET scan, they’re looking for areas to “light up,” or areas they call “hot,” which is where the glucose tracer would attach.

According to my oncologist, neither area met the criteria for being “hot,” meaning the uptake value he would have expected for malignancy . I’ve read anything 2.5 and higher, but he said he would have expected a 7 or an 8 to really indicate a problem.  These were 1.7 and 1.9. Therefore, the wording on the report wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted the radiologist to change it. The way we left off that call Wednesday was he would talk to the radiologist.

Thursday, the report was released to me through the hospital’s interface – called DukeMyChart. I could read for myself what it said. I will admit, I didn’t like it – at all.  Plus, I didn’t know why it had been released – was this the report that still needed to be changed? Or was this the final report?

Here is what is said:

Impression:
1. New left lower lobe nodule measuring up to 9 mm with FDG avidity, which
is concerning for metastatic disease.
2. Possible new lytic lesion within the right iliac bone with mild FDG
avidity. Attention on follow-up.

FDG is the glucose tracer. Avidity means an eagerness for glucose. Lytic lesion on a bone can be benign or not. That afternoon I heard from my oncologist again.

He said, “Unfortunately, I could not get the radiologist to agree with me to change his report. Because these are new areas, they are of concern.”

It sounded like they argued back and forth over the uptake values, along with the question of doing a biopsy on the lung nodule. (it’s too small to hit)

So, here’s the plan:

I’m getting a (as my oncologist called it) “good old-fashion x-ray” on my hip. He said that would help determine what’s going on, if it’s simply a benign lesion because of the running – or not. I’ve had radiation to this entire area, a pretty rigorous treatment too, and it can weaken bones. Maybe the running I’ve been doing has set off some sort of activity, and that’s what we’re hoping.  As far as my lung, I’m having another PET scan in two months. August 7th.

This means waiting, which isn’t easy to do. Despite all this, I’m feeling fairly optimistic. No, it’s not what I wanted to hear, but I keep thinking about the positives I see in between all of the negatives.

I like lists, so here’s my list of positives!

1. My oncologist said this particular cancer spreading to the hip bone would be, in his words, “an unusual pattern.”
2. Typically, treatment is completed and “we’re usually good.” (meaning, no expectations of this sort of thing cropping up)
3. PET scan avidity, (glucose eagerness) or “lighting up” can happen with non-malignant processes.
4. The glucose uptake was low, in a non-malignant category
5. He’d said, “I’m fine with your PET scan.”

The bad news  – the radiologist stuck to his impressions, meaning his experienced eye saw something suspicious. Maybe it’s simply cautionary, which is fine with me.

I will admit, this took the wind out of my sails a bit because these past six months since the January PET scan have been wonderful, mainly because the weight of worry was gone. While I still contend with side effects, the fact I’d been able to get back to something else I really love, i.e., running, was fantastic. This is my go to method of  relieving stress, and most importantly – solving story problems!

We’re always busy with work over here, and all in all, life has been really good! We’ve celebrated birthdays, been to book events, chilled out on the porch, and watched sunrises and sunsets.

See?

 

While this goes on with me, there are others in our community, and yes, right here closest to me, who are also dealing with health issues. We will remain optimistic and always, always hope for the best outcome.

He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire, he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. Psalm 40:2.

Amen.

 

 

 

 

Well, Well…

I had my second PET scan on Tuesday, this past week to see how my treatments worked.  I won’t drag this out – the news was GREAT.  The cancer is GONE.  There is still some “activity,” but the oncologist said it’s inflammation, and that when we do another scan in three months, he expects he will see “nothing.”

As many of you know, the past few months were the most difficult of times for me, Blaine, my family and friends.   From here on, there will be close, continued monitoring until we get past the two year marker.  (this particular cancer has a 40% chance of recurrence in the first two years).  And then, after that, we will want to meet the five year goal.

One step at a time, right?

For now, we are moving on, encouraged by this wonderful news!  There’s no better song to reflect how I feel than Johnny Nash’s, I CAN SEE CLEARLY NOW. 

 

 

 

It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over

Last Friday, October 27th, was my final radiation treatment.

When I first started, the idea of going every day for six weeks was daunting.  I think I’ve mentioned running the marathons…and how getting through each radiation treatment was like knocking out one mile towards the finish line.

However, there was this one incident during one particular marathon, I won’t ever forget.

I ran the inaugural OBX race back in 2006.  There was a lot of talk about how mile 20 would come at a bridge – which we had to cross.  All I thought about was getting UP and over that bridge.  Just get up and over the bridge, Donna, just get over it.

Now, a runner’s mental state plays a huge part in a race like this.  As I was running along, there, in the distance, I could see the swell of the structure and much like those glassy sort of mirages resembling shimmering water to a poor lost soul as they stagger across an expanse of hot, dry, desert, so too did that rise of the bridge flirt with my psyche.  It didn’t necessarily come off as helpful we first had to run along the loooooooong stretch which eventually led one to the part that starts to go…up.

This is the bridge.

I mean LOOK AT IT. Yikes.

But then?  I was over it!  I’d done it!  Only…that’s when I realized, wait.  I ain’t done yet.  I still have 6 MILES TO GO.  (I think this bridge now comes at mile 23 in the race – better.  Much better.)

Quite honestly, it was sort of an energy zapper.  I’d been so worried about the bridge I’d not thought beyond getting over it.  Sure I realized I’d have 6 more miles beyond it, but for whatever reason, accomplishing the bridge and then settling back into the one foot in front of the other for those last miles…well.  Head games.  We won’t talk about the Nor’easter that visited us that day either.  Okay, maybe we can a little.  RAIN.  WIND.  (35 mph at the top of The Bridge)  It boggles the mind.

Anyway, now having finished treatments, we did a little celebrating at the radiation clinic.  I took cupcakes.  (and forgot to get a picture)

These were the first faces I’d see every day when I came in the door. Always smiling.

You know them by now! The. Best. Nurses. Ever. They give you a certificate when you finish and you honestly feel like you deserve it AND a little whoop-whoop! to boot.

Pam and Ron Turpin, two of the nicest people! I looked forward to seeing them every day.

Back to the point about the comparison to the bridge…which coincides with the title of the post.  It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over.

What I’ve realized is finishing up my treatments has been a LOT like getting over that bridge.  I finished them, but I’m nowhere near done yet.  Meaning…the skin?  Sort of like the hair.  It decided to leave and when it decided to go, it went in layers.  Upon layers.  I’d been told this particular treatment regimen is tough to get through for lots of reasons.  As a result of a combo of chemo/radiation, I’ve been dealing with a particular radiation burn called “moist desquamation,” which is about as disgusting as it sounds.  I learned that sometimes, the effect of radiation is more intense with particular chemo drugs.  Like Fluorouracil.  I also read to expect two to three weeks of significant discomfort post treatment.  Emphasis on “read,” because none of my doctors told me this, I just sort of landed on it doing a Google search on “how long does this s**t last!?!?”

Therefore.  My days have been nothing but a cycle of wound care, dreading certain things we won’t mention, and hoping for a tiny bit of relief on any given day while drifting around the house.  My most challenging times have come home to roost this past week, without a doubt.

To say I’ve been hard to live with is an understatement.  For those of you local to us, and who see Blaine out and about, give him a hug, or a handshake – tell him he’s amazing.  Because he is.  He hates having his picture taken, but this man here?

Don’t let that glaring look fool you.

He has gone to the store for me more times than we can count.  He’s bought food he thinks I might want, talked to our pharmacist (Paige!) on my behalf, and has taken me to every single treatment, all the while listening to me bemoan my discomfort daily and often.

What we are enjoying in particular is my appetite is slowly coming back.  On any given day, I’m testing to see if I can tolerate certain foods like dairy, raw fruit/vegetables, which all were a no-no about a week or so ago.  So, yes, there is good in this, in that I’m starting to eat a bit more.

Also good – a writer friend of mine who lives in Tel Aviv shared something with me in one of the first posts I wrote about having cancer, and finding those five pennies.  She is a “new age Nun,” but what I know about her is she’s a loving, kind and generous person.  What she shared is as follows, “When I want someone or something to be protected, I always say: Chamsa chamsa. I like to say it twice to be on the safe side. Chamsa in Arabic means five, and five stands for the hand of God that protects you. So you are protected, and you are deeply loved.  Also, I believe that we have much more say than we know. Your body listens to you, and so does the universe/God.”

Then she sent me this gift – all the way from Israel.

This is a Chamsa, and this picture does NOT do it justice. It’s a beautiful piece created by Michal Negrin, and given by a beautiful soul.

Thank you, dear Lilac.  I hope you know how much this meant to me!  ❤ ❤ ❤

Recently, I also received a card from one of my fellow book club members, and she’d put a quote in it, which I love and it has become my mantra as I navigate this difficult time of recovery and healing.

“When you’re going through hell, keep going.”  ~Winston Churchill

I’m getting there.  I’m still going.

 

I’ve always loved this song, and what better way to end this post?

 

 

 

 

Five Days

In five days I will be done. 

Is it me, or does it seem like time goes a little faster when I skip a couple weeks in between these updates?  It must to some, because I’ve heard over and over from people I talk to…

“You’ve had how many treatments?  Already???”

Twenty-five of thirty, as of this past week.

A double amen to that.

A lot has happened in these two weeks.  Right after I posted my last update, when I was at the halfway point, the very next day, this:

The hair decided to leave. It had had enough.

I knew I’d lose my hair.  Well, sort of.  Dr. Smith said, “It might thin.”  I think what I’ve learned is most medical professionals don’t like to go off the deep end with all the negative details.  Even when they know WE know the outcomes given the experiences of family, friends who’ve been here and dealing with all of it long before.  Still, they sort of ease you into it all.  I now understand I will lose it all eventually but because beyond the “it might thin,” statement, nothing more was ever said until I inquired when I got the “pumpkin” this past week.

“Um, so, I’ve lost about half, will this next chemo round take care of the rest?”

Dr. Smith nodded, slowly.  “Yes.”

About two to three weeks from now, the last hairs holding on for dear life will bail and I will officially “look” like I have cancer.  I told Blaine, “Well, I reckon if I’m gonna have it, I might as well look it.”  So what did I do?  I bought…headcovers!  Are you kidding me?  Have you SEEN what they have?  Ladies, check them out, you might even want some for yourself.

I’ve already talked about all the other side effects I was having and continue to have, so, no need to trot down that path again.  Let’s just say, eating remains a challenge, but every now and then, I get a random thought of something I think I can manage.  The latest was this:

The Best Ever Vegetable Soup

This cup of absolutely delicious soup comes from Sherry’s Bakery.  You folks from Dunn reading this, know what I’m talking about.  I’ve had Blaine make several trips to get me a bowl, and wow, in that moment, I know it’s just what I needed and wanted.  But, lets face it, I can’t stand the sight of it at the moment.

I was also able to eat, of all things, this:

Okra! Okay, it’s a southern thing.

I know.  I know.  A lot of you – even on GOOD days – can’t eat this vegetable, but I can and do, and did.  Boiled.  With salt.  And it was good.   Was being the operative word.

Even though times have been difficult, as you know around one week ago I was dreading the week of…the pump.  Yes, when I thought about it, I turned just about the color of that pot of okra.  Funny thing.  When I went to Duke Cancer Center on Macon Pond Road in Raleigh and got “Pumpkin” back, that was one of my best days in a long time.

The Infusion area at Duke Cancer Center clinic. Little Dog is right out there, waiting on us in the truck.

 

What made it even more amazing was I’d had a pretty bad day on Sunday.  Severe abdominal cramping (from radiation) that was quite debilitating.

As far as the rest of the week?  Well, I made it.  I don’t ever want a repeat, I can assure you.  When I went back yesterday to get unhooked, it was without a doubt the best day and the worst day since I started.  The worst part was I’d been getting sick most of the week and the worst was Friday, and let me tell you what.  That’s all I had to say when I drifted through the doors of the Infusion Area, here at the the lovely Macon Pond Road Duke Cancer Clinic.

“Do you need fluids?”

“Yes, and I’m feeling pretty sick.  I haven’t been able to eat much this week.”

“Well, Dr. Smith is still here, let me speak to him and we’ll get you fixed up, and fixed up they did.  One liter of fluid and THREE anti-nausea medications later…

Angel Nurse accessing port. Hurry. Hurry.

Phew, within minutes, I was feeling much better.

By the time the nurses got me hooked up and the fluids were dripping in at top speed, the pumpkin?  Finished her cycle.  Woohoo!  I got to ring a bell in celebration of my last chemo treatment!  Giddy just about says it all.

Oh yes. We’re very happy!

But…enough about me.

I continue to receive the most wonderful mail.  Even hearing the mail truck has become as exciting for me as it is for Little Dog.  The cards, letters, and not to forget all of the online connections via FB, Twitter, and emails have certainly been uplifting.

Then, this past Sunday, a dear friend dropped this off:

Warm and snuggly!

Don’t get too interested.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, Lisa Fitchett from the bottom of my heart for this beautiful, warm blanket you made.  It did the job with that little cool front we had, and with the chills the chemo seems to bring on, it was perfect timing.  As you can see, the Bundle also approves!

I also captured some pictures of the radiation treatment room and the lovely caring nurses so you can see where I’ve gone each day, leaving the house promptly at 10:00 a.m. for the 10:45 appointments.

Two of the AWESOME nurses who’ve taken me through the radiation treatments. I’m sure there are wings under those blue smocks.

The Machine. It’s amazing really. That beige part rotates around me, like it’s on an axle.

The (very) hard table. Those blue things hanging at the back are “forms” used for different patients to position arms, legs or whatever properly. The angel nurses do their best to make you comfy. A special head rest…warm blankets. It’s as good as it can get, considering what’s going on!

The view from the table. I’ve studied these rose paintings a lot. I found faces in some of the background areas. One has to while away the time somehow.

Now it’s time to face the last week.  My radiation treatments will be less broad, meaning they’re going to shrink the field where I’m receiving treatment.  A winding down of the process, I suppose.

My hope is strong, my attitude fierce, but most of all, I eagerly await the outcome of all I’ve been through.  My radiation oncologist said it can take up to a year for this kind of tumor to disappear, and this means a year of watchful waiting.  More tests, more scary moments before knowing the results, but with Blaine, my family, and all of YOU, we will anticipate the best outcome.

Of course!