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. 

I Wish

“They” say time heals all wounds. One can readily admit to the physical side of this. What takes longer is the emotional toll of watching one of the most important people in your life die from an aggressive cancer while locked in a similar battle of your own.

Then, they are gone, and there is the relief in knowing there is no more suffering, while harboring the conflicting emotion of wanting them here. Time goes on. Those mixed up emotions are accumulated, and held tight, sometimes locked down, imprisoned. Coveted. Pulled out. Put away again. It is cyclic. No one knows when the pattern will break, become less regimented, less invasive. Everyone is different.

I haven’t written out here since August. Thinking back to that month and what was going on, I can only shake my head. The head shaking – it’s partly wonderment at how we got through it, and partly denial, the “I still can’t believe any of this happened,” way of thinking.

I’ve spent a lot of time these past months dwelling on 2019. From my mother’s, “I’m having trouble swallowing, it feels like a lump in my throat,” to everything that happened after. I have one word for it. Surreal.

It seemed before I knew it, I was having my final moment’s with her, she was taking that one final breath, I was speaking final words to her. They were, of course, “I love you. I love you so much.”

So many endings this year. After she passed, I spent weeks at her house, packing up her belongings. It was hard, yet cathartic, in a strange way. I was with her, felt closer to her among her things. Before I would move an item, I’d have the thought, she put this here, she folded this towel, she put this dish away, she used this soap, she, she, she . . .

I told a friend, “I feel like I’m packing up her life.”

We sold the house. No longer can I go and play Scrabble with her, drink coffee. Talk. Laugh. (and yes, work my fanny off ’cause mom always had a list. Any of you reading this who knew her, knew she liked things a “certain” way.)

I wish she was here to give me a list. I wish she was here so I could call her. I wish she was here so I could hear her laugh – in real time – because yes, I can still hear her in my mind. I wish.

She was sick in this picture – but still wanted to . . . well. You know. Beat the pants off me.

The pastor at Hospice House asked me when we first arrived if I had any regrets. At that time, I said “No.” Now that I’ve done all this thinking, I will change that to “yes.” I regret she had cancer. I regret she couldn’t fight it. I regret the treatments didn’t work. I regret knowing how badly she wanted to live, yet how badly she wanted to die. I regret she suffered in her final weeks. I regret denying her the ability to talk to me honestly about her fears, her awareness of what was happening to her. THIS ONE most of all.

I thought I was protecting her by not discussing the whys and whats of this decision she’d made. I thought by not talking about that gigantic, overwhelming, trumpeting ELEPHANT in the room, she would continue to hope, to believe. I wanted her to think she was going to be okay, and she would drift off into her permanent sleep believing that.

I know now this is not how she thought. My mother was secretive about certain things. Maybe (most likely) she thought she was protecting me. So we did this dance of denial with one another. I’m not dying. You’re not dying.

What I don’t regret, could never regret. Being with her, every single step of the way.

 

How I remember her. Vibrant. Well. Happy.

I know the tone of the post may seem heavy, laden with sadness, awash with forlorn sentiments, but it’s really about reflection. The year is almost over. And while all may not be bright, we are filled with hope 2020 will be kinder, gentler, in every way possible.

This was one of her favorite songs. Like Elvis’s mother, Mom loved roses, and grew them in her yard. Sleep peacefully among your angels, Mom.

Love,

Me

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yglzDizF2aU

 

My Own Version of “It”

The beat of this drum has become somewhat tiresome, if I’m being truthful. Tiresome in that I don’t want the only thing I ever talk about is “it.” (reminds me of that fantastic book by Stephen King, read oh so many years ago.)

“It” is an appropriate name for the burden that is cancer. It’s one thing to deal with my own health, but we have Mom added into the mix now. This makes for dual roles – battling my own health issues, while trying to be caregiver to her. The complexities of this simply mean – I’m tired.

People ask, “How are you?”

I say, “I’m good, tired, but good.”

And you know what keeps me sane? Feeling good? Book events! I forget about “it.” I’m in the moment, I’m having fun, I’m laughing, discussing my books, discussing other books. Life seems normal.

Hooked On Books Book Club, Southport NC

Yesterday I was talking to a writer friend, and said battling my own cancer is like playing whack-a-mole. She didn’t know what that was. *You know who you are! It has truly become just like this arcade game – wherever it “pops” up, my doctors kill it. That’s the hope, anyway.

I had the liver MRI on Saturday. Sometimes you just know – it’s a feeling and it’s a bit of knowledge. 50-60% of people with this type of cancer see it metastasize to their livers. Those odds are pretty high, so it came as no surprise, really, when my oncologist called me yesterday at 8:00 a.m. and said, “There are two spots, relatively small, but they’re there.”

1.2 cm and 1.4 cm., each is about the size of a pea and they’re close together. Knowing those small details about them is helpful in an oddly, non-useful way. They are there, hidden away, causing me no pain, no sense of them at all. Like I’ve said before, cancer is sneaky. This is why so many people are late stage by the time they’re diagnosed.

What is tentatively planned, a possible needle biopsy, and then a simple ablation, a technique some of you may have heard of with regard to heart trouble, where they go in and burn the connections within the heart to get it back in rhythm. It’s similar with this for the tumors in my liver, but the expectation is to kill them off.

Changes are constant in fighting cancer, and while the recurrences are certainly disheartening, and may appear to offer a poor prognosis, there are still many options available to keep me filled with hope that there will always be an answer to the problems that seem to keep – ha – popping up.

John Hiatt’s CD, The Eclipse Sessions is a favorite I listen to while traveling to book events, or while running errands. Well, that, and Radney Foster’s, For You To See The Stars.

I chose this one for today, because the lyrics really fit. “Get up, get knocked down again, I ask for five, and you give me ten.”

Updates

It’s been a tough couple of weeks. First off, as of right now, my mother is in the hospital. After her 4th chemo treatment last Thursday, (out of 6) she went straight downhill and never recovered like she’d done before. She’d become unable to get up on her own, etc. Very weak, shaky, dizzy, you name it. (She’s also finished 18 of 28 radiation treatments.)

Monday when we went in for her radiation, and she was still feeling so bad, I went across the hall to her medical oncologist offices – where she gets her chemo – and told them they might want to assess her. They drew blood and her counts were so low, they decided to give her transfusions before her next chemo. That was scheduled for yesterday, May 1. However, they only gave her one bag because during the transfusion, she had shortness of breath.

So, she was admitted to the hospital for observation, fluids, blood, tests, and all the other “fun” stuff that happens in that place.

I would also like to add that getting INTO a hospital is as hard as breaking OUT of jail. It was likely more complicated/difficult because this hospital had no beds. Fresh out. That meant we had to go to the Emergency Room, and we ALL know how those trips go. Hours. Hours. Hours. We arrived at 3:00 and got into a room at 9:30. I think. It’s all a blur.

Waiting, waiting, waiting in the Emergency Room area.

She is being treated for neutropenia. She will need more blood. They are doing other tests. Her heart rate was pretty elevated last night – while she was just lying there. (between 110s and 130s – fluctuating) The nurse said it could be dehydration, but they’d given her fluids when she started the transfusion at the chemo clinic – so, I don’t know.

Bottom line, she’s where she needs to be, as many who were around her, and saw her, thought she was not doing well at all. It was apparent something wasn’t right. Hopefully she will feel much better when she’s able to leave. We will then have to resume the treatments, but I’m hopeful they will provide her with a medication to help keep her blood counts from bottoming out again, and I’m sure they will.

As to my own situation, most of you don’t know this past January we had a “bone cancer” scare. I sustained a fx in my pelvic area in September 2018 while running. Because of radiation, everything is different – check out osteoradionecrosis if you’re into reading medical documentation and seeing cool radiology pics.

When I went in for my PET scan in January, I told them they’d see this injury. They did. That became, we don’t know if it was caused by cancer or radiation. Off to the sarcoma clinic I was sent. The doctor there looked at the x-rays and said, “I’m not worried and here’s why.” (Talk about relieved.) Some of what he talked about how to do with that long word above. Some of it was about the fact I was no longer in pain. It was excruciating to walk when it happened, but after about 8 weeks, it got better. The main point, no pain at night which is what bone cancer is known for.

He said, “I’ll see you in three months.

I had the follow up PET scan on April 19th and went back April 23rd for the results. There is good news/bad news. It started off as bad news/bad news, and by now, any improvement in a result – well, I’ll take what I can get. Initially, he said, “Remember when I said I wasn’t worried? Well, now I am, and here’s why.” He said the fx hadn’t healed any more. He said the uptake on the glucose tracer was slightly more elevated – therefore, what he’d avoided in January was now back on the table – a bone biopsy.

What can you do? Not much. But then, there was a new issue. A new spot on the liver. Uptake on the tracer as well. There has been no liver involvement at all, up to this point. It’s truly like what’s next??? BUT – the tiniest sliver of good came when I was called by the sarcoma clinic and told the bone biopsy scheduled for May 3rd was postponed until they get back results of the liver MRI – yet to be done. I think this is because there is still the feeling that whatever happened with that fx may truly be a radiation thing. From what I’ve read, bone cancer is very painful – it would keep me up at night, plus it’s in an odd area, evidently.

Did you see this picture. (I deleted it when I realized it hit my author page, not my personal page on Facebook. I’m trying to keep those two things separate.) The look on my face says it all.

Those doggone blue bloomers they give you for xrays – fashionista! NOT.

That’s where things are. Liver MRI on May 11th – next Saturday. This is why I’ve been low key on social media. So much going on, yet, it’s often when I listen to music I find my way to a better, calmer peace of mind.

There is something about this particular song, a favorite for sure. And, even while it’s not relative to anything going on, I think what entrances me most- aside from the melody – is the message of enduring love.

Warrior Mother

I think I’ve said this before, and if I haven’t, I’ll say it now.

Cancer sure is sneaky.

Before I was diagnosed, I was sick for years and didn’t know it until a couple of persistent symptoms cropped up. One I ignored for some time because it mimicked another common health problem. One I didn’t because, OMG, LUMP! Right? What I thought was an enlarged “lymph node,” turned out to be a tumor, metastasized from the original. Because of that, I presented as a Stage IIIB right off the bat, and went on to the illustrious Stage IV.

Sneaky. Without a doubt.

February 19th was another day of reckoning.

That’s when my mother and I received the news of her own cancer diagnosis at age eighty-two.

It began simply enough. Some pain when swallowing that seemed to come out of nowhere in early January. She already had an appointment set up with her regular doctor for January 30th.

She said, “I’ll tell him about the pain then, if I even still have it. I probably just need my esophagus stretched. You know, so and so, and so and so have had theirs done.”

I thought, well, okay, maybe that’s it. I also thought her symptoms mimicked my husband’s. He has acid reflux, but, as long as he takes Nexium, he’s fine, otherwise swallowing dense food, like meat, potatoes bread, i.e., it’s the same as what she’d been having.

So, I bought her some of the over the counter stuff, and after a few days, she thought it might be working. Then, it wasn’t. By then, she wasn’t too far from her appointment, so she managed by finding things that were easier to eat. Finally, I took her to the doctor appointment, and she told him what was going on. Two days later, she was getting x-rays – which showed nothing. From there, he referred her to a gastroenterologist who ordered an endoscopy for February 19th.

The day of that procedure Mom was in good spirits, ready to get everything over with. It was all done pretty quick. The doctor walked into the recovery room while she was eating ice chips and I was dithering around on my phone.

He said, “Well, I know what’s wrong.”

I glanced up, and before I could ask him any questions, he said, “It’s a large mass growing into her esophagus. Cancer.”

Oh, how everything instantly changes when you hear that word. Every single thing about the way you think, the way you feel, the way you live from that moment on is altered. You know it, but none of it is solidified yet. The reality of it is still melding with you, and while you’re trying to cope with the word, physiologically your body reacts on its own. You were warm, and now you’re cold. You could breath and now you can’t. Your heart beats too quick, and tears fall, but neither of you notice any of these things.

Shocked, we could only listen to his next words carefully.

“We will wait on the biopsy, but I’ve seen plenty of these, and it doesn’t look good.”

What a sad ride home that was.

The next steps were to get a stent placed into her esophagus so she could eat. The gastro doctor was about to go out of the country for three weeks, so, on February 22nd, three days after the endoscopy, that was done. What followed was a rough, rough two weeks. The pain was intense as her body adjusted to this foreign tube stuck right into the middle of her esophagus and the tumor – which the doctor said looked pretty “angry.”

Somewhere between that, and the following weeks came a CT scan, a PET scan, meeting her oncologist, her mapping/planning with radiation oncology and the planning with her medical oncologist.

The surreal part of this? Her radiation oncologist is the same one I had, the same nurses – you remember these gals, right? I called them my angels back then and they haven’t lost those wings.

They’re still there, helping people fight.

Her battle begins tomorrow, April 4th at 10:00 o’clock a.m. when the ladies above will guide her through the treatments with expertise, care, and compassion, just like they did me. Directly after, she will walk across the hall to the medical oncology offices, where she will begin her chemotherapy at 10:45 .am.

She is receiving her chemo differently, and by that I mean once a week for six to seven weeks. I had the “pump”kin for a week at a time, twice. Remember it?

The “pump”kin. Ten days of hell, dosed out five days at a time.

She will have twenty-eight rounds of radiation.

Her attitude?

“I’m going to kick this thing of the way so I can keep going, so I can live! I’m going to fight like hell.”

Taken Monday at her house where she beat me twice in Scrabble.

Meet my warrior mother.

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.

 

 

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!