Thank you, Mr. Expiration Date!

I keep a calendar on my smart phone, and I have a sassy weekly one on my kitchen counter. But meet my other calendar that I have kept for years: Mr. Expiration Date. Birthdays, anniversaries, due dates, upcoming vacations - all receive even greater celebration thanks to Mr. ED.

When I saw this particular date a couple of weeks ago in the store, I practically whooped out loud. I even dug into the Safeway cooler a couple of cartons deep to get another 2013 beauty. You have probably already guessed that we feel pretty much "over" this year. Seeing this date brings us even closer! I can almost taste the freedom that will come with saying, "I battled cancer last year."

More beautiful: On the above date, we will be readying ourselves for Hawaii. We leave Jan. 2 and return Jan. 15. It's the kind of destination that we have talked about longingly for years and then have made a thousand excuses of why we can't go. This time, we didn't make even one.

This chick's expiration date was extended thanks to an aggressive cancer being removed, followed up with chemo and of course, the September de-boobing! When we dig our toes into that warm Kona sand, it will be in total celebration of being done (God willing) with the Big C.

Woo hoo, people! WOO HOO!!!

Am I thankful for cancer?

My November tradition is typically to post a daily "note of thanks" on Facebook, but this year I couldn't bring myself to do it. Things like, "I'm thankful for mashed potatoes" and "I'm thankful for crisp winter days" have been replaced with, "I'm thankful I'm alive to give my kids hugs and my husband smooches."

I'm thankful my spectacular five-year-old didn't have cancer in March.
I'm thankful my fingernails and hair are growing back.
I'm thankful I will never have to buy another bra. Ever. Again.

It seemed a little melodramatic, honestly, so I just abstained this month from posting anything at all.

Do you also appreciate that irony? This year, el 2012-oh, has been the year in which I have felt sucked in to the violent, overwhelming undertow of thankfulness. Yet how can I possibly express that on Facebook, especially since I have been largely absent from social media this year?

I tell people the way I know God came alongside me this year is that He daily chose ways I couldn't have guessed. When I got the news at the beginning of January that I had breast cancer, I had total peace that God would guide us through this year. Yet the people who loved us so wholly were often not the ones I would have assumed would be there - that includes faraway friends, brand-new baby friendships and people we knew but never guessed would rally around us the way they did.

Even some of the "obvious" people I expected to be there absolutely knocked my socks off with the degree of their devotion to me and my family.

Yet there were also people I just assumed would come alongside us, and they didn't. At first I felt really hurt - sometimes even angry - but then I realized something important. God often doesn't do the obvious or expected. That's what made this year such a miracle.

"Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus." 1 Thessalonians 5:16 - 18

I have done much rejoicing this year, and boy, have I prayed continually. I have given thanks in all circumstances - and yet I wonder: Should I be thankful for breast cancer?

Very early on in the process, I asked my husband what scared him most about my diagnosis.

"Seeing you hooked up to a bunch of wires and machines," he said simply. "That scares me."

So for my next surgery - my chemo port placement in February - I told him as I was being IV'd up: "You don't need to be here right now. I know this is hard for you to watch."

That sweet man of mine practically rolled his eyes at me. Turns out he was talking about watching me in the final stages of life. He was scared of seeing me hooked up to machines, dying. Because when you are dealing with something like cancer, that's what you think about quite a lot.

So nope. I'm not thankful for the cancer. But I am thankful for friends who I now consider family because I had cancer - for relationships God granted our little family that were deepened because we had to lean on them. I am thankful for realizing just how great "normal" feels because I went through chemo.

In recent weeks, two very dear friends have had heart scares. One texted me the day she went in to the hospital to have her heart shocked that she felt caught off guard, and wished that she had written letters to each of her kids. It made me think back to the breathlessness I felt when I stepped on the cancer train, and the terror of having my life turned upside down.

But it also makes me think about how God has been there for us, every day and in every way. And most of all this year, I'm so thankful for that.

From the Heart

Whew.

This last week has been a blessed whirlwind. Two trips to Anchorage, bunches of kids at the house, Halloween, helping out at Belle's preschool and then Kate's class, and a last-minute multi-kid sleepover - I have loved it! It is a delight to feel capable of that kind of week and so much more like "me" again. I relish in the increased endurance; it makes me want to do a constant glee-filled jig.

The doc appointments were this week. The breast surgeon was thrilled at my range of motion - she was actually beaming! The appointment with my oncologist was less straight forward. I am currently cancer free - he even used the words "probably cured." But we know there is no cure to cancer, yes? And so my ongoing prayer is that my body will not attempt a same-song-second-verse bit elsewhere in my body, ever.

The oncologist explained that there will be no scans to check for future cancer - I will need to monitor myself for any changes that would warrant a test. Blood work isn't always reliable, he said, and scans often detect noncancerous stuff that wind up being nothing. Unnecessary biopsies cause more harm than good.

(Of course, I have read plenty of cases where brain and lung recurrences have no symptoms but I try not think about that!)

I had hoped to participate in a trial treatment with cancer research powerhouse MD Anderson in Texas. Doctors have discovered the rate of recurrence is sharply decreased in triple negative patients who take what is being called a "vaccine." But alas: My blood work is .04 off the mark to make me eligible.

The same day I received that news I got a package in the mail. Actually, my husband received a package, and I was summoned into the kitchen by three grinning faces standing near a giant bowl of water. Some terrific friends had sent us a care package containing a fun science experiment that made me squeal and the girls giggle. I marvel at God's provision, don't you? What a day to receive something sweetly silly and fun. Other care packages have arrived in recent weeks with the same razor sharp timing.

When I drove up to Anchorage for my appointments, the sky was still dark. John stayed home with Belle and I went by myself (something I wasn't capable of safely doing for chemo appointments). I began to thank God for all the ways He has provided for our family this year - physically, mentally, emotionally, financially, spiritually. I just began to sob. He has taken such terrific care of us this year, largely through beloved peeps, near strangers and everything in-between. I continue to be stunned at the miracle of this.

Kate authored a story a few nights ago: "My Mom's Breast Cancer." Her dad helped her spell some of the words:

My mom had breast cancer. She was scared.
She called the doctor.
The doctor called her in for a check-up.
She came to the doctor, the doctor told her that she was going to have surgery.
She was scared.
At the end she was sore. She had to be taken care of.
And her hair was gone to [sic].
I love mom. It is not the end.
I was scared.
Yea - she is not sick!

The only illustration was of me in a bed. I was sad that fear was so prominently featured in her story - my heart hurts at being the cause of it, even unintentionally - but I rejoice that she was writing about it. This blog has provided me with a place to wrap my head around a lot of stuff, and now here she was, writing from her heart. Is this kid her mother's daughter, or what?!

Awareness

It's breast cancer awareness month.

Does anyone else think it's hugely ironic that I just wrote that sentence?

It's probably no surprise that I am a bit bemused when Safeway checkers ask me if I want to "round up" for breast cancer research. I feel a strong urge to say two completely conflicting statements: 1) "Yes, make my contribution $1,000. That's nothing if that's all that's needed to spare anyone else this crap." and 2) "No thanks. I feel like I have already donated my vanity and fearlessness toward my own health. I think I'm good."

I keep thinking: Please - I don't want to be any more "aware." I want to be back in la-la land, when I didn't know how to pronounce adriamycin, or know precisely what it feels like to lose finger and toenails in whole sets. Or being ignorant of what it's like to get obsessed every couple of weeks about a recurrence of breast cancer and squander two hours reading worst-case scenario stuff on the internet.

Yes. I think I've had enough awareness. And I didn't even have to pray for "humility" or "patience" to get it!

Yet, I also realize that if this process wasn't happening (I still think of it in the active tense and probably always will), I wouldn't have had the extreme blessing of seeing God's daily provision, up close and personal. I did not use to be a person prone to a lot of emotion - I'm still not - but there have been many times where tears of thankfulness have soaked my cheeks in salty wet. I am in awe at how God has cared for us so perfectly this year in ways that I could not have guessed.

"And the very hairs on your head are all numbered."  Matthew 10:30

A dear friend sent me this Bible verse a few weeks ago as sweet encouragement. Because surprise! I have ditched the head coverings. It was probably a little too early (I got a few gaping stares from kids the first couple of weeks and even a couple of "What happened to your hair?"), but today my neighbor told me: "Wow! Your hair is finally long enough so it looks like a haircut someone would actually get!"

Thanks. I think.

It has also been almost six weeks since ditching my boobs. I was wondering how I would feel about not having anything up front since I knew early on that I did not want reconstruction (More surgeries? No thank you). Besides unthinkingly still reaching for a bra each day, I am pleased to report that I view their absence as a glorious thing. A few days ago I found myself whispering in the shower, "Thank you, thank you, thank you." I thank God that the cancer was caught early, allowing me the ability to have a surgery that increases my chances and hope for a life with no cancer.

When am I done with cancer?

It has been almost a month since my bilateral mastectomy, and I revel daily in a life that includes healing fingernails, increased upper body mobility and visible eyelashes and eyebrows. Wonderfully missing are weekly blood draws and all that great chemo stuff.

My next doctor appointments are at the end of this month. I will be seeing my surgeon so she can check my post-mastectomy mobility; currently, I am still working on fully extending my arms upward. The surgical drains were removed shortly after my last blog post. They had malfunctioned a bit, so I had to go in for three office visits to get fluid aspirated from my chest. Thankfully that process is done!

Earlier this week on a crisp, sunny autumn afternoon, the girls and I went to the playground after school. Kate was headed up a grassy hill when she turned and asked, "Mom - when are you done with breast cancer?"

I told her that I was all done with my chemo treatments and surgery - so that meant we were finished with it. What she was really wondering, it turned out, was when my hair was going to look like it did pre-chemo. I told her: About a year.

However, I felt like I had just told my little girl a lie. When she asked when I would be done with cancer, a clear voice whispered in my head, "Never."

I wondered: Had I heard the voice of discouragement or reality? Because of this breast cancer, it has turned my "normal" life upside down. Although I am "cancer free" at this point, I have made some daily lifestyle changes to give me the best chance of keeping that junk gone. I strongly believe that God has an ongoing purpose for this cancer. If it's His desire, I will walk that road of treatment and physical havoc again but I desperately hope not.

Hear my cry, Lord: I pray that I am done with cancer and You would allow me to live a life that doesn't include it again. I trust You and have peace that You have got this covered no matter what.

My heart prays that prayer often and I take comfort knowing that fretting is futile, anyways.

"Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." Matthew 6:34

However, my faith in God also doesn't mean that I am eating Ho-Hos and hanging out on the couch well into the wee hours of the morning. I've made some changes to help keep me physically strong.

The first is regular exercise - real make-time-for-it exercise (not let's-take-a-walk-to-the-mailbox-and-call-it-good kind of stuff). In preparation for my surgery last month, I was walking several miles each week. I relished in the resulting increased stamina! Once I am healed up, I plan to resume those terrific walks.

My diet is also a lot different. My pre-cancer noshing was pretty doggone good ... if you only counted dinner. I was notorious for eating toast for breakfast and then drinking coffee for the rest of the day. Now I eat oatmeal with fruit every morning and have an actual lunch.

The third big change is adequate rest at night. I was also infamous for dropping into bed at midnight so I could have my post-kid quiet time.

These are healthy changes and I make them with gladness. I wish that they didn't remind me daily that I am fighting against a recurrence of cancer, but on the other hand, I am alive and our family is looking ahead with hope. Powerful blessings indeed.

Seriously blessed

I have to show you what we were doing a few nights ago:

It was so wonderful to sit and relax by the fire. It was a perfect fall evening!

I got the pathology results from the breast tissue and lymph node that was taken during the mastectomy: ALL CLEAR! Hooray!!!! Although we didn't have any reason to expect otherwise, I'm so glad to officially be starting this next chapter of life without another bit of chemotherapy to "enjoy."

Tomorrow - the week anniversary of the surgery - we will be headed to Anchorage for my first post-op appointment with my surgeon. The hope is that Dr. W will remove the surgical drains. That means I can take a real-deal shower again - mmm-mmm good.

(I have been telling the girls that the red-filled drains are "medicine" because honestly, I'm not sure mommy is completely copacetic with what's really in there.)

I don't know if we'll be taking The Huge Bandage off my chest yet - we'll have to see about that. I am both excited to see the results from the surgery and dreading it, depending on how I'm healing. I have a feeling that seeing McFlatty me is going to be way less shocking than I expect!

This last week, God has surrounded us with so, SO many people who have supported and loved us in so many ways. The day I checked out of the hospital, a dear friend came and sat with me - and even bought a little something for my girls to look forward to at home. An incredibly organized friend arranged for us to receive a week's worth of meals from a lot of really great people. I have received some cards that made me feel like I was being physically hugged, heartfelt packages of love and some seriously breathtaking flowers.

It feels weird to feel so blessed because of this breast cancer, but I do. How can I not, after everything I just described and the picture that's at the beginning of this entry? In the Book of Philippians, the Apostle Paul talks about his joy in the midst of some pretty terrible circumstances. He wasn't feeling joyful in spite of his circumstances, but because of them. After personally experiencing God's provision and strength on a daily basis during some pretty dark circumstances this year, I really understand this in a way I didn't before.

The hair is still growing slooooowwwly - it's now more than a sheen but less than a crew cut. I've told my husband to expect me to go hog wild with hair products when I have enough on top to play with. But until then, I'm enjoying the zero prep time. And like a woman congratulated me outside of Bella's preschool this week, shopping for bras will now take no time at all. Yay!!

"Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus." 1 Thessalonians 5:16-17

Wearing My Life

So the boobs have been whacked.

I am sitting here at my home computer, all bandaged up and musing at how less physically painful this process was to complete. The surgery took a bit more than seven hours because I am apparently "a bleeder" (bilateral mastectomies usually take about four hours), but aside from that, everything has gone great. Immediately following my surgery in the recovery room, I apparently sang in a whisper voice to my husband, "Bye bye, Miss American boobies" to Don McLean's tune of "Bye Bye Miss American Pie." 

(At this time, I also slurrily told a nurse who told me that I did great, "Yes. God has totally blessed me through this." John said she replied, "Thank you for sharing your story." Isn't that cool?)

I broke out of the hospital less than 24 hours after being out of surgery (HOORAY - I abhor hospitals; seriously, how are people expected to get well if their sleep is being interrupted all night by people wanting to check my vitals, get blood or "go for a short walk" at 4:30 in the morning?!), and am now resting very comfortably at home.

That all said, I thought I would take some time to explain why I decided to go this route instead of having radiation treatment. I have told a lot of people about this surgery, mostly to explain in advance of why I would be MIA for a time and why my kids might be acting weirder than usual. Almost always, people ask with widened eyes, "And how do you FEEL about that?"

My answer is always the same: "Excited."

The choice to have a double mastectomy instead of several weeks of daily radiation was shockingly easy for me to make. Because my type of cancer was caught early and the tumor was removed entirely, I was given the crazy choice of mastectomy or radiation. It seems to me that we should be far enough along in our understanding of breast cancer that doctors would be able to clearly tell me which choice would give me the greatest chance of a long, cancer-free life. Alas, not.

So my human understanding tells me this: If I have next to no breast tissue, that will give me a far better chance of avoiding a recurrence in that area. Radiation would only be for my left breast - and because triple negative cancer has a higher rate of recurrence, it makes sense to me that leaving the right side untreated is just plain dangerous.

When I met with the radiation oncologist (Dr. Chung at Alaska Regional - he is simply terrific), he told me that the chances of survival between radiation and mastectomy are about the same. He said that the chance of a recurrence was slightly less with mastectomy. However, if I chose radiation, they are confident a future cancer would be caught early and a second dance with chemo would keep me alive for just as long. 

I have no desire to put my body through radiation, but more importantly, I have an even stronger desire to not go through chemotherapy again if that is at all possible. Can I tell you: It isn't any worse than I thought it would be (everyone knows that chemo sucks) but to actually have to go through that was ghastly. Only God knows if I will have to walk that path again, but in the meantime, I choose to give myself the best shot at staying cancer free!

"Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight." Proverbs 3:5-6

While I am trying to make the most informed decisions, I also trust that there is a purpose that God has for me and others through this process. I'm excited for what that is, sans breasts.

There is an amazing woman named Tad who talked with me about how she has sustained a lot of stuff in her life that has left physical reminders. For her, they are badges of honor. 

"I'm wearing my life," she said.

This is what I'm going to be thinking in locker rooms at the swimming pool, in changing rooms at department stores and in my shower every day. I'm wearing my life in a way that tells a story, and I encourage the world to ask me about it, because whoa. I have a story to tell!

Confidence

So my hair is coming back - it's very subtle, almost a sheen of fuzz. And that fuzz is white on top and dark on the sides.

This unsettled my husband a bit. Personally, I think it's pretty awesome - white hair would rock! He thinks it will return to its pre-chemo color, but I'm still holding out hope for snowy tresses. And slowly but surely, teeny, tiny eyelashes and eyebrows are sprouting.

This whole bald thing has been such an interesting experience. I honestly don't miss the hair much - but as I have said before, I miss anonymity of not being known as Cancer Girl. My husband encouraged me to just be my baldie self, but I have tried to reclaim some privacy by keeping my noggin under wraps. I tried the wig thing - they are crazy hot and itchy - and settled on wearing all shapes and sizes of hats and these cool wraps.

It is no secret that I am bald - the hats that I have taken to wearing lately clearly reveal this - but I am glad to have something atop my seriously white head. Truly, I look like a Q-tip without cotton! I also feel like having something on my head acts as a physical buffer with people who want to Talk About It with me (i.e. a loved one they have lost to cancer, a new vitamin/vegetable/exercise routine that cures cancer, etc.).

"Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone." Colossians 4:6

Before I lost the eyelashes and eyebrows, I could be downright covert. A few months ago, I was enjoying dinner with a group of women. One of the participants began venting about how she felt like medical advances were keeping people alive who really shouldn't be - that perhaps our gene pool was getting weakened by people who really should just die.

(It was tempting to rip off my sassy little chapeau in that instant, but then, I also know that I have put my foot firmly in my own mouth many times. Can't we ALL use a little extra grace?)

Last week, Kate and I were re-reading the kids' cancer books that we have received this year. My personal favorite is "Nowhere Hair." It's about a little girl whose momma is going through cancer treatment and what that means (fatigue, sadness sometimes, funny hats and wigs). Then we got to this page:

Kate said, "You aren't confident. You never go bald at the grocery store."

I almost swallowed my tongue. I have come to terms with looking bald, and do my best to act like I don't realize that I am obviously going through some kind of treatment that has caused my hair to fall out. On good days, I can joke about not having hair with near-strangers. But on bad days, I have to muster every bit of courage to get out of the car and act "normal."

We talked. I told Kate how I am happy to be bald around the house - but I am also excited to have hair again someday.

"Sometimes momma feels shy being bald, though," I said. It was the best way I could think to explain it.

Two weeks from today I will be in the hospital for an overnight stay following the bilateral mastectomy. I have been walking 3 miles almost nightly - It feels wonderful to be exercising, and I can feel myself getting leaner, stronger. I hope that it makes for an easier recovery - when I'm ready, I want to give regular swimming a shot.

Because if I got used to having no hair, having no boobs should be a breeze.

Maybe literally ;)

Smooshed

Many years ago, during the two seconds I was a television reporter in Fairbanks, I used to bring in cookies sometimes for the rest of the staff. One of the producers always sought out the cookies that were squished on the side, a result of being smashed by the spatula when they were taken off the hot cookie sheet.

"This is how you know that they are homemade," he would say. For him, the imperfect cookies were made yummier because it showed they were hand-crafted.

I have been feeling like one of those obviously smooshed cookies these last few weeks since my final chemo on July 6, except not so yummy.

First and foremost, I am feeling deeply thankful that I am done with chemotherapy. It's ugly, strength-sapping, fingernail yuck-atizing stuff. And yet, much like child birth, I found myself thinking soon afterward that it was totally worth it. God willing, in combination with the upcoming mastectomy, it means that I have a lot of years of cancer-free life to live.

The morning after chemo was completed, I woke up and stared at my hairless self in the mirror and silently rallied: "OK, hair!!! Eyebrows and eyelashes, too! It is now time for you to (drum roll, please) DO YOUR THING!!!!"

But alas. They are not doing their thing so much.  On a happy note, my strength has been steadily returning and that has rocked beyond measure. There is pep in my step, people! However, I think it has also given some people license to approach me in a variety of weird (sometimes thoughtless) ways about this cancer trek of mine.

(I actually began a blog a couple of weeks ago that went into specifics about this, and how truly surreal it is to be such an obvious poster child for cancer. I'm still pondering through that particular entry.)

So I have been feeling ugly - like, give me a bell tower in Notre Dam hideous. My husband is being his wonderful self, but we wives know: It's a husband's job to tell us nice things. I have been silently chastising myself - because I know to God, I am His child and God doesn't have ugly kiddos. At least as far as He is concerned.  I have wondered if part of God's purpose in this was to humble me about my appearance.

But to the rest of the world, I'm this chrome-domed chick who desperately wants to use a mascara wand already.

Then today, as our family was taking a drive to find a new-to-us beach, I received this Facebook message via my smart phone from a very dear friend in Ketchikan:

I have been thinking the past week or so how beautiful you are, RB. And I don't mean "beautiful in the Lord," although you are definitely that, but a true beauty. I'm sure there have been times in your life when you wished you weren't so tall, but that simply adds to your grace. (Remember what Tom Coyne used to say about your height?!) <smile> Your smile is gorgeous, and your lips always seem so perfectly colored, whether you have lipstick on or not! But more than anything, I think your humble spirit adds so much your overall appearance - funny how the two are related! Maybe this would have been better sent in an email, but I wonder sometimes if you feel that your days of physical beauty are a thing of the past. Don't, because that is definitely not true. Love you, my friend.

When I got to the funny part about Tom Coyne (he was a skirt chasing city councilman in his 80s), tears began to literally squirt out of my eyes. Without eyelashes, tears real-deal project themselves out of my head (it's kind of a fun parlor trick, really - honest to goodness waterworks). I had to stop reading the message at that point, because I didn't want to freak out my girls ... I tilted my newsboy cap at a strategic angle while my water-projecting eyes quieted themselves.

So here I am, Lord: One of Your many squished cookies who is trying to patiently wait for her hair to grow back. Thank you for providing me with these friends who are bolstering my spirit when I am feeling like this, and for the lessons You are providing along the way.

A friend told me that she would love to see some pictures from a recent 3-mile hike our fam took. It kicked my patootie, but it felt so good to stretch my stamina wings. Here is a sampling:

Family shot

Skipping lessons

Hold the rock like this ...

And throw like this!

You know who

View of destination from the trail

Sisters

Last chemo

Thank you, Lord!!!

I am done with chemo.

DONE. WITH. CHEMO!!!!!!!!!

I can't wrap my head around that there are no more weekly blood tests or long hauls to Anchorage or sitting in that blessed recliner in the infusion room for hours while I am pumped full of cancer-killing poison. The feeling of freedom is extraordinary - it doesn't feel real yet, even nearly a week later.

At right is Kate holding the cake that we picked up on the way to the last treatment. I just couldn't resist getting something for the oncologist's staff. In turn, the nurses in the infusion room quietly gave me a card that they had all signed along with some quick hugs. Then they returned to their other patients - some who were just starting their own treatment for the first time and other regulars that I had seen before. I will return to my oncologist for a checkup in about three months.

We were also finally able to slap the last sticker on the chemo sticker chart a terrific friend made up for us at the beginning of all this, too. It is so marvelous, I just have to share it, too:

Done, done, done!

[Do you parents out there appreciate how each box is labeled to make sure each girl gets their turn?]

I am still feeling droopy, but I am eager to get active again. I want to get physically prepared for the upcoming bilateral mastectomy. It is scheduled for Sept. 7. It is also the seven-year anniversary of my dad's unexpected death at 61. I am curious what I will think of this date each year - a time of new beginnings, perhaps.

The girls both recently had their birthdays. One of them received a set of Legos that came with a figure that needed to be assembled. Kate did that, and then removed the hair:

A Lego survivor?

"Look, momma!" she exclaimed. "She's bald like you. She had breast cancer, too."

Rock on, little Lego. And welcome to the sisterhood!

Lots of people have been asking me what I will be doing this Friday instead of that drive and chemo treatment. This Friday morning I have been invited to visit someone's garden. That afternoon, John will be hiking with a new friend. The girls and I will surely doing something fun, too - maybe the SeaLife Center. But I tell you what we will NOT be doing:

Chemo!!!!

WOO HOO (times a kajillion). Thank you, Lord Jesus, for giving us the strength and surrounding us with the love of so many to get us through that part of the process.

"But He said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore, most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in needs, in persecutions, in distresses, for Christ's sake. For when I am weak, then I am strong." 2 Cor 12: 9-10

Trust

It is the eve before my last chemo treatment. No. 16 is finally here!

(Can you see my happy dance?)

Yesterday we participated in the usual Fourth of July revelry. The girls ran in a special kiddie race - a much smaller version of the annual marathon here - and we got to watch hundreds of men and women racers in action. I just kept thinking to myself: "How beautiful that the week I celebrate my freedom from chemo is the week America celebrates her independence?!"

(I just added some high kicks to that dance of joy.)

I have been feeling unusually tired this last week, but my oncologist told me to expect waves like this toward the end of treatment. Someone recently asked me how I have been able to physically get through the last several months and without thinking, I responded: "Denial!" Being the stay-at-home momma to these two little ladies has allowed me to push myself so much harder than I would have otherwise.

But the other day, I was at the end of my rope. It's been a very busy last few weeks, and I found myself unable to get out of bed. This is not a good thing when you have a husband at work and two little girls who need their mommy. I conned them into snuggling, and then rested on the couch while they ate breakfast. Then I put on a cartoon and rested some more. It made me so angry with myself.

Later in the day, some packages arrived - a gift for Bella because she has turned 4 and something from a friend on Prince of Wales. My fingernails have continued their withdrawal and I was in no mood to mess with the cardboard so I left them. Then I got to the business of preparing a meal for a new mom who just had her sixth child. I was still feeling pooped, but whew. Six kids? That makes chemo sound easy!

After it was delivered and we were back at home, I opened the box from the friend (Belle gets her party on Saturday, so she'll open hers then). Inside was a beautiful tote bag that read: "Just Trust God." It brought tears to my eyes! When I think about how He has loved and provided for us these last many months - wow. What a process this has been, and continues to be of leaning, healing and regaining our footing. I feel so unspeakably thankful; so many times things have worked out so perfectly that there is no other way to explain it BUT God.

I took a photo of my fingernails and planned to post it here (because, shoot, I know I would have been curious to know how they turned out if I were one of the readers here). But I think I'll spare you. I trust God will return them to their full length in time! And if He doesn't, I trust that there must a reason for that, too.

(Although, God? Seriously: Let there be no confusion from me. I thank you for creating fingernails in us people and pray that you would allow me to use them to their full potential soon!)

Ready to be done

Two more chemo treatments left. After tomorrow: ONE.

[This countdown has been making me feel like I am in a twisted version of Sesame Street with the Count - how about you?]

Kate turned 6 last weekend. It was wonderful to celebrate with friends; we rented a covered space that had picnic benches and a huge grill, and did all sorts of fabulous activities. It ended up being a little more over the top than I probably should have done the day after chemo, but getting cancer with kids this little has made memory-making seem even more important.

"Don't boast about tomorrow, for you don't know what a day might bring." Proverbs 27:1

Today, we had the Big C come up three times with the girls. The first was at the grocery store; Kate fingered a pile of prostate cancer awareness bracelets at the check stand. When the clerk answered Kate's question about their purpose, Kate said, "My mom has cancer, too!" The check-out gal asked what kind and Kate said, "BREAST!"

I thought: Over-sharing at its finest. Oh how I love my child.

But then the clerk looked at me and said that she had had breast cancer, too - 17 years earlier. What a encouraging thing to hear! I have been still dealing with a nasty chest cough, and have been feeling: Exhausted. Frustrated. Even defeated. I think if we knew of all the people who walked amongst us who have done battle with this ugly stuff, we would be astounded.

Later today, Belle asked at dinner: "Why do you need chemo-ta-ter-apy?" John and I exchanged a puzzled look. We have been very honest with our girls about how I am taking super strong medicine to get better. It turned out that what Belle was asking, upon additional clarification, was: Why do I have breast cancer?

We told her that most people don't get cancer - just some people, and no one knows why it happens. I said, "It happens to an unlucky few - like your momma!" But I also said that we believe that God had allowed this to happen for a purpose. Kate wanted to know what purpose - and then said, "You have been through a really bad car accident when you were little and now you have gone through breast cancer - that is a LOT!"

I told her that we don't stop loving and trusting God when things got tough - that really, that's when we need Him the most. She is 6, and thankfully, she doesn't have a huge grasp of this concept yet. But someday she will.

Then tonight, as we were getting ready for bed, Kate asked, "What's a mastectomy?"

I told her it was a surgery that would remove my breasts, and that this was the surgery that I had been talking about the last few weeks (it is tentatively scheduled for Sept. 7). Her beautiful blue eyes widened and she wanted to know if it would hurt and whether my breasts would grow back (wouldn't THAT be a sweet set-up?). She said she felt scared about it, and wondered if I was scared, too.

"A bit," I said, and my voice got thick with tears that I even had to be having this kind of a conversation with my daughter. "But I'm also glad because it will help me from getting sick with cancer again."

Two more treatments left! Soon one. Oh, I am so excited to be done with this.

Provision

Chemo No. 13: All done, baby!

It was a very full treatment room yesterday - there are about a dozen comfy recliners positioned in a large circle and they were all full. Most all of the folks I see each week are in their 60s and 70s - and while I wish that NO ONE had to do battle with this crud, I feel gladness that I am not surrounded by people my age and younger each time.  I would much rather current and future "seat warmers" are spared this junk as loooooooooong as possible - well after watching their kids graduate, get married and have babies of their own.

And yet as soon as I write that I ask: How can I say that about myself? I feel so strongly that there is a purpose for this in my own life - I am on my face in thankfulness at how God is bringing us through this with a heaping measure of grace and love.

Like last night. After the girls went to bed, I went to town and picked up some groceries. I did not bother to spiff up, and it had been a long day of chemo and driving - and I have given up thinking that it's not incredibly obvious that I'm bald! As I was checking out with my groceries, I saw a woman in my peripheral view coming at me quickly. She had already checked out and was leaving the grocery store, but was making a bee line to me. "Excuse me," she said. She didn't sound happy. I didn't look up, hoping she was actually talking to the person behind me. "EXCUSE ME," she said again, stopping a couple feet away.

She was holding out a coupon she had just received for 10 dollars off my entire grocery order.

"God bless you," she said. I had no idea who this person was. I took the coupon. I could feel myself choking up. I thanked her and repeated her words to her, with the emphasis on "you."

But I also say: Thank you, God.

Tonight someone dropped by some freshly caught salmon. Thank you, God.

In the last couple of weeks, I have been blessed by so many people that live near and far. When I initially started this blog entry (at 3 a.m. - post-chemo sleeplessness got me again starting at 2 a.m.), I rambled through several paragraphs about this. For brevity, here are bullets instead:

• The blessed sleep I have gotten throughout this week - I know this is a result of people praying for me, because I haven't slept this unusually well since Jan. 8 (the day before I found out I about the "big C"). Thank you, God - I loved the sleep.
• That amazing team of wimmin' who ran in my honor at the 20th Annual Alaska Women's Run. Thank you, God - the encouragement was powerful;
• A letter that read as a giant hug, along with a check for "pampering," from the dear couple who married us. Thank you, God - that will be so enjoyed;
• This cup from a sweet friend who has loved me and our girls with equal love and devotion through this process. Thank you, God, for this friend and for not smiting Star Trek in all its infinite dorkiness;
• A fabulous sweatshirt proclaiming my tough Alaska chick status (in deep, glorious pink - so there should be no confusion that I'm a girl NOW). The accompanying letter made me laugh! Thank you, God, for that chortle;
• Two more wonderful cards - both containing words of strong encouragement and one containing a couple packets of facial/foot scrubs that will be put to good use. I also received an email from an amazing friend who has been sending me cards that have made me smile all along the way. Thank you, God, for people taking precious time to write;
• A steadfast friend who made time to have coffee with me following treatment yesterday - she had been having a tough couple of weeks herself, and yet she made time for me. Thank you, God, for her generosity of time;
• An email from a terrific friend who has walked the cancer walk herself, telling me that I do not have lung cancer. She explained that one of her lasting side effects from her chemo has also been a dry cough. Thank you, God, for calming my worries. 

This is just the tip of the iceberg - these bullets are ways people have supported and loved us in just the last couple of weeks. We were recently asked if we had learned "one big thing" through this process. For me, it's been experiencing God's very real daily grace and perfect provision during a desperate time, with so much of this provision coming through people's actions.

It's all relative

A couple of days ago, Kate made her first joke connected with this whole breast cancer business.

We were reading a library book in the master bedroom - I had gotten out of the shower 20 minutes prior - and Kate looks at my head with mock horror, her eyes shining with amusement.

"Mom. You are not going to believe this," she said. "But you are BALD."

"W-H-A-T??!!!!" I exclaimed. "You are KIDDING me. How did that happen?!!!"

"You lost your hair in the shower. It just came out! I think you'll find it in there."

She and I chuckled together. I told her I was excited to get my hair back, yet also glad that this super strong medicine makes certain the cancer stays gone. I am excited to be at the point where I don't think about this current reality throughout my day, whether it's because I use a hair clip to click open my watch (fragile fingernails) or because I'm hunting a box of Kleenx to stanch a runny nose (missing nose hair).

However, the idea of a recurrence is something that will linger - especially since I will visit my oncologist and surgeon once every few months the first couple of years. Last week, I asked the oncologist's staff about my lingering cough - I wanted reassurance that the cancer had not spread to my lungs. The physician's assistant said he felt "99 percent" sure that it was not lung cancer.

"But you can't know that. It could be," I persisted.

"You're right, I can't know ... but it's not." He paused. "But if it is, you would get the same treatment you are getting now."

It felt like the punchline to a grim joke. I preferred my 5-year-old's humor to this.

"I cried out, 'I am slipping!'
but your unfailing love, O LORD, supported me.
When doubts filled my mind,
your comfort gave me renewed hope and cheer." Psalm 94:18-19

Today we girls met with some friends for lunch. When we first arrived, there was a little boy wearing a pink sweatshirt with a snowman on it. I caught his eye and told him how much I liked his shirt - and I was startled to see that this child had a large chunk of hair missing from the back of their head. This was a little girl who had recently gone through some kind of treatment and her hair was (mostly) growing out.

I wanted to scoop her up and kiss the back of her sweet 4-year-old head. Instead, obviously-likewise-in-treatment me made eye contact with the mom and grandma. We shared a sad, knowing smile over the heads of our little people. The whole thing happened in seconds but I'll think about them for a long time to come.

(Have I thanked you recently, Jesus, for sparing Kate cancer? Thank you, Lord. Please be with that family we briefly met today as they continue on.)

How about this splendid news: After tomorrow, I have three chemo treatments left. THREE! I am so over having no eyelashes and eyebrows. And how great will nose hair be? And functioning fingernails? I have started experiencing numbness in my toes, but it reminds me how thankful I am that sensation fully returned to my hands. I would much rather button my shirt than feel my socks, anyways, wouldn't you?

Odds & Ends on the Eve of a Countdown

Yesterday was the second time this week that I have been mistaken for a dude.

Granted, these people were not studying me intently - and I am six feet tall - but whew.

When I was in college studying to be a news reporter, I did not use my first name in my byline because I did not want readers to have any sense of gender slant. So, to the consternation of at least one editor, I insisted on using just "R" before my last name. Now I am feeling amused to find myself longing for recognition that I am a girl!

Thanks to some powerful antibiotics, I am finally kicking the nasty flu bug that has hung on for three weeks. UGH: Three weeks of thick snot by the bucketful and yucky phlegm-filled coughing. At least once I have wondered if this was actually my cancer metastasizing in my lungs. Good times, huh?

(My husband told me sternly: "You do NOT have lung cancer." We'll hope not.)

Earlier this week I was invited to help decorate some shirts for some friends who are running in the Alaska Women's Run this Saturday in Anchorage. They are running in my honor, and quite wonderfully they are using my catch phrase: Embrace the Suck ~ God has a Purpose.

How terrific is that?

When I got home that evening, my hubby and girls were finishing up a backyard bonfire. I related to JB how surreal it was to see those shirts, and most especially, my initials stuck in a breast cancer ribbon. You would think that six months of riding this crazy train would make this feel REAL. But no. Not really.

I experienced some more surreality tonight. After the girls were in bed, JB and I were in the yard to plant some peonies, lupine and bleeding hearts. An SUV pulled up. The driver works in the same field as my husband - he parked and the occupants spilled out. The kids checked out the chickens, the driver toured JB's future greenhouse site and the elderly man hung close to me.

We talked about his 45 years in Alaska, his current home in Arizona and his travels across Germany, Belgium and France. He told me he was bad luck - his first wife died. Then he had a girlfriend, but she died following a stroke. I told him that wasn't bad luck - that was life. Even so, I was surprised at how openly he spoke to me.

It wasn't until they left that I learned that the driver had lost his first wife to breast cancer six years ago. She was 35 years old - three years younger than me. The sweet old man was her father. The kids were the ones she left behind when she died - they would have been close to my own girls' ages. In fact, the 13-year-old girl shares the same birthday as Bella. 


I wonder what God's purpose was in tonight's encounter. I certainly got a peek into the lives of these people who had lost their wife, momma and daughter. What did that sweet old man think as he looked at me, clearly bald, missing eyelashes and eyebrows under my snappy little hat? I'm sure he missed his girl.


Sigh. I wish I had known. It's probably good that I didn't - I would have given that man a big hug and probably the kids, too. And who knows if that's what they really would have wanted or needed.

Chemo No. 12 is tomorrow - five left. F-I-V-E!!! Last go around, a dear friend came and sat all the way through my appointment with me. I almost wept when she walked in and sat down beside me - these appointments are not fun, and I am 3,000 percent certain she could have chosen 100 other ways to spend her time that were more fun. I am humbled to the core by her love, and the love of so many others who are loving us to the "other side" of this.

Booger Reservoir: Coming to a Dictionary Near You

Word of the Day for Wednesday, May 30, 2012

skirr \skur\, verb:

1. To go rapidly; fly; scurry.
2. To go rapidly over.

This comes to you courtesy of Dictionary.com. Here's a sentence:

May these chemo treatments skirr away with the same fervor that I demonstrated buying plants last week at Lowe's! Whew - if only.

This week has been a tough one. The night of my chemo treatments, I'm not able to sleep well. This last go-around, I got to sleep at 5:30 a.m. (I was able to spend this "idle time" reading the entire first book in the "Hunger Games" series). This meant the chest cold I already had going morphed into ear infections and eye infections, and coughing intensified to yield all sorts of lovely lung crud. My sweet husband took to the couch for two nights in order to be semi-conscious at work.

[You will be pleased to know, though, that thanks to this stretch of "eww," I have come up with a new term: "booger reservoir." That's when you blow your nose, think you're done and suddenly a huge stream of thick mucus comes out of nowhere. Perhaps Dictionary.com will make THAT a future Word of the Day.]

Last night I made the mistake of googling some of the spookier facts about the type of cancer I'm battling, and that did it for sleep. Whenever I'm trying to restore order to my life, I organize. I wish I were the type of person who used chaos as an opportunity to smother my children in hugs and kisses, but alas: I like to clean. So I got up and spent an hour tidying the kitchen and writing lists.

I tried going back to bed - more coughing - so I took to the couch myself. An hour and a half later, I tried taking some generic Benadryl to knock some sleep into me and then wondered if allergy medicine might induce a heart attack because of all my other prescriptions and supplements. I began to pray about that and MANY other things. Wonderfully, about an hour later, I fell into blessed sleep.

[Note to self: Pray first next time in lieu of organization. The results are so much sweeter.]

After this Friday, I have five more chemo treatments to go. Five!! It sounds sublime. I have lost most of my eyelashes and much of my eyebrows, the hair has long since left the building and my fingernails look like they belong either on a cadaver or troll. And yet: I'm still nestled in God's hand.  Romans 8:35 says:

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword?"

Nope. And neither nasty boogers, nor creepy fingernails nor crustily infected eyes, either! So there, cancer.

Just call me Luna

Last week I took a blessed break from the chemo - it was lovely. My doc was concerned about the degree of neuropathy in my hands (pain and numbness), and said that I could proceed if I wanted or postpone it a week. Since it was Mother's Day weekend, and we had a really full plate of "stuff," I opted to take him up on his offer. He also put me on yet another prescription - an anti-seizure medicine that apparently also helps with neuropathy. I am so glad that I took the break and am on the new dope - my hands returned completely to normal.

However, it has done nothing to slow the darkening of my nails. My doc confirmed on Friday that they are officially starting to fall off. Have I shared that potentiality in the midst of all this hand numbness and pain? I can't remember. They are turning yellowy black and are slowly starting to leave the premises. It's not too nasty yet ... check it out:

I have made reference in previous blogs that I will need to acquire my own Goth name to match my darkening finners. Thanks to the helpful suggestion of a sweet friend, I learned that I can use the handy dandy Internet to generate my own Goth moniker. So meet Luna. Luna Avarice.

Rebecca Brown would have flinched when her 3-year-old daughter barfed up an impressive amount of vomit in the car, 20 minutes in to our two-hour ride up to Anchorage on Friday. But Luna? She laughed in the face of splorfage! She put on her big girl pants and got her beautiful little miss stripped down to her T-shirt and undies while her wonderful husband dry heaved over the stinky car seat.

(Have I mentioned lately that I have an amazing husband? Yep. He rocks. That man wrapped his kid in her older sister's coat and carted her into Walmart to get her new clothes after he dropped me off at my chemo appointment.)

Today was Chemo No. 9. This means I have seven more to go. For the first time, I got weepy in the infusion room while I was getting set up for chemotherapy. The tears took me totally be surprise - I had just talked fingernail turkey with my doc, along with concerns from just reading a "Good Housekeeping" article in the lobby of the oncologist's office. In short, it talks about how Robin Roberts from "Good Morning America" was bummed to learn that her triple negative cancer diagnosis meant that she wasn't going to be "in the clear" in five to seven years like the majority of cancer survivors.

This shocked me, because I had been reading exactly opposite. My doc confirmed that five years is the indeed the goal, and that rates of recurrence after this point are actually much lower than the more common types of breast cancer. However, reading otherwise in black and white still freaked me out. And sheesh louise: I was really hoping to keep my fingernails attached.

My mother is visiting from Washington state right now. I was getting the girls' room ready for bedtime tonight and overheard sweet 5-year-old Kate say in the living room, "I hope my mom doesn't die." Man, hot tears filled my eyes hearing her sweet self say those words - I was so glad that I was out of the room so I could pull it together. My mother handled the statement with impressive aplomb, telling her firmly that I wasn't going anywhere any time soon.

I have full faith in God's plan. I hope that includes a lot of years with this sweet family of mine with no recurrence of cancer along the way, but we'll see what He has in mind.

"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." Philippians 4:13

Whatta Rock

Last week, while I was receiving my 7th treatment, I discovered that Chemo Nurse Annie shares my passion for gardening. 

I told her that my hubby had it in his head to build a greenhouse in the coming weeks, but I wasn't sure how that would work with all this chemo stuff and the weekly trips to Anchorage. I worried aloud that a construction project would be too much for him to take on while being my Resident Rock. While I've been on the receiving end of some pretty tremendous love and help, I told her, it seemed like my awesomely supportive husband didn't have access to nearly the same kind of help.

"You know," she said quietly, "I think a greenhouse is a good thing for him to build. I think it helps him work through this stuff. And in a big way, he's getting support simply by caring for you because it's something that matters and it's making a difference."

When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer, I began a sentence to a longtime friend: "When we learned that we had breast cancer ..." before stopping with a laugh. I clarified that my husband didn't have breast cancer - but she quickly corrected me. He had breast cancer because I had breast cancer. And boy, was she right.

He has stood beside me when I have had a mouth full of sores, and when I spent half the day in bed sleeping. He shaved my head for me, and has held my hand when I have grappled with the idea of leaving this planet sooner than I'd anticipated. Recently, I was going through the nastiest side effects to date, and my whole being felt like it was shutting down. I looked at John, and said miserably: "I feel like my body is dying right now."

[I had tried to stop myself from saying those words out loud - I mean, seriously? I knew it was selfish and tried to silence myself but I was feeling scared, and knew that verbalizing that thought would make it less scary ... at least for me.]

He looked at me, his eyes dripping compassion, and said firmly: "You are not dying right now. You just feel like crap."

What a rock, this man of mine. I'm so glad I have him to lean on during this maelstrom. But then I have another Rock that I'm so glad to call my own, and to share with my husband.


“Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock." Matthew 7:24-25

Knowing that there is a purpose and a plan makes the storm surrounding this illness seem so much dinkier! It fills me with relief and makes me actually glad.


Tomorrow marks the halfway point with this chemo: Eight down, eight to go. The taxol has made my hands feel like stumps - my fingers feel stiff and fumbly, making buttons and shoelaces a challenge. My darkening fingernails feel like they are separating from my fingers - we'll be talking to the oncologist about all this tomorrow to see what he says.


In the meantime, I've got to figure out my Goth name before these nails of mine become fully black!

A bit of backstory

Tomorrow is Chemo No. 7!

Chemo No. 6 went well - I have been really enjoying feeling more "like myself." I have been telling folks that I didn't realize how out of sorts I felt with those first four biweekly treatments until the blanket of yuck was lifted. I still get tuckered out irritatingly easy, and I often can't feel my fingertips - but those are easy side effects.

"Who knows if perhaps you were made ... for just such a time as this?" Esther 4:14

I've gotten all sorts of interesting questions from folks the last few months. The most common one is how I found out that I had cancer in the first place. So I thought I'd answer that here, since we all know the importance of backstory.

The short answer is it was discovered completely by accident, which was both incredibly chilling and a tremendous blessing. I had felt an odd area in my right armpit that seemed weird to me, but when I called it to the Seward doc's attention, she said, "You know, I think that's nothing. You have no history of breast cancer in your family and you are 37 years old. But if it makes you feel better, we can get you scheduled for an ultrasound and mammogram."

So I blew it off - what were the chances? They don't do both ultrasounds and mammograms locally, and it meant a trip to Anchorage. I scheduled an appointment for a couple of months later, when my 5-year-old would be on her Christmas break from school. I am all about easy peasy, after all, and I am not one who relishes long car rides with little kids.

(Yes - I appreciate the irony of that statement; I stopped counting a couple of months ago how often we have made that drive since January.)

My doc didn't order a mammogram for both sides. It turns out that's not how it's usually done, and the techs at Providence Imaging Center asked if they could call Seward and get the OK to do the left and the right. Fine by me, I said. I received a letter a few days later that biopsies in three areas were recommended. I wasn't worried, because I had received a biopsy several years earlier that had turned up nothing.

But lo and behold, I received The Call on Jan. 9 from the Seward doctor. The news was not good - and the cancer was on the side that wasn't even supposed to be scanned. Thankfully, the two biopsies on the right had not turned up anything. This doctor delivered the news really badly, but I suspect that's because she is a new doctor and hasn't had a lot of experience doing these kinds of things. Hopefully, I was good practice ... but then, I never heard from her again to see how I was doing so who knows.

Two days later I saw a surgeon in Anchorage and two days after that I had a lumpectomy. The surgeon was able to get all of the tumor out and it was determined that the cancer had not spread to my lymph nodes. This was awesome news! But since it's triple negative cancer, it also meant I had a 30 percent chance of recurrence without wicked bad chemo, then radiation and/or mastectomy.

Yet I know that God doesn't work in percentages. Either I have a 100 percent chance of getting cancer again or zero. I am confident that whatever it is, there's a purpose in what's happening and what's to come in such a time as this.

Do I miss my hair?

Kate received the "all clear" earlier this week: HOORAY! There have been days this week that I have wanted to keep her home from school so we can cuddle up and read books all day long and share tea parties with her younger sister. But part of the awesomeness of this news is that we are blessed to return to normality instead of scheduling an appointment for another surgery and a first meet with a pediatric oncologist.

(Thank you, Jesus, for sparing my child cancer. Thank you, thank you, thank you.)

Chemo No. 6 is tomorrow in Anchorage. I got my blood drawn this morning to make sure my blood counts are OK, and checked with the oncologist's office this afternoon to make sure I should make the journey. I am always relieved when they tell me that I'm "good to go" ... I hate the idea of having to delay being done with this junk for any reason!

After the blood draw, I stopped for coffee at my favorite espresso drive-through (I live in such a small town that there's only one, but this java joint really is great). I have discovered a neat trick - depending on where I am in my chemo, the taste of coffee can be revolting, tolerated or actually enjoyed.

The sweet drive-through owner asked me, "So: You got anything great you're doing this summer?"

In that instant, I could actually see my entire summer "flash before my eyes" (I always thought this was an expression but it turns out it can real-deal happen). My weekly trips to Anchorage for chemo will end sometime in July. Then I get to make the decision of whether I'll do six weeks of daily radiation or double mastectomy - the docs are making it my choice (both apparently give me the same odds of preventing a recurrence), and I am leaning toward the latter. So that puts me into August, about when my daughter starts first grade and I'll be seeing my younger brother who lives on the East Coast for the first time in five years.

"Nothing but enjoy Seward," I said brightly. I learned early on in adulthood that sharing reality is not polite small talk. "How about you?"

Then in the afternoon, Belle and I went on a beach picnic with some other mommas and their kids. I wore a cool knit hat that a dear friend made me, but at some point, it got turned cattywompus and a picture of me wearing a seriously crooked hat ended up on Facebook. It made me sigh, and long for my hair. So it was funny timing when Kate ran her sweet little hand over the top of my fuzz-covered head and then down my neck tonight at dinner.

"Your hair used to be 'this' long," she said, touching my shoulders. "I miss your hair."

Bella said she missed my hair, too. They asked me if I missed my hair.

"I do miss my hair," I said. "But I also like being bald because it means the medicine is working that will keep this cancer away."

Boy, I sure hope so. That sounds pretty fantastic indeed.

The purpose behind the suck

Chemo No 5: complete.

That's not a typo - I skipped over blogging about Chemo No. 4 in its entirety. Not only was it the worst one yet due to the onslaught of new side effects, but we were also going through our darkest days since this started because we learned that Kate could have cancer, too. The initial report is the the mass appears to be benign, but we are still waiting for the final report. I have called the surgeon's office twice and will try again on Monday.

So: Moving right along.

Today I started the first of 12 weekly treatments of Taxol. Most people have been telling me that this one is far easier than the adriamycin and cytoxan I took the first four treatments. And YAY: They appear to be right. But since this was a new type of drug, I was pumped full of an "extra large" dose of Benadryl to help prevent a really bad allergic reaction.

"How often do people have an allergic reaction to Taxol?" I asked Nurse Annie (she is my favorite).

"Oh. Not so often, really. But with the high volume of people we see, it still happens its fair share."

Well alrighty then. She had me sign the standard disclosure and started the Benadryl drip via my port.

What does Benadryl do to you, dear reader? Because this "extra large" dose put me in a bit of coma. It was actually lovely. I have been having difficulty sleeping between the hours of 1 and 4 a.m., and I could feel my body slurping up rest like a smooth chocolate milkshake. It felt divine.

A woman named Sharon moved into the recliner next to mine and began her chemo. I woke up once as she unplugged herself (meaning, the pump's electrical outlet on the floor so she could wheel her IV with her) and left her seat. I marveled at how smoothly she did that, wondering if that revealed someone who has been battling cancer for a good long while. I assumed she was going to the bathroom, and then went back to sleep.

I woke up to the nurses having a conference - my eyes were closed, but I could hear them panicking. It turns out Sharon didn't go the bathroom. Instead, she left the office and took a joyride down the 4th Floor hall to the American Cancer Society office. They apparently have a little shop down there with all sorts of free stuff for us cancer chicks and dudes. Wigs, scarves, quilts, pillows, pins, books.

"You can go down there," Sharon told me later, "and get whatever you want. Go have your husband get you one of these pillows. And a wig. You really should get yourself a wig. And get your kids some stuff, too, if you see something they might like. They're going through this, too."

The three nurses took turns giving Sharon a lecture about how she was never to do that again. She had placed herself in danger - she could have fallen. Or the IV pole pump could have tipped over. Looking at our insurance paperwork, my own treatments for the first four weeks were about $12,000 for the IV drips. So I'm sure the nurses also didn't want several thousand dollars in drugs getting soaked up in the carpet.

However, is it wrong for me to say that I rather admired Sharon? I would not do that kind of joyride myself - I am a huge klutz who is famous for my own Chevy Chase-like falls - but being chained to an IV for several hours is ... numbing. I am a Warp 9 kind of gal. After about 30 minutes, I am ready to be done already, thank you. I am ready to go to the bathroom without having to announce it or get help.

My hubby passed along his "EMBRACE THE SUCK / GOD HAS A PURPOSE" wristband to Sharon today. We got the "embrace" verbiage from a wristband that John was given at a Trooper training several weeks ago. We explained the meaning: We all go through sucky times, but boy, do they equip and teach us in ways that smooth-sailing periods do not.

Our own family has incredible peace knowing that God has a reason and a plan in all things. He tells us in the Bible to embrace these times of suffering because He has a purpose. Think the Apostle Paul. Moses. David. Jonah. Joseph. Peter. The blind man. The lepers. And of course: Jesus. Here are two Bible verses we have had on our hearts these last few months:

Romans 5:3-5
"Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us."

Romans 8:28
"And we now that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."

I'll grant you this, however. Embracing the suck is way easier when it's your own suffering. When it comes to imagining your child losing their hair for chemo treatments, or them getting the "pleasure" of mouth sores, rectal bleeding from hemorrhoids, cuts that won't stop bleeding, hands that crack from dryness, a mouth that feels like it is the Sahara Desert and on and on ... suddenly that purpose feels a lot more remote and far away. But our prayer is that God continues to allow us to experience His daily provision, and we thank Him - deeply - for others' prayers for our family and allowing us to lean on Him so heavily.

Benign is beautiful

Kate went through surgery yesterday and the pediatric surgeon opted to remove the whole mass. Initial test results indicate it's benign (thank you, Lord Jesus!!!) The doc said we will likely be getting the final results on Tuesday.

When we got this news, we were overjoyed - I felt like falling face down on the carpet and thanking God for this Moses style. I looked and John after the surgeon left us alone and said, "This is great - what are you thinking?" His face was unreadable. "I'm still scared," he admitted. We are very excited for Tuesday to get here already.

How's your life?

Humor involving cancer is a funny thing - not necessarily in a ha-ha kind of way.

For example, when I was having my biopsies done on Jan. 6, I felt pretty confident that I did not have cancer. The doc, his nurse and I were having an easy-going conversation as they used a noisy little "gun" to punch out tiny samples of breast tissue. The topic turned to life in a small town, and I said, "Oh yeah - I know that word is out that I'm having this done. So by the time I get back, word will be on the street that I have BRAIN cancer."

Total, total silence. In that moment, it occurred to me that as far as they knew, I could HAVE brain cancer if the breast cancer they were testing for had spread. That actually amused me a little. Because, shoot! I didn't have cancer!!

A few weeks later, shortly after I got my pixie cut (to prepare the girls for bald me), we attended the Polar Bear Plunge. Folks jump into crazy cold water to raise money for cancer. The following Monday, I had this conversation with the wonderful man who is the principal at my daughter's school.

"Nice new haircut!" he said.
"Thanks! Is it sassy?" I asked.
"Yah, it's SASSY," he said, tossing some pretend hair and using his best Valley Girl drawl. "Did you give your hair to Locks of Love?"
"Locks of Love?" I couldn't believe it. Was this actually happening?
"Yes, Locks of Love," he said. "You know - for cancer?"
"Man: I've GOT cancer," I said.

He was horrified - and I felt only a slightly bad. Because going through that exchange put a smile on my face for a good two days.

This last Sunday, I got my latest dose of cancer-related amusement. (When I put it like that, doesn't it sound FUN?! How great it would be to simply opt out of this comedy routine. I'm so glad that God has a purpose in this. I long to feel "like myself" again.)

Our church meets in a hotel banquet room. That evening, our family had just watched the movie "Courageous," and was filing out to the car. I remembered something I wanted to say to another member of our church body, and I called out to my husband that I'd be right back.

In the meantime, he and the girls made it to the hotel lobby and spied a couple of Alaska State Troopers. They were in Seward for snowmachining with a bunch of other guys. One of the men, a wiry guy who is in the drug unit, graduated with my hubby from the Trooper academy in 1996.

"Hey man!" he called to JB. "How's your wife?"

This seemed a bit odd to my husband, since he hadn't seen this guy in years. But he just rolled with it - he'd had people far more unfamiliar than this recently ask him about my status.

"She's doing OK," he replied, but realized he'd misheard when he received a raised eyebrow. "I'm sorry - what did you say?"

"Your LIFE. I said 'How's your LIFE?'" The man laughed. "Like I'd ask about your wife out of the blue. As if she has CANCER or something!!"

A heartbeat fluttered by.

"Dude - she DOES have cancer," my sweet husband said, and he was smiling. Because he and I have been learning to see these kinds of moments as humor. Is that a little twisted?

As these words are spoken, I walked into the lobby - totally unaware of the exchange. I was wearing one of my new little doo-rags on my bald head. Twisted or not, how great was that timing? I couldn't have planned a better entry - it was like a Saturday Night Live skit for people battling cancer.