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.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Embrace the Suck
Chemo No. 3 - complete.
Our last trip to Anchorage took a sickening turn - long story short, we learned that a bump on our 5-year-old's shin could be cancer. My very first reaction, when the nurse finished one of her sentences (to quote) "... you know, if it's the C word," was to turn to God and say: "Seriously?!"
It's not necessary to write in detail about the priority MRI that Kate had done on a Saturday, how my husband and I tried not to openly cry in the hospital cafeteria during the MRI or how she had a hard time coming out of the anesthesia. I'm sure most of you can imagine. Probably the hardest part was that while we waited for the results, I did not talk about this new twist and neither did my husband. We did not want to put words to our bone-deep terror, and how suddenly, the idea of just me having cancer by myself seemed pretty great.
On Sunday night, back at home, I told him this while we laid in the dark. His response was fierce.
"When you got your biopsies," he said, "I had total faith that they would come back with no cancer. And you have cancer. So now I have zero faith about this. I'm just waiting to get the call about the MRI out of the way so we can get the call about the biopsy that will need to be done."
We held hands, and we cried. My husband ripped off his blue plastic bracelet that read, "EMBRACE THE SUCK" on one side and "GOD HAS A PURPOSE" on the other and threw it across the bedroom.
"What is the purpose in Kate having cancer? There IS no purpose in watching my 5-year-old suffer and go through this."
I agree with every fiber of my being. This is the first time in my life that I can remember actually fearing God's will if it includes the possibility of losing one of our kids.
The next morning, my hubby put on a new blue bracelet. Like me, he knows that God does have a purpose for my cancer, and with every step of the process we are experiencing with Kate. I have no idea how God will use this present reality in the future, but I feel great confidence that He will. I pray that I have the courage and boldness to respond (and obey) when that time comes.
"And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." Romans 8:28
The MRI results came back on Monday. While the doctor reassured us that he felt "90 percent sure" that Kate doesn't have cancer (even putting her name and that word in the same sentence makes me feel physically sick), he wants to do a biopsy on April 4 to find out if this mass is something that requires removal. We'll just leave it at that for now. But if you think of Kate, please pray for her.
As far as my chemo treatment, it went as well as could be expected. I had a wonderful friend sit with me this go-around - she is delightfully organized and brought a list of topics for us to discuss. As her last item, she included a funny story from a recent trip to Hawaii "in case it was needed" if things got somber. How great is a friend like that? After I shared the news about what was going on with Kate, I got teary. She told the story.
The nausea was blessedly the least that I have experienced yet - but I'm starting to really feel the fatigue that the oncologist's staff warned me about at our first meeting. My last "hard core" treatment of Adriamycin and Cytoxan before I start the weekly taxol is on March 30. From what I understand, taxol could cause my hands and feet to go numb, and my finger and toenails to go black. But the nausea is supposed to be better.
At nearly 38, I may finally get a crack at going Goth.
Our last trip to Anchorage took a sickening turn - long story short, we learned that a bump on our 5-year-old's shin could be cancer. My very first reaction, when the nurse finished one of her sentences (to quote) "... you know, if it's the C word," was to turn to God and say: "Seriously?!"
It's not necessary to write in detail about the priority MRI that Kate had done on a Saturday, how my husband and I tried not to openly cry in the hospital cafeteria during the MRI or how she had a hard time coming out of the anesthesia. I'm sure most of you can imagine. Probably the hardest part was that while we waited for the results, I did not talk about this new twist and neither did my husband. We did not want to put words to our bone-deep terror, and how suddenly, the idea of just me having cancer by myself seemed pretty great.
On Sunday night, back at home, I told him this while we laid in the dark. His response was fierce.
"When you got your biopsies," he said, "I had total faith that they would come back with no cancer. And you have cancer. So now I have zero faith about this. I'm just waiting to get the call about the MRI out of the way so we can get the call about the biopsy that will need to be done."
We held hands, and we cried. My husband ripped off his blue plastic bracelet that read, "EMBRACE THE SUCK" on one side and "GOD HAS A PURPOSE" on the other and threw it across the bedroom.
"What is the purpose in Kate having cancer? There IS no purpose in watching my 5-year-old suffer and go through this."
I agree with every fiber of my being. This is the first time in my life that I can remember actually fearing God's will if it includes the possibility of losing one of our kids.
The next morning, my hubby put on a new blue bracelet. Like me, he knows that God does have a purpose for my cancer, and with every step of the process we are experiencing with Kate. I have no idea how God will use this present reality in the future, but I feel great confidence that He will. I pray that I have the courage and boldness to respond (and obey) when that time comes.
"And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." Romans 8:28
The MRI results came back on Monday. While the doctor reassured us that he felt "90 percent sure" that Kate doesn't have cancer (even putting her name and that word in the same sentence makes me feel physically sick), he wants to do a biopsy on April 4 to find out if this mass is something that requires removal. We'll just leave it at that for now. But if you think of Kate, please pray for her.
As far as my chemo treatment, it went as well as could be expected. I had a wonderful friend sit with me this go-around - she is delightfully organized and brought a list of topics for us to discuss. As her last item, she included a funny story from a recent trip to Hawaii "in case it was needed" if things got somber. How great is a friend like that? After I shared the news about what was going on with Kate, I got teary. She told the story.
The nausea was blessedly the least that I have experienced yet - but I'm starting to really feel the fatigue that the oncologist's staff warned me about at our first meeting. My last "hard core" treatment of Adriamycin and Cytoxan before I start the weekly taxol is on March 30. From what I understand, taxol could cause my hands and feet to go numb, and my finger and toenails to go black. But the nausea is supposed to be better.
At nearly 38, I may finally get a crack at going Goth.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Just keep swimming
A wonderful friend - who also happens to be a cancer survivor - shared with me how going through chemo is a lot like that part in "Finding Nemo" - when Dory is singing, "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming, swimming ..."
Boy, is it ever. Chemo No. 3 is Friday, day after tomorrow. I told some folks recently that I only just turned the corner from "I guess I may be meeting Jesus earlier than I thought" to "This chemo is helping heal me, and helping better guarantee that I'm going to watch my girls grow up."
And yet: I am hugely un-excited for Friday.
My hair has continued to fall out en masse. I am now feeling especially thankful to be enjoying the head wraps and hats that I have received from folks - there is only a light fuzz atop my noodle now. Amazingly to me, this does not seem to distress my girls. In fact, I have asked them on a couple of mornings: "Hat or bald today?" to have them say, "Bald." With no fear or distress - I marvel at them.
If only I could borrow a bit of that bravery. Earlier this week I went swimming for the first time in months - between the surgeries and just feeling yucky, I haven't been interested. But my sweet husband had purchased me a swim cap, I didn't feel beyond horrible and my two beautiful daughters really, REALLY wanted me to come swimming with them and their dad. So I sucked it up ... but I still exited the pool before the rest of my family and the rest of the pool got out. I didn't want to do the bald thing in front of non-family.
There was a basketball practice happening during swim time, and a little girl came in to use the locker room bathroom. She looked about 3 or 4. She came over to where I was changing and asked about whether kids were swimming in the pool I had just left. I still had on the swim cap, but she pointed at my head and said: "Where is your hair?"
"It's under there, sweetheart - this is a swim cap!" I smiled, and thought of myself: Chicken. If there was anyone with whom I could practice some bald lines, this was a great choice - kids are amazing. But I just wasn't ready to say it. And besides, I rationalized, I have at least 30 pieces of my hair up there. That must count for something.
But another really great kid interaction happened just a couple days ago. An awesome mom that I know and her three girls showed up unexpectedly - it was so good to see them and catch up, and we LOVED having them. I looked like this:
(Aren't the earrings fabulous? An out-of-state friend mailed me a whole bunch of her blingy jewelry that we Brown girls have been rocking around here.)
The newly 5-year-old girl brought me a blow-up dragon that we own and said, "Here you go! It's a dragon to go with your pirate costume!"
I had been waiting for the pirate comment - you may recall that my girls had been making pirate comments even before bald happened, and another awesome cancer survivor's blog talked about her pirate moment in a grocery store. I sort of thought mine would also happen in that kind of venue. But I grinned and said, "Thanks, babe!" while hoping next time I would have the gumption to say, "ARRRRRGGGHHHHH!!! Thanks be to ye, matey!!"
This seadog is pleased to report, however, that doing my hair has gone from 10 minutes (with long waves) to 5 minutes (with a pixie cut) to 0 minutes. I miss my hair, and I know my girls do, too. But man: This no-time hairdo is pretty sweet.
Boy, is it ever. Chemo No. 3 is Friday, day after tomorrow. I told some folks recently that I only just turned the corner from "I guess I may be meeting Jesus earlier than I thought" to "This chemo is helping heal me, and helping better guarantee that I'm going to watch my girls grow up."
And yet: I am hugely un-excited for Friday.
My hair has continued to fall out en masse. I am now feeling especially thankful to be enjoying the head wraps and hats that I have received from folks - there is only a light fuzz atop my noodle now. Amazingly to me, this does not seem to distress my girls. In fact, I have asked them on a couple of mornings: "Hat or bald today?" to have them say, "Bald." With no fear or distress - I marvel at them.
If only I could borrow a bit of that bravery. Earlier this week I went swimming for the first time in months - between the surgeries and just feeling yucky, I haven't been interested. But my sweet husband had purchased me a swim cap, I didn't feel beyond horrible and my two beautiful daughters really, REALLY wanted me to come swimming with them and their dad. So I sucked it up ... but I still exited the pool before the rest of my family and the rest of the pool got out. I didn't want to do the bald thing in front of non-family.
There was a basketball practice happening during swim time, and a little girl came in to use the locker room bathroom. She looked about 3 or 4. She came over to where I was changing and asked about whether kids were swimming in the pool I had just left. I still had on the swim cap, but she pointed at my head and said: "Where is your hair?"
"It's under there, sweetheart - this is a swim cap!" I smiled, and thought of myself: Chicken. If there was anyone with whom I could practice some bald lines, this was a great choice - kids are amazing. But I just wasn't ready to say it. And besides, I rationalized, I have at least 30 pieces of my hair up there. That must count for something.
But another really great kid interaction happened just a couple days ago. An awesome mom that I know and her three girls showed up unexpectedly - it was so good to see them and catch up, and we LOVED having them. I looked like this:
(Aren't the earrings fabulous? An out-of-state friend mailed me a whole bunch of her blingy jewelry that we Brown girls have been rocking around here.)
The newly 5-year-old girl brought me a blow-up dragon that we own and said, "Here you go! It's a dragon to go with your pirate costume!"
I had been waiting for the pirate comment - you may recall that my girls had been making pirate comments even before bald happened, and another awesome cancer survivor's blog talked about her pirate moment in a grocery store. I sort of thought mine would also happen in that kind of venue. But I grinned and said, "Thanks, babe!" while hoping next time I would have the gumption to say, "ARRRRRGGGHHHHH!!! Thanks be to ye, matey!!"
This seadog is pleased to report, however, that doing my hair has gone from 10 minutes (with long waves) to 5 minutes (with a pixie cut) to 0 minutes. I miss my hair, and I know my girls do, too. But man: This no-time hairdo is pretty sweet.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Nothing Compares to ...
Chemo No. 2: Complete.
It feels great to write that. But then, the next thing I think is: 14 more to go. A wonderful friend actually made our family a sticker chart to count down the treatments - the timing of this was perfect, because the very night before, I had been weeping to my husband about how it felt like this experience was never going to end (I wish I was one of those dainty little criers, but alas, I am not). It feels like years since I got that phone call on January 9 telling me I had cancer - how can I only be two treatments down?
So to get that sticker chart the very next day after my meltdown - I sensed God's timing, His wink and encouragement all at the same time.
"For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us." Romans 8:18
My husband buzz cut my hair the evening of my second treatment. My hair had waited to obviously to fall out, quite appropriately, until the morning of my chemo appointment. I had been waiting and waiting for This Big Moment, and I was kind of expecting to hear sweeping violin music while I was being shorn ... really - don't we all sometimes need a soundtrack? But it was actually anti-climatic. We had been talking to the girls about it for some time, after all.
JB was also happy to do the deed in the hotel bathroom. As we learned a couple years ago in Seattle, it's rather marvelous to have maid service when your family experiences something lovely like food poisoning. Or in this case, a noggin that needs a full shave job. When our amazing friend (who has been watching the girls during my appointments) so kindly offered to loan us her clippers, we were happy to accept.
"Is this hard for you?" I asked JB as he buzzed away, chunks of my pixie cut hitting the floor.
"A bit," he answered. I wondered if this was because he was having a hard time looking at a bald wife, but later, he said it was because the hair represented just one more piece of our lives that was being forced to change because of this cancer. To lighten things up, I treated my family a couple bars of "Nothing Compares to U," by Sinead O'Connor. The girls didn't get it, but it made my rock of a husband chuckle.
I am also relived to report two things:
It feels great to write that. But then, the next thing I think is: 14 more to go. A wonderful friend actually made our family a sticker chart to count down the treatments - the timing of this was perfect, because the very night before, I had been weeping to my husband about how it felt like this experience was never going to end (I wish I was one of those dainty little criers, but alas, I am not). It feels like years since I got that phone call on January 9 telling me I had cancer - how can I only be two treatments down?
So to get that sticker chart the very next day after my meltdown - I sensed God's timing, His wink and encouragement all at the same time.
"For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us." Romans 8:18
My husband buzz cut my hair the evening of my second treatment. My hair had waited to obviously to fall out, quite appropriately, until the morning of my chemo appointment. I had been waiting and waiting for This Big Moment, and I was kind of expecting to hear sweeping violin music while I was being shorn ... really - don't we all sometimes need a soundtrack? But it was actually anti-climatic. We had been talking to the girls about it for some time, after all.
JB was also happy to do the deed in the hotel bathroom. As we learned a couple years ago in Seattle, it's rather marvelous to have maid service when your family experiences something lovely like food poisoning. Or in this case, a noggin that needs a full shave job. When our amazing friend (who has been watching the girls during my appointments) so kindly offered to loan us her clippers, we were happy to accept.
"Is this hard for you?" I asked JB as he buzzed away, chunks of my pixie cut hitting the floor.
"A bit," he answered. I wondered if this was because he was having a hard time looking at a bald wife, but later, he said it was because the hair represented just one more piece of our lives that was being forced to change because of this cancer. To lighten things up, I treated my family a couple bars of "Nothing Compares to U," by Sinead O'Connor. The girls didn't get it, but it made my rock of a husband chuckle.
I am also relived to report two things:
- My port worked perfectly the day of treatment - a huge relief. The oncologist nurses said I should resign myself to getting my blood drawn from my arm so I don't have to endure another go-around like before, but I may try again. Another friend fighting cancer pointed out I'll end up with scar tissue in my arm if they don't use the port, and I figure: If I've got this sucker in my chest, I might as well use it.
- The fasting before chemo seems to have paid off - the overwhelming feeling of nausea was considerably less the day of treatment! (Thank you again to my amazing cousin who sent me that information.) However, the 2.5 day water-only fast also caused me to almost pass out the day of treatment, so I think I'll try fasting less or supplementing with more than just water next time.
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