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!