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