Cancer has taken too much already

Revisiting the cancer journey, just when I was beginning to leave it behind, was not one of my better ideas.  Look, if you’re curious, my life’s an open book.  Um, an open web page.

Here’s my timeline.

• Reflecting on my mother-in-law’s diagnosis: June 15, 2007
• First idea that something might be wrong with me: June 16, 2007
• Diagnosis: June 26, 2007
• Testing: June 18 – July 5, 2007
• Chemotherapy: July 12 – December 30, 2007
• Bilateral Mastectomy: January 24, 2008
• Radiation: March – May, 2008
• Bilateral Oopherectomy: August 26, 2008
• Lymphedema: February 23, 2008 – present

Now you know.  You can look up those posts, or any of the ones surrounding these issues, using two new tools over there on the right.  There’s a brand new category box over there, right above the drop down box for the monthly archives.  Read about whatever you like — chemotherapy, mastectomy, radiation — it’s all there, in emotionally gory detail.  I have nothing to hide.

Particularly not tonight, the night that I learned of another friend’s death, the death of yet another mother with cancer.  I didn’t know Manda well, and that’s my loss.  I know that.  I enjoyed her writing, and I offered her what little support I could.  I wish it could have been more. I wish, more than anything, that she could have benefited from a cure, and that her last efforts to find help at a hospital in Houston could have done the trick.

Instead, she’s gone.

A husband grieves, friends gather round, and a child … a three year old little boy … has lost his mommy.

Excuse me while my heart breaks for that little boy and all those who loved Amanda, a.k.a. Alabama Pink.

We’ve come so far…

The comments on the last post remind me really how amazing it was that this year, I was able to go to a professional conference, even wrapped, and make the most of it.  I was right in the thick of things, leading meetings, mentoring young scientists, encouraging old friends, and listening to the leaders of my field.  I made the most of every moment, dragging myself back to the hotel every night exhausted.  But the good kind of exhausted, y’know?

A year or so ago, it wasn’t this way.  Susan K commented on the last post, “last year in Huntsville, you were uncomfortable, hiding, avoiding, stressed about all the interactions and got difficult, stupid, hard-to-answer comments in reply. In Houston this year, you are confident, matter-of-fact, no-biggie-let’s-move-on, and you get what you want and need back.”  She’s right.  She’s really right.  [And she was there in Huntsville, so there's no glossing over it.  It was very difficult for me to be at a scientific meeting bald, sick, tired, and with a body that would barely make it through the sessions.  At one point, I even lay down on the chairs in the back row, reluctant to leave the talks, but without enough energy left even to sit up.]

That time in Huntsville was so painful it actually hurts to remember it.  I was in the middle of chemo, then, though, and hadn’t yet had surgery, so I was still carrying around the cancer, both literally and figuratively.  If you weren’t around then, here’s a couple of posts about the questions that my colleagues asked and what I wish had happened instead.  I didn’t leave the hotel, because I didn’t have any energy.  I passed out during a working lunch and had to have former colleagues help me walk back to the elevator, where my husband met me and nearly carried me back upstairs.  I was sick and nauseated.  Heck, I had just had chemo a few days earlier.

Yeah.  This year’s conference went thousands of times better.

I’m back home now, and it was a success.

A big success.

I’m going to take a couple days to catch my breath, and then I’m going to rerun and/or link to a few posts that tell my cancer story in a nutshell, for those of you just joining us, or who weren’t here in June 2007.  I keep thinking that maybe I’ve said enough … and then I get emails from survivors and families who want me to say more.  I will.  I’ll keep talking as long as it’s helping someone out there.  There is a message here.  Survival is wonderful, but none of us really know how long we have on this earth.  I have one motto, and I’m going to live by it. I’m making today count.

What did you do to your arm?

Revisited.

I’ve spent the last two days in meetings where I’ve seen an awful lot of old friends, new colleagues, and friends I just haven’t met yet.  (Yes, I am that corny.  Now. When I used to have a hard-ass job?  Not so much.)  Nearly everyone has asked about my arm.  My wrist.  That big wrap on my arm.

But you know what?  You guys would have been proud of me.  I didn’t duck the question.  I didn’t apologize, or minimize.  I simply said. “It’s just a side effect.  A complication of the cancer I had last year.”  Everyone, to a man, has had a sympathetic follow-up.  Because I’ve tried it out on you guys, I’m now able to say, “It’s okay.  I’m in remission now.  But it makes me really glad to be here.”  And then we move on to discuss the work of the day.

It’s good.  Really good.

And in this context?  People are interested in my ideas … and sharing their ideas … and cancer seems so far away from my life.

Happy starts today

today, I am ready
to take on the world anew
happy starts today

This week has been hard, both physically and inside my head.  But, like many things, it’s easier sometimes to fight the battles when they’re out in the open.  So I gave in to it for a day or two, then boxed it severely around the ears, and — I think — prevailed.  Today I woke up with just one thought: “Happy. Starts today.”  With that attitude and a little luck (and a whole lotta help from my PTs), I was able to have a wonderful day with my kids and parents-in-law at the Baltimore Aquarium, to have lunch and dinner out without any embarrassment, and to even go shopping socially in the afternoon.  Yes, it was difficult to try things on, and yes, I’m not even sure whether the shirts will fit properly when my wrap is removed, but, all in all, it doesn’t really matter.  I tried on clothes today and looked at myself full in the mirror, and saw — most of the time – only clothes, fitting or ill-fitting, but the fault this time was in the clothes.  Too tight around the belly?  Too loose in the bust?  The clothes were simply cut for a different body shape than mine.  I went back out and found something else.  Without tears.  Without blame.  Without cancer trying to run the show.

Today, with the help of my family, who carried my toddler and lifted him up to see the exhibits, who cut the kids’ sandwiches when I couldn’t grasp the knife, and who just had fun with me today, I went out — and cancer stayed behind.  Perhaps my first thought today will prove true after all: Happy. Starts today.