I'm feeling a bit better today. I got a good night sleep last night with the help of the medication and haven't had too much stomach cramping so far today. I took another pain killer and a different kind of nausea pill this morning, which have made me a little bit drowsy but not completely loopy like last night.
And I am feeling great that today marks the last day of week 3 -- yippee!! It's hard to believe that I have be doing the radiation and chemo for three weeks already -- the time really has gone fast. So now I only have 2 1/2 more weeks to go and then I am done with this phase of treatment and I get a break for a few weeks to let my poor body heal before surgery.
And hopefully by the end of this phase the Bitch and all of her little one-cell (or many-celled) bitchy spawns will be dead, dead, dead as doorknobs! I actually rejoice every time I have to go to the bathroom these days since I envision all of the bitchy spawn cells being flushed out of my body and swept off to some far away sewage treatment plant! It's really a wonderful vision -- ha!
Friday, March 30, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Quick Update
Not much new to report other than the fact that I have officially been hit by the chemoradiation symptoms. They came on hard and fast in the past couple days, the worst of which were completely debilitating stomach cramps all day today. I couldn't eat or drink anything (even water!) without being doubled over in pain. I finally got in to see my doctor and at his suggestion took both a pain-killer and an anti-nausea pill that seemed to help. After that, I was able to eat a fairly good dinner, read Luke a quick bedtime story and then I promptly crashed on the couch for the rest of the night. Unfortunately, the anti-nausea pills are also sleeping pills and so I was completely loopy within about 15 minutes after taking them so I'm not quite sure exactly what I read to Luke for a bedtime story, but luckily he can't read very well himself yet and so didn't question the story at all.
So now I'll likely be spending the remaining few weeks popping drugs like crazy to manage the pain, but hopefully that will at least keep me from having to be taken off the chemo (which the nurses were threatening today). I'm just taking it day by day...moment by moment...
So now I'll likely be spending the remaining few weeks popping drugs like crazy to manage the pain, but hopefully that will at least keep me from having to be taken off the chemo (which the nurses were threatening today). I'm just taking it day by day...moment by moment...
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Sleep In Total Darkness
An interesting study was mentioned at the retreat I attended last weekend and it has implications for everyone reading this blog and so I wanted to pass along the info...
There is an enzyme called melatonin that is secreted by the pineal gland (a pea-sized structure at the center of our brain) each night as we sleep. More specifically, melatonin is secreted as our eyes register darkness. Scientists have become increasingly interested in melatonin because someone happened to take note of the fact that breast cancer risk decreases by degree of visual impairment -- which basically means that the more blind a woman is, the less her chances of developing breast cancer. And the same is true for men and prostate cancer, but to a slightly lesser degree.
I had my cousin, Jeremy, do some research to see if he could find any medical articles to support this before I passed along questionable data and he actually did find a recent article. I won't bore you with the medical mumbo-jumbo of the article, but will share the conclusions:
"Our findings add to the suggestive epidemiological evidence for a decreased risk of hormone-related cancers in people with visual impairment and, consequently, a relationship between visible light at night and breast cancer risk."
So what does this mean for each of us? According to the women at the retreat, we should all make every effort to sleep in complete darkness. This means no night lights, no bathroom or hall lights left, alarm clocks with red rather than green numbers, window shades that block out all outside light, etc.
This may seem like a wacky idea to some of you, but as part of my new "no regrets" living I can tell you that I am not taking any chances! It's ALL lights out in the Wheelan household from now on!
There is an enzyme called melatonin that is secreted by the pineal gland (a pea-sized structure at the center of our brain) each night as we sleep. More specifically, melatonin is secreted as our eyes register darkness. Scientists have become increasingly interested in melatonin because someone happened to take note of the fact that breast cancer risk decreases by degree of visual impairment -- which basically means that the more blind a woman is, the less her chances of developing breast cancer. And the same is true for men and prostate cancer, but to a slightly lesser degree.
I had my cousin, Jeremy, do some research to see if he could find any medical articles to support this before I passed along questionable data and he actually did find a recent article. I won't bore you with the medical mumbo-jumbo of the article, but will share the conclusions:
"Our findings add to the suggestive epidemiological evidence for a decreased risk of hormone-related cancers in people with visual impairment and, consequently, a relationship between visible light at night and breast cancer risk."
So what does this mean for each of us? According to the women at the retreat, we should all make every effort to sleep in complete darkness. This means no night lights, no bathroom or hall lights left, alarm clocks with red rather than green numbers, window shades that block out all outside light, etc.
This may seem like a wacky idea to some of you, but as part of my new "no regrets" living I can tell you that I am not taking any chances! It's ALL lights out in the Wheelan household from now on!
Moving Toward No Regret
I have had countless people encourage me to turn this blog into a book when this whole experience is behind me. In fact, a very funny friend of mine put it bluntly: "Of course you should write a book -- exploit the damn Bitch!" Ha, ha!
I realized this morning, though, that there are really only two reasons that I would turn my writings into a book. One is so that I can re-read it myself in the years to come. I hope and pray that I have many, many, MANY more years ahead of me and that this whole experience becomes nothing more than a "blip" in my life. But even if that is the case, I expect that many of the details of this experience will quietly fade over time, slowly replaced by happier memories or more "urgent" issues. And while I look forward to the time when my mind is no longer filled with such fear and sadness, I also don't ever want to forget what I have learned. I don't ever want to become complacent about life and forget how precious every day is. I want to continue to live every moment and make every decision in such a way that I have no regrets. I want to always remember what it feels like to know that I am mortal and that life does not last forever, so that I never waste another moment doing things which are unimportant rather than things which really matter.
I would also like to turn these writings into a book so that someday, when they are old enough, my children can read it. Fortunately, my children are too young to truly understand the magnitude of what I am battling, but someday they will understand. And when that time comes, I hope that they will read what I have written and gain a very solid understanding of who I am as a person and the values that I think are important. Hopefully, through my writing, they will learn that courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the strength to move forward in the face of fear. And hopefully they will learn that I believe strongly in a Higher Power. And that I believe if we can quiet our minds and our hearts and come to a place within ourselves where we can be very clear about what we truly want from life, that this Higher Power will often lead us down the path we have chosen. And hopefully they will learn that I think the most important thing a person can do in life is to recognize that life is finite, it is not a "dress rehearsal." And so the most important thing that an individual can do in life is to ensure that every choice he or she makes -- whether it's the work you choose, the products you buy, the foods you eat, the life partner you select (or an infinite number of other choices we make every day) -- that every choice is made in such a way that there will never be any regrets. This is not to say that mistakes won't be made (e.g., you think that you want one thing but later realize the true cost of that choice) or that choices won't change as life evolves. But in my mind "having no regrets" means taking the time on a regular basis (once a year? once a month?) to make sure that your life is aligned to your values. And when it is not, having the courage and strength to make the necessary changes.
I am a firm believer that there is a silver lining in every situation, no matter how awful the situation may be. For me, being diagnosed with cancer has given me such a fresh, new perspective on life. There are definitely things that I was doing and choices that I made prior to my diagnosis which were not aligned to my own values. And so simultaneous to my medical treatment, I am also using this time to re-evaluate my own life choices (e.g., what type of work do I want to do once I am done with treatment; what is the right family/work balance for me; what products or foods did I used to buy that I don't ever want in my home again; how do I want to spend my time; how do I want to spend -- or not spend -- my money). I feel grateful, though, that I am still alive and have the benefit of newfound insight to re-think my choices. I am infinitely grateful that it's not too late for me to move toward a life of no regret.
I realized this morning, though, that there are really only two reasons that I would turn my writings into a book. One is so that I can re-read it myself in the years to come. I hope and pray that I have many, many, MANY more years ahead of me and that this whole experience becomes nothing more than a "blip" in my life. But even if that is the case, I expect that many of the details of this experience will quietly fade over time, slowly replaced by happier memories or more "urgent" issues. And while I look forward to the time when my mind is no longer filled with such fear and sadness, I also don't ever want to forget what I have learned. I don't ever want to become complacent about life and forget how precious every day is. I want to continue to live every moment and make every decision in such a way that I have no regrets. I want to always remember what it feels like to know that I am mortal and that life does not last forever, so that I never waste another moment doing things which are unimportant rather than things which really matter.
I would also like to turn these writings into a book so that someday, when they are old enough, my children can read it. Fortunately, my children are too young to truly understand the magnitude of what I am battling, but someday they will understand. And when that time comes, I hope that they will read what I have written and gain a very solid understanding of who I am as a person and the values that I think are important. Hopefully, through my writing, they will learn that courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the strength to move forward in the face of fear. And hopefully they will learn that I believe strongly in a Higher Power. And that I believe if we can quiet our minds and our hearts and come to a place within ourselves where we can be very clear about what we truly want from life, that this Higher Power will often lead us down the path we have chosen. And hopefully they will learn that I think the most important thing a person can do in life is to recognize that life is finite, it is not a "dress rehearsal." And so the most important thing that an individual can do in life is to ensure that every choice he or she makes -- whether it's the work you choose, the products you buy, the foods you eat, the life partner you select (or an infinite number of other choices we make every day) -- that every choice is made in such a way that there will never be any regrets. This is not to say that mistakes won't be made (e.g., you think that you want one thing but later realize the true cost of that choice) or that choices won't change as life evolves. But in my mind "having no regrets" means taking the time on a regular basis (once a year? once a month?) to make sure that your life is aligned to your values. And when it is not, having the courage and strength to make the necessary changes.
I am a firm believer that there is a silver lining in every situation, no matter how awful the situation may be. For me, being diagnosed with cancer has given me such a fresh, new perspective on life. There are definitely things that I was doing and choices that I made prior to my diagnosis which were not aligned to my own values. And so simultaneous to my medical treatment, I am also using this time to re-evaluate my own life choices (e.g., what type of work do I want to do once I am done with treatment; what is the right family/work balance for me; what products or foods did I used to buy that I don't ever want in my home again; how do I want to spend my time; how do I want to spend -- or not spend -- my money). I feel grateful, though, that I am still alive and have the benefit of newfound insight to re-think my choices. I am infinitely grateful that it's not too late for me to move toward a life of no regret.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Weekly Check-In
Today was my weekly check-in with my radiation oncologist (Dr Poen) and my chemo oncologist (Dr Gullion) and both appointments went really well. My blood counts have all remained stable since last week (my white blood cell count actually improved slightly), and both of my doctors were "thrilled" to hear that I am beginning to have symptoms. Their reaction was surprising to Pete and I, but they explained that the formula they use to determine how much chemo to administer is less than perfect. It's basically based on my height and weight, but is not sophisticated enough to take into consideration my specific biochemistry (e.g., how well my body metabolizes medications.) And so it's a bit of a guessing game as to how much of the chemo drugs to give. The fact that I am now exhibiting typical chemo and radiation symptoms (e.g., fatigue; dry/cracked lips; abdominal cramping; nausea; diarrhea) indicates that the treatment is working. And for me this means that the Bitch is getting walloped -- WOO HOO! In fact, Dr Poen said that, in his experience, patients who show the greatest degree of symptoms also seem have the best overall responses. Go, symptoms, go!!
But the challenge is that we now begin a bit of a balancing act -- my doctors need to make sure that my symptoms don't become too debilitating and cause other, equally serious, problems. For example, if the diarrhea gets too severe I might become too dehydrated and malnourished. Or if the nausea continues I might lose my appetite all-together and begin losing too much weight. Apparently, based on my height/weight, there is a standard range of medication levels and they have been treating me at the highest level possible -- they have been "throwing the kitchen sink at me," if you will. If the symptoms become too severe, they will need to cut back on the level or even stop the chemo for a few days to allow my body to recover. And I obviously don't want that to happen!!
So now we are in all out "symptom reduction" mode. Which means that I am no longer eating anything high fiber, I am taking anti-nausea pills, I am keeping my lips constantly smeared with Vaseline so that I can even open my mouth to eat, and I am napping like crazy. And I keep reminding myself that I only have to hang in there for 3 more weeks and then I'll be done with Phase I. I can survive anything for 3 weeks -- piece of cake!! The problem is that Dr Poen predicts that my symptoms will likely get worse before they get better. And seeing as he basically predicted almost to the day when symptoms would even start, I have a sinking feeling that he is right. So I am fearful of what the coming weeks hold in store. But I also keeping hanging on to the knowledge that I only have one chance to beat this awful cancer out of my body. I HAVE to survive through these symptoms -- no matter how awful they become -- because I might not get another chance!!! So I am going to do everything in my power to make it through these next few weeks at the highest level of treatment possible by focusing on just putting one foot in front of the other and taking each day as it comes. I can't think too far out -- I just need to focus on getting through each day, each hour, each moment.
This is my mountain. No one said that the climb would be easy. I know that I can do it, though...I have to. I have no choice -- I WANT TO LIVE!
But the challenge is that we now begin a bit of a balancing act -- my doctors need to make sure that my symptoms don't become too debilitating and cause other, equally serious, problems. For example, if the diarrhea gets too severe I might become too dehydrated and malnourished. Or if the nausea continues I might lose my appetite all-together and begin losing too much weight. Apparently, based on my height/weight, there is a standard range of medication levels and they have been treating me at the highest level possible -- they have been "throwing the kitchen sink at me," if you will. If the symptoms become too severe, they will need to cut back on the level or even stop the chemo for a few days to allow my body to recover. And I obviously don't want that to happen!!
So now we are in all out "symptom reduction" mode. Which means that I am no longer eating anything high fiber, I am taking anti-nausea pills, I am keeping my lips constantly smeared with Vaseline so that I can even open my mouth to eat, and I am napping like crazy. And I keep reminding myself that I only have to hang in there for 3 more weeks and then I'll be done with Phase I. I can survive anything for 3 weeks -- piece of cake!! The problem is that Dr Poen predicts that my symptoms will likely get worse before they get better. And seeing as he basically predicted almost to the day when symptoms would even start, I have a sinking feeling that he is right. So I am fearful of what the coming weeks hold in store. But I also keeping hanging on to the knowledge that I only have one chance to beat this awful cancer out of my body. I HAVE to survive through these symptoms -- no matter how awful they become -- because I might not get another chance!!! So I am going to do everything in my power to make it through these next few weeks at the highest level of treatment possible by focusing on just putting one foot in front of the other and taking each day as it comes. I can't think too far out -- I just need to focus on getting through each day, each hour, each moment.
This is my mountain. No one said that the climb would be easy. I know that I can do it, though...I have to. I have no choice -- I WANT TO LIVE!
Monday, March 26, 2007
23 Days Left
Just in case you are not counting the minutes (as I am!) until my last radiation appointment, I thought I would let you know that I have exactly 23 days and 17 more treatments left until I am done with Phase I of The Bitch Must Go campaign.
As it turns out, a very good friend of mine, Carter Hachman, is getting married in London on the day that I am scheduled to be done with treatment (April 18th). She wrote me today to let me know that the only thing that they planned with the vicar during the whole wedding ceremony is a prayer for me during the prayers of the faithful. She told me there will be 200 people at the wedding and so I should be prepared for a "jolt of love" around 9am PST on that day. I wrote her back and said that "hopefully God has been hearing our prayers all along and the Bitch is well on her way to a lonely tumor graveyard, but just in case, it will be great to have another 200 people sending one last reminder!" In any event, I think that a "jolt of love" will be an incredibly wonderful way to kick off my last and final day of radiation treatment! :)
As it turns out, a very good friend of mine, Carter Hachman, is getting married in London on the day that I am scheduled to be done with treatment (April 18th). She wrote me today to let me know that the only thing that they planned with the vicar during the whole wedding ceremony is a prayer for me during the prayers of the faithful. She told me there will be 200 people at the wedding and so I should be prepared for a "jolt of love" around 9am PST on that day. I wrote her back and said that "hopefully God has been hearing our prayers all along and the Bitch is well on her way to a lonely tumor graveyard, but just in case, it will be great to have another 200 people sending one last reminder!" In any event, I think that a "jolt of love" will be an incredibly wonderful way to kick off my last and final day of radiation treatment! :)
The Peace of Wild Things
One of the caregivers at the retreat that I attended this weekend read us this poem. I thought that it was so beautiful and so appropriate for me, since I, too, have found in these past few weeks that I am most at peace when I am surrounded by the grace and solace of nature.
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows within me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and I am free.
--Wendell Berry
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows within me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and I am free.
--Wendell Berry
My Retreat
Well, I am back now from the retreat and I am happy to report that I stayed the whole time! There were definitely moments when I wanted to leave, to get back in the car and tuck this whole "cancer experience" conveniently in the back of my mind. But I forced myself to stay and in the end, I think that it was worth it.
The hardest part about the weekend was that there were no other women there to whom I could fully relate. I was the only participant at the retreat who has colon cancer (in fact, 12 of the 14 attendees had breast cancer!) so that was difficult. Many of the other women were able to easily relate to each other since they have gone through similar treatments and/or had similar surgeries. Plus, I was also the youngest participant -- most of the other women were late 40's through 60's, and so I also felt a bit distanced from them for that reason as well. But overall, I found that the speakers and the activities were all very informative and therapeutic (I'll share more details when I have more time). And the women who organized the event were very inspirational.
I also found that it was incredibly relaxing and helpful to be in a place where I could let my guard down. I don't think that I realized how stressful it has been to try to "keep my happy face on" around my children. Being in a wonderful, safe environment surrounded by other women and caretakers who could completely relate to my confusion, sadness and anger allowed me to feel comfortable in releasing a lot of emotion that has been bottled up for the past few weeks. I think that I cried more this past weekend than I have since the first few days after learning about my diagnosis!
So, all in all, I am glad that I went. I don't know if I will keep in touch with any of the women, but I will definitely keep them in my heart and I will pray for their health and well-being. There were many women at the retreat who showed the tell-tale signs of cancer treatment (as I initially feared) but I learned first-hand that, just because a women does not have any hair left or because her body has been weakened by chemo, her spirit can still remain intact and can still be an incredibly strong and life-sustaining force. Cancer treatment may kill the cancer (and, unfortunately, many healthy cells at the same time!) but it can never, ever reach the spirit unless you let it. And so it is the positive, radiant, grounded spirits of these women that I will carry with me on my own journey.
The hardest part about the weekend was that there were no other women there to whom I could fully relate. I was the only participant at the retreat who has colon cancer (in fact, 12 of the 14 attendees had breast cancer!) so that was difficult. Many of the other women were able to easily relate to each other since they have gone through similar treatments and/or had similar surgeries. Plus, I was also the youngest participant -- most of the other women were late 40's through 60's, and so I also felt a bit distanced from them for that reason as well. But overall, I found that the speakers and the activities were all very informative and therapeutic (I'll share more details when I have more time). And the women who organized the event were very inspirational.
I also found that it was incredibly relaxing and helpful to be in a place where I could let my guard down. I don't think that I realized how stressful it has been to try to "keep my happy face on" around my children. Being in a wonderful, safe environment surrounded by other women and caretakers who could completely relate to my confusion, sadness and anger allowed me to feel comfortable in releasing a lot of emotion that has been bottled up for the past few weeks. I think that I cried more this past weekend than I have since the first few days after learning about my diagnosis!
So, all in all, I am glad that I went. I don't know if I will keep in touch with any of the women, but I will definitely keep them in my heart and I will pray for their health and well-being. There were many women at the retreat who showed the tell-tale signs of cancer treatment (as I initially feared) but I learned first-hand that, just because a women does not have any hair left or because her body has been weakened by chemo, her spirit can still remain intact and can still be an incredibly strong and life-sustaining force. Cancer treatment may kill the cancer (and, unfortunately, many healthy cells at the same time!) but it can never, ever reach the spirit unless you let it. And so it is the positive, radiant, grounded spirits of these women that I will carry with me on my own journey.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Weekend Retreat
I am going away on a women's cancer retreat this weekend. I struggled for a long time about whether or not to go. On the one hand, I have heard from many, many people how powerful support groups can be in helping cancer patients to deal with the roller-coaster of, well, cancer. And so, from that perspective, I am looking forward to meeting other women who are facing similar situations and emotions and to learn from their approaches and attitudes.
But on the other hand, I struggle with the idea of calling myself a "cancer patient", and when you go on a "cancer retreat" that is pretty much what you are! I don't want to be know as "the cancer mom." I don't want this cancer to define who I am. Before my diagnosis, I thought of myself (right or wrong! ha!) as a hip, cool, young-looking mom who worked out a lot and was smart and laid-back and great at marketing. I don't want this new label of cancer. As Pete likes to joke with me, "It doesn't fit with the Julie Wheelan brand." Ha, ha!
But my hesitation goes further than that. I am afraid that the other women at the retreat will look like cancer patients. And that is scary to me. When I read the Lance Armstrong book, It's Not About The Bike, one of the things that he talks about is how most cancers don't make people look different. The image that most of us have in our minds of a "cancer patient" is actually caused by the cancer treatment, not the cancer itself. I am early on in my treatment, and while the doctors reassure me that I will not experience many of the typical side-effects of other, stronger chemo protocols (such as hair loss or weight loss), I still don't know what to expect. And so I am afraid that seeing other women who are farther along in their treatment will be unnerving.
And to be honest, I am also afraid of whether these women will be strong or weak. I have no interest in being around cancer patients who do not have a will to fight and live. In fact, quite the opposite -- I really need to be surrounded by positive, fighting, take-charge people, because I am motivated by their energy. Will I leave the retreat feeling energized and more prepared than ever to beat the Bitch? Or will I feel sapped of my determination and saddened by what lies ahead for me?
And lastly, I will miss my family. Like I mentioned in an earlier blog, I already feel like I don't have enough time in the day to spend with my kids and with the other people whom I love. And so making the decision to actively leave them is incredibly difficult and one that I hope I do not regret.
And so, here I go...I am off to pack. I leave in a couple hours and will be gone until Sunday evening, and so you won't hear from me until then -- unless of course, I bail out of the retreat early and come home again with open arms to embrace those I love, which I have left open to myself as an option. Stay tuned...
But on the other hand, I struggle with the idea of calling myself a "cancer patient", and when you go on a "cancer retreat" that is pretty much what you are! I don't want to be know as "the cancer mom." I don't want this cancer to define who I am. Before my diagnosis, I thought of myself (right or wrong! ha!) as a hip, cool, young-looking mom who worked out a lot and was smart and laid-back and great at marketing. I don't want this new label of cancer. As Pete likes to joke with me, "It doesn't fit with the Julie Wheelan brand." Ha, ha!
But my hesitation goes further than that. I am afraid that the other women at the retreat will look like cancer patients. And that is scary to me. When I read the Lance Armstrong book, It's Not About The Bike, one of the things that he talks about is how most cancers don't make people look different. The image that most of us have in our minds of a "cancer patient" is actually caused by the cancer treatment, not the cancer itself. I am early on in my treatment, and while the doctors reassure me that I will not experience many of the typical side-effects of other, stronger chemo protocols (such as hair loss or weight loss), I still don't know what to expect. And so I am afraid that seeing other women who are farther along in their treatment will be unnerving.
And to be honest, I am also afraid of whether these women will be strong or weak. I have no interest in being around cancer patients who do not have a will to fight and live. In fact, quite the opposite -- I really need to be surrounded by positive, fighting, take-charge people, because I am motivated by their energy. Will I leave the retreat feeling energized and more prepared than ever to beat the Bitch? Or will I feel sapped of my determination and saddened by what lies ahead for me?
And lastly, I will miss my family. Like I mentioned in an earlier blog, I already feel like I don't have enough time in the day to spend with my kids and with the other people whom I love. And so making the decision to actively leave them is incredibly difficult and one that I hope I do not regret.
And so, here I go...I am off to pack. I leave in a couple hours and will be gone until Sunday evening, and so you won't hear from me until then -- unless of course, I bail out of the retreat early and come home again with open arms to embrace those I love, which I have left open to myself as an option. Stay tuned...
My "Old Soul"
Do you ever look at your children and wonder whether they are more "tuned in" to the Universe than we as adults are? Every once in awhile, Luke will make a comment that is so incredibly profound and out-of-character for a 5-year-old that Pete and I are left standing there shaking our head in amazement and wondering whether there really is something to the idea of an "old soul."
A couple days ago, when I was gently trying to explain to Luke that I am going away this weekend on a cancer retreat for women, he looked at me and simply stated, "But Mommy, you don't have cancer."
"Yes, I do, Luke." I replied gently. "Remember, Mommy and Daddy talked with you about the fact that Mommy has a tumor growing in her colon that isn't supposed to be there? And that it's called cancer?"
"No, Mommy. You don't. You don't have cancer. It's not cancer." he replied. The matter-of-fact tone to his voice completely caught me off-guard. He didn't say it in a joking way or in a pleading way. Rather, he made the comment, completely straight-faced and matter-of-fact, in the same manner that you or I might say, "It's Friday, not Thursday."
Okay, I am probably just twisting things around in my head -- what some might refer to as "wishful thinking" -- or more likely, this is just denial on Luke's part, but I prefer to think that Luke is really just an "old soul" and that he is on to something that my Ivy League-trained doctors haven't yet figured out.
A couple days ago, when I was gently trying to explain to Luke that I am going away this weekend on a cancer retreat for women, he looked at me and simply stated, "But Mommy, you don't have cancer."
"Yes, I do, Luke." I replied gently. "Remember, Mommy and Daddy talked with you about the fact that Mommy has a tumor growing in her colon that isn't supposed to be there? And that it's called cancer?"
"No, Mommy. You don't. You don't have cancer. It's not cancer." he replied. The matter-of-fact tone to his voice completely caught me off-guard. He didn't say it in a joking way or in a pleading way. Rather, he made the comment, completely straight-faced and matter-of-fact, in the same manner that you or I might say, "It's Friday, not Thursday."
Okay, I am probably just twisting things around in my head -- what some might refer to as "wishful thinking" -- or more likely, this is just denial on Luke's part, but I prefer to think that Luke is really just an "old soul" and that he is on to something that my Ivy League-trained doctors haven't yet figured out.
How I Know Luke Is An Angel
When I was 6 months pregnant with Luke, Pete and I decided to take a "babymoon" (e.g., our last child-free vacation) to Australia, where we spent the majority of our time on the island of Tasmania. Toward the end of our trip, we ventured into Cradle Mountain National Park and stayed in a small cabin at the National Park lodge for a few days. The area had all the things that we love: great open spaces, miles and miles of hiking trails, and nature (literally) out our back door.
Because I was pregnant, I opted on the second day to stay back at the lodge while Pete went on a all-day hike around Crater Lake. Before he left, we decided to sign up for a nightlife viewing trip that evening that was scheduled to depart right after dinner. As planned, Pete arrived home shortly before dinner and got cleaned up; while he was showering, I relaxed on our back deck. As I was lounging there enjoying the view and the sounds of nature around me, I noticed a very large, strange animal -- which turned out to be a wombat -- just off the edge of the deck, slowly and obliviously munching away on the grass. I had never seen a wombat before and was mesmerized watching him (they look like enormous guinea pigs.) When Pete got out of the shower, he joined me in watching our new friend and we took a bunch of pictures for about 30 minutes.
Needless to say, our fascination with the wombat threw off our schedule and so we got to dinner late. And during dinner, our little baby (who we now know as Luke) would not settle down -- he was punching and kicking me nonstop. So during dinner we actually changed our plans and, rather than rushing through dinner, we decided to skip the nightlife viewing trip and instead just head back to the cabin afterwards so that I could lay down and hopefully get the baby to settle.
The next morning we were scheduled to leave Cradle Mountain and head to our next destination. Because we had a long drive ahead, we got up early in order to squeeze in one more hike. When we got to the park entrance, though, there were police cars everywhere and the trail head was blocked off with police tape. After talking with some of the police officers and visitor center personnel we learned that the nightlife tour bus that we were scheduled to be on the night before had been in a horrible accident. Apparently, the bus driver had pulled over to the side of the road to make space for an oncoming car and the shoulder of the road had given way, sending the bus toppling down a steep hill. Of the 17 passengers on the bus, 4 died immediately and 12 were seriously injured. To this day, I still cry when I think about how close we came to being on that bus. I truly believe that, even if Pete and I had somehow survived the accident, Luke would not have.
When we shared the story with our good friend, Jeff, he jokingly suggested that maybe the wombat would not actually appear in the photos when we got them developed since maybe the wombat was actually God in disguise. Well, the wombat did show up in the photos, but Pete and I still believe that that lazy, mesmerizing wombat was somehow sent by God to steer us down a different path and out of harm's way.
I also believe that Luke was sent to us by God. His restlessness that night, combined with the wombat, saved our lives. Had he been a quiet, easy-going baby we might have rushed through dinner and gotten on that bus and who knows whether we would even be here today. I believe that God gives you what you can handle and what you need in life. What Pete and I needed at that moment was an angel, and that is exactly what we received. When I think of angels, I think of them as being beautiful, happy, smiling, sensitive, determined, and loving -- all the things that my amazing child, Luke, is!
Because I was pregnant, I opted on the second day to stay back at the lodge while Pete went on a all-day hike around Crater Lake. Before he left, we decided to sign up for a nightlife viewing trip that evening that was scheduled to depart right after dinner. As planned, Pete arrived home shortly before dinner and got cleaned up; while he was showering, I relaxed on our back deck. As I was lounging there enjoying the view and the sounds of nature around me, I noticed a very large, strange animal -- which turned out to be a wombat -- just off the edge of the deck, slowly and obliviously munching away on the grass. I had never seen a wombat before and was mesmerized watching him (they look like enormous guinea pigs.) When Pete got out of the shower, he joined me in watching our new friend and we took a bunch of pictures for about 30 minutes.
Needless to say, our fascination with the wombat threw off our schedule and so we got to dinner late. And during dinner, our little baby (who we now know as Luke) would not settle down -- he was punching and kicking me nonstop. So during dinner we actually changed our plans and, rather than rushing through dinner, we decided to skip the nightlife viewing trip and instead just head back to the cabin afterwards so that I could lay down and hopefully get the baby to settle.
The next morning we were scheduled to leave Cradle Mountain and head to our next destination. Because we had a long drive ahead, we got up early in order to squeeze in one more hike. When we got to the park entrance, though, there were police cars everywhere and the trail head was blocked off with police tape. After talking with some of the police officers and visitor center personnel we learned that the nightlife tour bus that we were scheduled to be on the night before had been in a horrible accident. Apparently, the bus driver had pulled over to the side of the road to make space for an oncoming car and the shoulder of the road had given way, sending the bus toppling down a steep hill. Of the 17 passengers on the bus, 4 died immediately and 12 were seriously injured. To this day, I still cry when I think about how close we came to being on that bus. I truly believe that, even if Pete and I had somehow survived the accident, Luke would not have.
When we shared the story with our good friend, Jeff, he jokingly suggested that maybe the wombat would not actually appear in the photos when we got them developed since maybe the wombat was actually God in disguise. Well, the wombat did show up in the photos, but Pete and I still believe that that lazy, mesmerizing wombat was somehow sent by God to steer us down a different path and out of harm's way.
I also believe that Luke was sent to us by God. His restlessness that night, combined with the wombat, saved our lives. Had he been a quiet, easy-going baby we might have rushed through dinner and gotten on that bus and who knows whether we would even be here today. I believe that God gives you what you can handle and what you need in life. What Pete and I needed at that moment was an angel, and that is exactly what we received. When I think of angels, I think of them as being beautiful, happy, smiling, sensitive, determined, and loving -- all the things that my amazing child, Luke, is!
Thursday, March 22, 2007
The Smell of Rain
Below is a story that my best friend, Lisa, just sent to me. I wanted to share it because it was a sweet reminder to me that miracles do happen. By all accounts, the baby in this story should not have lived -- the fact that she did was a miracle.
I have a good friend from high school who is battling stage 4 lung cancer. She is a non-smoker and a mother of five, and she has been told by her doctors that she "needs a miracle to survive." And there are many, many people who do not survive the type of cancer that I have as well. While my prognosis is not as dire as Bernadette's, I am also praying for a miracle so that I make it through this experience in one piece.
I know that each person reading my blog holds his or her own personal beliefs about God and religion. I know that some of you believe (as I do) that there is a Higher Power somewhere who is with us through our lives, and so you will be comforted and touched by the ending of the story (as I was). And there are some of you who I know do not believe in a Higher Power, but I am still confident that you will take comfort in the reminder that somehow, for some reason, miracles do happen. Hopefully, this will also be true for Bernadette and me.
A cold March wind danced around the dead of night in Dallas as the doctor walked into the small hospital room of Diana Blessing. She was still groggy from surgery. Her husband, David, held her hand as they braced themselves for the latest news.
That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24-weeks pregnant, to undergo an emergency Cesarean to deliver couple's new daughter, Dana Lu Blessing.
At 12 inches long and weighing only one pound nine ounces, they already knew she was perilously premature. Still, the doctor's soft words dropped like bombs.
"I don't think she's going to make it," he said, as kindly as he could. "There's only a 10-percent chance she will live through the night, and even then, if by some slim chance she does make it, her future could be very cruel one"
Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Dana would likely face if she survived. She would never walk, she would never talk, she would probably be blind, and she would certainly be prone to other catastrophic conditions from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation, and on and on.
"No! No!" was all Diana could say.
She and David, with their 5-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of the day they would have a daughter to become a family of four. Now, within a matter of hours, that dream was slipping away
But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for David and Diana. Because Dana 's underdeveloped nervous system was essentially 'raw', the lightest kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn't even cradle their tiny baby girl against their chests to offer the strength of their love. All they could do, as Dana struggled alone beneath the ultraviolet light in the tangle of tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.
There was never a moment when Dana suddenly grew stronger. But as the weeks went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there. At last, when Dana turned two months old, her parents were able to hold her in their arms for the very first time. And two months later, though doctors continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less living any kind of normal life, were next to zero, Dana went home from the hospital, just as her mother had predicted.
Five years later, when Dana was a petite but feisty young girl with glittering gray eyes and an unquenchable zest for life. She showed no signs whatsoever of any mental or physical impairment. Simply, she was everything a little girl can be and more. But that happy ending is far from the end of her story.
One blistering afternoon in the summer of 1996 near her home in Irving ,Texas, Dana was sitting in her mother's lap in the bleachers of a local ball park where her brother Dustin's baseball team was practicing.
As always, Dana was chattering nonstop with her mother and several other adults sitting nearby when she suddenly fell silent. Hugging her arms across her chest, little Dana asked, "Do you smell that?" Smelling the air and detecting the approach of a thunderstorm, Diana replied, "Yes, it smells like rain."
Dana closed her eyes and again asked, "Do you smell that?"
Once again, her mother replied, "Yes, I think we're about to get wet. It smells like rain."
Still caught in the moment, Dana shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced,
"No, it smells like Him. It smells like God when you lay your head on His chest."
Tears blurred Diana's eyes as Dana happily hopped down to play with the other children.
Before the rains came, her daughter's words confirmed what Diana and all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their hearts, all along. During those long days and nights of her first two months of her life, when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was holding Dana on His chest and it is His loving scent that she remembers.
I have a good friend from high school who is battling stage 4 lung cancer. She is a non-smoker and a mother of five, and she has been told by her doctors that she "needs a miracle to survive." And there are many, many people who do not survive the type of cancer that I have as well. While my prognosis is not as dire as Bernadette's, I am also praying for a miracle so that I make it through this experience in one piece.
I know that each person reading my blog holds his or her own personal beliefs about God and religion. I know that some of you believe (as I do) that there is a Higher Power somewhere who is with us through our lives, and so you will be comforted and touched by the ending of the story (as I was). And there are some of you who I know do not believe in a Higher Power, but I am still confident that you will take comfort in the reminder that somehow, for some reason, miracles do happen. Hopefully, this will also be true for Bernadette and me.
A cold March wind danced around the dead of night in Dallas as the doctor walked into the small hospital room of Diana Blessing. She was still groggy from surgery. Her husband, David, held her hand as they braced themselves for the latest news.
That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24-weeks pregnant, to undergo an emergency Cesarean to deliver couple's new daughter, Dana Lu Blessing.
At 12 inches long and weighing only one pound nine ounces, they already knew she was perilously premature. Still, the doctor's soft words dropped like bombs.
"I don't think she's going to make it," he said, as kindly as he could. "There's only a 10-percent chance she will live through the night, and even then, if by some slim chance she does make it, her future could be very cruel one"
Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Dana would likely face if she survived. She would never walk, she would never talk, she would probably be blind, and she would certainly be prone to other catastrophic conditions from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation, and on and on.
"No! No!" was all Diana could say.
She and David, with their 5-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of the day they would have a daughter to become a family of four. Now, within a matter of hours, that dream was slipping away
But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for David and Diana. Because Dana 's underdeveloped nervous system was essentially 'raw', the lightest kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn't even cradle their tiny baby girl against their chests to offer the strength of their love. All they could do, as Dana struggled alone beneath the ultraviolet light in the tangle of tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.
There was never a moment when Dana suddenly grew stronger. But as the weeks went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there. At last, when Dana turned two months old, her parents were able to hold her in their arms for the very first time. And two months later, though doctors continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less living any kind of normal life, were next to zero, Dana went home from the hospital, just as her mother had predicted.
Five years later, when Dana was a petite but feisty young girl with glittering gray eyes and an unquenchable zest for life. She showed no signs whatsoever of any mental or physical impairment. Simply, she was everything a little girl can be and more. But that happy ending is far from the end of her story.
One blistering afternoon in the summer of 1996 near her home in Irving ,Texas, Dana was sitting in her mother's lap in the bleachers of a local ball park where her brother Dustin's baseball team was practicing.
As always, Dana was chattering nonstop with her mother and several other adults sitting nearby when she suddenly fell silent. Hugging her arms across her chest, little Dana asked, "Do you smell that?" Smelling the air and detecting the approach of a thunderstorm, Diana replied, "Yes, it smells like rain."
Dana closed her eyes and again asked, "Do you smell that?"
Once again, her mother replied, "Yes, I think we're about to get wet. It smells like rain."
Still caught in the moment, Dana shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced,
"No, it smells like Him. It smells like God when you lay your head on His chest."
Tears blurred Diana's eyes as Dana happily hopped down to play with the other children.
Before the rains came, her daughter's words confirmed what Diana and all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their hearts, all along. During those long days and nights of her first two months of her life, when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was holding Dana on His chest and it is His loving scent that she remembers.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
It Takes A Village -- ADDENDUM
Oh my Lord, my brain is failing me already!! In my "It Takes A Village" blog entry from a couple days ago, I completely forgot to mention five of my most important village members:
I have five friends -- Jan McDougal, Cindi and Dave Frame, Gale Love and Jenny Zeszut -- who began providing endless support and love immediately upon hearing of my diagnosis. Cindi and Jenny have served as the point-persons collecting funds from anyone who wanted to contribute and Cindi's husband, Dave, set up a bank account in my name so that I can tap into these funds as needed. Many of the fun "bells and whistles" on my blog site -- such as the calendar function or the traffic counter -- are also thanks to Dave. And before the blog calendar was created, Jan and Cindi coordinated all of the meals that people provided so that we didn't end up with 25 meals one week and nothing the next. Jan and Cindi have even personally cooked a wide variety of strange, albeit healthy, food options for me that my nutritionist recommended. A couple of them were actually pretty tasty -- who knew! And as you know from my prior posting, Gale has been the one responsible for creating and ordering my "The Bitch Must Go!" t-shirts. She is also the one who has committed to running the Nike Marathon with me next year, which will help provide me the motivation that I need to get back in action after my treatment is over. And lastly, Jan has personally appointed herself as my "laughter manager" -- this came about after I told her that I really need to make sure that I laugh every day because I think that this is the best medicine I can get. So if you have any funny stories or emails that you can share, please send them along to her so that she can filter through and pass along at least one per day to me (her contact info is jan.mcdougal@comcast.net).
Needless to say, these are the kind of friends that make me realize just how blessed I am!!
I have five friends -- Jan McDougal, Cindi and Dave Frame, Gale Love and Jenny Zeszut -- who began providing endless support and love immediately upon hearing of my diagnosis. Cindi and Jenny have served as the point-persons collecting funds from anyone who wanted to contribute and Cindi's husband, Dave, set up a bank account in my name so that I can tap into these funds as needed. Many of the fun "bells and whistles" on my blog site -- such as the calendar function or the traffic counter -- are also thanks to Dave. And before the blog calendar was created, Jan and Cindi coordinated all of the meals that people provided so that we didn't end up with 25 meals one week and nothing the next. Jan and Cindi have even personally cooked a wide variety of strange, albeit healthy, food options for me that my nutritionist recommended. A couple of them were actually pretty tasty -- who knew! And as you know from my prior posting, Gale has been the one responsible for creating and ordering my "The Bitch Must Go!" t-shirts. She is also the one who has committed to running the Nike Marathon with me next year, which will help provide me the motivation that I need to get back in action after my treatment is over. And lastly, Jan has personally appointed herself as my "laughter manager" -- this came about after I told her that I really need to make sure that I laugh every day because I think that this is the best medicine I can get. So if you have any funny stories or emails that you can share, please send them along to her so that she can filter through and pass along at least one per day to me (her contact info is jan.mcdougal@comcast.net).
Needless to say, these are the kind of friends that make me realize just how blessed I am!!
Port-a-Cath Saga Continues
Ugh!!! My stupid port-a-cath saga continues....
Pete and I went in yesterday for our weekly check-in with my doctors. At these appointments, I get weighed, have my temp and blood pressure taken, review blood test results and talk about any symptoms with my doctors so that they can be sure to catch any issues early on. This is also the time that the nurses flush out my port-a-cath (e.g., my "carabiner" that I had surgically implanted in my chest so that the chemo line can be permanently attached) and they reattach a fresh supply of chemo drugs and apply clean bandages. All in all, this is an important -- but usually routine -- weekly visit. Except for this week!
You might remember from my prior post about how painful the port-a-cath "non-event" surgery was? Well, my chest has continued to feel uncomfortable and I have complained to a number of doctors about it (including the surgeon who actually did the procedure when I met with him a couple days ago for a check-in!!) But everyone kept reassuring me that everything looked fine and that the discomfort I was feeling was probably just my body getting used to having a strange thing inside. "Yuck!" I thought, "but okay, if that's all it is."
Well, when the nurse removed the bandages and dressing yesterday to flush out the port, she discovered that the incision from my surgery was WIDE OPEN!! It had not healed shut as it was suppose to have done! In all fairness, none of the doctors had been able to actually tell that the incision was not healed because it had been covered by a thin, clear film (which is applied over the entire port-a-cath area to keep out germs) and this film was holding the incision shut. It wasn't until the nurse removed this clear film that the incision popped opened. Needless to say, the nurse was a bit alarmed and called over the doctor who immediately sent me back to the hospital to be sewn back together.
Hmmmm....I am not a doctor or anything, but do you think that maybe this could be why my chest was still hurting, Dr. Port-A-Cath Surgeon? Do you think that maybe you should have listened harder when I told you that I was still in pain? And maybe you should have pulled back ALL the bandages and dressings before you concluded that everything was normal?
So after a very disgusting procedure where I actually had to lie awake listening to them flush out the incision and sew me up, I am back together again but not necessarily "out of the woods." Clearly, the incision has been open now for about 10 days (although, luckily, covered by the clear film bandage) so my risk of infection is pretty high. Not to mention the fact that my blood results show that my white blood cell count has dropped almost in half within the past week (it's now at 4.2 versus 7.9, for all you doctors out there.) The doctor reassured me that this drop is to be expected during chemo, but obviously not what my body needs when it's trying to fight any possible infection. Come on, Body -- it's time to rally!!! So I think that it's fair to assume that I'll be spending the next few days resting as much as possible and avoiding germy situations at all costs (to the extent that is possible with two young germ-magnets running around underfoot.)
I think that the hardest part of the whole day yesterday was not what I had to go through, but rather what I missed. Pete and I had planned to go for a long hike together after my appointment and then head home in time to play with the kids before bedtime. As I was laying on the surgery table, all I could think about was how much I miss spending time with the people whom I love. I feel like my days are filled with appointments or errands or doing other things which will hopefully make me well again, but this doesn't leave much time to play my children or to snuggle with my husband or to just chat with friends. So as I lay there on the table with tears running down my cheeks, I decided that I need to start scheduling these things into my calendar in the same way that I schedule in my other medical appointments because all of these things are equally important to my health and well-being and they are what make me happy.
Pete and I went in yesterday for our weekly check-in with my doctors. At these appointments, I get weighed, have my temp and blood pressure taken, review blood test results and talk about any symptoms with my doctors so that they can be sure to catch any issues early on. This is also the time that the nurses flush out my port-a-cath (e.g., my "carabiner" that I had surgically implanted in my chest so that the chemo line can be permanently attached) and they reattach a fresh supply of chemo drugs and apply clean bandages. All in all, this is an important -- but usually routine -- weekly visit. Except for this week!
You might remember from my prior post about how painful the port-a-cath "non-event" surgery was? Well, my chest has continued to feel uncomfortable and I have complained to a number of doctors about it (including the surgeon who actually did the procedure when I met with him a couple days ago for a check-in!!) But everyone kept reassuring me that everything looked fine and that the discomfort I was feeling was probably just my body getting used to having a strange thing inside. "Yuck!" I thought, "but okay, if that's all it is."
Well, when the nurse removed the bandages and dressing yesterday to flush out the port, she discovered that the incision from my surgery was WIDE OPEN!! It had not healed shut as it was suppose to have done! In all fairness, none of the doctors had been able to actually tell that the incision was not healed because it had been covered by a thin, clear film (which is applied over the entire port-a-cath area to keep out germs) and this film was holding the incision shut. It wasn't until the nurse removed this clear film that the incision popped opened. Needless to say, the nurse was a bit alarmed and called over the doctor who immediately sent me back to the hospital to be sewn back together.
Hmmmm....I am not a doctor or anything, but do you think that maybe this could be why my chest was still hurting, Dr. Port-A-Cath Surgeon? Do you think that maybe you should have listened harder when I told you that I was still in pain? And maybe you should have pulled back ALL the bandages and dressings before you concluded that everything was normal?
So after a very disgusting procedure where I actually had to lie awake listening to them flush out the incision and sew me up, I am back together again but not necessarily "out of the woods." Clearly, the incision has been open now for about 10 days (although, luckily, covered by the clear film bandage) so my risk of infection is pretty high. Not to mention the fact that my blood results show that my white blood cell count has dropped almost in half within the past week (it's now at 4.2 versus 7.9, for all you doctors out there.) The doctor reassured me that this drop is to be expected during chemo, but obviously not what my body needs when it's trying to fight any possible infection. Come on, Body -- it's time to rally!!! So I think that it's fair to assume that I'll be spending the next few days resting as much as possible and avoiding germy situations at all costs (to the extent that is possible with two young germ-magnets running around underfoot.)
I think that the hardest part of the whole day yesterday was not what I had to go through, but rather what I missed. Pete and I had planned to go for a long hike together after my appointment and then head home in time to play with the kids before bedtime. As I was laying on the surgery table, all I could think about was how much I miss spending time with the people whom I love. I feel like my days are filled with appointments or errands or doing other things which will hopefully make me well again, but this doesn't leave much time to play my children or to snuggle with my husband or to just chat with friends. So as I lay there on the table with tears running down my cheeks, I decided that I need to start scheduling these things into my calendar in the same way that I schedule in my other medical appointments because all of these things are equally important to my health and well-being and they are what make me happy.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Make A Call TODAY - March 20th!!
I just stumbled on this info on the Colorectal Cancer Coalition website and the timing couldn't be more perfect...
On February 5, the President cut about $11 billion from the National Cancer Institute budget. On March 20, one group -- the Colorectal Cancer Coalition or C3 -- will ask Congress to return some of this money.
Colorectal cancer advocates from all over the country will descend upon Washington DC on this day, in honor of National Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month. Their plan of action on behalf of C3's first-ever Call-On Congress includes meeting with members of Congress face to face, discussing cancer research and prevention funding, and informing these powerful people that the time to cure cancer is now.
These advocates have a lot to accomplish -- and they need your help. So they ask that while they are rallying in DC that you lend your support with a few simple phone calls.
On Tuesday, March 20, between the hours of 9:00 AM and 5:00 PM Eastern Standard Time, pick up your phone and call two Senators and one Representative. Tell them now is the time for all good men and women to come to the aid of the cancer cause.
C3 offers a step-by-step guide for making yourself heard. The group will help you locate your specific legislators and provides a script for what to say and how to say it.
"The more people who call on March 20th and ask for Congress to make funding the war on cancer a priority, the better for us all," says one advocate.
On February 5, the President cut about $11 billion from the National Cancer Institute budget. On March 20, one group -- the Colorectal Cancer Coalition or C3 -- will ask Congress to return some of this money.
Colorectal cancer advocates from all over the country will descend upon Washington DC on this day, in honor of National Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month. Their plan of action on behalf of C3's first-ever Call-On Congress includes meeting with members of Congress face to face, discussing cancer research and prevention funding, and informing these powerful people that the time to cure cancer is now.
These advocates have a lot to accomplish -- and they need your help. So they ask that while they are rallying in DC that you lend your support with a few simple phone calls.
On Tuesday, March 20, between the hours of 9:00 AM and 5:00 PM Eastern Standard Time, pick up your phone and call two Senators and one Representative. Tell them now is the time for all good men and women to come to the aid of the cancer cause.
C3 offers a step-by-step guide for making yourself heard. The group will help you locate your specific legislators and provides a script for what to say and how to say it.
"The more people who call on March 20th and ask for Congress to make funding the war on cancer a priority, the better for us all," says one advocate.
It Takes A Village...
Today was Day 8 of chemo and my 6th day of radiation treatment and I am still feeling great! Other than mild fatigue, I really have no other symptoms so far. Every day before my radiation appointment I go for a invigorating 30-minute walk (I was told that having my cells "highly oxygenated" will help the radiation to work better). Today as I was walking, I reflected on how incredibly blessed I am to still be feeling great and I realized that I really owe my "wellness" to the village of people who are caring for me. There is no way in the world that I would feel this great if I did not have the following supporters:
> My fabulous husband who has the ability to keep me feeling optimistic, centered and focused through all the ups-and-downs of this crazy life experience and who makes me laugh like no one else in the world. He is the most amazing person I have ever encountered and I am blessed to have him in my life and to have him helping me fight this battle;
> My extraordinary parents who flew out to be with me on a moment's notice and proceeded to buy a new house within 2 weeks of being here so that they can help with my care and in caring for our kids through this whole journey. They have changed countless diapers, drawn a ridiculous number of superhero pictures, and bathed two filthy, sticky kids many times in the short time that they have been here -- and the fun is only beginning!
> My incredible in-laws who flew out to care for us when my parents needed to leave town and who are willingly going to "pass the baton" with my parents in the months to come so that we have constant help. They also changed many a diaper, washed about 4 weeks worth of laundry, cleaned and fed our kids, and completely spoiled our dog, Shadow, in the days that they were here. Betsy and John have also generously offered to help subsidize our children's daycare so that our kids will continue to be well-cared-for while I spend my days focusing on getting healthy;
> The best nanny EVER! Our nanny is patient, loving, patient, fun, patient, energetic, and did I mention patient? We are blessed to have her in our lives and I cannot imagine anyone else who I would rather have involved in raising my children while I am focused on getting back to health;
> The incredible number of friends and family from so many different stages of my life who have generously sent money to my "fund" to help cover the costs of alternative treatments that I am pursuing (e.g., acupuncture, herbs and supplements, yoga, meditation)
> The astonishing number of people who have provided us with healthy and yummy dinners. I had a hard enough time cooking one dinner a night for my own family and so I am in awe of the number of people who are able to whip together an extra meal for us! And some of the people bringing meals barely know Pete and I -- they are truly doing it out of the goodness of their heart!
> Fantastic medical "advisors" including our neighbors (Michael Korn, Miranda Kramer, Tim Davern, Cindy Fenton and Steve Pantilat), my cousins (Jeremy and Shannon Smith), and friends (Dave Cohen, Greg Portland, Pete Craig) who have all patiently answered a ridiculous number of stupid medical questions from us and have given us faith and hope that I will survive this awful disease;
> The many, many friends who have written me emails, sent me cards, and left me voice messages letting me know how much they love me and are rooting for me;
> The countless number of people who are keeping me and my family in their thoughts and prayers every day!
So as you can see, it really does take a village to cure cancer. There is no way that I could possibly feel as great as I do without all of these amazing supporters and so thank you, thank you, thank you to each and every one of you!!! The best possible way that I can think of to repay each of you for your incredible generosity is to simply "Beat the Bitch!" and so that is what I plan to spend every ounce of energy doing in the coming months.
> My fabulous husband who has the ability to keep me feeling optimistic, centered and focused through all the ups-and-downs of this crazy life experience and who makes me laugh like no one else in the world. He is the most amazing person I have ever encountered and I am blessed to have him in my life and to have him helping me fight this battle;
> My extraordinary parents who flew out to be with me on a moment's notice and proceeded to buy a new house within 2 weeks of being here so that they can help with my care and in caring for our kids through this whole journey. They have changed countless diapers, drawn a ridiculous number of superhero pictures, and bathed two filthy, sticky kids many times in the short time that they have been here -- and the fun is only beginning!
> My incredible in-laws who flew out to care for us when my parents needed to leave town and who are willingly going to "pass the baton" with my parents in the months to come so that we have constant help. They also changed many a diaper, washed about 4 weeks worth of laundry, cleaned and fed our kids, and completely spoiled our dog, Shadow, in the days that they were here. Betsy and John have also generously offered to help subsidize our children's daycare so that our kids will continue to be well-cared-for while I spend my days focusing on getting healthy;
> The best nanny EVER! Our nanny is patient, loving, patient, fun, patient, energetic, and did I mention patient? We are blessed to have her in our lives and I cannot imagine anyone else who I would rather have involved in raising my children while I am focused on getting back to health;
> The incredible number of friends and family from so many different stages of my life who have generously sent money to my "fund" to help cover the costs of alternative treatments that I am pursuing (e.g., acupuncture, herbs and supplements, yoga, meditation)
> The astonishing number of people who have provided us with healthy and yummy dinners. I had a hard enough time cooking one dinner a night for my own family and so I am in awe of the number of people who are able to whip together an extra meal for us! And some of the people bringing meals barely know Pete and I -- they are truly doing it out of the goodness of their heart!
> Fantastic medical "advisors" including our neighbors (Michael Korn, Miranda Kramer, Tim Davern, Cindy Fenton and Steve Pantilat), my cousins (Jeremy and Shannon Smith), and friends (Dave Cohen, Greg Portland, Pete Craig) who have all patiently answered a ridiculous number of stupid medical questions from us and have given us faith and hope that I will survive this awful disease;
> The many, many friends who have written me emails, sent me cards, and left me voice messages letting me know how much they love me and are rooting for me;
> The countless number of people who are keeping me and my family in their thoughts and prayers every day!
So as you can see, it really does take a village to cure cancer. There is no way that I could possibly feel as great as I do without all of these amazing supporters and so thank you, thank you, thank you to each and every one of you!!! The best possible way that I can think of to repay each of you for your incredible generosity is to simply "Beat the Bitch!" and so that is what I plan to spend every ounce of energy doing in the coming months.
Traffic Counter
A friend of mine just added a very fun feature to my blog: a traffic counter! It seems like every time Pete or I turn around someone is telling us that they passed along my blog address to a whole host of new people (e.g., our neighborhood, Pete's fraternity brothers, etc). In fact, Pete was out walking our dog yesterday and was approached by a neighbor we don't know terribly well who said, "I am praying for your whole family." We hadn't shared the news with this neighbor but knowing that we are in her prayers is a great feeling. And so I figured that this will be a fun way to see exactly how many people are really out there visiting my site and keeping abreast of my progress. The more the merrier!!
Kimbelina
Okay, I apologize but I am going to use my blog to make a shameless pitch for a company that I totally LOVE! Kimbelina (www.kimbelina.com) is a small, start-up company that I did a marketing consulting project for when I was first easing back into the working world after having Kyle. The company was founded by a very inspirational woman and her siblings and centers around the idea of offering products which symbolize hope and comfort to people going through crisis. Ironically, one of the things that I did for them during the project was brainstorm different ways to reach individuals diagnosed with cancer and their loved ones who might be looking for a unique and special gift to give (eerie, huh?) Anyway, they offer a number of incredibly beautiful, high-quality products (such as blankets, robes, baby blankets, etc) that are accompanied by wonderfully-written poems that speak of hope, love and sympathy. Every product that they sell has an angel embroidered in each corner to symbolize to the gift-receiver the love, comfort and support that the gift-giver is sending.
I have first-hand knowledge of just how beautifully crafted their products are because when the owner and her sister learned of my diagnosis they sent me an enormous care package that contained an angel bathrobe for me, an angel blanket for Pete, and angel blankets for each of my boys. I literally burst into tears when I opened the package -- their generosity was overwhelming! Luke has not put his blanket down since he got it -- he stays wrapped in it every moment that he is home. And he very sweetly told me, "Mommy, my blanket is so soft I feel like I am being hugged by an angel."
Anyway, if any of you need a unique sympathy gift or if you are looking for a baptism or holy communion gift, please check out Kimbelina. It is a really wonderful company run by incredibly compassionate and inspiring people.
I have first-hand knowledge of just how beautifully crafted their products are because when the owner and her sister learned of my diagnosis they sent me an enormous care package that contained an angel bathrobe for me, an angel blanket for Pete, and angel blankets for each of my boys. I literally burst into tears when I opened the package -- their generosity was overwhelming! Luke has not put his blanket down since he got it -- he stays wrapped in it every moment that he is home. And he very sweetly told me, "Mommy, my blanket is so soft I feel like I am being hugged by an angel."
Anyway, if any of you need a unique sympathy gift or if you are looking for a baptism or holy communion gift, please check out Kimbelina. It is a really wonderful company run by incredibly compassionate and inspiring people.
Happiness Is A Choice
Do any of you subscribe to Beliefnet.com? It's a great website for all things "spiritual" (e.g., all religions are covered as well as non-religious, but simply "spiritual" and inspiration thoughts and beliefs). The site allows you to sign up for daily emails of inspiration or prayer and I have really enjoyed receiving them since they are usually pretty thought-provoking. Anyway, the email that I received today was worth sharing...
Happiness Is a Choice
Furnish your mind with happy memories.
The 92-year-old, petite, well-poised, and proud lady, who is fully dressed each morning by eight o'clock, with her hair fashionably coiffed and makeup perfectly applied, even though she is legally blind, moved to a nursing home today. Her husband of 70 years recently passed away, making the move necessary.
2. Free your mind from worries.
3. Live simply.
4. Give more.
5. Expect less.
I LOVE this!! And I couldn't agree more! I think that as someone just diagnosed with advanced colon cancer, I probably have every right to live each day in sadness and despair, but what kind of life is that? No thanks! I choose to be happy.
Happiness Is a Choice
Furnish your mind with happy memories.
The 92-year-old, petite, well-poised, and proud lady, who is fully dressed each morning by eight o'clock, with her hair fashionably coiffed and makeup perfectly applied, even though she is legally blind, moved to a nursing home today. Her husband of 70 years recently passed away, making the move necessary.
After many hours of waiting patiently in the lobby of the nursing home, she smiled sweetly when told her room was ready. As she maneuvered her walker to the elevator, I provided a visual description of her tiny room, including the eyelet curtains that had been hung on her window.
"I love it," she stated with the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old having just been presented with a new puppy.
"Mrs. Jones, you haven't seen the room .... just wait."
"That doesn't have anything to do with it," she replied.
"Happiness is something you decide on ahead of time. Whether I like my room or not doesn't depend on how the furniture is arranged... it's how I arrange my mind.
"I already decided to love it ... It's a decision I make every morning when I wake up. I have a choice; I can spend the day in bed recounting the difficulty I have with the parts of my body that no longer work, or get out of bed and be thankful for the ones that do.
"Each day is a gift, and as long as my eyes open I'll focus on the new day and all the happy memories I've stored away ... just for this time in my life.
"Old age is like a bank account--you withdraw from it what you've put in."
So, my advice to you would be to deposit a lot of happiness in the bank account of memories.
Remember the five simple rules to be happy:
1. Free your heart from hatred.2. Free your mind from worries.
3. Live simply.
4. Give more.
5. Expect less.
I LOVE this!! And I couldn't agree more! I think that as someone just diagnosed with advanced colon cancer, I probably have every right to live each day in sadness and despair, but what kind of life is that? No thanks! I choose to be happy.
Walking Partners Needed
Now that my life has begun to settle down into a more regular routine (e.g., radiation appointment every day at 2:30pm, blood tests every Monday) I am finding that I can more regularly get out to exercise. And in fact, I really, really WANT to get out!! The chemo drugs are transported via the bloodstream and so the more I can get my circulation pumping, the more cancer cells will be found and swept away!
So if you are at all interested in joining me for some hikes, please contact Cindi Frame at cindidave@yahoo.com and let her know your availability. She has offered to pull together a schedule for me so that on any given day, I can figure out what time I am free to walk and call whomever is available at that time on the schedule. I am still feeling great, so my hikes in the next few weeks will continue to be "heart-pumping" climbs up the steeper Tennessee Valley trails until I can't do strenuous exercise anymore and then I will transition to more flat walks.
So if you are at all interested in joining me for some hikes, please contact Cindi Frame at cindidave@yahoo.com and let her know your availability. She has offered to pull together a schedule for me so that on any given day, I can figure out what time I am free to walk and call whomever is available at that time on the schedule. I am still feeling great, so my hikes in the next few weeks will continue to be "heart-pumping" climbs up the steeper Tennessee Valley trails until I can't do strenuous exercise anymore and then I will transition to more flat walks.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
The Power of Prayer
According to the Fighting Cancer from Within book that I have been reading, there are quite a few studies that indicate that prayer has a positive influence on a person’s health and well-being. Praying can of course bring comfort and peace of mind, but some studies also indicate that others praying for your health, whether they are close or far, and whether you know them or not, can also have an influence. The Southern Journal of Medicine reported that people recovering from heart attacks in the coronary care unit of UCSF hospital recovered better if they were being prayed for -- even though they were being prayed for from a distance, by people they did not know, and the patients themselves did not know that anyone was praying for them. These patients were released in less time, had fewer complications and better coronary function than patients for whom nobody was praying. According to the book, this study -- controversial as it has been -- has now been replicated more than once, and was most recently validated by a study published in the Archives of Internal Medicine.
About the same time that I was reading this section of my book I also received the following email:
Hi Julie -- My name is Wendy Stickney Klatt and I am a family friend of the
Wheelans. We grew up together. You probably know my parents: Bill and Claire Stickney. I just wanted to let you know that I've assigned you as my 3rd grade CCD (religion) class' Lenten mission. They're pretty rowdy kids so I imagine their prayers are coming through LOUD and CLEAR!!
And my father's cousin, Carol, posted the following comment on my blog:
So, I am sending your entire blog to mom (e.g., my Great-Aunt Jo). She and your
Grandma Margaret are on the direct line to God 24/7 on your behalf............it is like calling in the big guns: Your own Presbyterian Cloister Nun and Baptist Cloister Nun!
And I know my Grandma Margaret and my Great-Aunt Jo -- they are both loved by everyone in their respective communities and so, if they are praying for me, I can rest assured that half of Neosho and half of St Louis are praying for me as well!!
And a former colleague of my father wrote:
Julie, I don't know you but I know and highly respect your dad. Your faith in God's provision will be your peace in this journey. My prayers will be with you and for you. May God be your provider of strength, healing and love. Blessings to you and your wonderful family.
I have also received countless other communications from family and friends (and from people whom I don't even know!) saying that I have been added to their prayer list or to their church's prayer group.
How can I possibly communicate how much these prayers mean to me? If the studies mentioned above are truly valid, these prayers could affect whether I emerge from this experience cancer-free or not. And there are no words to describe what that means!! I can’t help but think about the statistics for colon cancer. And again I am reminded that, while there are undoubtedly people who do not survive the type of cancer I have, buried within the statistics are non-survivors for whom no one was praying. And so it is with immense comfort and relieve that I realize, again, that these statistic do not apply to me!
If there is a silver lining to this whole crazy life experience, my witnessing of the true goodness of the human spirit ranks pretty close to the top.
About the same time that I was reading this section of my book I also received the following email:
Hi Julie -- My name is Wendy Stickney Klatt and I am a family friend of the
Wheelans. We grew up together. You probably know my parents: Bill and Claire Stickney. I just wanted to let you know that I've assigned you as my 3rd grade CCD (religion) class' Lenten mission. They're pretty rowdy kids so I imagine their prayers are coming through LOUD and CLEAR!!
And my father's cousin, Carol, posted the following comment on my blog:
So, I am sending your entire blog to mom (e.g., my Great-Aunt Jo). She and your
Grandma Margaret are on the direct line to God 24/7 on your behalf............it is like calling in the big guns: Your own Presbyterian Cloister Nun and Baptist Cloister Nun!
And I know my Grandma Margaret and my Great-Aunt Jo -- they are both loved by everyone in their respective communities and so, if they are praying for me, I can rest assured that half of Neosho and half of St Louis are praying for me as well!!
And a former colleague of my father wrote:
Julie, I don't know you but I know and highly respect your dad. Your faith in God's provision will be your peace in this journey. My prayers will be with you and for you. May God be your provider of strength, healing and love. Blessings to you and your wonderful family.
I have also received countless other communications from family and friends (and from people whom I don't even know!) saying that I have been added to their prayer list or to their church's prayer group.
How can I possibly communicate how much these prayers mean to me? If the studies mentioned above are truly valid, these prayers could affect whether I emerge from this experience cancer-free or not. And there are no words to describe what that means!! I can’t help but think about the statistics for colon cancer. And again I am reminded that, while there are undoubtedly people who do not survive the type of cancer I have, buried within the statistics are non-survivors for whom no one was praying. And so it is with immense comfort and relieve that I realize, again, that these statistic do not apply to me!
If there is a silver lining to this whole crazy life experience, my witnessing of the true goodness of the human spirit ranks pretty close to the top.
Slight Update
Okay, maybe the radiation and chemo are getting to me more than I realized....Immediately after posting my last entry, I went to lay down and rest for a bit and proceeded to sleep for 2 1/2 hours. Oops! Other than that, though, I really do feel fine so I'll take napping as a side-effect any day! :)
Julie - 5, Bitch - 0
My first week of radiation treatment is over -- WOO HOO!! And I have to say that I still feel great. I am a tiny bit more tired than before, but I realized this morning as I heard my kids running around upstairs and being their usual rambunctious, wacky selves that my additional fatigue might also be attributable to the fact that I am now home more with my kids rather than working. And as any parent of young children knows, going to work is infinitely easier than staying home with young munchkins. Phew!
So the score as of right now is Julie - 5, Bitch - 0.
So the score as of right now is Julie - 5, Bitch - 0.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Michael and Miranda
I was reminded again today that there are many, many people now visiting my blog site who were not part of my initial email communications. Therefore, I wanted to share an amazing story that happened to me early on which some of you might have missed. Once you read this I am sure that you'll understand why I believe that God is with me on this journey....
A new neighbor, Michael Korn, moved into a house about 5 doors away from us a few months ago. I randomly met him back in the Fall when I was out walking my dog and he was checking out the neighborhood trying to decide whether or not to buy. We talked at length about the neighborhood, the schools, etc since he also has a kindergarten-age son. When we spoke, he mentioned in passing that he was an oncologist at UCSF and so, shortly after I was diagnosed, I walked over to share my situation and get his advice. As it turned out, he specializes in colorectal cancer and he is a colleague and friend of many of the renowned doctors at UCSF who treat colon cancer. Furthermore, his girlfriend, Miranda, is a former oncology nurse who worked in oncology for 6 years (she now works in intensive care).
Michael and Miranda quickly took Pete and I under their wing. They sat with us one night early on in the process and patiently explained confusing medical terms, corrected misconceptions that we had, provided insight into various treatment options and expected side effects, and gave us an overall sense of security, comfort, and hope. Michael was also instrumental in getting me appointments with three of the top doctors within a week (normally this takes 6 weeks). He even went as far as saying that his new personal goal for 2007 is to get me cancer-free!! Both he and Miranda have followed my progress closely and have been an incredible source of support, encouragement and advice. Not to mention the fact that they are a really fun couple who I know we would enjoy being friends with even outside of this whole experience.
Interestingly, when I asked Michael why he decided to move to this neighborhood he explained that he and Miranda were living contently in a nearby town when suddenly they got the urge to move and own a home. He said when he saw this neighborhood and met me he just knew that it was the right place for them. Call it what you want, but personally I believe that I am not in this alone. I believe that there is a greater power who has a plan for me and will guide me and my family through this difficult time. And, although I know that it will make both Michael and Miranda blush when they read this (they are both a bit shy and reserved), I feel strongly that God directed them here to be my guardian angels on this journey. And regardless of the outcome, I will be forever indebted to both of them for giving me the hope to plow forward with grace, courage and strength.
A new neighbor, Michael Korn, moved into a house about 5 doors away from us a few months ago. I randomly met him back in the Fall when I was out walking my dog and he was checking out the neighborhood trying to decide whether or not to buy. We talked at length about the neighborhood, the schools, etc since he also has a kindergarten-age son. When we spoke, he mentioned in passing that he was an oncologist at UCSF and so, shortly after I was diagnosed, I walked over to share my situation and get his advice. As it turned out, he specializes in colorectal cancer and he is a colleague and friend of many of the renowned doctors at UCSF who treat colon cancer. Furthermore, his girlfriend, Miranda, is a former oncology nurse who worked in oncology for 6 years (she now works in intensive care).
Michael and Miranda quickly took Pete and I under their wing. They sat with us one night early on in the process and patiently explained confusing medical terms, corrected misconceptions that we had, provided insight into various treatment options and expected side effects, and gave us an overall sense of security, comfort, and hope. Michael was also instrumental in getting me appointments with three of the top doctors within a week (normally this takes 6 weeks). He even went as far as saying that his new personal goal for 2007 is to get me cancer-free!! Both he and Miranda have followed my progress closely and have been an incredible source of support, encouragement and advice. Not to mention the fact that they are a really fun couple who I know we would enjoy being friends with even outside of this whole experience.
Interestingly, when I asked Michael why he decided to move to this neighborhood he explained that he and Miranda were living contently in a nearby town when suddenly they got the urge to move and own a home. He said when he saw this neighborhood and met me he just knew that it was the right place for them. Call it what you want, but personally I believe that I am not in this alone. I believe that there is a greater power who has a plan for me and will guide me and my family through this difficult time. And, although I know that it will make both Michael and Miranda blush when they read this (they are both a bit shy and reserved), I feel strongly that God directed them here to be my guardian angels on this journey. And regardless of the outcome, I will be forever indebted to both of them for giving me the hope to plow forward with grace, courage and strength.
Rough Night
I had a really rough night last night. It was the first night that I did not take pain killers to numb the pain from my surgery and so I found myself tossing and turning all night and I woke up numerous times feeling quite uncomfortable. Then, shortly before dawn, I had a absolutely terrifying dream. In my dream, I had died. I was able to look around and see everyone around me but no one could see me. I could tell that Pete could sense that I was still there because he would look in my direction every time he spoke about me, but I knew that he could not see me. Eventually he and I realized that we could communicate with each other by writing on a paper pad that he was carrying. So on the pad, I quickly wrote in large capital letters "I LOVE YOU!" And then I wrote "I cannot believe that I am dead. I cannot believe that my life is all over so soon." And I remember feeling completely in shock that I had died and being so incredibly consumed by grief and sadness that my life was over. Even now, I cry thinking about the dream because it was so surreal and so overwhelming. Needless to say, I woke up a complete wreck -- the moment I saw Pete I burst into tears and cried uncontrollably.
Later in the morning, when I shared my story with my friend, Isae, she confided that she also had terrible dreams when she was on chemo medication. Her theory is that the body knows it's fighting a life/death battle and that it is being poisoned by the chemo and this knowledge manifests itself in our dreams. I think that this is probably true, since I am a firm believer that dreams are simply your mind's way of working through issues and feelings that it cannot (for whatever reason) deal with during the day.
I re-read the "Why Me?" entry that I posted a couple days ago and realized that I am probably conveying a message to everyone reading this blog that I am completely poised and in control and feeling incredibly strong about my situation. And I definitely have moments like this, but I would be doing a disservice to myself and to anyone battling cancer to pretend that this is how I feel every moment of every day. The reality is that I am scared to death. All of the "changes" that I wrote about in my "Why Me?" entry are things that I truly feel compelled to make -- and some of them I have already started to affect -- but there is one that I don't even know how to begin to tackle: the one regarding "contemplating the meaning of life and the meaning of death so that you develop a sense of peace in your heart about what 'life' really means." Receiving a cancer diagnosis rocked me to the very core; it completely threw off my equilibrium and has made me question everything I thought was real and true about my senses, my body, my intelligence...everything! When I first heard the word "cancer", I was in a complete state of shock for probably a week. The news forced me to look directly in the face of my own mortality, and I fully admit that as soon as I could collect my wits, I turned around and bolted in the opposite direction as fast as I could. I do not want to look into the face of death. I do not want to think about dying -- it is too overwhelming to me! I have been incredibly blessed in my life....I have an amazing husband, wonderful friends, an incredible family and two of the most amazing and beautiful children that I think have ever existed on this earth. And I fought so, so, sooo incredibly hard to bring my two beautiful children into this world...it is overwhelming to me to think that this could all be over before I even get to fully enjoy their unique and quirky personalities or soak in all the wonderful things that make them who they are. But I know that I must face the reality of death. Any good therapist will tell you that just because you don't actively think about something that is scary, doesn't mean that the scary thoughts do not exist inside you. And the thoughts will find their way out somehow -- either through dreams (as was my case last night), or through depression, or through illness, or through tears.
The problem is that I am not really sure where to begin. I haven't quite figured out yet how one willingly stares into the face of death while at the same time remaining positive and optimistic about the final outcome. These seem to be mutually exclusive to me, but hopefully I am wrong. I guess this is my work in the coming weeks and months...this is what I must do in order to develop a sense of "peace in my heart about what life really means." If anyone reading this blog has thoughts to share or advice to give on this subject, I am all ears!
Later in the morning, when I shared my story with my friend, Isae, she confided that she also had terrible dreams when she was on chemo medication. Her theory is that the body knows it's fighting a life/death battle and that it is being poisoned by the chemo and this knowledge manifests itself in our dreams. I think that this is probably true, since I am a firm believer that dreams are simply your mind's way of working through issues and feelings that it cannot (for whatever reason) deal with during the day.
I re-read the "Why Me?" entry that I posted a couple days ago and realized that I am probably conveying a message to everyone reading this blog that I am completely poised and in control and feeling incredibly strong about my situation. And I definitely have moments like this, but I would be doing a disservice to myself and to anyone battling cancer to pretend that this is how I feel every moment of every day. The reality is that I am scared to death. All of the "changes" that I wrote about in my "Why Me?" entry are things that I truly feel compelled to make -- and some of them I have already started to affect -- but there is one that I don't even know how to begin to tackle: the one regarding "contemplating the meaning of life and the meaning of death so that you develop a sense of peace in your heart about what 'life' really means." Receiving a cancer diagnosis rocked me to the very core; it completely threw off my equilibrium and has made me question everything I thought was real and true about my senses, my body, my intelligence...everything! When I first heard the word "cancer", I was in a complete state of shock for probably a week. The news forced me to look directly in the face of my own mortality, and I fully admit that as soon as I could collect my wits, I turned around and bolted in the opposite direction as fast as I could. I do not want to look into the face of death. I do not want to think about dying -- it is too overwhelming to me! I have been incredibly blessed in my life....I have an amazing husband, wonderful friends, an incredible family and two of the most amazing and beautiful children that I think have ever existed on this earth. And I fought so, so, sooo incredibly hard to bring my two beautiful children into this world...it is overwhelming to me to think that this could all be over before I even get to fully enjoy their unique and quirky personalities or soak in all the wonderful things that make them who they are. But I know that I must face the reality of death. Any good therapist will tell you that just because you don't actively think about something that is scary, doesn't mean that the scary thoughts do not exist inside you. And the thoughts will find their way out somehow -- either through dreams (as was my case last night), or through depression, or through illness, or through tears.
The problem is that I am not really sure where to begin. I haven't quite figured out yet how one willingly stares into the face of death while at the same time remaining positive and optimistic about the final outcome. These seem to be mutually exclusive to me, but hopefully I am wrong. I guess this is my work in the coming weeks and months...this is what I must do in order to develop a sense of "peace in my heart about what life really means." If anyone reading this blog has thoughts to share or advice to give on this subject, I am all ears!
35 Days And Counting
For anyone who is keeping track, I just figured out that I have exactly 35 days left until I am done with the first phase of treatment (e.g., radiation + chemo). I have exactly 26 radiation treatments left (including today), but I get weekends off and so the timing lands me on April 18th -- exactly one week after my 39th birthday. Hmmm...I have never tried vegan birthday cake, but maybe this will be my first year.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Last Call For T-Shirts
My friend Gale will be placing an order for campaign t-shirts tomorrow. The adult shirts are yellow and say, "The Bitch Must Go!" on the front, the back is plain and each adult shirt is $21. To make it easier she is only ordering men's classic t-shirts, 100% cotton, in S, M, L, XL sizes. For the kids, the same t-shirt in yellow, says "The Devil Must Go!", and are $18 each. For now, she is only planning to order 2 sizes in the kids shirts, XS (size 2-4) and S (size 6-8).
If anyone is interested in getting a t-shirt who has not contacted Gale already, now is your chance!! Please let her know by end of day tomorrow if you want one. And of course, if you purchase one, you MUST send me a picture of you wearing it so that I can keep your photo with me for inspiration.
Gale's contact info is: galealove@yahoo.com
If anyone is interested in getting a t-shirt who has not contacted Gale already, now is your chance!! Please let her know by end of day tomorrow if you want one. And of course, if you purchase one, you MUST send me a picture of you wearing it so that I can keep your photo with me for inspiration.
Gale's contact info is: galealove@yahoo.com
Day 2
Day 2 of "The Bitch Must Go" campaign is successfully behind us and I am feeling great (Go, Body, Go!! Be strong!!) I have no symptoms yet and still feel like my old self. Dr Poen (my radiation oncologist) said that he doesn't expect me to feel much for another couple weeks. Of course, this made me determined to not have any symptoms until week 4 or 5!! Ask my mom...she'll tell you how stubborn and determined I am -- she has had to put up with me for 38 years! See, Mom, aren't you glad now that I inherited your feisty, stubborn gene? I sure am, and I love you for it!!
Monday, March 12, 2007
Why Me?
I will never know why I got cancer. I'll never know whether this experience is part of a greater plan or was some type of metaphysical purpose being fulfilled or whether -- as some doctors have suggested -- it was just plain bad luck. Of all the uncertainty I have faced in the last few weeks, I think that this is where the greatest "greyness" lies (and will always lie) for me.
I have thought about the question of "Why me?" probably a million times since I was diagnosed. Not in a self-pitying way (I honestly don't feel any self-pity), but rather out of a sense of pure curiosity. Why did this happen to me? What I am supposed to learn from this experience? How will this change my life, my priorities, my entire way of being? How will this experience forever shape and mold the person that I am intended to be? To where does this path lead?
I am reading an interesting book right now called Fighting Cancer From Within (by Martin Rossman). In it the author writes:
Opportunities as well as challenges can arise from having cancer. One of these is the opportunity to clarify what you really believe to be true about yourself, your relationships, and your relationship to life. The fear and uncertainly that so often vividly accompany cancer also seem to be fertile ground for bringing to mind our beliefs about where life comes from, where it goes after death, and what it means while we are here. Although cancer is by no means a death sentence, it often brings thoughts of death and mortality much more into the foreground of our awareness. This is stressful, but it can also be surprisingly vitalizing. It seems that there are a few things better than contemplation of our own mortality for bringing a certain sense of vitality and appreciativeness to life.
Another author (Wayne Muller) writes:
If we buy the illusion that we will live forever, we can waste all the time in the world before we start to live...Proximity to death wakes us up...to embrace death is not morbid; to deny death is morbid. If we know we will die, then we know that we are alive. From this mindful awareness can spring a variety of practices that deepen and enrich our time on this earth.
I have such an overwhelming feeling in my heart that I am going to make it through this whole experience cancer-free. I think that it is this feeling that allows me to sit back and reflect on this experience through a lens of curiosity rather than of fear. I will never know why I was given this path to follow, but I know with unwavering certainty that I want something positive to come from it.
I have to believe that many of you who are reading this blog are wondering to yourself, "How does Julie really feel about her diagnosis? Is she ever scared? Does she think about dying? How has this experience changed her life and her priorities?" But I also have to believe that there are deeper thoughts you might have, buried below the surface, which include "What if it were ME that got this diagnosis? How would I respond?" I know that most of my friends (luckily) have not had to stare mortality in the face quite as closely as I have in these past few weeks. And since the human spirit, by nature, tends to avoid toeing the edge of this cliff as much as possible, I have to assume that most of you have probably not willingly contemplated your own mortality. But it is a fact of life. And so I challenge each one of you to imagine the following: Imagine that you were told today that you have only one more year to live. What would you do differently? What changes would you make in your life? If you are anything like me, you would do the following:
> You would get your financial situation in order (e.g., eliminate any debt, invest your extra money in ways that it will grow) so that you are not leaving behind a financial mess for your loved ones;
> You would spend less money on material things like clothes, jewelry and cars (since these items lose their importance instantly when you are confronted with a finite amount of time to live);
> You would rearrange your priorities and schedule so that you had more time to spend with people whom you love and with people who make you happy and in doing the things that bring you pleasure;
> If you have children, you would spend as much time as possible with them so that they are left with an indelible imprint of your love and your values;
> You would spend as much time as possible outdoors soaking up all the wonderful things that nature has to offer;
> You would scramble to figure out what special talents you have that can be used to make the world a better place for generations to come and you would act quickly to affect those changes;
> You would make an enormous effort to eliminate anything that is not helping your body to grow stronger and live longer (e.g., smoking, drinking, eating unhealthy/processed foods, or even negative attitudes and thoughts) and you would focus your energy instead on those things that can help your body grow stronger (e.g., laughing, praying, acupuncture, eating healthy/organic foods, visualization) in the hopes that you can stretch the year that you have been given into two or three or ten or fifty;
> And you would probably spend time contemplating the meaning of life and the meaning of death so that you develop a sense of peace in your heart about what "life" really means.
And so now that you have done that exercise and have identified the things that you would change, I also challenge you to make these changes today. And I mean TODAY -- not tomorrow, not after the ski trip you have planned next week, not after you get the big promotion at work, not after you have one more drink. Make these changes today! These are the changes that I am making -- regardless of the fact that I am feeling positive about my outcome -- because whether I die next year or tomorrow or in 50 years, the reality is that I cannot avoid death and when the time comes I don't want to have any regrets! I don't ever want to look back and wonder "What if I had only done X? Would doing X have provided me another year to spend with the people I love with all my heart?"
As Rossman states in his book: "Perhaps it is not so much for us to find meaning in life as to give meaning to what life brings us. The issue is not whether you will live or die -- you will do both. The issue is how you live your life and what legacy you chose to leave when your time does come."
Okay, enough serious lecturing from me!! I promise that I won't make a habit of it, but since today was the start of my chemo and radiation I am allowing myself a little latitude! :)
I have thought about the question of "Why me?" probably a million times since I was diagnosed. Not in a self-pitying way (I honestly don't feel any self-pity), but rather out of a sense of pure curiosity. Why did this happen to me? What I am supposed to learn from this experience? How will this change my life, my priorities, my entire way of being? How will this experience forever shape and mold the person that I am intended to be? To where does this path lead?
I am reading an interesting book right now called Fighting Cancer From Within (by Martin Rossman). In it the author writes:
Opportunities as well as challenges can arise from having cancer. One of these is the opportunity to clarify what you really believe to be true about yourself, your relationships, and your relationship to life. The fear and uncertainly that so often vividly accompany cancer also seem to be fertile ground for bringing to mind our beliefs about where life comes from, where it goes after death, and what it means while we are here. Although cancer is by no means a death sentence, it often brings thoughts of death and mortality much more into the foreground of our awareness. This is stressful, but it can also be surprisingly vitalizing. It seems that there are a few things better than contemplation of our own mortality for bringing a certain sense of vitality and appreciativeness to life.
Another author (Wayne Muller) writes:
If we buy the illusion that we will live forever, we can waste all the time in the world before we start to live...Proximity to death wakes us up...to embrace death is not morbid; to deny death is morbid. If we know we will die, then we know that we are alive. From this mindful awareness can spring a variety of practices that deepen and enrich our time on this earth.
I have such an overwhelming feeling in my heart that I am going to make it through this whole experience cancer-free. I think that it is this feeling that allows me to sit back and reflect on this experience through a lens of curiosity rather than of fear. I will never know why I was given this path to follow, but I know with unwavering certainty that I want something positive to come from it.
I have to believe that many of you who are reading this blog are wondering to yourself, "How does Julie really feel about her diagnosis? Is she ever scared? Does she think about dying? How has this experience changed her life and her priorities?" But I also have to believe that there are deeper thoughts you might have, buried below the surface, which include "What if it were ME that got this diagnosis? How would I respond?" I know that most of my friends (luckily) have not had to stare mortality in the face quite as closely as I have in these past few weeks. And since the human spirit, by nature, tends to avoid toeing the edge of this cliff as much as possible, I have to assume that most of you have probably not willingly contemplated your own mortality. But it is a fact of life. And so I challenge each one of you to imagine the following: Imagine that you were told today that you have only one more year to live. What would you do differently? What changes would you make in your life? If you are anything like me, you would do the following:
> You would get your financial situation in order (e.g., eliminate any debt, invest your extra money in ways that it will grow) so that you are not leaving behind a financial mess for your loved ones;
> You would spend less money on material things like clothes, jewelry and cars (since these items lose their importance instantly when you are confronted with a finite amount of time to live);
> You would rearrange your priorities and schedule so that you had more time to spend with people whom you love and with people who make you happy and in doing the things that bring you pleasure;
> If you have children, you would spend as much time as possible with them so that they are left with an indelible imprint of your love and your values;
> You would spend as much time as possible outdoors soaking up all the wonderful things that nature has to offer;
> You would scramble to figure out what special talents you have that can be used to make the world a better place for generations to come and you would act quickly to affect those changes;
> You would make an enormous effort to eliminate anything that is not helping your body to grow stronger and live longer (e.g., smoking, drinking, eating unhealthy/processed foods, or even negative attitudes and thoughts) and you would focus your energy instead on those things that can help your body grow stronger (e.g., laughing, praying, acupuncture, eating healthy/organic foods, visualization) in the hopes that you can stretch the year that you have been given into two or three or ten or fifty;
> And you would probably spend time contemplating the meaning of life and the meaning of death so that you develop a sense of peace in your heart about what "life" really means.
And so now that you have done that exercise and have identified the things that you would change, I also challenge you to make these changes today. And I mean TODAY -- not tomorrow, not after the ski trip you have planned next week, not after you get the big promotion at work, not after you have one more drink. Make these changes today! These are the changes that I am making -- regardless of the fact that I am feeling positive about my outcome -- because whether I die next year or tomorrow or in 50 years, the reality is that I cannot avoid death and when the time comes I don't want to have any regrets! I don't ever want to look back and wonder "What if I had only done X? Would doing X have provided me another year to spend with the people I love with all my heart?"
As Rossman states in his book: "Perhaps it is not so much for us to find meaning in life as to give meaning to what life brings us. The issue is not whether you will live or die -- you will do both. The issue is how you live your life and what legacy you chose to leave when your time does come."
Okay, enough serious lecturing from me!! I promise that I won't make a habit of it, but since today was the start of my chemo and radiation I am allowing myself a little latitude! :)
"Climbing!"
“Belay” is an old sailing term meaning to secure or to hold fast. In the world of climbing it refers to the use of a rope with a friction system to stop a climber’s potential fall. When preparing to start a climb, the climber at the bottom of the mountain waits for the rope to become tight and then asks "On belay?" This question indicates that the climber is ready to begin climbing and wants to ensure that someone at the top (e.g., the "belayer") is ready and holding the ropes securely. Once everything is ready, the belayer responds "On belay -- climb when ready." And then, when the climber is ready to begin climbing, she announces "Climbing!" and the belayer responds "Climb on!"
I had my first radiation appointment this morning. It was ridiculously easy -- about as difficult as lying on a table and having a x-ray ("Ummm... Hi, Dr Port-A-Cath-Surgeon...it's me again...I just wanted to let you know that for future reference, this is what I would call a 'non-event'...") This appointment was followed by my chemo appointment where I was officially hooked up to my chemo "walkman" and the supporting "life line". Again, this was pretty much a non-event -- definitely more psychologically difficult than physically difficult. I am so incredibly squeamish about anything medical and so the thought of having a tube permanently coming out of my upper chest kind of grosses me out. The nurses tell me that I'll get used to it after awhile, but I am not so sure. I am guessing that about the time I get used to the idea, it will be time to stop the treatments. The whole appointment took about 30 minutes plus a few more minutes to schedule our next appointments (I go in daily for the radiation and once a week to refill the chemo pump), and then Pete and I were set free and we emerged from the building and were greeted by yet another sunny, warm, beautiful California day. It's hard to be depressed when the sun is warming me and I can hear birds chirping all around, and so overall, I feel really, really great! The Bitch Must Go campaign has officially begun and that makes me incredibly happy.
So when I heard Pete and my doctors yell down to me today, "On belay -- climb when ready!" I screamed back as loudly as I could, "Climbing! I am climbing!!!!" to which I heard all of my family, friends, doctors (and even a bunch of people whom I don't know, but whom I know are praying for me) scream back from the top of my mountain, "Climb on, Julie! Climb on!"
I had my first radiation appointment this morning. It was ridiculously easy -- about as difficult as lying on a table and having a x-ray ("Ummm... Hi, Dr Port-A-Cath-Surgeon...it's me again...I just wanted to let you know that for future reference, this is what I would call a 'non-event'...") This appointment was followed by my chemo appointment where I was officially hooked up to my chemo "walkman" and the supporting "life line". Again, this was pretty much a non-event -- definitely more psychologically difficult than physically difficult. I am so incredibly squeamish about anything medical and so the thought of having a tube permanently coming out of my upper chest kind of grosses me out. The nurses tell me that I'll get used to it after awhile, but I am not so sure. I am guessing that about the time I get used to the idea, it will be time to stop the treatments. The whole appointment took about 30 minutes plus a few more minutes to schedule our next appointments (I go in daily for the radiation and once a week to refill the chemo pump), and then Pete and I were set free and we emerged from the building and were greeted by yet another sunny, warm, beautiful California day. It's hard to be depressed when the sun is warming me and I can hear birds chirping all around, and so overall, I feel really, really great! The Bitch Must Go campaign has officially begun and that makes me incredibly happy.
So when I heard Pete and my doctors yell down to me today, "On belay -- climb when ready!" I screamed back as loudly as I could, "Climbing! I am climbing!!!!" to which I heard all of my family, friends, doctors (and even a bunch of people whom I don't know, but whom I know are praying for me) scream back from the top of my mountain, "Climb on, Julie! Climb on!"
My Dad's Advice
Well, today is the big day. I have my radiation appointment in about 45 minutes and then I go to get connected to my continuous chemo pump (e.g., my "life line"). I am feeling very positive and surprisingly at ease right now. A simple, but impactful comment from my Dad keeps running through my head, which is helping me to stay focused. He said, "The sooner you get started, the sooner this will all be over!" Aren't dads the best for helping put things in perspective?? Thanks, Dad! :)
Friday, March 9, 2007
My Wacky Cousin, Jeremy
For those of you who have not yet figured out how to read the "comments" attached to each blog entry, I wanted to share with you one that my wonderfully wacky cousin, Jeremy, posted yesterday in response to my fear about the carabiner surgery. He wrote:
Julie, you should not be freaked out. It's the Bitch who should be freaking out. Just imagine-- she has no idea, but she is enjoying her last few lovely peaceful days. She is kicking back, lounging-- and tomorrow she's going to hear a KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK somewhere up around the vicinity of your chest. She'll look up, and say, "Hey, what the fuck is that?!?" and before she can figure it out she'll get the chemo splashed all over her eyes and then the radiation smashing into her face like a fist and then she'll start to wither just like the witch in the Wizard of Oz: "I'm melting!!! MMMMMEEELLLLTING!!!!" and you will say, "What's the problem, Bitch? You can dish it out but you can't take it? Get up and get some more of this."
Ha, ha, ha!!! How can I NOT feel like fighting when I have wonderful support like this!
And for future reference, if you want to read the great comments that various people are leaving me, just click on the "comments" button at the bottom of each blog entry.
Julie, you should not be freaked out. It's the Bitch who should be freaking out. Just imagine-- she has no idea, but she is enjoying her last few lovely peaceful days. She is kicking back, lounging-- and tomorrow she's going to hear a KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK somewhere up around the vicinity of your chest. She'll look up, and say, "Hey, what the fuck is that?!?" and before she can figure it out she'll get the chemo splashed all over her eyes and then the radiation smashing into her face like a fist and then she'll start to wither just like the witch in the Wizard of Oz: "I'm melting!!! MMMMMEEELLLLTING!!!!" and you will say, "What's the problem, Bitch? You can dish it out but you can't take it? Get up and get some more of this."
Ha, ha, ha!!! How can I NOT feel like fighting when I have wonderful support like this!
And for future reference, if you want to read the great comments that various people are leaving me, just click on the "comments" button at the bottom of each blog entry.
"Non-Event" Surgery
Well, my carabiner is firmly in place now. The surgery was fairly uneventful, although the recovery has been more painful than I expected. The surgeon who did the procedure talked with Pete and I beforehand and said, "In the whole scheme of what you are going through, this surgery is really a 'non-event'." Ummm, excuse me...Doctor? I was just curious....if this is what a "non-event" feels like, what exactly should I expect when they cut open my abdomen and remove part of my colon, lymph nodes and pelvic tissue?
Pete decided early on in our marriage that I was born with more "pain-receptors" than the normal person. I think that this was his loving way of implying that I am a total wimp when it comes to pain, which I fully admit. Anyway, he informed me last night as I was whining about the pain from my "non-event" surgery that he is going to ask the doctor whether they can also resect some of my pain receptors at the same time that they are resecting other parts of my body. If that would make my recovery less painful, I am all for it!
Pete decided early on in our marriage that I was born with more "pain-receptors" than the normal person. I think that this was his loving way of implying that I am a total wimp when it comes to pain, which I fully admit. Anyway, he informed me last night as I was whining about the pain from my "non-event" surgery that he is going to ask the doctor whether they can also resect some of my pain receptors at the same time that they are resecting other parts of my body. If that would make my recovery less painful, I am all for it!
Thursday, March 8, 2007
My Life Line
Last night, as Pete and I were snuggling into bed I turned to him and said, "I really need to figure out a way to come to peace with having a port-a-cath and going through chemo and radiation. I am afraid that if I don't my mind and my body will fight these and then the drugs won't be as effective." I must have dreamed about this during the night because when I awoke this morning I actually did feel more at peace.
I went for a very loooong run this morning (I figured it was my last time to run without random tubes sticking out of my body) and while I was running, I began to think about the story I wrote which kicked off this entire blog, the one about "My Mountain." As I ran, I could feel the Earth pounding solidly beneath my feet and all around me the breath-taking mountains and ocean filled my view, and I slowly came to envision that the port-a-cath I am having implanted is nothing more than a carabiner. And that the tubing which will connect my carabiner to the chemo pump is simply the first "rope" that is being dropped down to me by my doctors.
My friend, Isae (who is a cancer survivor herself) wrote me yesterday and shared that when she went through this experience a number of years ago, she was also terrified of starting chemo. She reassured me, though, that it wasn't as bad as she thought it was going to be and obviously she is here to share her story and so it clearly didn't kill her. And one of my best friends, Maity, also wrote to tell me that her mom has had a port-a-cath for a few years because of breast cancer that she has battled. Maity and I must be on the same wave-length because she suggested that I think of the port-a-cath as simply "part of the equipment I need for my climb." So as I head off to my surgery appointment in just a few minutes, I have a new mental image that I am now focused on...
I squint into the brilliant sun and look way, way, way up to the very top of my mountain, and I watch as my doctors throw down the carabiner that they want me to fasten onto my body. This carabiner will wrap tightly around the life line -- which they will throw down to me next -- and will ensure that I stay firmly and securely attached to those at the top. At the very top of the mountain I can also see my friends Isae and Maity, with their bright smiles and beautiful faces, and they are yelling to me, "Take the rope, Julie! Grab the rope! It is not going to kill you -- you'll be fine! I promise." And I see all of my other friends and family yelling and screaming, "Don't be scared, Julie, the rope is safe! Trust your doctors -- the rope will save you!" And so, I again lay my faith in God that he is guiding me along the correct path back up this mountain and I slowly and carefully begin to gear up for my long, long climb.
car·a·bi·ner [kar-uh-bee-ner] - noun - a D-shaped ring with a spring catch on one side, used for fastening ropes in mountaineering
I went for a very loooong run this morning (I figured it was my last time to run without random tubes sticking out of my body) and while I was running, I began to think about the story I wrote which kicked off this entire blog, the one about "My Mountain." As I ran, I could feel the Earth pounding solidly beneath my feet and all around me the breath-taking mountains and ocean filled my view, and I slowly came to envision that the port-a-cath I am having implanted is nothing more than a carabiner. And that the tubing which will connect my carabiner to the chemo pump is simply the first "rope" that is being dropped down to me by my doctors.
My friend, Isae (who is a cancer survivor herself) wrote me yesterday and shared that when she went through this experience a number of years ago, she was also terrified of starting chemo. She reassured me, though, that it wasn't as bad as she thought it was going to be and obviously she is here to share her story and so it clearly didn't kill her. And one of my best friends, Maity, also wrote to tell me that her mom has had a port-a-cath for a few years because of breast cancer that she has battled. Maity and I must be on the same wave-length because she suggested that I think of the port-a-cath as simply "part of the equipment I need for my climb." So as I head off to my surgery appointment in just a few minutes, I have a new mental image that I am now focused on...
I squint into the brilliant sun and look way, way, way up to the very top of my mountain, and I watch as my doctors throw down the carabiner that they want me to fasten onto my body. This carabiner will wrap tightly around the life line -- which they will throw down to me next -- and will ensure that I stay firmly and securely attached to those at the top. At the very top of the mountain I can also see my friends Isae and Maity, with their bright smiles and beautiful faces, and they are yelling to me, "Take the rope, Julie! Grab the rope! It is not going to kill you -- you'll be fine! I promise." And I see all of my other friends and family yelling and screaming, "Don't be scared, Julie, the rope is safe! Trust your doctors -- the rope will save you!" And so, I again lay my faith in God that he is guiding me along the correct path back up this mountain and I slowly and carefully begin to gear up for my long, long climb.
car·a·bi·ner [kar-uh-bee-ner] - noun - a D-shaped ring with a spring catch on one side, used for fastening ropes in mountaineering
əˈbiWednesday, March 7, 2007
Port-a-Cath
I go in for minor, outpatient surgery tomorrow to have a catheter implanted into my chest just below my shoulder. It is through this "port-a-cath" that all of the chemo drugs will be administered. We learned yesterday that for the next 6 weeks (starting Monday) I will be on a continuous flow of chemo, which means that I will have a small pump that I have to carry around with me everywhere (it's about the size of a Walkman) that will pump chemo drugs into my body through this port-a-cath 24/7. The main purpose of this initial round of chemo is to help the radiation work better. One person explained this to us by saying that radiation breaks up the cell structure of fast-growing cells (like cancer cells) and the chemo keeps the cell from rebuilding itself. The bummer is that I will have the port-a-cath for a really long time (until at least Christmas, I am guessing) since it will be used again after the surgery when I will again have chemo. This second round of chemo, though, will be more "systemic", which means that it is intended to sweep any remaining stray cancer cells out of my body so that they don't try to set up camp. I keep visualizing a dustpan and broom strolling around my body gathering up any unwanted cancer cells -- I never would have guessed that the thought of housecleaning would be so comforting to me!
So I am definitely a bit freaked out about the idea of this surgery tomorrow, but I just keep reminding myself that I'll never make it back up to the top of my mountain unless I actually start climbing.
So I am definitely a bit freaked out about the idea of this surgery tomorrow, but I just keep reminding myself that I'll never make it back up to the top of my mountain unless I actually start climbing.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
A Surreal Day
I know, I know, I know...I promised Pete that I would stop thinking about this cancer as being "surreal", but I can't help it! Today was surreal! It was an absolutely gorgeous day -- blue skies, flowers blooming, birds chirping, 60+ degrees -- basically a perfect day for being outside and a perfect example of why we love living in California so much. Unfortunately for me, though, I was inside going through "chemo training" and getting measured, poked and prodded in preparation for radiation treatments. Until today, I think that a part of my brain was still able to deny that this whole nightmare was actually happening to me, but today it all became crystal clear.
So the reason that I was even at chemo training and radiation simulation was that I finally decided to move forward with treatment, despite the fact that we still do not have a positive biopsy. This was a really hard decision for me to make. If I am lucky, the tumor will be completely gone by the end of the radiation treatment and so we might never know for sure whether it was "invasive cancer" or something less sinister. But I guess that I feel in my heart that it truly is cancer -- the ultrasound shows it, the CT scan shows it, the PET scan shows it. As the doctors are clearly fond of saying, "If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it's most likely a duck." (Do they teach that in med school??) My cousin, Jeremy, asked me over the weekend what I would do if I had a third biopsy and it came back benign (e.g., still not showing positive proof of invasive cancer). My response to him was that I would still move forward with treatment just to be safe. His response was "Then why wait? Why not start the treatment now?" His point stuck with me and made me realized that questioning the biopsy results was just my way of delaying the inevitable. The thought of subjecting my body to chemo and radiation completely freaks me out. It doesn't matter that the nurses have urged me to think of the treatment as "medicine", or friends have suggested that I think of it as "poisoning the Bitch". The reality is that it will also be poisoning ME!
As I was laying on the radiation table today getting measured and marked, I shut my eyes tight and concentrated as hard as I could to envision my two beautiful children. And I reminded myself that I am walking through this fire for them, for us. Maybe it's not really cancer; maybe this will all be for nothing. I may never know. But the reality is that walking through this fire is the only way that I can be 100% confident that I am doing everything I can to survive, and at the end of the day, surviving is all that matters.
So the reason that I was even at chemo training and radiation simulation was that I finally decided to move forward with treatment, despite the fact that we still do not have a positive biopsy. This was a really hard decision for me to make. If I am lucky, the tumor will be completely gone by the end of the radiation treatment and so we might never know for sure whether it was "invasive cancer" or something less sinister. But I guess that I feel in my heart that it truly is cancer -- the ultrasound shows it, the CT scan shows it, the PET scan shows it. As the doctors are clearly fond of saying, "If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it's most likely a duck." (Do they teach that in med school??) My cousin, Jeremy, asked me over the weekend what I would do if I had a third biopsy and it came back benign (e.g., still not showing positive proof of invasive cancer). My response to him was that I would still move forward with treatment just to be safe. His response was "Then why wait? Why not start the treatment now?" His point stuck with me and made me realized that questioning the biopsy results was just my way of delaying the inevitable. The thought of subjecting my body to chemo and radiation completely freaks me out. It doesn't matter that the nurses have urged me to think of the treatment as "medicine", or friends have suggested that I think of it as "poisoning the Bitch". The reality is that it will also be poisoning ME!
As I was laying on the radiation table today getting measured and marked, I shut my eyes tight and concentrated as hard as I could to envision my two beautiful children. And I reminded myself that I am walking through this fire for them, for us. Maybe it's not really cancer; maybe this will all be for nothing. I may never know. But the reality is that walking through this fire is the only way that I can be 100% confident that I am doing everything I can to survive, and at the end of the day, surviving is all that matters.
I Am Not A Purple Crayon
Luke had a play date recently with a little boy from the neighborhood. Halfway through the play date, Luke came running up to me in tears and said that his friend, Eric, had called him "a midget". He was clearly very distraught from this. As I wiped his tears I asked him, "Are you a midget?" and he immediately and emphatically responded "No!"
"Then don't let it bother you, Sweetie." I responded.
"But he won't stop saying it, Mommy!" he cried.
"Luke, what would you say if your friend had called you a purple crayon?" He looked at me completely confused. "What would you say to him, Luke?" I asked again.
"I don't understand, Mommy. That's stupid."
"Right. It is stupid. It would be stupid for Eric to call you a purple crayon, because you are clearly not a purple crayon. I know that you are not a purple crayon, but more importantly, you know that you are not a purple crayon. And so you would probably look at Eric and tell him that that is the stupidest thing you have ever heard, right?"
"Right," he responded tentatively.
"Well, you and I both know that you are also not a midget. There is no question in my mind and there is no question in your mind: you are definitely not a midget. And so you need to go back downstairs and tell Eric that this is the stupidest thing that you have ever heard. His words can only affect you if you let yourself believe what he is saying is true."
"But what if he won't stop saying it to me?" Luke responded.
"Then walk away from him. Tell him that you only like to be with people who make you happy and since he is not making you happy you do not want to play with him until he can be nice."
Luke went back downstairs and I didn't see him again until the end of the play date, so I assume that my sage advice did the trick (or else -- typical of 5-year-olds -- the drama simply evaporated as quickly as it started).
I realized yesterday, though, that I need to learn to take my own advice. This Bitch inside of me keeps telling me that I am weak. She whispers to me that I do not have the strength to expel her from my body. She tries to make me question whether my will to live is stronger than her desire to kill me. But as I sit here now and think back to Luke and his play date, I am realizing that these things are only true if I believe them myself. I would be lying if I said that I haven't had moments of doubt. I had many of these moments a couple weeks ago, right after I received my diagnosis. Hearing the word "cancer" was the scariest moment in my life and I shook uncontrollably for days afterwards. My immediate thought was how can I possibly beat stage 3 (or worse, stage 4!) cancer? What if I am not strong enough to be one of the survivors? What if I was meant to die at a young age, long before my parents and even two of my grandparents? What will happen to my beautiful children and my husband? Lately, these moments of weakness have come less frequently and usually at the end of a long day of doctors' appointments when, by necessity, we have been exploring "worst case" scenarios. I am sure that there will be many more of these doubt-filled moments ahead as I go in for follow-up tests and as my body becomes weakened by the chemo and radiation. But I know in my heart that I am strong enough to beat this. I honestly believe that as long as there are people who emerge cancer-free from "stage 3.5 colon cancer", then I most definitely have the emotional, physical and moral strength necessary to be one of those people.
So the next time the Bitch starts whispering in my ear, I will simply say to her "That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard, you Bitch! You cannot make me believe something that I know is not true. I am not a purple crayon, I am not weak, and I sure as hell don't want to die!" In an ideal world, I would also whip around and storm away from the Bitch (since she is most definitely not making me happy!) but unfortunately, she seems to be stuck inside my body at the moment.
"Then don't let it bother you, Sweetie." I responded.
"But he won't stop saying it, Mommy!" he cried.
"Luke, what would you say if your friend had called you a purple crayon?" He looked at me completely confused. "What would you say to him, Luke?" I asked again.
"I don't understand, Mommy. That's stupid."
"Right. It is stupid. It would be stupid for Eric to call you a purple crayon, because you are clearly not a purple crayon. I know that you are not a purple crayon, but more importantly, you know that you are not a purple crayon. And so you would probably look at Eric and tell him that that is the stupidest thing you have ever heard, right?"
"Right," he responded tentatively.
"Well, you and I both know that you are also not a midget. There is no question in my mind and there is no question in your mind: you are definitely not a midget. And so you need to go back downstairs and tell Eric that this is the stupidest thing that you have ever heard. His words can only affect you if you let yourself believe what he is saying is true."
"But what if he won't stop saying it to me?" Luke responded.
"Then walk away from him. Tell him that you only like to be with people who make you happy and since he is not making you happy you do not want to play with him until he can be nice."
Luke went back downstairs and I didn't see him again until the end of the play date, so I assume that my sage advice did the trick (or else -- typical of 5-year-olds -- the drama simply evaporated as quickly as it started).
I realized yesterday, though, that I need to learn to take my own advice. This Bitch inside of me keeps telling me that I am weak. She whispers to me that I do not have the strength to expel her from my body. She tries to make me question whether my will to live is stronger than her desire to kill me. But as I sit here now and think back to Luke and his play date, I am realizing that these things are only true if I believe them myself. I would be lying if I said that I haven't had moments of doubt. I had many of these moments a couple weeks ago, right after I received my diagnosis. Hearing the word "cancer" was the scariest moment in my life and I shook uncontrollably for days afterwards. My immediate thought was how can I possibly beat stage 3 (or worse, stage 4!) cancer? What if I am not strong enough to be one of the survivors? What if I was meant to die at a young age, long before my parents and even two of my grandparents? What will happen to my beautiful children and my husband? Lately, these moments of weakness have come less frequently and usually at the end of a long day of doctors' appointments when, by necessity, we have been exploring "worst case" scenarios. I am sure that there will be many more of these doubt-filled moments ahead as I go in for follow-up tests and as my body becomes weakened by the chemo and radiation. But I know in my heart that I am strong enough to beat this. I honestly believe that as long as there are people who emerge cancer-free from "stage 3.5 colon cancer", then I most definitely have the emotional, physical and moral strength necessary to be one of those people.
So the next time the Bitch starts whispering in my ear, I will simply say to her "That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard, you Bitch! You cannot make me believe something that I know is not true. I am not a purple crayon, I am not weak, and I sure as hell don't want to die!" In an ideal world, I would also whip around and storm away from the Bitch (since she is most definitely not making me happy!) but unfortunately, she seems to be stuck inside my body at the moment.
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Thank you!
I just wanted to say thank you, thank you, thank you to all of the many people who have reached out to me and shared words of support and love in these past couple weeks. Your emails mean so much to me! I am sorry that I have not had a chance yet to write many of you back -- every spare moment I have had in the past 3 weeks has been filled with either appointments, research, rest, exercise, or prayer. I am hoping that once my treatment actually starts, I will have more time to reflect back on the many emails and actually respond... But in the meantime, please know that just because I am not writing back, it does not mean that I don't appreciate your thoughts and prayer. I really, really do -- they are keeping me motivated and focused in this fight!
I keep joking that when this whole ordeal is over I am going to write a book called "It Takes A Village to Cure Cancer". I truly believe that -- there is no way that I could beat this thing on my own without the love and support of so many friends and family. So thank you for joining my village!
I keep joking that when this whole ordeal is over I am going to write a book called "It Takes A Village to Cure Cancer". I truly believe that -- there is no way that I could beat this thing on my own without the love and support of so many friends and family. So thank you for joining my village!
The Hand of God...Again
Pete and I went to church today. We were going to go last night, but ended up running out of time and so we went this morning instead. As soon as we slid into the pew, Father Tarantino asked everyone to take a moment and introduce themselves to a "new friend". I paused for a second, looked around, and then turned to the couple seated behind us. The woman smiled, extended her hand and said "Hi, my name is Isabelle." The second that she said it, I knew immediately and without a doubt that she was the woman who had reached out to me about her brother-in-law's colon cancer (read my earlier blog). I don't know how I knew this -- I have never met her before and I had no idea what she looked like -- but somehow I just knew. I immediately said to her "Isabelle, I am Julie Wheelan. We spoke on the phone." and after a split second she understood exactly who I was and gave me a huge hug.
She was there with her husband and their son (who, ironically, is 10 days older than Kyle) and so I also met Denis (it was his brother who had died of colon cancer). We talked with them for about an hour after church and none of us could get over how incredibly strange it was that we were brought together in this way. Isabelle and Denis said that they alternate between St Hilary church and another local Catholic church and that they actually came extremely close this morning to going to the other church, but changed their mind at the last minute.
What are the chances that we would all somehow end up going to the same church service on the same day? What are the chances that in a fully-packed church we would slide into the pew right in front of them? What are the chances that of all the people surrounding me whom I could have introduced myself to, I chose them? I am very confident that all four of us departed this morning knowing that none of this was due to chance.
She was there with her husband and their son (who, ironically, is 10 days older than Kyle) and so I also met Denis (it was his brother who had died of colon cancer). We talked with them for about an hour after church and none of us could get over how incredibly strange it was that we were brought together in this way. Isabelle and Denis said that they alternate between St Hilary church and another local Catholic church and that they actually came extremely close this morning to going to the other church, but changed their mind at the last minute.
What are the chances that we would all somehow end up going to the same church service on the same day? What are the chances that in a fully-packed church we would slide into the pew right in front of them? What are the chances that of all the people surrounding me whom I could have introduced myself to, I chose them? I am very confident that all four of us departed this morning knowing that none of this was due to chance.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
