Springtime joy

Lazy hours in the backyard hammock, and climbing up the strings like ropes on a pirate ship;
Batting balls around the tennis courts, with breaks of exploration in the woods to find the ones that soared;
Strawberry picking, and the shortcake that Mama makes afterwards;
(Very) minor league baseball, complete with soft pretzel, cheese fries, and good friends;
Sharing the backseat of a minivan, and giggling all the way;
Birthday parties, sandboxes, and even a pinata;
Clambering up the playset’s rock wall, carefully, so carefully;
Squirting Daddy with the tiny hose of an outdoor fire truck;
Paddling along on the scooter on the sidewalk, daydreaming;
Chalking the sidewalk with the neighbor kids;
Digging in the garden to find “baby wormies;”
Pretending that the backyard fort is … oh, so many, many things; and
Cuddling with Mama at bedtime, reading story after story as the sun goes down.

These are the things that my children may remember from this spring, oh, so different than the last.

Susan also writes about the joy possible in life after cancer at Toddler Planet.

Thank Goodness for Chemo Day

Here’s a new sentence I have added to my repertoire that before last year would have been absurd: “Lucky for me I have chemo tomorrow (or next week).”

I find myself saying that quite often now.  I said it on Tuesday after I crashed on my bike going up a hill in Andover.  My gears locked up and since my feet were clipped in to the pedals, there was no where to go but down. Hard.  The handlebars went into my chest right below where my port lies.   I was panicked that I had damaged the port or one of the lines that goes into my artery that leads to my heart.  After I dusted off and got back in the saddle, I turned to Susan and said, “Luckily I have chemo tomorrow.”

What has happened over the last year and a half is that I tend to save all my ailments for when I have my chemo appointments — every three weeks. When I fell on my knee the week before I decided to wait and have my oncologist tell me weather it was infected and prescribe antibiotics if necessary.  Last time I had them check my implant. Some day I will probably see if they can fill my cavities.

 Every time I go in there is a parade of doctors who see me.  First the nurse draws my blood and asks how I am doing, “Are you in any pain?” they always say. “Not really” is usually my answer. Then in comes the Pharmocologist.  She has been with me since the first rounds of AC.  She was instrumental in changing my medications to alleviate nausea and the constipation that the drugs caused.  Nowadays she is interested in the side-effects of Tamoxifen, and making sure I take the proper vitamins and calcium to help with my now-menopause -induced -aging bones.  She also is part nutritionist and tries to give me advice on eating foods that contain certain minerals.  This week I complained that my feet were cramping up at night and when I swim — which was becoming painful.  She told me that I needed more magnesium in my diet, and to HYDRATE.

When the Pharmacologist is done with me, in comes the nurse practitioner.  She knew about my fall because the original nurse who took my blood put out an e-mail to everyone.  Like a cancer patient APB.  The nurse practitioner is very serious.  Smart, but serious.  A little uptight.  She talks about the issues I am having and pretty much tells me the same things that the oncologist will tell me.  I am not sure why she comes in first.  I have never figured that out.  Maybe they think I will say something different to her than to my Doctor.

Shortly after  the uptight nurse leaves, the oncologist breezes in.  ”What the hell did you do?” she asks.

“Hmmm, what the hell did YOU do,” I asked back, spying the cast on her leg.  Seems she broke her ankle while tripping over her dog.  I felt vindicated.  Mine wasn’t that clutzy.

After we go over my blood levels and electrolyte levels, she checks my lungs and sets up an appointment for an  echocardiogram, we chit-chat about biking.  She is an avid rider who bikes across country.  She tells me how much I am going to love the Pan Mass and she is genuinely happy that I am doing it.  I ask her if I can stop taking the tamoxifen because I hate it and she tells me what I already know:

“NO. Absolutely not.  The tamoxifen and the herceptin are actually more important than the initial chemo.”

Fine.  I’ll keep taking it.

From there it is up the elevator one floor to Dana 10 for my infusion.  My girl Heidi is the oncology nurse I have every time.  She is wonderful.  If there is ever an ailment or problem that I have neglected to tell the others, I tell Heidi, and she puts an APB out from upstairs. I love talking to her about the kids and her life and mine and I usually make her laugh, which is always a good thing when you are surrounded by much sorrow.

So my chemo days have turned into total health days for me.  No cell in my body is left unturned and no pain is ignored.  It’s comforting.  I believe that I only have 3 more infusions left.  This is fabulous and amazing when I think how far I have come.  When I think that at the beginning of this journey, the end seemed so far away and impossible to attain.  But here I sit, looking at the end.  I am starting to understand the feelings that I have read about — when people stop treatment and the depression sets in.  As wonderful as it is, it is also somewhat scary.  After July I am left on my own with my aches and pains.  I won’t have that reassurance every 3 weeks that I have become so accustomed to. I go back to being ordinary, like everyone else.  Which means I will have to call my primary care physician.  Too bad I can’t seem to remember her name….

Choose Life

(crossposted and edited from Coffee and Chemo)
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Our lives are filled with choices.

Almost two years ago, when I learned about my diagnosis, I made a choice, a conscious choice, about how I would live my life.

I stumbled, by accident, on frightening survival statistics of women diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer: only 20% are still alive five years after their diagnosis.

I determined right then and there that I intended to be part of that 20%.

I wish I could remember which angel directed me to the fabulous article by Stephen J. Gould, “The Median is Not the Message”. I think it might have been someone from Sharsheret, a wonderful Jewish American organization that provided me with tremendous support in those devastating initial weeks, before I found appropriate support here in Israel.

If you have not read it already, then I recommend doing so now. Go ahead. It will reshape the way you view the world.

I read “The Median is Not the Message” and realized that my determination to “beat the odds” is a rational possibility and not just “wishful thinking.”

Meanwhile, Moshe (my husband) was reading everything he could about my disease. My dear, loving, sensitive husband was devastated by the statistics.

I knew that Moshe, for whom logic and cold science are fundamental to how he views the world, needed to read the article.

That article was the greatest gift I could give him.

But I did not stop there. I had already begun formulating my 20-year-plan.

I figured that if I did end up living for another 20 years or more, it would be an aweful shame to live all that time worrying about dying tomorrow.

Besides, I joked, I “just need to live long enough for them to discover a cure.”

There is so much research going on every day, who knows what new medicines and miracle cures might be just a few years down the road?

We do not know what the future will bring. So why live expecting the worst? What a waste of our valuable time and energy.

In the past, I loved the adage “expect the worst, hope for the best, and you will never be disappointed.” Suddenly, this approach to life no longer served me well.

I shifted paradigms.

I chose to expect the best.

I chose to believe that I would live, that I would have a future.

In Parshat Nitzavim (the Biblical passages of Deuteronomy 29:9–30:20) which we read on Shabbat (the Sabbath), just before Rosh HaShanah (the Jewish new year), during the time when Jews are focussed on self-evaluation and repentence, Moshe Rabeinu (Moses, our teacher; not my husband) addresses Am Yisrael (the Jewish People) and proclaims:

הַעִדֹתִי בָכֶם הַיּוֹם, אֶת-הַשָּׁמַיִם וְאֶת-הָאָרֶץ, הַחַיִּים וְהַמָּוֶת נָתַתִּי לְפָנֶיךָ, הַבְּרָכָה וְהַקְּלָלָה; וּבָחַרְתָּ בַּחַיִּים, לְמַעַן תִּחְיֶה, אַתָּה וְזַרְעֶךָ
(דברים ל:יט)

I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day, that I have set before thee life and death, the blessing and the curse; therefore choose life, that thou mayest live, thou and thy seed (Deuteronomy 30:19)

Perspective

It’s a funny thing how things can change over time.

When I was first diagnosed, I blogged about my visit to the plastic surgeon. Weirdly, I was scheduled to see him 2 days after finding out I had cancer. Looking back now, I realize I was in shock. I still HAD Lefty and couldn’t even wrap my mind around the idea that it would be gone in a matter of weeks. Reconstruction was the least of my worries. I wanted to live, and part of my body was trying to kill me. I just wanted it gone. I wrote about how I didn’t care if I was ever reconstructed.

Now here I am, a year later, not dead. With lymphedema. And a cute haircut. And much disdain for my prosthesis. Flefty likes to wander up into my armpit. Which is very attractive. Most people ask if they have anything in their teeth before going on stage. I have to ask if the girls are straight. (Sorry about all the euphemisms, but I’m trying to avoid pRon spam.) Flefty is hot in a non-sexy way. And no longer matches Righty.

I’ve also had a lot of time to ponder whether to get Righty removed. It would help lower my cancer recurrance rate (which is about 60 to 70 percent right now.) It would probably help my stress level since the need for extensive mammograms would be eliminated. One less scan, right? It’s also my best chance for both sides to match, recon or not.

So…I decided to go back to see the plastic surgeon and see what my options were. I had LOTS of radiation which can make reconstruction difficult. I flat out asked him which sort of recon would be the most successful. He said, that in his opinion, making a sort of skin/muscle bra from part of my left back and inserting implants on both sides was my best option. It’s a 3 to 4 hour surgery with a 4 – 6 week recovery. I’d have expanders for a while and then exchange them for implants when they’re ready. I will lose some power on my left side, but I’m not a champion skier or a tennis player, and he assured me it wouldn’t affect my piano skills so I’m think I’m OK with this.

The other perspective change I have is about my plastic surgeon. He was really nice this visit. Funny and supportive. Not like I remember him at all, which makes me wonder if my being in shock had something to do with my impression. I would like to think that I’m a person who fesses up when they were wrong. So here I am. Fessing. So….sometime in July I will be having surgery. Again. But this time it will be because I want it.

Crossposted to ThrowsLikeAGirl

Happy Mother’s Day

Happy Mother’s Day to our U.S. writers and readers and anyone else who celebrates this day!  You have EARNED a wonderful day, ladies — twice!