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Posts Tagged ‘breast cancer’

So I have to admit that because of my history I’ve got a pretty lengthy medical file that probably weighs more in pounds than it measures in thickness.  So it’s always been in my best interest to actually purchase some sort of medical ID bracelet or dog tags to give people a heads up in case something goes wrong and I’m unable to communicate.  I am, unfortunately, a true procrastinator at heart.  What makes matters worse is that, when I’m faced with a lot of decisions before reaching an end goal, I tend to drag my feet like an overweight dachshund being forced on a walk around the block.

Case in point: I probably should have had a medical ID bracelet the moment I discovered I had an allergy that led to anaphylactic shock.  That’s basically when your body reacts so severely to something that it starts shutting down.  Eyes, throat, mouth…everything swells and cuts off the necessities.  You know…like air.  It’s not a super common allergic reaction, but most that deal with it frequently tend to carry an epi-pen or other life-saving medications around for this very reason.

Of course, the trigger for that severe reaction in me only comes from one source and it’s only maintained in one environment that I’m aware of.  Medicating myself ahead of time tends to curb the reaction to the bare minimum or down to nothing at all.  While great, it may or may not have given me a reason to procrastinate on a medical ID bracelet for just that much longer.

Jump ahead several years and we’ve got Breast Cancer breathing down my neck, a full on radical mastectomy complete with lymph node removal.  Anybody who has been through this or is even remotely familiar to this procedure knows that most nurses, phlebotomists and the like tend to frown on using the arm on the side your lymph nodes have been removed.  Not only does this include drawing blood and IVs, but they also strongly advise not using blood pressure cuffs and lifting anything over a certain weight due to the strong risk of developing lymphedema.  Lymphedema, in short, is pretty much a chronic and painful swelling in the arm.  It’s an unfortunate and pretty common side effect of losing your lymph nodes, as those are what pull water and fluids from any sort of injury through to your body’s waste system (liver and kidneys, naturally).  Without them, the fluid tends to pool and collect right where it forms, causing painful swelling.  In order to control it you’re pretty much stuck with the equivalent of compression socks on your arms for life.  There’s at least some solace knowing that people do make some pretty fancy and fashionable lymphedema wraps. But, once you have it, it can flare up or calm a bit, so you’re pretty much looking at a permanent condition.  Thus far it’s one I’ve managed to avoid.  Probably in my best interest to keep it that way.

You would think that this would get me off my rear, right?  A severe allergy, risk of a painful chronic condition if somebody pokes or squeezes the wrong arm…?  Well … sort of.  It did push me to start looking around.  My major roadblock, however, was that I was also on a plethora of medications, had several doctors…had emergency numbers that should be placed on such a thing…

But when you look at most websites offering these bracelets, you’re given 4-5 lines of space to put the most important things down.  How do you prioritize?  What do you tell people if you’re found unconscious and in need of medical help?

Like…how if you’re found unconscious in a parking lot, slumped over your steering wheel…?  Stop looking at me like that.  I can feel the disapproval through your screen.

I still didn’t have a bracelet made yet when I had my adventure during that chaos.  If you consider I could open my own pharmacy with all the medications they have me on,  knowing that info in the ER would have been mighty helpful.  I lucked out in that my husband is pretty well-informed with my health, but the wrong medication, the wrong dosage, mixed with another…?  There’s no way to pretty up the fact that it could kill you or severely hamper your recovery.

So I finally did some research.  Google can be such a marvelous thing for the prepetual procrastinator.

Turns out that if you have a novel of information you want EMTs, Nurses, ER staff, doctors or even perfect strangers to know if you’re out cold…can be put onto a simple medical ID card.  Tuck it away in your wallet, call it good.  I was hesitant at first, though, knowing that most of my medications and dosages, times, etc., are prone to changing.

Turns out people have thought of that, too.

If you go here you can find a form online that you can fill out with all the information that will be needed.  Blood type, emergency numbers, allergies, address, name, conditions, medications and dosages and times …

All the stuff to make your nurse proud.

So what does that leave to put on your medical ID bracelet or dog tags?  Anything you think would be needed immediately.   For me?  My name, two emergency numbers, and a line that simply reads “SEE MEDICAL ID CARD”.

Best part?  While the medical bracelet doesn’t come free (or cheap in a lot of cases), you don’t feel so bad buying a nice one that will last knowing that there will be little cause to have to replace the actual tag in the future.  Every time something changes?   Go back, fill it out again, print it for free in any of the available card sizes, tuck it in your wallet and go on with your day.  Considering how everything else in life is far from simple, it’s nice to see at least one thing is.

 

Med ID Bracelet

I went for the functional, but I’ve got a fancy one, too. I snagged mine from Lauren’s Hope … ended up arriving super early and in great condition.

 

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Well, if that title doesn’t throw you off a little…I’m not entirely sure what will.

In truth it’s going in about three different directions.  First and foremost, is the fact that I have been terribly absent in my writing for a while and for this, like all the other times, I profusely apologize.  Not just to those who read this for entertainment, but for those who read it to keep up on my health … and also to myself.  I really need to sit down and focus on writing a little bit more.  Second attributes to the absentminded part.  Which I will have to delve into with much more detail further below.  But third, which is actually what I intend on starting out with, is the Spoons.

That’s right, spoons.

Chances are if you have ever heard of the spoon theory you can gauge where this is going.  Now, the spoon theory is in no way something I created, but before reading on in my post I would highly recommend either reading it, listening to it, or watching it at the original author’s website.

Copyright Christine Miseradino

Christine Miserandino’s Spoon Theory

 

Yes, there are some very, very distinct differences between Christine and myself, the most obvious being her having lupus and me having a trump card of cancers.  It doesn’t change the fact that just about everything she states here strikes a chord for me in a way that I’ve never really been able to articulate fully to all but a tiny, tiny handful of people.  So I really hadn’t ever tried.  Having the benefit of, for the most part, not looking sick and being able to function on a visually normal basis has made this possible for me over the last eighteen years.  There are and were a few exceptions.  So what brings it on now, then?

One of those exceptions.  Guess that means it’s story time, right?  I hope you like to read! (I mean, if you’re here I’d hope that’s at least part of the case…because this is going to be a bit long.)

This part is going to have to go all the way back to 1998.  I was pretty normal for a 6’2″ beanpole and I had what I considered to be two very close friends, BFFs as my daughter would call them now.  Thick or thin, lunch, after school, between classes, pretty much any time we could wedge in to hang out together we did.  A terrible trio of slightly warped blondes who defied popularity, loved Metallica and Celtic music, and spent a lot of time making up really bizarre inside jokes that left everybody else around us scratching their heads and passing us wary looks.

One, Jenn (who I will unabashedly name here), and the other who I will simply refer to as ‘3’ for the purpose of privacy.  This doesn’t mask who it is to those who were there in High School with me and it doesn’t really mean to since I’m not telling this story to tarnish her image or drag old dirt out.  It’s simply a story to help understand where I come from and what it is that shaped my outlook on life the first time I had to deal with cancer.

Jenn, who I have mentioned as my ‘Hospital Buddy’ several times in the course of blogging here, started her medical trek a few years before I did.  I don’t envy her dive into it, either.  Getting sick in Middle School is quite possibly the worst time you could do it.  Pre-teens and young teens are often, without a doubt, insensitive, mean, and very insecure.  Particularly to each other.  We’ve all been there and know there are exceptions, but in a big group at that age we’re a pretty judgmental bunch still trying to figure ourselves out, so the search for normalcy is a common struggle.  While popularity is up there on the top of the totem pole for a few, most of us just aimed to keep ourselves from the very bottom, flattened under the weight of our peers.  Hovering somewhere around the middle was where most of us settled.  When you get sick you start slipping.  When you get visibly sick and people hear about it, you go straight to the bottom.  Jenn’s body started to fail her rapidly and the methods taken to bring her body back into full swing made it very well-known to her peers that she was no longer normal in their eyes.  To make a long story short, she lost a lot of friends.  It’s devastating enough going through something that paints you as abnormal at any age, but at that age when so many are still trying to maintain their self-image it slams as a double blow. She maintained very precious few good friends. Those that had extraordinary maturity for that age and defied social stigma to remain friends with her in her time of need helped her through those years and beyond.

And, in a way, also helped me.

About a year before my own initial cancer diagnosis Jenn, 3 and I developed what I considered to be a very close bond.  The three of us were pretty much against the more popular crowd, which, by the time you’re in High School pops you into one of those cliques.  Ours drifted somewhere between the Music/Drama/Art crowd including the ever-popular 90s flannels tied around our waists  and ‘goth’ mentality without the stereotypical heavy black makeup.  Not to mention we giggled too much to be outwardly goth, never did drugs so we didn’t really fit into the stoner crowd (though most of our friends resided there), and spent more time drawing or writing up our own stories to be too worried about what the rest of our High School thought of us.  Considering our graduating class was over 700 in size … this wasn’t really too hard to do.  Staying away from the jocks and the popular kids who we weren’t too fond of was actually a pretty easy feat and we liked it that way.

Near the end of my sophomore year, however, our bond was put to the test in a way that was completely out of our control.  I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma shortly after my 16th birthday.

To paint a picture, I went from relatively chipper to pretty dour right off the bat.  I didn’t even know what Hodgkin’s Lymphoma was when the doctor gave me the diagnosis.  What didn’t help is that there was a good month and a half of tests, biopsies, antibiotics and the like just to diagnose what the heck I had, so it started adding anxiety to my already insecure teenage attitude.  When the bridge between ‘Hodgkin’s Lymphoma’ and ‘Cancer’ was finally connected … my world shattered.  I didn’t feel sick.  I didn’t look sick.  The word cancer back then to me meant certain death, too, since that’s what you do when you have cancer…right?  Lose your hair, end up on a bed stick-thin, and die.  I was sixteen and facing the most amazing trip to England that I had been fundraising for with Girl Scouts for two years and now I had not one, not two, but a slew of doctors from several different hospitals all telling me that I shouldn’t go.  I had two weeks between diagnosis and England and the stress of everything was beginning to make me crack.  I didn’t want to die.  Two years of planning, fundraising, preparing…

So I did what any stubborn sixteen year old would do.  I went to England.

I should point out that my mother and I did some pretty heavy negotiating and agreed to get all of my pre-chemo testing done before I left.  Which also put me smack-dab into the chemo chair the day after my plane landed back in town.

All the while I started to see a shift in the way both Jenn and 3 were treating me.  While Jenn was on the phone with me immediately after chatting about the diagnosis, 3 didn’t seem sure what to do.  We were both in that boat in truth, as I was clueless as to what this would bring.  I also can’t blame her for taking a step back to try to figure things out.  One of her closest friends had been diagnosed with cancer and she had pretty much the same experience with the disease that I did.  None.  I believe she cared, but she didn’t know how to handle it.  She stuck around, however, through the entirety of my treatments.  3 was a pretty positive force, but I will never know for certain if it was because of Jenn’s overwhelming support that made her feel it was something she had to do…or if she truly wanted to stick around but the general ‘illness atmosphere’ put her into a very deep discomfort zone.  Because she stayed, however, she and Jenn both got to see every brutal detail of what cancer brought to the table.  I didn’t spare them details when we’d talk because those two were the only peers I could talk to about it.  Or so I thought.  Jenn took it in stride because she had been there, she was living this with a different disease but the experiences were all too familiar to her.  Even some of our medications were the same.  We tried to be inclusive of 3, but I don’t think we ever saw that she might have felt left out, uncomfortable…or just unsure how to break away without hurting me when I was obviously at a pretty bad low in my life.  Where Jenn would come to doctor appointments, 3 would start to opt out.  Hanging out at one of our houses?  More often than not it happened at my place or Jenn’s, but only sporadically at 3’s.  Attending Girl Scout meetings?  Jenn kept coming, 3 eventually dropped after missing most of the meetings.  She stuck it out admirably until maybe two to three months after my last chemotherapy and I was announced in remission.

Because of what I thought was unwavering support from both of them at the time, I was able to pull my head out of where the sun didn’t shine about halfway through my treatments.  My negativity slowly lifted towards the optimistic, but not before it had me alienated by quite a few people outside of our circle of friends.  Each lost friendship hurt, but I had two friends that I could count on…and they kept me going.  My attitude improved, my outlook improved.  Hand in hand with this I began to mature in a way that only a life-threatening situation can really do to a teenager.  My perspective on life changed, the way I treated people changed, and I began to grow in confidence that there was a light at the end of the tunnel.  I mean, sure this was a poor situation, but it didn’t mean I was done for.  As far as I could see?  I had beaten this.  I was ready to move on in life with a few ugly setbacks, but there was nothing that could hold me back.

Which is why it was so confusing for me at the time, why it is she chose when things were getting better to break away.  Not to mention the breaking away wasn’t in a pleasant way at all.  We’re talking a lengthy letter pretty much expressing all the anger, resentment, hurt feelings she’d likely been keeping bottled up for near a year delivered via e-mail and followed by an avoidance that would’ve put a four block perimeter between us in even that crowded school.  The type of letter that delivers so much articulate pain all at once that you just don’t come back from it.  There was no room for reconciliation, no room for discussion, and a very clear message that there was no desire for it.  Only a permanence that bordered on raw pain that came completely out of left field for not only me, but Jenn as well.

I might have been a pretty mature sixteen year old, but I don’t think there’s a teen out there that would take a hit like that without responding in one form or another.  For Jenn it was silence, avoidance, discomfort in regards to 3’s letter.  She had never been confrontational in High School, and she had been blind-sided into shock.  For me, however, I still had a bit of teen-rage in reserve and 3 lit a fire that only turned into slamming the nail in the coffin of our friendship.  She gave me an outlet for my anger and it simply deteriorated from there.  To refer to the Lion King, our trio went down to two in one e-mail.  Even years later Jenn and I have looked back on how we would’ve done things differently, but have come up empty-handed.  There are just some things that can’t be truly rectified I suppose.  After all of it I’m not angry at her … nor am I angry at myself or Jenn or how it happened.  I simply learned the hard way on who, where, when, and how to share my cancer history and to let people know up front so there were never any surprises.

I’ve been complimented on my attitude about handling cancer, how I go on without bemoaning …I’ve amazed doctors with my fortitude and how I take things in stride.  Despite fighting cancer for 18 years I’m still not rolling over, it’s just not in me.  Call it stubborn, I’ll take that.  Call me a fighter?  Sure, I mean a good stiff wind might knock me over, but we’ll go with that.  I’d like to think more along the lines of having goals that I’m not really bothering to let my disability interrupt.

Yep.  I just broke down and called it a disability.  Technically with the side effects I’ve been going through with lung cancer I should have been officially calling it that for a good four years now.  Complete with a roller-derby wheel chair jockey handicapped placard in my car.

rawimage

Seriously, though. This guy’s rockin’ it.

So why finally the change?    My lung cancer has remained relatively stable for about a year now, a little growth, but nothing that’s been overly debilitating in my book.  Key part of that, ‘in my book’.   This is something that Jenn and I both understand a little too well.  We take on a lot outside of our personal lives, but it comes at a cost.  Early nights, no drinking or smoking, no real social lives outside of what we do during the day.  Lots of medication and planning we have to do in order to have a somewhat normal life.  Sometimes there are days where we have lots of energy … spoons in plenty.  Other days we have little to none.  Passing out for hours, barely managing to go pick up my kids or for her to get to the store or get her cats to the vet.  Most days we have Skype open simply sitting in silence and understand that the other may not be capable of being any sort of social with people who don’t understand it.  There’s never been a way we could explain why we can’t drop everything to do something social without it making people feel like we’re brushing them off or excluding them.  How each and every outing requires planning right down to when to take medications, when those medications will hit us, how much we can eat, when to eat, what to eat, if we should do anything before hand.  This may seem like a lot of planning … but after the amount of time we’ve been doing it?  Like any change in your lifestyle it will eventually become routine.

There have been hiccups along the way, scares that make us step back and realize that we’re probably not as infallible as we’d like to think that we are.  Liver and kidney transplants for her, flare ups in new types of cancer for me.  Surgeries.  Treatments.  ER visits.  Not to mention all the side-effects and a pharmacy of medication that comes with it.

All of this is the stuff that people just don’t see and by no fault of their own do they understand it.  Even as up front and open about our situations as we are, Jenn and I still have never really been able to articulate what it’s like to them.  But we’ve been fine with it and have coped…and we still do.

Back in November, on a whim and a few dizzy spells, my Oncologist brought up the idea of doing a brain MRI just to rule out anything that might be attributing to them.  I wasn’t opposed, especially if you consider the fact that in all of my years I’ve never actually had my head scanned.  A small part of me may have just wanted to see what my head looked like.   Then there was that little nagging part that wanted to be sure that the dizzy spells weren’t related to another issue.  My priorities might be a little weird, but I digress.

unnamed

Well, it turns out I can’t really do anything normally. Lookie, lookie what they found!

Hop skip and a jump and we’re looking at what we call cyberknife or gammaknife radiation.  By comparison to my other cancers, my Radiation Oncologist was quite positive that this little ugly lesion would be the easiest cancer of mine to treat.  90% chance of success (I don’t think I’ve ever been given such a positive percentage prognosis quite so readily, either!).    Two months of waiting, insurance approval, too many steroids in order to keep swelling down, and I was ready to start up my treatment.  Throw in a fancy facial mask to keep my head still and by January 29th I was done with my one and only treatment.

Only to have the treatment (they presume) cause a grand mal seizure two days later in the parking lot of a local strip mall while I was purchasing Girl Scout supplies for our troop.  I was in my car, I had just parked…and then nothing.  I remember absolutely nothing.  Everything I have that day is told second-hand from those around me.  I was found slumped over my steering wheel.  They had to break the passenger window to get me out for the EMTs.   The officer who helped me stayed with my car until family could arrive to take it (because of course I had to park somewhere that theft would’ve been a real possibility).  Not only how I fought the EMTs (…this one still baffles me), but I also ripped out one of my IVs for some unknown reason.  I had bruises all up and down my arms, medication that could sedate a horse coursing through my system and words like hospice, end of life treatment, brain damage, never driving again, always needing care were being tossed around like popcorn popping without a lid on a hot stove.

For the first time in my life I was actually terrified…and I let it show.  I had to let go of control, let others step in to take on jobs I’d easily done in the past.  I was slurring speech due to medication, spaced out, exhausted, holes in my memory that I was filling with the wrong memories from weeks and even years before.

My body may have been a bit of a failure but my mind had always been there.  Sometimes a bit flighty and buzzing but always there.  Now it was questioned not only by myself, but others.  Despite having a month of recovery there are still fuzzy spots in my memory over the last month, but I am improving.  I’m getting better.  Things aren’t dire anymore, at least not to me.  I’ve had to adjust how I approach things, make plans that I should’ve done before, write everything down.  My independence has been limited, but not erased, and in five months I’ll be able to drive again.  I’ve had no seizures since then and today I’ll even find out if I can start to get off these steroids that are eating at my physical mobility and making me walk with a cane.

But even in all of this, I realized through my years of experience when to recognize when those around me get that look.  If you’ve been through this sort of thing, you know it.  You can see the distancing, the look of pity or sorrow.  The way some of the doctors look at you as a hopeless case but just don’t know how to tell you, especially when they don’t know you outside of the three-inch binder full of your medical history.  How even years away from High School we recognize those who still struggle dealing with mortality and those who face it daily a bit with trepidation.  Perhaps it reminds them of our own limited time.  Maybe they’ve dealt with it recently and just cannot put themselves through it again.  No way of dealing with this is wrong, but if there was a way to make it a bit less scary then I had to try.  I knew that I was going to have people draw back, whether they realized it or not, and I couldn’t let that happen the way it did back in High School.  I wouldn’t let that happen again.

This led to a very long discussion with Jenn and re-visiting the Spoon Theory, something we’d seen a few months previous but never really had a use for since we’d had each other. But we can no longer just isolate ourselves.  I especially can’t with my kids, they might be used to my cancer and see it as a normalcy in their lives … but their friends won’t.  Their friends won’t understand why I can’t hold a sleepover.  Why I can’t drive to take them places or even leave them with people who don’t understand and know my situation.  I had to find a way to communicate this, and the only person I could figure out who to help me get there was Jenn.

Let me just point out that deciding to share her story…?  It’s helped a lot.  Like I wrote earlier, not everything is perfectly lined up, but it is the closest thing either of us have ever had to accurately describe our unique situation.  For the first time in a long time those faces of fear and trepidation turned into looks of understanding.  I don’t have to go into lengthy explanations now, I just let them know ‘I’m out of spoons’ and there’s no questions asked.  My kids aren’t being left out, I’m not feeling left behind, and people understand that I am recovering, even if my normal isn’t the same normal that they thought it might have been.  But most importantly they know the importance and weight behind my words when I tell them I have spoons for them.  That not only that, but they are one of my spoons.  A message I wish that I could have conveyed to 3 so many years ago, but never had a way to do so.

A mistake I will never, ever make again.

 

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Ok, so this is something that’s bugged me for a very, very  long time now.  I thought, perhaps, that I was imagining it when I was a teenager looking into possible support groups, that there was a bit of a cancer hierarchy.  The only support groups I could find were for women in their 40s and up (which is ancient to a 16-year-old) who had gone through breast cancer alone.  When I was re-diagnosed I found the same situation.  The only support group that was relatively close to my needs was at my college campus: which consisted of people my age who had known somebody who had gone through cancer.  Usually a mother, father, or grandparent.

But that’s not where I’m going with this.  See, on the list of importance Hodgkin’s is somewhere on the low scale, mostly affecting people who are young.  Non-Hodgkin’s is far more popular, and diverse, and therefore given much more attention.  But not nearly as much as breast or cervical or ovarian or prostate.  However, when I was first diagnosed with Breast Cancer it wasn’t a sudden get-in to the pink cancer club.  It was disbelief.  “What? You’re 27?  Everybody knows it doesn’t happen that early. Go on your merry way, now, back to being a normal twenty something.  This club is for 40 and up.”  Of course, until I had a breast removed.  That apparently makes you qualify for the club.

Now…now lung cancer.  You see, for me this is all very simple.  It’s a cancer.  Cancer sucks.  I do what I can to get treatment, same as the last three times thinking that there’s no possible way I could face any more disbelief in my situation.  Most people I know, including doctors and nurses, are used to my odd predicament.  They don’t bat an eye when I say, “Guess what!  I’m back!”.  My insurance company, however, is convinced I’m doing this to myself.

Ever since they’ve processed my claims I’ve had non-stop pamphlets on how to quit smoking.

You know, that’s funny, since I’ve never smoked a day in my life.  I never got a pamphlet on how to prevent Hodgkin’s.  And instead of a pamphlet on how to prevent breast cancer I was showered with pink, given stuff on how to find support groups and tips for early detection from my insurance company.  But, now that I have lung cancer, I should have been able to prevent this.  All that smoking I didn’t do has caught up to me!

Funny how certain cancers can be made out to be your fault, while others are simply a tragedy that sympathy must be showered on.

Thanks, guys!  I’ll do my best to quit cancering, but somehow I just haven’t figured it out.  No worries, I’ll keep working on it though, wouldn’t want people to think that I’m not trying to cure myself.  This disease totally would’ve been prevented if I had just known that I should quit smoking those imaginary cigarettes.

Too much sarcasm?

Probably.

But just FYI?  Breast cancer = tragedy.  Hodgkin’s = Tragedy.  Lung cancer = Why did you not take greater measures to prevent this?!

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When I was little and an adult would ask me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” there were really only two options that I ever replied with.  The first one came natural, as it revolved around a hobby I’d come to thoroughly enjoy.  All of my notes and homework were littered with illustrations on the side, sometimes they were cartoon characters, other times they were doodles of family members or the family dog.  Even into college my lecture notes often had doodles along the edges of the paper, often times serving as my own interpretation of the written subject or as marks that I could easily find exam material by.  Obviously, I wanted to be an artist.

My second one was a little less known and considerably less obvious.  Especially if you consider that, while I enjoyed babysitting kids and working with them, I truly was not a fan of toddlers and diapers.  I preferred being able to hand a difficult child off back to the parents when they came home or back to the leader out at Girl Scout camp when I was quite done with being a climbing tree/song leader/line leader/game instructor/hiking guide/helping hand as a Program Aide.  Despite all of this, for some silly reason I really, truly, wanted to be a mother.

To be honest I also wanted to be a teacher, but that would mean I had three things I wanted to be when I grew up, and completely derail my train of thought.  But I digress.

Now, I did not, however, go to college looking for a husband.  I went to work on my art, get a degree, and have a new experience away from home.  College was an adventure dabbling in a bit of reality and a lot of childhood, all crashing together in one central place.  I was never one that delved into the party-scene, in fact, I rarely touched alcohol.  My ‘parties’, if you want to call them that, consisted of me and a few friends meeting up to play Rolemaster or Dungeons and Dragons.  There may have been alcohol at a couple of these, and there may be a story about somebody taking shots to rolling natural 1s and 20s…but that’s a story for another time.  But while I was in the midst of this, I managed to end up doing what I didn’t expect I would.  I found a husband.  No, I found an amazing best friend.  (If you haven’t been reading long, I have a few best friends, all of a different assortment.  My mother, my husband, my father, my sister, and also the ‘traditional’ sort of best friend, if anything about my life can be considered traditional, that is.)  One thing we both found out after a while was that we both had the same sort of goals…we both wanted to be parents.

Now, Bryan, that’s my husband, had the idea of having a nice sized brood of children, having come from a family of four kids.  I was, for the most part, an only child since I rarely saw my half-sister until we were both in our teens and it switched to a constant.  For me a smaller family seemed more like something I could handle, but I wanted more than one since the times I did have with my sister I enjoyed more often than not.  We settled on four…maybe five as our decision, depending on whether or not motherhood drove me down the path of insanity after only two.

Then came cancer.  You know, you never really realize just how much you love somebody until something like this happens.  Bryan had already been informed about my cancer, but he, like myself, thought of it as something in the past.  I was sixteen then, and at this point I was twenty going on twenty-one.  Cancer was in my past.  But I was about to learn the hard way that cancer would never, ever, be fully in my past.  It was my past, my present, and my future.  My chances at motherhood were about to be tested in a way I never had even perceived.

When I sat down with my doctor I was given a few options for my treatment.  Not only had Hodgkin’s Lymphoma come back, but it had come back to the full extent of which it had been when I was originally diagnosed as a teen.  The chemotherapy hadn’t worked.  They wanted to hit it with everything, but in the spirit of giving me options, they told me I could either A: Do full body radiation, or B: Do an intense chemotherapy with localized radiation.  I was a little giddy about not having to do chemotherapy, but it seemed to dawn on me to ask, “Will I be able to have children?”  The two doctors exchanged looks, then looked to me, “With full body radiation it’s unlikely, however there are procedures we can do to surgically move your ovaries aside…”

Let me remind you that up to this point putting a port in scared me to no end, so the thought of somebody operating down there to move around what I’d hoped would be the temporary home of a new addition to my family was petrifying.  I opted for chemo and localized radiation.  To this day I’m thankful that I did.

Because of this, Bryan and I sat down for one of the most difficult talks I’ve ever had to start with him.  We were barely dating, but we knew we wanted to marry after we were done with college.  So I felt it important to bring up the elephant in the room.  After dealing with chemo twice, I wasn’t sure my body could handle doling out a brood of five children.  What surprised me was that he didn’t seem to mind.  I thought not only the cancer, but possibly the thought of having fewer children might scare him away.  But it didn’t.  Bryan stuck by my side through the whole ordeal and even afterwards.  If that doesn’t say love, then what does?

Over the years I got a bit braver, thought maybe I could do up to five.  After my first I was convinced I only wanted one, then eventually two, maybe three…my decisions never really had any finality to them because I knew that based on my own experiences that I would constantly change my mind on the matter.  Somewhere, inside, I had decided that I was done when I was holding my daughter in my arms for the first time.  I had one of each, they were both beautiful and only two years apart.  My husband, however, thought just maybe…maybe he might be able to convince me for just one more…

…and then cancer.

Again.

This time it was breast cancer brought on by the radiation I’d had previously.  Later Bryan told me that the only reason why he never tried to convince me for a third was because of breast cancer.  Two births, three different types of chemotherapy, radiation … the body can only handle so much and still be able to thrive during healthy times.  Not to mention my daughter’s birth had to be induced early due to pre-eclampsia.  We both decided that a third was out of the picture at this point.  We had two to cherish, love, and raise…probably a good decision on our part.  Why? Because as you know…cancer came back.  Again.

The chemotherapy I’ve only just recently finished will also possibly cause uterine failure.  Kind of the nail in the coffin when it comes down to  having any more kids.  However I count myself lucky.  I had six years of good health in which I had time to finish college, marry, and have two beautiful children.  Not everybody gets that choice or that chance when faced with similar situations to my own.  I always have to think of that whenever I feel a little bit of regret for not having more.  Besides, I think the two I got are pretty awesome and really, there’s only so much awesome the world can handle, right?

Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.

 

 

 

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Oh dear, I made a meme. This could get me into trouble.

Oh dear, I made a meme. This could get me into trouble.

Well, I have to admit I was a bit excited for today to be done with, but overall it ended up being a surprisingly good day.  I had a fun ride down to chemo with my mother, stopped for some celebratory coffee, and settled in.  Talked a bit with the doctor, who was happy to see my progress and how well I’m doing. Really, I am doing well.  Especially if you compare how I handled the last three chemo treatments, this one has been a lot easier on me.  I guess in a way that’s not saying much though!  Because of this my doctor is, in his words, “Feeling brave” and wants to consult with the doctors up at OHSU (Oregon Health Sciences University) about a possible two more rounds of chemo on a different drug than the two I’m on now.

He also stated that this was because I’m not your typical textbook case.  I laughed at that.

Jenn, my hospital buddy, has also moved back to town just in time to come sit with my mother and I for the last treatment.  I was loopy on the high dosage of Benedryl they give me for about half of it…managed a half hour nap…but it went surprisingly quick.  I did end up getting a good three or four calls (…that’s a bit sad that I can’t remember!) about the registration for the day camp I help run.  I find it ironic that the day that I don’t have access to a computer to look over the website registration site is the day that I get several calls about it messing up.  Ahh, technology, offering amazing things and increasingly frustrating stuff all at the same time.

After a little bit of lunch I took off home with Jenn and am in a sleepy state of celebration.  I also found a beautiful flower-pot from my husband’s uncle and aunt sitting on the counter with a gift card to a local burger place that’s quite good.  I think a celebratory taste is in order, of course.

Like every time I go through cancer, the future is uncertain and I don’t know if this is the last time I’ll face the disease and all the medical treatments that come with it.  But despite it’s difficulties, I don’t spend my time worrying about it.  There’s too much I have to do, people I have to spend time with, children to raise, and a husband to cherish.  Cancer may butt in, but all I can do is remember to put on my steel-toe boots and kick it right back out the door.  And maybe start doing a little more exercising again.  Couldn’t hurt.

That's right, without the scarf.  I have fuzz!  But it's likely going to fall out again before it starts to really grow.

That’s right, without the scarf. I have fuzz! But its likely going to fall out again before it starts to really grow.

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A few days ago as I sat here in my comfortable computer chair my daughter came over to me with her little toy dolls.  You’ve likely seen these things in the checkout lane at the store, tiny little Disney princesses that have rubbery-plastic clothing that you can pull on and off.  My daughter loves these with a passion I’ve never seen in any other three-year-old.  Every time we leave the house these little dolls are the perfect size for her to cram in her tiny pockets to keep her company on a car drive or a shopping trip.

On this particular day she was trying to inform me (to show me that she knew, I’m guessing) that Cinnerella (Cinderella) has two eyes, a nose, a mouth, two ears, her ‘hairs’ and two broccolis.  I wasn’t completely listening at first, doing the typical parent and only vaguely paying attention while multi-tasking at the computer, but for some reason this caught my attention.

“Broccolis…?”  I echoed, turning to look at her.  She beamed proudly at me, holding up the Cinderella doll that she’d managed to somehow dress herself.

“Yes, she has two eyes, a nose, lips, and her hairs, and two broccolis.”

This time she pointed out each part of Cinderella as she named it.  When she got to ‘broccolis’ I about spit out the coffee I was trying to swallow.  Apparently Cinderella’s breasts are broccolis.  It was also very important to note that she had two, as well.

There are times as a parent where you feel the need to correct your child so that they know the true name of a body part, but you simply can’t bring yourself to do it because the word they’re using is downright hilarious.  This would be one of those times.  I’m not entirely certain where she got the word ‘broccolis’ unless it was when I was trying to teach her what bras and prosthetics are, but somehow she’s quite set on calling them that.  Needless to say that it was entertaining trying to explain to my father what she meant by broccolis when she put him in the same situation with her Ariel doll.

Someday I’ll correct her, or she’ll figure it out on her own, but for now they’re broccolis.  This particular point brought my husband and I to a rather humorous conversation late last night as well.  Needless to say it ended up spurring the picture below.

Because broccolis are worth saving!

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Over the last fourteen years of battling cancer I can say with certainty that one of the most overwhelming feelings that comes with the diagnosis is loneliness.  Most of those I know that are struggling with cancer personally don’t know many people inside their social circles that are going through the same thing.  Cancer, while unnervingly common in our society, is still rare enough that you won’t often run into a group of people already established as friends suddenly all being diagnosed with cancer around the same time.  I’m sure it may have happened, but it’s not a typical situation.  This is one of those reasons why there are support groups out there…if you don’t know anybody in your situation, these groups are out there to provide the links to possible friendships so that you can get to know somebody like you.

Now, I had the luck of having a best friend who was very much a hospital veteran by the time I was diagnosed with cancer at sixteen.  She’d been going through her own medical problems since junior high school and a lot of her medications were similar to the ones I would be taking during chemotherapy.  We had known each other since third grade initially, but due to my elementary school hopping we ended up in different schools until about tenth grade.  Long story short, we became fast friends and when I was suddenly facing cancer she was the only one who I felt I could talk to about all of the stuff I would be facing.  We jokingly called ourselves ‘Hospital Buddies’.

In my experience I feel that everybody should have a hospital buddy.  Not every hospital buddy will be a veteran of the IV pole, but a hospital buddy should be somebody who is a solid rock for you and understands exactly what you’re going through.  Especially when chemo comes to town.  A lot of chemotherapy treatments involve lovely side effects that tend to leave you unable to think clearly much less function well enough to operate a vehicle or chase down a bus.  So, in short, bringing somebody with you to those treatments is not only a morale booster, but also a necessity.

At sixteen I always had my mother with me–most of my friends could not make it because my infusions were during school hours.  It was rare, however, to feel lonely up at Doernbecher’s Children’s Hospital.  They made it a point to have the atmosphere as welcoming as possible for the patients treated there.  From board games to video games, books to toys, the patients were always provided for.  It wasn’t uncommon to see the kids running up and down the halls with their IV poles in tow, giggling and laughing.  They were never stopped by the staff or any of the adults.  In retrospect I can only imagine that seeing them with that energy and being capable of even running and smiling was much more important than making sure nobody ran in the halls, especially to their parents.  Most hospitals could and should take example from the way Doernbecher’s Oncology sets up shop.

I had this silly notion at the age of twenty-one when I relapsed that I would be entirely too grown-up to have my treatments done at Doernbecher’s…even though the offer was on the table.  Looking back, I think I should have opted for it.  I was greeted by a very different arrangement when I went to Kaiser Interstate.  The room was large with several beds that were separated by curtains, each having their own small television and a long row of windows behind them.  At first I was happy with the idea of having a television to watch.  It was peaceful, which I didn’t mind, and I was a bit shocked at how few patients there were alone, quietly reading books or flipping through magazines.  For me, traveling to Interstate was a lot shorter and more convenient than driving all the way up to Doernbecher, especially since I was facing chemotherapy during the winter instead of the fall.  This meant, of course, having somebody drive me there.  Even with the closer distance it was still a trek across the river from the East part of town…at best I had a thirty minute commute, mostly by freeway.

For the most part the nurses didn’t seem to mind as my mother drove me to and from most of my infusions and sat quietly with me at my bedside.  I was doing chemotherapy three times  a week, then I would have three weeks off and then start the whole thing over again.  The third treatment on my first week of infusions I had the pleasure of having my boyfriend in town to drive me there before I was due for a head shaving party the following  evening.  As it was he lived a good two hours away from my parent’s home, so commuting to Interstate tacked on an additional thirty minute drive that nipped at his gas tank.  Per my previous two days routine, he joined me as my mother had joined me, settling down to sit by my bed to keep me company for the six hours I would be enduring my infusion.

At this point a nurse meandered over and informed me that I was not allowed visitors in the infusion area so that none of the other patients would be disturbed.  I looked to my left and right … there were exactly two other patients there and we were largely spaced out.  Friday was not typically a very busy day there unless a three-day-weekend was approaching.  Before I could argue, my boyfriend left, assuring me that he’d stick around in the cafeteria and keep himself busy.  I was incensed, not at him, but on behalf of him.  My treatment was six hours long.  He had driven for a total of two and a half hours and he didn’t live in the area, so he had no idea of what to do aside from sit and wait outside.  Not to mention that he hadn’t brought a book or anything because we’d planned on sitting and chatting quietly or watching whatever daytime television looked mildly amusing together.  Neither of us had a laptop, nooks and kindles didn’t exist, and we didn’t own a portable gaming device of any sort.  I wanted to argue and throw a fit.

…and I didn’t want to be alone.  Chemotherapy can make you overly emotional, so while I was feeling miserable sitting there for six hours I seemed to end up doubly so.  Half the time I caught myself hiccuping sobs, blinking back tears, and glaring at the nurses as they walked by.  I could turn the television up alarmingly loud and nobody would blink, but for some reason my boyfriend couldn’t walk in and simply sit next to me without the nurses getting up in arms.  After six hours of this building up I was on the verge of a breakdown.  When my infusion was over  I was unhooked from my IV and led into a room to see a video on giving myself shots of Neupogen to help my white blood cell count.  To my nurse’s surprise I wasn’t fully coherent (third day in a row of chemo at this point), was over emotional, and had been building up a good adult-sized tantrum for the entirety of my infusion that day.  They saw that I wasn’t processing the video fully, so they pulled out a cork and told me to inject a needle into it to help me understand.  I stared at the needle, couldn’t help but make the connection that I was going to have to do this to myself (a brand new experience for me), and proceeded to outright bawl.

For ten minutes they tried to reason with me, but all I did was sob.  I couldn’t get the needle into the cork and kept fumbling it onto the ground.  The video was making me cry about absolutely absurd things.  The nurses took my boyfriend away.   Not the most reasonable thought process, but chemo can mess with your brain on so many levels.  Finally they broke down and brought my boyfriend in.  He watched the video with me and then helped me home.  The following night he help me cope with giving myself my own shots for the first time.

I want to point out that this wasn’t typical of my treatments.  After that I was never given any problems with bringing one person with me to chemo.  Even with that said I should have gone back to Doernbecher’s.

Breast cancer offered a whole new situation.  At this point I was a mother of two, happily married to said boyfriend, and very much off of my parent’s medical insurance.  The insurance provided by my husband’s job led us to the Vancouver Clinic for my treatments and I couldn’t have been happier.  Though I’ve never planned on bringing in a fist full of people with me to my treatments, they had no qualms in my having guests.  The infusion lab is smaller than that of the lab at Interstate and yet the nurses’ were constantly asking if they could search out a few more chairs for me should I have more than one guest.  They even offered snacks to those with me.  Our chairs were faced out so that we could see outside and even though my view was of the large parking lot it certainly beat staring at the nurse’s station while they tried to work.  I imagine that would be a little unnerving for them, too.

So, my advice?  Get a hospital buddy.  Assuming you can bring one.  If you can’t…honestly I’d say bring one anyway and throw a fit or something, because nobody should go through this alone.  (Come on, my advice can’t always be sage and useful.)

This is my hospital buddy. It's just a shame that Nebraska and Washington aren't easy commutes, so we have to skype to make it happen. It still works though!

This is my hospital buddy. It’s just a shame that Nebraska and Washington aren’t easy commutes, so we have to skype to make it happen. It still works though!

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