I'm currently sitting in bed, drinking my coffee, with some murder mystery show on TV playing in the background, and it feels like a normal day. I've done this exact same thing, this exact same way, hundreds of times before. Not much in those past instances differ from this very moment.
Except.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Penny the Port sticking out of my chest. An unwanted, but welcome, intrusion on my body. Most of the time, I forget she's there. I've long since stopped covering her up when I leave the house, because I figured it's not worth my energy to constantly hide her. And, if anyone is curious enough to ask about her, I feel comfortable enough to give an honest answer to whomever that person might be (stranger or friend or new date) without full breaking down into tears. Today, though, I notice the little mountain she makes on my skin, right below my collar bone. My neck has been sore on that side for a few days, and so of course, my worry is back, thinking, "Shit, what if the cancer spread? What if it's in my neck now?" I know that this is highly unlikely, but I think for a few years to come, every ache and pain I experience is going to lead to that very thought. Penny is this physical reminder that I am still very much a cancer patient, and my body does not belong to me.
It is not easy being a cancer patient out of treatment. Well, out of the worst of treatment, since Herceptin still counts as active treatment. It's hard to feel like we (my doctors and I) are no longer doing everything possible to fight the cancer, therefore what if some microscopic bits of it escaped free and are still attacking my insides? I've hardly ever liked my body, and now I feel like I can't even trust it.
Not only is the sight of Penny slightly bothersome, my breast hurts. It's been 10 months since my surgery, and I still get shooting pains in my left breast, which is the side my tumor was on. The back of my arm from shoulder to elbow is still numb from nerve damage when they took out lymph nodes, making certain weightlifting movements at the gym difficult, and also frustrating.
This limbo of being between cancer treatment phases is difficult for me. I feel so incredibly far removed from the woman I was just 4 months ago going through chemo, but not yet entirely the me I want to be beyond cancer. Every time I get a little distance from my cancer, some part of it pulls me back in, to the reality that I'm still very much fighting this cancer, if you can call it fighting. Every little ache and pain is a reminder of what I went through. And even though I still rarely look in the mirror, my scars are proof that it happened.
I know that time will continue to move forward. I will eventually be done with Herceptin, and will be able to check that off of my treatment plan. Penny will be removed from my chest at some point next year, and then all I'll be left with are the physical (and mental) scars of my cancer. I'm trying to help myself heal as I go along, so that way when this final chapter does come to an end, I'm not completely terrified and anxious, but I can only do so much in the here and now. I plan on living in the moment. Smiling and laughing. Making plans for my future (next year's bucket list is growing: Costa Rica, skydiving, Half Dome...). Being grateful to be alive. Being excited to get to know someone new who sees me for more than my cancer.
These little reminders about cancer are hard. But I am so happy to be alive to tell my story and inspire others.
Thursday, October 8, 2015
Sunday, October 4, 2015
Constant Worry
People have congratulated me for being out of the worst of treatment - surgery, chemo, radiation - but I think what many people fail to realize is that life after cancer carries so many additional concerns and worries.
A while back, I mentioned I was having abdominal pain. It was behind my ribs on my right side, and I was worried about it, wondering if my cancer had spread. I set up an appointment with my PCP, and she scheduled an ultrasound for me. Going to that ultrasound was incredibly terrifying and traumatizing. I found myself in the exact waiting room from 7 months earlier when I had my surgery - the first in many steps of my long journey with cancer. I had to remind myself to breathe as I sat there waiting for my name to be called, trying not to panic. I walked the same halls I walked when I was on my way to getting nuclear dye and a wire guide injected into my breast. The ultrasound took what felt like an eternity, and with every measurement, every shot captured, my worry grew. There were times when the tech would zoom in on an image, and spend a long time scrutinizing what she saw, which made me even more concerned. At the end, of course she said that she couldn't tell me anything and that I'd have to wait for my doctor to review the images and get back to me. Luckily, a few days later, I was told that there was nothing abnormal about my ultrasound or my blood work, other than my cholesterol was high.
Well, for the past month or so, I've been having abdominal pain on the same side, but lower. Chemo put me into temporary menopause, what's often referred to as "chemo-pause", so I haven't had my period since February. I was given a drug called Lupron twice during my chemo that shut down my ovaries, with the idea that it would protect them from being harmed or damaged by the chemo drugs. They were 3 month injections, and the last one I received was in May. So, if you're doing the math right, my 3 months is up. But still no period. So, once again, I found myself worrying about a cancer recurrence, or possibly a whole new cancer. Ovarian cancer is a sister cancer to breast cancer, so the fact that my pain was coming from that area in my body this time around, I was worried that maybe there was a cyst. Once again, I found myself on the phone scheduling a doctor's appointment, this time with my OB. I had a plan - I was going to go in and demand an ultrasound (and not the exterior kind - the really uncomfortable and awkward trans-vaginal kind that I hadn't experienced since my IVF appointments in January), and then, if necessary, a CT scan. I pushed my fear and panic aside, and had a plan.
Luckily, I have an incredible OB. She's the first doctor I saw when I found my lump, so she's been with me through this whole experience from day one. As I waited in the room with the paper blanket over my lap, I kept wondering if that was the same room she examined my lump in (I'm about 85% sure it was). Rather than breaking down and fighting a panic attack like in the waiting room of my previous ultrasound, I felt confident that things were going to be okay, no matter what the outcome was, because I had a plan. Dr. Lee soon came into the room, rolling in the ultrasound machine behind her. I didn't even have to ask, she automatically felt like it was important to do the ultrasound right then. Though those types of visits are never comfortable, I was comforted by the fact that even she felt the ultrasound was necessary. The one good thing about the aches and pains I feel is that my medical team will no longer take any chances - so I will be utilizing my health care at every single sign of pain. I will never let someone tell me "it's nothing" or that I should wait.
The best part about Dr. Lee doing the ultrasound herself right then and there is that she explained everything to me as we were looking at it - what we were looking at, how big it was, if it appeared normal, and if there were any abnormalities. I didn't have to wait for the results. Luckily, everything was normal. There were no cysts on my ovaries, and my uterine lining was thin and normal. The conclusion? My body is probably just still confused and thrown off course by the chemo and Lupron, and might be trying to figure out if I'm going to have my period again. So far, it's still MIA, which I'm not complaining about. It's just a pain to have to be constantly ready. The consistency and routine of what my monthly cycle was like pre-cancer is long past, and I'm not looking forward to the chaos of my body figuring itself out again. I'm only just hoping that I didn't get put into menopause at the age of 28, because that would seriously suck. It's unlikely, but, so was me getting cancer in the first place, so I don't take bets on this kind of stuff anymore.
A while back, I mentioned I was having abdominal pain. It was behind my ribs on my right side, and I was worried about it, wondering if my cancer had spread. I set up an appointment with my PCP, and she scheduled an ultrasound for me. Going to that ultrasound was incredibly terrifying and traumatizing. I found myself in the exact waiting room from 7 months earlier when I had my surgery - the first in many steps of my long journey with cancer. I had to remind myself to breathe as I sat there waiting for my name to be called, trying not to panic. I walked the same halls I walked when I was on my way to getting nuclear dye and a wire guide injected into my breast. The ultrasound took what felt like an eternity, and with every measurement, every shot captured, my worry grew. There were times when the tech would zoom in on an image, and spend a long time scrutinizing what she saw, which made me even more concerned. At the end, of course she said that she couldn't tell me anything and that I'd have to wait for my doctor to review the images and get back to me. Luckily, a few days later, I was told that there was nothing abnormal about my ultrasound or my blood work, other than my cholesterol was high.
Well, for the past month or so, I've been having abdominal pain on the same side, but lower. Chemo put me into temporary menopause, what's often referred to as "chemo-pause", so I haven't had my period since February. I was given a drug called Lupron twice during my chemo that shut down my ovaries, with the idea that it would protect them from being harmed or damaged by the chemo drugs. They were 3 month injections, and the last one I received was in May. So, if you're doing the math right, my 3 months is up. But still no period. So, once again, I found myself worrying about a cancer recurrence, or possibly a whole new cancer. Ovarian cancer is a sister cancer to breast cancer, so the fact that my pain was coming from that area in my body this time around, I was worried that maybe there was a cyst. Once again, I found myself on the phone scheduling a doctor's appointment, this time with my OB. I had a plan - I was going to go in and demand an ultrasound (and not the exterior kind - the really uncomfortable and awkward trans-vaginal kind that I hadn't experienced since my IVF appointments in January), and then, if necessary, a CT scan. I pushed my fear and panic aside, and had a plan.
Luckily, I have an incredible OB. She's the first doctor I saw when I found my lump, so she's been with me through this whole experience from day one. As I waited in the room with the paper blanket over my lap, I kept wondering if that was the same room she examined my lump in (I'm about 85% sure it was). Rather than breaking down and fighting a panic attack like in the waiting room of my previous ultrasound, I felt confident that things were going to be okay, no matter what the outcome was, because I had a plan. Dr. Lee soon came into the room, rolling in the ultrasound machine behind her. I didn't even have to ask, she automatically felt like it was important to do the ultrasound right then. Though those types of visits are never comfortable, I was comforted by the fact that even she felt the ultrasound was necessary. The one good thing about the aches and pains I feel is that my medical team will no longer take any chances - so I will be utilizing my health care at every single sign of pain. I will never let someone tell me "it's nothing" or that I should wait.
The best part about Dr. Lee doing the ultrasound herself right then and there is that she explained everything to me as we were looking at it - what we were looking at, how big it was, if it appeared normal, and if there were any abnormalities. I didn't have to wait for the results. Luckily, everything was normal. There were no cysts on my ovaries, and my uterine lining was thin and normal. The conclusion? My body is probably just still confused and thrown off course by the chemo and Lupron, and might be trying to figure out if I'm going to have my period again. So far, it's still MIA, which I'm not complaining about. It's just a pain to have to be constantly ready. The consistency and routine of what my monthly cycle was like pre-cancer is long past, and I'm not looking forward to the chaos of my body figuring itself out again. I'm only just hoping that I didn't get put into menopause at the age of 28, because that would seriously suck. It's unlikely, but, so was me getting cancer in the first place, so I don't take bets on this kind of stuff anymore.
Monday, September 28, 2015
"Things I like about myself"
Around this time last year, I made this list while I was at work. I was feeling particularly down about myself for one reason or another, and I knew I needed to be gentler to myself. I have always been my own harshest critic; rarely able to see my reflection clearly. I crack jokes at my own expense, often by means of self deprecation. And in this moment, I was tired of being mean to myself. I just found this list while writing down quotes in my quote journal, and figured it was worth sharing.
- My eyes
- My shoulder freckles
- My passion for reading
- Ability to make others smile
- Ridiculous sense of humor
- My desire to help people
- The fact that I'm responsible
- ...but am learning how to let go & have fun
- That I try to see the good in everyone
- My love of languages
- My glasses
- My tattoos, even though I sometimes struggle with them
- That I put my friend's needs first
- My love of adventure
- My small dimples
- My ability to acknowledge & accept my feelings, without letting them consume me.
- That I can express some creativity through crocheting
- That I can make almost any baby laugh/smile
- That I enjoy being outside
- My body and seeing its changes and progress
- The perseverance to continue on with my MA
I could add more to this list, as it's ever evolving the more and more I learn to love myself. Seeing where I was a year ago, and comparing it today was just a nice reminder that I need to constantly work at being my own best friend.
Saturday, September 26, 2015
Dating with Cancer
Trying to find someone who will accept me and my medical history as been high on my list of things that cause me anxiety. The biggest question I've had is, if I do go on a date, when do I tell them about the cancer? Many people have said by the third or fourth date, because by then I'll know if I want to continue to see them. My issue with that is, by that many dates in, I'm sure I'd probably develop some feelings (because I'm a sap, I wear my heart on my sleeve, and I don't really know how to take it slow when it comes to matters of the heart.), and then what if I told them and they ditched me after that? That would be completely traumatizing and I would probably never want to attempt to go on a date again.
I know what you're going to say - "The right guy won't care about your cancer." or "Don't be ridiculous." or "Sometimes you have to make yourself vulnerable to get rewarded." I appreciate those comments, but it doesn't help. I know that whenever someone tells me something along these lines of encouragement, they mean well. But what I feel is valid, and nobody gets to tell me otherwise. I feel like I'm damaged goods, and who would want to take me home, when there are plenty of other non-defective pieces to pick from? Who would want to risk loving someone who's had cancer, knowing there's a possibility (no matter how small) that it could come back, and I could have to go through this whole experience all over again? Or that I might die? I know that we all die at some point, and that's a risk we take no matter who we date or fall in love with, but I feel like my odds of that happening are higher than anyone else's. Maybe that's a morbid thing to say, but these have been my thoughts. I'm scared shitless to let love in again. Especially because the last few times I did, my heart got trampled on. I also know that's a risk we take when we choose to love again, but I can almost feel the brick wall I've put up to barricade my heart from any further damage. I've carefully laid the bricks one at a time, as high as they will go in my chest cavity, and sealed them with as much plaster as possible. Telling myself Maggie is the only companion I need.
But the truth is, I miss having a partner. Someone to go on adventures with, to share parts of my life with, to talk to, and especially someone to hold me during the rough days. Throughout this entire cancer experience, I've craved someone to be by my side. Someone who wouldn't run scared when things got difficult or uncomfortable. I've wanted someone to just lay in bed with me while I cry, without trying to offer words of encouragement, but just let me feel my pain. Despite being surrounded by people who love me, I have felt incredibly alone in this whole process. But because of my past heartbreaks, and my current health status, I knew that dating wasn't something I was emotionally capable of, no matter how much I craved someone else's companionship.
But for about a month now, I've finally felt like I'm ready to get back out there in the world of dating. I feel like my health situation has settled down enough to where I can successfully manage my time between work, friends, doctor's appointments, and dates. I'm starting to feel like ME again. My problem from there was - how the hell am I going to meet anyone? While I know it's worked for many others, including two of my best friends that are getting married in May, online dating just really isn't my thing. I haven't wanted to go down that route yet. I like the idea of meeting people organically, in real life, because that's how all of my relationships have started. Knowing that is my preferred method of attempting to meet someone, I also knew that meant I would actually have to leave the house to make that happen, rather than sitting around at home in my pajamas watching reruns of Say Yes to the Dress (yep. shamelessly admitting I watch that show on the regular. All girls do). A lot of my friends are either married or in serious relationships, so I didn't really know who to go out with, or where.
That's when Alicia came along. She sent out an email to a group of her friends saying she wanted to host a Singles Night at a pub in Oakland. She told me that there were a few people she wanted me to meet, no strings attached. And while I was nervous as hell, because I'm usually shy, I put on my big girl pants, and went. Before going, though, I asked Alicia if the people she wanted me to meet knew about my cancer or not. She said she wasn't sure, and apologized profusely because she hadn't thought of that. I told her it wasn't a big deal, I just wanted to be prepared for both scenarios, in case it came up in conversation. I said it wasn't like I was going to introduce myself as, "Hi, I'm Whitney, I had breast cancer." Although, admittedly, I do want to try that out as a sort of social experiment to see what kind of reaction I would get. Granted, that's probably not the best idea since I'm still in a somewhat fragile emotional state about this.
Back to Singles Night. So, I went, and Alicia and a few of her other friends were the only ones there when I got there. Alicia had set up a table near the fireplace of conversation starters and treats. Included on the table was a Donkey Kong Nintendo 64 game cartridge that could be used as a security blanket. Gradually, more of her other friends arrived, so while she was off playing host, I attempted conversation with a few of the people I had met. Which, again, was difficult for me, because I'm shy. I finally met one of Alicia's best friends who I had heard a lot about, which was great. I also met one of her other friends Jesse that gifted me a book for no reason a while back just because he'd thought of me since he knew about my health. As the night went on, I talked to more and more people, slowly shedding my shell, and although I wasn't interested in anyone as far as dating, it was nice to meet new people. I talked to people about my job, school, dating in general, art, Friends episodes, and in one instance had my first experience of someone telling me negative stories about CrossFit after me telling him I'd just started the sport. I knew that eventually that would happen, so it didn't come as much of a surprise. I definitely started to get a little defensive, but luckily Jesse stepped in and commented that so long as people are exercising, who cares what the means are? (Thank goodness for him stepping in, because I almost went off on the other guy telling him he can stick to his wilderness nudist yoga retreats, and I'll happily be at my box throwing around heavy weight.)
Eventually, people trickled out, and I got tired, so I decided it was time to head home. Alicia and I said our goodnights, and she made Jesse walk me out to my car. Yoga guy decided to leave at the same time we did, and as he was getting ready to get on his bike, Jesse shook his hand. I then stuck out my hand for a handshake and to say "Nice to meet you" but Yoga guy opened his arms for a hug. And even though I really didn't want to give him a hug, I did anyways, because society beats it into women that it's unacceptable to be rude to someone, and we should go out of our comfort zones to make other people feel accepted. Jesse walked me to my car, and I happily gave him a hug, because I felt like I'd known him for a lifetime already. There was no hesitation at all. I felt perfectly comfortable hugging him.
It wasn't until the next day that I really realized what had happened about me being nice and giving someone a hug when I didn't want to, and how I wish I hadn't done it. I don't need to make anyone comfortable except myself, and I didn't feel comfortable doing it. I told Alicia about my realization, because I know she has strong feelings about society's rules on women's cordiality, and she agreed that it was a tough situation because I let it happen, but at least I realized I didn't like it, and not to let it happen again.
So, while I didn't find love that Tuesday evening, I did meet a few new people that were fun to talk to, and I pushed myself out of my comfort zone a little bit since I only knew one person at the event. That's at least a step in the right direction towards meeting someone.
Oh, and did I mention I have a date this coming Tuesday? (He asked me to dinner/drinks/coffee and said it was his treat - that's a date, right?) I'm already nervous since this is unlike the group setting of the Singles Night, and in typical girl fashion, I'm already concerning myself with what I'm going to wear.
(PS - If you're reading this, Mr. Tuesday, we can totally just call it dinner and catching up. Or is it a date? Fuck, I'm so far out of practice with this.)
I know what you're going to say - "The right guy won't care about your cancer." or "Don't be ridiculous." or "Sometimes you have to make yourself vulnerable to get rewarded." I appreciate those comments, but it doesn't help. I know that whenever someone tells me something along these lines of encouragement, they mean well. But what I feel is valid, and nobody gets to tell me otherwise. I feel like I'm damaged goods, and who would want to take me home, when there are plenty of other non-defective pieces to pick from? Who would want to risk loving someone who's had cancer, knowing there's a possibility (no matter how small) that it could come back, and I could have to go through this whole experience all over again? Or that I might die? I know that we all die at some point, and that's a risk we take no matter who we date or fall in love with, but I feel like my odds of that happening are higher than anyone else's. Maybe that's a morbid thing to say, but these have been my thoughts. I'm scared shitless to let love in again. Especially because the last few times I did, my heart got trampled on. I also know that's a risk we take when we choose to love again, but I can almost feel the brick wall I've put up to barricade my heart from any further damage. I've carefully laid the bricks one at a time, as high as they will go in my chest cavity, and sealed them with as much plaster as possible. Telling myself Maggie is the only companion I need.
But the truth is, I miss having a partner. Someone to go on adventures with, to share parts of my life with, to talk to, and especially someone to hold me during the rough days. Throughout this entire cancer experience, I've craved someone to be by my side. Someone who wouldn't run scared when things got difficult or uncomfortable. I've wanted someone to just lay in bed with me while I cry, without trying to offer words of encouragement, but just let me feel my pain. Despite being surrounded by people who love me, I have felt incredibly alone in this whole process. But because of my past heartbreaks, and my current health status, I knew that dating wasn't something I was emotionally capable of, no matter how much I craved someone else's companionship.
But for about a month now, I've finally felt like I'm ready to get back out there in the world of dating. I feel like my health situation has settled down enough to where I can successfully manage my time between work, friends, doctor's appointments, and dates. I'm starting to feel like ME again. My problem from there was - how the hell am I going to meet anyone? While I know it's worked for many others, including two of my best friends that are getting married in May, online dating just really isn't my thing. I haven't wanted to go down that route yet. I like the idea of meeting people organically, in real life, because that's how all of my relationships have started. Knowing that is my preferred method of attempting to meet someone, I also knew that meant I would actually have to leave the house to make that happen, rather than sitting around at home in my pajamas watching reruns of Say Yes to the Dress (yep. shamelessly admitting I watch that show on the regular. All girls do). A lot of my friends are either married or in serious relationships, so I didn't really know who to go out with, or where.
That's when Alicia came along. She sent out an email to a group of her friends saying she wanted to host a Singles Night at a pub in Oakland. She told me that there were a few people she wanted me to meet, no strings attached. And while I was nervous as hell, because I'm usually shy, I put on my big girl pants, and went. Before going, though, I asked Alicia if the people she wanted me to meet knew about my cancer or not. She said she wasn't sure, and apologized profusely because she hadn't thought of that. I told her it wasn't a big deal, I just wanted to be prepared for both scenarios, in case it came up in conversation. I said it wasn't like I was going to introduce myself as, "Hi, I'm Whitney, I had breast cancer." Although, admittedly, I do want to try that out as a sort of social experiment to see what kind of reaction I would get. Granted, that's probably not the best idea since I'm still in a somewhat fragile emotional state about this.
Back to Singles Night. So, I went, and Alicia and a few of her other friends were the only ones there when I got there. Alicia had set up a table near the fireplace of conversation starters and treats. Included on the table was a Donkey Kong Nintendo 64 game cartridge that could be used as a security blanket. Gradually, more of her other friends arrived, so while she was off playing host, I attempted conversation with a few of the people I had met. Which, again, was difficult for me, because I'm shy. I finally met one of Alicia's best friends who I had heard a lot about, which was great. I also met one of her other friends Jesse that gifted me a book for no reason a while back just because he'd thought of me since he knew about my health. As the night went on, I talked to more and more people, slowly shedding my shell, and although I wasn't interested in anyone as far as dating, it was nice to meet new people. I talked to people about my job, school, dating in general, art, Friends episodes, and in one instance had my first experience of someone telling me negative stories about CrossFit after me telling him I'd just started the sport. I knew that eventually that would happen, so it didn't come as much of a surprise. I definitely started to get a little defensive, but luckily Jesse stepped in and commented that so long as people are exercising, who cares what the means are? (Thank goodness for him stepping in, because I almost went off on the other guy telling him he can stick to his wilderness nudist yoga retreats, and I'll happily be at my box throwing around heavy weight.)
Eventually, people trickled out, and I got tired, so I decided it was time to head home. Alicia and I said our goodnights, and she made Jesse walk me out to my car. Yoga guy decided to leave at the same time we did, and as he was getting ready to get on his bike, Jesse shook his hand. I then stuck out my hand for a handshake and to say "Nice to meet you" but Yoga guy opened his arms for a hug. And even though I really didn't want to give him a hug, I did anyways, because society beats it into women that it's unacceptable to be rude to someone, and we should go out of our comfort zones to make other people feel accepted. Jesse walked me to my car, and I happily gave him a hug, because I felt like I'd known him for a lifetime already. There was no hesitation at all. I felt perfectly comfortable hugging him.
It wasn't until the next day that I really realized what had happened about me being nice and giving someone a hug when I didn't want to, and how I wish I hadn't done it. I don't need to make anyone comfortable except myself, and I didn't feel comfortable doing it. I told Alicia about my realization, because I know she has strong feelings about society's rules on women's cordiality, and she agreed that it was a tough situation because I let it happen, but at least I realized I didn't like it, and not to let it happen again.
So, while I didn't find love that Tuesday evening, I did meet a few new people that were fun to talk to, and I pushed myself out of my comfort zone a little bit since I only knew one person at the event. That's at least a step in the right direction towards meeting someone.
Oh, and did I mention I have a date this coming Tuesday? (He asked me to dinner/drinks/coffee and said it was his treat - that's a date, right?) I'm already nervous since this is unlike the group setting of the Singles Night, and in typical girl fashion, I'm already concerning myself with what I'm going to wear.
(PS - If you're reading this, Mr. Tuesday, we can totally just call it dinner and catching up. Or is it a date? Fuck, I'm so far out of practice with this.)
Saturday, September 19, 2015
Cancer and Crossfit
Okay, I know I've seriously been slacking in posting anything lately. I'm still in that limbo - trying to balance the scales on life with cancer and life after cancer. So on non-cancer days, I just want to live life normally without really thinking about anything that's happened in the last 9 months. But I know I can't just sweep all of these life events under a rug. They happened. They're real. I faced them. I overcame them. And now I just need to learn how to deal with them head on.
I've been occupying my time with a new hobby: CrossFit. Yes. I've been sucked into the cult world of exercise by means of CrossFit. It's only been about three weeks, and it's already changing my life. I've wanted to try this type of workout for a long time. My friend Paulina has been doing CrossFit for several years, and was always talking about it when we worked together. To be honest, I've just always been really intimidated by the sport. Last year, when I started working out more, I didn't really know what the hell I was doing. I watched YouTube videos for instructions on how to properly squat, a few friends that I worked out with would help me set up the various machines depending on what I wanted to work out, I'd find new exercise moves through the various fitness pages I follow on Instagram, and one of the personal trainers at my gym would sometimes help me out and tell me what I was doing wrong, and then suddenly this happened:
I've been occupying my time with a new hobby: CrossFit. Yes. I've been sucked into the cult world of exercise by means of CrossFit. It's only been about three weeks, and it's already changing my life. I've wanted to try this type of workout for a long time. My friend Paulina has been doing CrossFit for several years, and was always talking about it when we worked together. To be honest, I've just always been really intimidated by the sport. Last year, when I started working out more, I didn't really know what the hell I was doing. I watched YouTube videos for instructions on how to properly squat, a few friends that I worked out with would help me set up the various machines depending on what I wanted to work out, I'd find new exercise moves through the various fitness pages I follow on Instagram, and one of the personal trainers at my gym would sometimes help me out and tell me what I was doing wrong, and then suddenly this happened:
I grew muscle! I don't know how or when it happened, because it took time, but I just started noticing these awesome changes my body was going through, and I was thrilled. I lost weight, not because I needed to, but because my body just adapted really well to the exercises I was doing, and I started eating healthier (mind you, I was still eating candy and ice cream on occasion). Every day I saw improvements to my muscle definition, how much weight I was able to lift, and I also started to see some vascularity (okay, that part grossed me out a little bit, but was also fascinating).
Then in November, I came home from a trip and found the lump in my breast. I basically stopped exercising at that point. My mind was occupied with whether or not the lump was cancer, and then when it was, I was busy getting poked, prodded, smashed, and biopsied, and my body was too tired and too hurt from all of those procedures to be in the gym. I also could barely get out of bed because of how depressed I was. I put on this happy, smiling face for everyone, telling them that I was going to be okay. That doctors have come so far in the medical field as far as breast cancer is concerned that I fully believed that I would be "cured". I use quotation marks because I don't think that word is the right one to describe life after cancer, but I don't know a better one. But, while I was putting on a brave face for everyone else, in the privacy of the bathroom, my car, or my room, I was falling apart.
Surgery happened December 15, and I remember being so angry about the way my body looked afterwards. The scar looked extremely jagged and my breast was this new shape that can't even be found in geometry. Then, I got the addition of Penny the Port, and was angry about how far she stack out, the new scar on my chest, and the fact that I was now bionic. Then in March when I started chemo, the weight slowly started to creep on. For about a month, I was weighing myself on a daily basis, and I stated steady at my pre-cancer weight for a while, but then somewhere along the line, that number that stared back at me kept creeping higher and higher, while my self esteem dipped lower, and my frustration at cancer grew. I was losing the body that I had worked so hard for.
Every time I saw my oncologist for a check up, he'd ask me if I'd done any exercise. About two weeks after my first chemo, I went on a 9 mile hike, which was still manageable. Somewhere between chemo 2 and 3, I went to a yoga class, but quickly learned I had lost a lot of my strength. About twice during my 4 months of chemo, I went to the gym to lift weights, and both times ended up crying in the locker room because I couldn't lift the same weight I had been lifting 6 months prior. And I was tired. And not tired like "I need to sleep" tired, but fatigued and exhausted. I became puffy and fluffy due to the weight gain, steroids, and water retention, and I hated looking in the mirror. The reflection I saw was not me. I did not accept Cancer Whitney. I would complain to Paulina about how frustrated I was about all of this, and she gently reminded me that once I started working out again when I had the energy, the weight would come off, and my muscles would return. She encouraged me to just eat what I wanted since my body had been through a lot, and I shouldn't be so hard on myself, and to think of the fat as something that could be later turned into muscle. My winter coat, if you will.
Well, on my last week of radiation, I had dinner with Chris and Becky and Jared, and then Chris was going to CrossFit around the corner. I asked if I could go check it out and watch. And while I think Chris was embarrassed, he agreed, and I met his coach. It wasn't my first time in a CrossFit gym, as I'd been to both of the ones Paulina had gone to in the past. But CrossFit WIT was smaller - more intimate. In that hour time span of watching Chris's class, I desperately wanted to pick up weights and start lifting. I wanted to take back control. I started crying because I was so pissed off at the cards life had dealt me, especially at a time when I was feeling so positive about myself, for the first time ever.
I told Coach Lutz I was interested in checking it out, and he encouraged me to stop by for a few classes to see if I liked it before I signed up. About a week later, my radiation burns were mostly healed, and I was in the gym with Chris, sweating my ass off in 100 degree weather, doing my first AMRAP. Four days later, I was learning how to deadlift, and then I officially signed up to be a part of CrossFit WIT.
I've already made friends there, and I absolutely love the fact that CrossFit has such a big sense of community and support. While there's a level of competition with each other, everyone also encourages one another to push past your limits and to achieve new goals. I'm not the fastest, or the strongest, but people have cheered me on through workouts, making me want to succeed even more. I've gotten frustrated several times in the last few weeks with the fact that my body can't do a lot of things it used to be able to, but I have to remind myself that it's going to take time. My strength isn't going to come back over night, and unfortunately, the weight doesn't come off as easily as it comes on. Coach Lutz has seen my frustration, and also has to remind me that the hardest part is showing up to workout. Once I make it there, I just have to put in the work, at whatever level I can. He's modified workouts for me, I take breaks when I need to catch my breath, and there have been several instances where I've gotten cold water poured on my head to cool down.
Last fall, I was about ready to sign up with a fitness team to start training for bikini competitions. But then I got diagnosed, and that idea got put on hold. Now that I've spent the last 10 months admiring and being jealous of other women's bodies who compete, I've also had the chance to hear about and see what else is involved in those competitions. Fasted cardio, water depletion, and being judged and critiqued on my physique when I've already been my harshest judge for so long no longer sounds like a good time. Rather than having goals of being thin and "toned", I now really want to set goals of being to lift heavier weights. I definitely want to lose the chemo weight, but it's okay with me if that fat turns into muscle and the scale doesn't budge. I want to be able to deadlift at least 110 by the end of the year (I'm currently at 85). I want to love my body again. I want to feel and be strong and be happy with who I see in the mirror again.
Coach Lutz believes in me more than I believe in myself, and every workout he picks my weights for me. My eyes bug out, because I don't think I can do it, and he ensures me that I can. And then sure enough, I can use the weights he picked. Granted, sometimes I have to modify my sets and take more frequent breaks, but I push myself. My left arm is still numb from having lymph nodes removed, and I'm hoping it's not permanent nerve damage. So that side is always weaker when I lift weights, and I can only hope that with time and exercise, it will improve and the numbness will go away. I'm already seeing a difference in the way some of my clothes fit. I don't feel quite as puffy and fluffy anymore, and I love/hate the feeling of being sore again.
Even more exciting is the fact that we're participating in a fundraiser for a nonprofit called Barbells for Boobs. They are a CrossFit nonprofit that raises money for breast cancer screenings, specifically for young women under 40 and men, which is obviously near and dear to my heart. When Coach Lutz asked if people were interested, he already knew I'd be on board. I had already heard of this organization, and was happy to hear he wanted us to do our own event. So on October 10, we'll be doing two of the girl workouts that are CrossFit staples - Grace, and Helen meets Grace if with a partner. My friend Nicole and I are going to do the partner workout. Neither of us enjoy running, but it's for a good cause. I set up my fundraiser page last Sunday, and within less than a week, I'm already almost to my goal. How awesome is that? Go check it out here.
I have other things to write about, like going to a singles night my friend hosted this past Tuesday, starting to see a therapist again, and getting to meet one of my chemo angels yesterday. I'll update on those adventures in the near future. But for now I'm going to go eat breakfast because since starting CrossFit, I'm perpetually hungry.
Sunday, September 6, 2015
Secrecy and Pressure
I haven't written anything here in a while because, well, I haven't wanted to. I'm in this limbo stage of treatment, where on one hand, I want to completely forget any of this ever happened to me, but on the other hand, I want to use it to my advantage to help other people. It's really just fear settling in again. Fear that I'm not good enough to do anything amazing with my story. Fear that I might fail at it if I try. So, of course, hiding in a hole has seemed like a better idea. The reading of my essay was last Tuesday, and the night before, I suddenly really didn't want to go. I didn't want cancer to be my reality anymore. I'm just over it. It had started to almost feel like a distant memory, until having to read that story to a room full of strangers. That made it real again. I had to wake myself from my fantasy that I never had cancer, and remember why I wrote the essay in the first place. To help people. To raise awareness. To help me cope with one of the hardest parts of my treatment.
In many ways, I feel as though there's pressure, from other people, and especially myself, that I have to DO something or BE something amazing just because I had cancer. I have all of these ideas of things I want to do to try to make a difference, make an impact somehow, but I don't know how to do it. And I'm afraid of failure. When people find out you've had cancer, they expect to to live life in a much more gung-ho manner. They tell you, "You probably have so much more appreciation for life now!" Well, I appreciated my life before, too. There was pressure to celebrate the end of chemo, but I didn't much feel like having a party when my treatment is only about halfway over. Cancer has almost become a celebrity in its own right - actors and actresses have been coming out about their cancers, there's the Pink ribbon movement, months of the calendar dedicated to specific cancers - and part of the publication of famous people with cancer makes it seem as though everyone with cancer should be doing something BIG with their life, simply because they had cancer. It's part of why I wanted to keep my cancer a secret.
I also put pressure on myself. Because I still feel lost in life. I don't know what I'm doing, who or what I want to be, or where I'm going from here. So I know I put pressure on myself to try to be something amazing. To make an impact. To be important. I want to continue to inspire others, and if I could make a career out of that, that would be my ideal dream. But... that also means constantly facing my cancer. And I don't know if I'm strong enough to do that. I'm getting better at it, because the farther I get from the hardest parts of treatment, the easier it is to talk about. It almost doesn't feel real. Like, there's no way it was me who had surgery and went through chemo and radiation. But all I have to do is take my shirt and bra off, and I can see my port and my scar, and there are the physical reminders of just how real it's been.
I'm my harshest critic, I know, which is part of why I took a hiatus from writing in here. The truth of the matter is, everyone else's opinion of what I should be doing with my life is just that - an opinion. I don't have to follow it. If I wanted to forget this ever happened come next March, I can do just that. As for putting pressure on myself, I have taken up looking for silver linings again. I have a lot of great ideas that are worth attempting in order to make this a positive thing, for other people, and for myself. I think that talking about it will help me come to terms with it, and heal some more.
On a different note, I returned to work this past week after 2 months off, and it's going surprisingly well. The atmosphere has been different, and I've noticed significant changes from when I was working during chemo. My mind feels clearer, my hearing has improved, as well as my eyesight, and I'm generally in a better mood.
The downfall, however, is that my cancer is still a secret at my workplace. And the other night, some of my coworkers got into a conversation about cancer. This happens frequently, because, unfortunately, cancer touches everyone's lives somehow. But, this night, was really difficult for me. One of the girls was talking about her sister who had cervical cancer, and then had a recurrence even though she'd had a total hysterectomy. Keisha was baffled at how that could happen. I chimed in saying that it probably spread in her blood stream, and that if the cancer recurs before 5 years, it's still the same cancer. She then went on to say how it wasn't fair because her sister was a good person, she was healthy, she didn't deserve this..... All things I've heard people say to me. And then Nathalie chimed in saying something along the lines, "Could you just imagine being younger than that and going through cancer?" I had to turn my head because I had started crying. I desperately wanted to get up from my chair and run from the room, but it's like I was glued to that chair, unable to move.
Eventually, that conversation ended, but I know it's bound to come up again. And again. And again. I almost screamed, "I HAD CANCER! Can we stop talking about it now?" But, I didn't. I'll likely continue to keep quiet about my cancer at my job, simply because I'm still in training, and I don't want whatever health issues I may have impact how they perceive my ability to my job. I know that's probably crazy, considering I went through two surgeries and chemotherapy during training, and none of them knew, and I still had good performance.
Maybe one day soon, I'll feel comfortable enough revealing this secret to my coworkers. For now, though, I still need that degree of separation. As far as the pressure to be something amazing, well, hopefully I'll get over it, and start to be nicer to myself.
In many ways, I feel as though there's pressure, from other people, and especially myself, that I have to DO something or BE something amazing just because I had cancer. I have all of these ideas of things I want to do to try to make a difference, make an impact somehow, but I don't know how to do it. And I'm afraid of failure. When people find out you've had cancer, they expect to to live life in a much more gung-ho manner. They tell you, "You probably have so much more appreciation for life now!" Well, I appreciated my life before, too. There was pressure to celebrate the end of chemo, but I didn't much feel like having a party when my treatment is only about halfway over. Cancer has almost become a celebrity in its own right - actors and actresses have been coming out about their cancers, there's the Pink ribbon movement, months of the calendar dedicated to specific cancers - and part of the publication of famous people with cancer makes it seem as though everyone with cancer should be doing something BIG with their life, simply because they had cancer. It's part of why I wanted to keep my cancer a secret.
I also put pressure on myself. Because I still feel lost in life. I don't know what I'm doing, who or what I want to be, or where I'm going from here. So I know I put pressure on myself to try to be something amazing. To make an impact. To be important. I want to continue to inspire others, and if I could make a career out of that, that would be my ideal dream. But... that also means constantly facing my cancer. And I don't know if I'm strong enough to do that. I'm getting better at it, because the farther I get from the hardest parts of treatment, the easier it is to talk about. It almost doesn't feel real. Like, there's no way it was me who had surgery and went through chemo and radiation. But all I have to do is take my shirt and bra off, and I can see my port and my scar, and there are the physical reminders of just how real it's been.
I'm my harshest critic, I know, which is part of why I took a hiatus from writing in here. The truth of the matter is, everyone else's opinion of what I should be doing with my life is just that - an opinion. I don't have to follow it. If I wanted to forget this ever happened come next March, I can do just that. As for putting pressure on myself, I have taken up looking for silver linings again. I have a lot of great ideas that are worth attempting in order to make this a positive thing, for other people, and for myself. I think that talking about it will help me come to terms with it, and heal some more.
On a different note, I returned to work this past week after 2 months off, and it's going surprisingly well. The atmosphere has been different, and I've noticed significant changes from when I was working during chemo. My mind feels clearer, my hearing has improved, as well as my eyesight, and I'm generally in a better mood.
The downfall, however, is that my cancer is still a secret at my workplace. And the other night, some of my coworkers got into a conversation about cancer. This happens frequently, because, unfortunately, cancer touches everyone's lives somehow. But, this night, was really difficult for me. One of the girls was talking about her sister who had cervical cancer, and then had a recurrence even though she'd had a total hysterectomy. Keisha was baffled at how that could happen. I chimed in saying that it probably spread in her blood stream, and that if the cancer recurs before 5 years, it's still the same cancer. She then went on to say how it wasn't fair because her sister was a good person, she was healthy, she didn't deserve this..... All things I've heard people say to me. And then Nathalie chimed in saying something along the lines, "Could you just imagine being younger than that and going through cancer?" I had to turn my head because I had started crying. I desperately wanted to get up from my chair and run from the room, but it's like I was glued to that chair, unable to move.
Eventually, that conversation ended, but I know it's bound to come up again. And again. And again. I almost screamed, "I HAD CANCER! Can we stop talking about it now?" But, I didn't. I'll likely continue to keep quiet about my cancer at my job, simply because I'm still in training, and I don't want whatever health issues I may have impact how they perceive my ability to my job. I know that's probably crazy, considering I went through two surgeries and chemotherapy during training, and none of them knew, and I still had good performance.
Maybe one day soon, I'll feel comfortable enough revealing this secret to my coworkers. For now, though, I still need that degree of separation. As far as the pressure to be something amazing, well, hopefully I'll get over it, and start to be nicer to myself.
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Life after Radiation
Radiation wrapped up last Friday, and I couldn't have had a bigger smile on my face handing over that shitty paper vest and walking out the doors for the final time. I bought myself a red velvet bundt cake from Nothing Bundt Cakes, then went home and slept for pretty much the rest of the afternoon. I haven't been able to take a nap since treatment started - fatigue and insomnia have been my biggest foes throughout this process, so being able to just veg out for the rest of the day was great.
I had a good weekend, too. Saturday night, I went to dinner and spent time with Paulina. And then Sunday, my friend Chris and I made use of my christmas presents he and Becky gave me last year and went to the shooting range. I'd been asking to go for a while, and we finally had time. It was both nerve-wracking and fun! Shooting is much harder than it looks, and I need more practice to work on my aim. Luckily, Chris is a patient teacher. Then we had dinner with Becky and spent the evening watching American Pie. Which, by the way, came out in 1999, and people who were born the year that movie came out can now drive. WHAT THE HECK?! Where has time gone? If that doesn't make you feel old, I don't know what does.
But then Monday came around, and I felt incredibly lost not having to get ready for a mid-day trip to the radiation center. I had to force myself to get out of the house and just go somewhere for a little while, so as not to get too wrapped up in the panic about what's next as far as treatment is concerned.
Yesterday, Teresa and I spent the day at the Monterey Aquarium, and had a good time. I started to realize earlier today that I was feeling a sense of calm and peace for the first time probably since before diagnosis. I felt light and free and content. The word fluffy came to mind for whatever reason. It has been an incredibly long time since I've felt this way, and I honestly didn't really know if I'd ever get to feel like this again. Some people might brush that off, saying that this is only temporary, and while that's true, I have a say in how I let it effect my outlook on the future. And I really didn't know if I'd be happy again. The last time I was truly happy, something bad happened (uh, cancer), so in my mind, those two things are mutually exclusive, even though they shouldn't be.
Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of things I'd like to change about my life and make different, but I'm happy. I can finally accept people's commendations, and agree with them. I am strong. And I am proud of myself. I look back, and see how far I've come, and I'm amazed. In December, surgery followed by 18 weeks of chemotherapy seemed like a life time, and tomorrow is my birthday and I think, where has all the time gone? All of these treatments already seem like a distant memory.
A week ago, if you'd asked me if I was excited about my birthday, I would've told you no. In fact, when Becky asked me that very question last Thursday, and my answer was "No, because I'm afraid I'll never be as happy as I was when it was my birthday last year again." She responded by slapping my arm and telling me to snap out of it. But that was my thought process. Today, I'm not necessarily excited for my birthday tomorrow, but I'm accepting of it. There's going to be anxiety and fear laced in with survivorship, but at least I'm alive, able to celebrate another birthday. For that I'm grateful. If that's the silver lining to putting myself through all this treatment, then I'll take it.
I'm not done living.
I had a good weekend, too. Saturday night, I went to dinner and spent time with Paulina. And then Sunday, my friend Chris and I made use of my christmas presents he and Becky gave me last year and went to the shooting range. I'd been asking to go for a while, and we finally had time. It was both nerve-wracking and fun! Shooting is much harder than it looks, and I need more practice to work on my aim. Luckily, Chris is a patient teacher. Then we had dinner with Becky and spent the evening watching American Pie. Which, by the way, came out in 1999, and people who were born the year that movie came out can now drive. WHAT THE HECK?! Where has time gone? If that doesn't make you feel old, I don't know what does.
But then Monday came around, and I felt incredibly lost not having to get ready for a mid-day trip to the radiation center. I had to force myself to get out of the house and just go somewhere for a little while, so as not to get too wrapped up in the panic about what's next as far as treatment is concerned.
Yesterday, Teresa and I spent the day at the Monterey Aquarium, and had a good time. I started to realize earlier today that I was feeling a sense of calm and peace for the first time probably since before diagnosis. I felt light and free and content. The word fluffy came to mind for whatever reason. It has been an incredibly long time since I've felt this way, and I honestly didn't really know if I'd ever get to feel like this again. Some people might brush that off, saying that this is only temporary, and while that's true, I have a say in how I let it effect my outlook on the future. And I really didn't know if I'd be happy again. The last time I was truly happy, something bad happened (uh, cancer), so in my mind, those two things are mutually exclusive, even though they shouldn't be.
Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of things I'd like to change about my life and make different, but I'm happy. I can finally accept people's commendations, and agree with them. I am strong. And I am proud of myself. I look back, and see how far I've come, and I'm amazed. In December, surgery followed by 18 weeks of chemotherapy seemed like a life time, and tomorrow is my birthday and I think, where has all the time gone? All of these treatments already seem like a distant memory.
A week ago, if you'd asked me if I was excited about my birthday, I would've told you no. In fact, when Becky asked me that very question last Thursday, and my answer was "No, because I'm afraid I'll never be as happy as I was when it was my birthday last year again." She responded by slapping my arm and telling me to snap out of it. But that was my thought process. Today, I'm not necessarily excited for my birthday tomorrow, but I'm accepting of it. There's going to be anxiety and fear laced in with survivorship, but at least I'm alive, able to celebrate another birthday. For that I'm grateful. If that's the silver lining to putting myself through all this treatment, then I'll take it.
I'm not done living.
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
Roller Coaster
I wish I could better describe the roller coaster of emotions that come with cancer. One moment to the next is uncertain. I could be happy, or at the very least content, and then burst into tears. And I know that people without cancer experience these same mood swings, so it's not all inclusive to my experience. But, the cancer makes it different.
I know I could attribute the mood swings to a variety of things - the possibility that my period is about to come back, the fact that I'm still in a state of medically induced menopause, or simply that I'm a 27 year old female. But I know that it's deeper than that. I have anxiety and fear regarding the end of my various phases of treatment, and those attribute to a lot of my wavering emotions. I had an insane amount of anxiety at the end of chemo. I didn't allow myself to get excited about it because my thought was "well, now what? What are we going to be doing to actively treat the cancer after this?" Then came radiation, and that quieted the anxiety for a few weeks. But now the end of radiation is near, and that question has resurfaced. There's a lot of fear associated with "survivorship" that people fail to realize. Cancer is this all-encompasing thing for however long you have to deal with it, and then treatment is over, and you're left in a fog.
What comes next? Who am I without cancer?
It's bittersweet to me that I still have to go in for Herceptin. On one hand, I want my cancer experience to be over. But on the other hand, I'm grateful that I'm not being thrown out to the wolves and forgotten about. Instead, my gradual decline of cancer appointments is giving me a little bit more time to accept the end of treatment, and what it means to live after cancer.
That concept is something I'm struggling with. I feel inadequate in life. I don't think I'm smart. Even before cancer happened, I felt as though I wasn't doing enough with my time. And now, after cancer, everyone expects you to become this amazing, strong, proactive person with a zest for life, and that's a hard expectation to fulfill. I'm putting all this pressure on myself to do something or be someone important, when in reality, I should be more gentle with myself considering what I, and my body, have been through. I really do want to make a difference somehow, but I need to stop thinking that I have to figure it out right now.
Earlier today, I let myself get lost in this fear of not having my life figured out to the point where I made myself feel physically sick. I ugly cried in my car while on my way to support group, hiding behind my sunglasses. My car is my sanctuary, and I just let it out. I had tried to suppress all of these fears I had about not "finding myself" after cancer, but today I let myself feel my feelings. It helped to be honest with myself and realize that I needed to let the tears happen, and then going to support group helped. Because the other women that were there don't have their shit figured out, either. We're all young, and still in the midst of fighting for our lives, so we don't have to have anything figured out just yet. I need to give myself permission to believe that and accept it.
I'm now drugged up on Ativan, because the looming panic returned after the group ended and I was walking towards my car, and I decided that being in a fog was better than being in a panic. Today was a high dose cancer day - radiation, doctor appointment, Herceptin, and support group, and it fell on a day where I really didn't want to do any of it, but had to. I'm hoping that the Ativan works its wonders and puts me at ease, and helps me sleep.
Tomorrow is a new day. Hopefully I'll be on a happier roller coaster by then.
I know I could attribute the mood swings to a variety of things - the possibility that my period is about to come back, the fact that I'm still in a state of medically induced menopause, or simply that I'm a 27 year old female. But I know that it's deeper than that. I have anxiety and fear regarding the end of my various phases of treatment, and those attribute to a lot of my wavering emotions. I had an insane amount of anxiety at the end of chemo. I didn't allow myself to get excited about it because my thought was "well, now what? What are we going to be doing to actively treat the cancer after this?" Then came radiation, and that quieted the anxiety for a few weeks. But now the end of radiation is near, and that question has resurfaced. There's a lot of fear associated with "survivorship" that people fail to realize. Cancer is this all-encompasing thing for however long you have to deal with it, and then treatment is over, and you're left in a fog.
What comes next? Who am I without cancer?
It's bittersweet to me that I still have to go in for Herceptin. On one hand, I want my cancer experience to be over. But on the other hand, I'm grateful that I'm not being thrown out to the wolves and forgotten about. Instead, my gradual decline of cancer appointments is giving me a little bit more time to accept the end of treatment, and what it means to live after cancer.
That concept is something I'm struggling with. I feel inadequate in life. I don't think I'm smart. Even before cancer happened, I felt as though I wasn't doing enough with my time. And now, after cancer, everyone expects you to become this amazing, strong, proactive person with a zest for life, and that's a hard expectation to fulfill. I'm putting all this pressure on myself to do something or be someone important, when in reality, I should be more gentle with myself considering what I, and my body, have been through. I really do want to make a difference somehow, but I need to stop thinking that I have to figure it out right now.
Earlier today, I let myself get lost in this fear of not having my life figured out to the point where I made myself feel physically sick. I ugly cried in my car while on my way to support group, hiding behind my sunglasses. My car is my sanctuary, and I just let it out. I had tried to suppress all of these fears I had about not "finding myself" after cancer, but today I let myself feel my feelings. It helped to be honest with myself and realize that I needed to let the tears happen, and then going to support group helped. Because the other women that were there don't have their shit figured out, either. We're all young, and still in the midst of fighting for our lives, so we don't have to have anything figured out just yet. I need to give myself permission to believe that and accept it.
I'm now drugged up on Ativan, because the looming panic returned after the group ended and I was walking towards my car, and I decided that being in a fog was better than being in a panic. Today was a high dose cancer day - radiation, doctor appointment, Herceptin, and support group, and it fell on a day where I really didn't want to do any of it, but had to. I'm hoping that the Ativan works its wonders and puts me at ease, and helps me sleep.
Tomorrow is a new day. Hopefully I'll be on a happier roller coaster by then.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Never Hide
Check out Nalie's TedTalk about being true to yourself.
"Never hide your imperfections, because that's what makes you beautiful. Never hide your weaknesses because that's what makes you strong. Never hide who you are because there is no one out there in the world like you, and someone out there needs you. The real you."
http://www.nalie.ca/tedtalk/
"Never hide your imperfections, because that's what makes you beautiful. Never hide your weaknesses because that's what makes you strong. Never hide who you are because there is no one out there in the world like you, and someone out there needs you. The real you."
http://www.nalie.ca/tedtalk/
Sunday, August 16, 2015
I'm being published!
About a month and a half ago, Alicia and I were lounging about her apartment. She was working, and I was reading on my kindle and also playing and snuggling with Sam, the dog that she and her roommate were watching that week. I needed a distraction, and to just be anywhere but my house, and Alicia offered her couch, despite her having to work. I promised not to distract her.
If it's not yet clear from my writing about her, I love, adore, and admire Alicia immensely. She once sent me an e-card for my birthday that said "Happy birthday to a friend of a friend that I now like more than the original friend." She's been with me through several relationships, watched me grow as a person, engaged with me in doorstop banditry (I know you're reading this, and this seriously needs to be revived), and she's still loved me along the way. In fact, when I first told her about my diagnosis, she sent me this long, heartfelt email of things she thought I should do at the start of my experience with cancer, offering her company whenever needed. She even took me up on my offer to sit in with me at one of my chemo sessions, getting to witness me looking like Strawberry Shortcake with the cold caps on my head.
But, I digress. At this lounge day at her apartment, every now and again, we'd talk about my writing. I admitted that I wanted to do something with it, but I didn't know where to start. On more than one occasion in the past, I've said to her, "I'm not a writer." and every single time, she counters with, "Whether you think you are or not, you're a writer." Alicia is an incredibly talented writer. I've followed her various blogs ever since I've known her. We share this passion for the written word that I think bonds us together in a way that only other bibliophiles could understand. We also have this intense love of love that makes us complete kindred spirits. So, this afternoon hangout that slowly whispered its way into evening, had us very minimally brainstorming what I could do with my writing. We didn't really come up with a solution that night, but a few days later, she emailed me a link to a writing contest. It was being put on by Bay Area Cancer Connections, a nonprofit for women facing breast and ovarian cancer based in Menlo Park, and it was a call for essays about your cancer experience. This was the perfect place to start, right?
But as soon as this opportunity was in front of me, I got cold feet. Having to relive the fears, anxiety, pain, heartbreak, and frustration of the last 8 months suddenly seemed terrifying. I spent the first few months of my experience trying to compartmentalize it from the rest of my life, choosing to act as though it was just a thing I was dealing with rather than a major life event. Then I embraced it, admitting that it was something that I couldn't ignore, and wanted to find a way to make an impact. I would attempt to write something, and then stop. A paragraph here, a sentence there. Alicia would check in on me to see if I'd made any progress, and I continued to promise her I'd send something soon. Finally, I decided to sit down and just write. I typed and typed until I hit 1,000 words, and then I sent it to her. But, within an hour, I emailed her again, saying that I felt like what I'd written was too vague. I tried to condense my ENTIRE cancer story in a measly two pages. I told her it seemed like maybe I needed to be more focused on perhaps just one issue that had come my way through treatment - relationships, sex and dating, body image, egg harvesting, and mortality, to name a few. I knew in my heart which topic would be the most interesting, but I asked Facebook instead. And, of course, they chose the topic that I wanted to write about the least. It was the most personal, the most heartbreaking because of what happened to me during the decision process, but, it was the most real. My experience with IVF. And what's real is what's interesting. It's never been my goal to sugarcoat my cancer experience. Being raw and real is what makes me who I am. And it's a topic many people don't talk about.
So, again, I put off writing about the topic, because my heart ached every time I even thought about my experience with egg harvesting. The back and forth of trying to make the decision. The anxiety I felt at the instructive class on how to administer injections - with my mom there by my side. Desperately missing the security and support of a partner. But, the deadline was fast approaching, and I didn't want to follow my past (in where I'd say I wanted to do something, but I'd let the opportunity pass me by because I was too afraid). I was going to submit something to this contest. So, I finally started typing again. It was hard to do, because I could tell the story about my IVF experience a thousand different ways, and it would be a different story every time. I sent off my draft to Alicia, and she artfully edited it in a way, that when I read her revisions, I cried as if I was reading someone else's story. But, it was mine, just made so much more raw and real by Alicia's talented hand.
I found out yesterday that my piece WON the contest! At first I was excited, and then I started to down talk myself, thinking "The only reason they picked mine is because no one else submitted anything." But, I realized that wasn't a nice thing to say about myself, so I let that thought go. And so what if that's the truth, I'm still going to be published! My submission will be published in the Bay Area Cancer Connections September newsletter, and I'll be doing a reading of the piece at Kepler's books on September 1 at 7pm.
This is just a small step in the right direction to trying to turn something negative into a positive. I couldn't be more thrilled! Keep an eye out for a post with the submission that won.
And to my dearest, darlingest Alicia - you astonish me at every turn. Your love for life, for love, for words, and your passion for wanting to help others find and follow their dreams are just small parts of what make you so incredibly amazing. From our doorstop banditry days, to you bringing me cookies after I just had my heart broken (or more like put into a meat grinder. that's probably a more apt description), you've been through so many of life's important moments by my side, and I can't believe I've had the pleasure to call you a close friend for almost a decade. I wouldn't change any of it, except maybe less heartbreaks for both of us. I love you with my whole heart. Thank you for turning my words into something amazing.
If it's not yet clear from my writing about her, I love, adore, and admire Alicia immensely. She once sent me an e-card for my birthday that said "Happy birthday to a friend of a friend that I now like more than the original friend." She's been with me through several relationships, watched me grow as a person, engaged with me in doorstop banditry (I know you're reading this, and this seriously needs to be revived), and she's still loved me along the way. In fact, when I first told her about my diagnosis, she sent me this long, heartfelt email of things she thought I should do at the start of my experience with cancer, offering her company whenever needed. She even took me up on my offer to sit in with me at one of my chemo sessions, getting to witness me looking like Strawberry Shortcake with the cold caps on my head.
But, I digress. At this lounge day at her apartment, every now and again, we'd talk about my writing. I admitted that I wanted to do something with it, but I didn't know where to start. On more than one occasion in the past, I've said to her, "I'm not a writer." and every single time, she counters with, "Whether you think you are or not, you're a writer." Alicia is an incredibly talented writer. I've followed her various blogs ever since I've known her. We share this passion for the written word that I think bonds us together in a way that only other bibliophiles could understand. We also have this intense love of love that makes us complete kindred spirits. So, this afternoon hangout that slowly whispered its way into evening, had us very minimally brainstorming what I could do with my writing. We didn't really come up with a solution that night, but a few days later, she emailed me a link to a writing contest. It was being put on by Bay Area Cancer Connections, a nonprofit for women facing breast and ovarian cancer based in Menlo Park, and it was a call for essays about your cancer experience. This was the perfect place to start, right?
But as soon as this opportunity was in front of me, I got cold feet. Having to relive the fears, anxiety, pain, heartbreak, and frustration of the last 8 months suddenly seemed terrifying. I spent the first few months of my experience trying to compartmentalize it from the rest of my life, choosing to act as though it was just a thing I was dealing with rather than a major life event. Then I embraced it, admitting that it was something that I couldn't ignore, and wanted to find a way to make an impact. I would attempt to write something, and then stop. A paragraph here, a sentence there. Alicia would check in on me to see if I'd made any progress, and I continued to promise her I'd send something soon. Finally, I decided to sit down and just write. I typed and typed until I hit 1,000 words, and then I sent it to her. But, within an hour, I emailed her again, saying that I felt like what I'd written was too vague. I tried to condense my ENTIRE cancer story in a measly two pages. I told her it seemed like maybe I needed to be more focused on perhaps just one issue that had come my way through treatment - relationships, sex and dating, body image, egg harvesting, and mortality, to name a few. I knew in my heart which topic would be the most interesting, but I asked Facebook instead. And, of course, they chose the topic that I wanted to write about the least. It was the most personal, the most heartbreaking because of what happened to me during the decision process, but, it was the most real. My experience with IVF. And what's real is what's interesting. It's never been my goal to sugarcoat my cancer experience. Being raw and real is what makes me who I am. And it's a topic many people don't talk about.
So, again, I put off writing about the topic, because my heart ached every time I even thought about my experience with egg harvesting. The back and forth of trying to make the decision. The anxiety I felt at the instructive class on how to administer injections - with my mom there by my side. Desperately missing the security and support of a partner. But, the deadline was fast approaching, and I didn't want to follow my past (in where I'd say I wanted to do something, but I'd let the opportunity pass me by because I was too afraid). I was going to submit something to this contest. So, I finally started typing again. It was hard to do, because I could tell the story about my IVF experience a thousand different ways, and it would be a different story every time. I sent off my draft to Alicia, and she artfully edited it in a way, that when I read her revisions, I cried as if I was reading someone else's story. But, it was mine, just made so much more raw and real by Alicia's talented hand.
I found out yesterday that my piece WON the contest! At first I was excited, and then I started to down talk myself, thinking "The only reason they picked mine is because no one else submitted anything." But, I realized that wasn't a nice thing to say about myself, so I let that thought go. And so what if that's the truth, I'm still going to be published! My submission will be published in the Bay Area Cancer Connections September newsletter, and I'll be doing a reading of the piece at Kepler's books on September 1 at 7pm.
This is just a small step in the right direction to trying to turn something negative into a positive. I couldn't be more thrilled! Keep an eye out for a post with the submission that won.
And to my dearest, darlingest Alicia - you astonish me at every turn. Your love for life, for love, for words, and your passion for wanting to help others find and follow their dreams are just small parts of what make you so incredibly amazing. From our doorstop banditry days, to you bringing me cookies after I just had my heart broken (or more like put into a meat grinder. that's probably a more apt description), you've been through so many of life's important moments by my side, and I can't believe I've had the pleasure to call you a close friend for almost a decade. I wouldn't change any of it, except maybe less heartbreaks for both of us. I love you with my whole heart. Thank you for turning my words into something amazing.
Friday, August 14, 2015
Everything Changes: Another perspective
On my last post about how everything changes, I was extremely focused on the loss of my former self. I've mentioned on several occasions how I need to mourn the loss of that person, and move forward, but that's easier said than done.
But the next morning, I realized something. Everything is constantly changing, and that's not a bad thing. I am not the same me of last summer, of 8 months ago, of even 5 months ago, or hell, even 5 minutes ago. And there's an extreme amount of beauty in that. It means that at any given moment, we have the power to change (most) whatever it is that's going on that we don't like about ourselves or our lives.
Things change, people change, if life stayed the same all the time, it'd be pretty boring. I didn't need a cancer diagnosis to teach me that, but alas, that's where I'm at.
Lately, I've often referred to "cancer perspective" when talking about things to friends and family. As in, this cancer experience has made me able to really hone in on things that I do and don't want in life. I'm able to be more honest with myself about whether or not I want to finish my MA, what I'm willing to put up with in a relationship, and that despite the money, I'm not okay with the idea of working a job that requires me to work a 50 hour work week. There's no life in that. A good friend of mine is always preaching that you should "Work to live, not live to work." I want to actually be able to enjoy and embrace the rest of my youth, not spend it holed up at a job simply because it pays well. Yes, that's an added benefit, but I want whatever work I do to have meaning. I want to be able to change lives and inspire people.
On Tuesday, I had lunch with my former boss and dear friend who's now more like family. When I expressed all of my concerns to her, she stopped me and pointed out that I was trying to tackle too many things at once. She gently reminded me that right now, I only need to get through radiation. That's my full time job. Then, I should focus on one issue at a time, rather than overwhelm myself and try to solve multiple problems at once. She talked me off my ledge.
Yesterday, at lunch with Becky, I continued to down talk myself - about how I don't like the way that I look at the moment. And she said, "Hey! Don't talk about my friend like that." And that was a slap in the face. She's right. I wouldn't like it if she talked about herself like that. And at this extremely difficult time in my life, I need to be better at being my own best friend. I was doing a decent job of treating myself during chemo - buying flowers to perk myself up - but I haven't done that lately. Becky played that role for me - treating me to lunch, shopping, and a manicure and pedicure, again, reminding me that I should be more gentle with myself. I didn't choose this road, but how I handle it makes all the difference in moving past it.
So yes, everything changes. But I have a choice in I respond to those changes. I choose to be better.
But the next morning, I realized something. Everything is constantly changing, and that's not a bad thing. I am not the same me of last summer, of 8 months ago, of even 5 months ago, or hell, even 5 minutes ago. And there's an extreme amount of beauty in that. It means that at any given moment, we have the power to change (most) whatever it is that's going on that we don't like about ourselves or our lives.
"If you don't like how things are, change it! You are not a tree." - Jim Rohn
Things change, people change, if life stayed the same all the time, it'd be pretty boring. I didn't need a cancer diagnosis to teach me that, but alas, that's where I'm at.
Lately, I've often referred to "cancer perspective" when talking about things to friends and family. As in, this cancer experience has made me able to really hone in on things that I do and don't want in life. I'm able to be more honest with myself about whether or not I want to finish my MA, what I'm willing to put up with in a relationship, and that despite the money, I'm not okay with the idea of working a job that requires me to work a 50 hour work week. There's no life in that. A good friend of mine is always preaching that you should "Work to live, not live to work." I want to actually be able to enjoy and embrace the rest of my youth, not spend it holed up at a job simply because it pays well. Yes, that's an added benefit, but I want whatever work I do to have meaning. I want to be able to change lives and inspire people.
On Tuesday, I had lunch with my former boss and dear friend who's now more like family. When I expressed all of my concerns to her, she stopped me and pointed out that I was trying to tackle too many things at once. She gently reminded me that right now, I only need to get through radiation. That's my full time job. Then, I should focus on one issue at a time, rather than overwhelm myself and try to solve multiple problems at once. She talked me off my ledge.
Yesterday, at lunch with Becky, I continued to down talk myself - about how I don't like the way that I look at the moment. And she said, "Hey! Don't talk about my friend like that." And that was a slap in the face. She's right. I wouldn't like it if she talked about herself like that. And at this extremely difficult time in my life, I need to be better at being my own best friend. I was doing a decent job of treating myself during chemo - buying flowers to perk myself up - but I haven't done that lately. Becky played that role for me - treating me to lunch, shopping, and a manicure and pedicure, again, reminding me that I should be more gentle with myself. I didn't choose this road, but how I handle it makes all the difference in moving past it.
So yes, everything changes. But I have a choice in I respond to those changes. I choose to be better.
"Incredible change happens in your life when you decide to take control of what you have power over instead of craving control over what you don't." - Steve Maraboli
"You aren't what's happened to you, you are how you overcome it." - Beau Taplin
"Some women are lost in the fire. Some women are built from it." - Michelle K
"I survived because the fire inside me burned brighter than the fire around me." - Joshua Graham
Adornments
I have this insane love of quotes. I keep a journal of quotes that inspire me and touch my soul. I'll admit that lately, I've been neglecting it. I picked it up again the other day to add more to it, and I only wrote in a few new inscriptions. I think I haven't had the courage to pick it up because I associate this journal with my path of self discovery from last year, a time where I was mostly happy. I'm renewing that path to happiness, albeit slowly, so I'm going to start adding to that journal again. Alicia sent me this quote yesterday, and I fell in love with it.
“Now and then, an inch below the water's surface, the muscles of his stomach tightened involuntarily as he recalled another detail. A drop of water on her upper arm. Wet. An embroidered flower, a simple daisy, sewn between the cups of her bra. Her breasts wide apart and small. On her back, a mole half covered by a strap. When she climbed out of the pond a glimpse of the triangular darkness her knickers were supposed to conceal. Wet. He saw it, he made himself see it again. The way her pelvic bones stretched the material clear of the skin, the deep curve of her waist, her startling whiteness. When she reached for her skirt, a carelessly raised foot revealed a patch of soil on each pad of her sweetly diminished toes. Another mole the size of a farthing on her thigh and something purplish on her calf--a strawberry mark, a scar. Not blemishes. Adornments.”
“Now and then, an inch below the water's surface, the muscles of his stomach tightened involuntarily as he recalled another detail. A drop of water on her upper arm. Wet. An embroidered flower, a simple daisy, sewn between the cups of her bra. Her breasts wide apart and small. On her back, a mole half covered by a strap. When she climbed out of the pond a glimpse of the triangular darkness her knickers were supposed to conceal. Wet. He saw it, he made himself see it again. The way her pelvic bones stretched the material clear of the skin, the deep curve of her waist, her startling whiteness. When she reached for her skirt, a carelessly raised foot revealed a patch of soil on each pad of her sweetly diminished toes. Another mole the size of a farthing on her thigh and something purplish on her calf--a strawberry mark, a scar. Not blemishes. Adornments.”
- Atonement
And, as many people keep telling me, scars are sexy. So, I'm still trying hard to continue to embrace mine. They're not the first ones to grace my skin, just the most intimate.
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
Everything Changes
I recently finished reading a book titled "Everything Changes: The Insider's Guid to Cancer in Your 20's and 30's". It was a good book. So many of the issues that were raised were extremely relevant to my experience with cancer. Even if you're not going through cancer yourself, I recommend it. It's a good read. It really offers a good perspective of what the young adult experience with cancer is like. I think the author could've addressed some topics of concern a lot more in depth than she did, but hey, it's not my book.
The title of the book should be the motto for cancer. "Everything changes." It's true. Everything does change. Your appearance, your health, your appreciation for life... I know that there's a million quotes about not looking at the past, you're not going that way/you don't live there, but after going through such a rigorous treatment regimen, it's extremely hard not to look at the past. I miss that version of me. The young, vibrant, healthy, naive, happy woman who was finally learning how to love herself. A year ago today, I remember going to the Saddlerack with Teresa to just go out and have a good time. We turned a lot of heads that night, simply because of how happy we looked. We were positively radiant. I absolutely loved my body, so for the first time in my life, I was standing tall, smiling from ear to ear, sending my positive vibes into the world. A common thing for people to tell me is that I'll look back on my cancer experience as something that made me a stronger person, but I already felt like I was pretty strong. Cancer knocked me down at my highest point. And yeah, sure, maybe it's because the universe had more to teach me about loving myself in the face of adversity, but damn it, the universe could've sent me a gentler message.
I lament the loss of the woman I was last summer, and people tell me that I'm still beautiful now. Perhaps even more so now than a year ago because of all of the struggles I've faced, and have persevered. I appreciate those comments, and I know that they come from a good place, but I hate cancer Whitney. I mean, I don't hate her, but I don't particularly love her. I feel fat and puffy, my clothes don't fit, I'm tired all the time because of radiation, I have hot flashes in the middle of the night that make it so I don't sleep well, my eyebrows are growing in at a snail's pace, and now my eyelashes are falling out... it's a never ending cycle. Just when I think more of my old me is returning, something else comes up that puts even more distance between the me now and the me of last summer.
I know that I'm being too hard on myself. I should love this amazing body of mine. This body of mine has conquered so many things over the last 8 months. It's kicked ass through it's first major surgery, which produced clean margins and a smaller tumor, and then kicked even more ass during its second major surgery, producing a good amount of eggs for harvesting (this always makes me feel like I'm talking about Easter egg hunting). It got me through chemotherapy with minimal, and manageable, side effects, and now it's making its way through radiation with flying colors. Today, my radiation oncologist commended my skin for how it's held up over these last 5 weeks.
Last summer, I was so incredibly proud of the work I'd put in toward building muscle, that I would flex at people. Especially when drunk. It was extremely entertaining. This summer, I'm freely showing people the scars on my breast. So, yeah, everything definitely changes.
While I'm still mourning the loss of the woman I was a year ago, I'm grateful for that time I spent getting to know myself better. I learned a lot valuable lessons in between May and November of last year. It's given me a glimpse of the person that I want to become, and helping me realize that it's an attainable goal. So, I may not love this current version of me as much as I should, but she's someone I have to accept and love on the journey to being the me I want to be. The beauty of life is that if you don't like where you are, you have the power to change it. I plan on doing just that. But, you know, after my armpit stops peeling and I get the clearance from my doctors.
Below are some pictures of pre-cancer me. I know that I'll see her again, just a stronger, braver version. It's just going to take some time.
Infamous flexing pictures. I would've been more than happy to tell you which way the beach was, should you so ask.
The title of the book should be the motto for cancer. "Everything changes." It's true. Everything does change. Your appearance, your health, your appreciation for life... I know that there's a million quotes about not looking at the past, you're not going that way/you don't live there, but after going through such a rigorous treatment regimen, it's extremely hard not to look at the past. I miss that version of me. The young, vibrant, healthy, naive, happy woman who was finally learning how to love herself. A year ago today, I remember going to the Saddlerack with Teresa to just go out and have a good time. We turned a lot of heads that night, simply because of how happy we looked. We were positively radiant. I absolutely loved my body, so for the first time in my life, I was standing tall, smiling from ear to ear, sending my positive vibes into the world. A common thing for people to tell me is that I'll look back on my cancer experience as something that made me a stronger person, but I already felt like I was pretty strong. Cancer knocked me down at my highest point. And yeah, sure, maybe it's because the universe had more to teach me about loving myself in the face of adversity, but damn it, the universe could've sent me a gentler message.
I lament the loss of the woman I was last summer, and people tell me that I'm still beautiful now. Perhaps even more so now than a year ago because of all of the struggles I've faced, and have persevered. I appreciate those comments, and I know that they come from a good place, but I hate cancer Whitney. I mean, I don't hate her, but I don't particularly love her. I feel fat and puffy, my clothes don't fit, I'm tired all the time because of radiation, I have hot flashes in the middle of the night that make it so I don't sleep well, my eyebrows are growing in at a snail's pace, and now my eyelashes are falling out... it's a never ending cycle. Just when I think more of my old me is returning, something else comes up that puts even more distance between the me now and the me of last summer.
I know that I'm being too hard on myself. I should love this amazing body of mine. This body of mine has conquered so many things over the last 8 months. It's kicked ass through it's first major surgery, which produced clean margins and a smaller tumor, and then kicked even more ass during its second major surgery, producing a good amount of eggs for harvesting (this always makes me feel like I'm talking about Easter egg hunting). It got me through chemotherapy with minimal, and manageable, side effects, and now it's making its way through radiation with flying colors. Today, my radiation oncologist commended my skin for how it's held up over these last 5 weeks.
Last summer, I was so incredibly proud of the work I'd put in toward building muscle, that I would flex at people. Especially when drunk. It was extremely entertaining. This summer, I'm freely showing people the scars on my breast. So, yeah, everything definitely changes.
While I'm still mourning the loss of the woman I was a year ago, I'm grateful for that time I spent getting to know myself better. I learned a lot valuable lessons in between May and November of last year. It's given me a glimpse of the person that I want to become, and helping me realize that it's an attainable goal. So, I may not love this current version of me as much as I should, but she's someone I have to accept and love on the journey to being the me I want to be. The beauty of life is that if you don't like where you are, you have the power to change it. I plan on doing just that. But, you know, after my armpit stops peeling and I get the clearance from my doctors.
Below are some pictures of pre-cancer me. I know that I'll see her again, just a stronger, braver version. It's just going to take some time.
Monday, August 10, 2015
Bad days.
This past weekend, I wasn't in the best spirits. I'm not sure I can pinpoint why. I know what I was feeling - angry, tired, fed up, lonely, lost, and so many other emotions - but there was this underlying anxiety and frustration that I couldn't explain.
Radiation is extremely tiring. The treatment is really easy, the appointments typically go by very fast, and it's not invasive at all, but it's exhausting having to go to the center 5 days a week. My days are structured around these radiation appointments, so it feels like I can't really do much until after they're done. My appointments are smack dab in the middle of the day, too. So I just sit around waiting for 12:20pm to roll around. I could technically go do something beforehand, and a few days I've gone hiking, but my breast is so itchy and swollen, that it's uncomfortable to wear a bra, and I can't put any lotion or creams on it until after radiation is over. I'd rather be uncomfortable at home, where I can laze around in an oversized t-shirt and no bra until it's time to get ready and attempt to look civilized. And for whatever reason that I can't explain, a big side effect of radiation is fatigue, so I'm tired all the time, but I'm not sleeping through the night, and can't fall asleep for naps for the life of me. My body is boycotting me.
So, I felt all of this frustration and anger building up, and then despite my best efforts to rein it in, it boiled over and my mom and I got into an argument yesterday over stupid stuff. I left the house to my usual retreat when I'm having a bad day - Half Moon Bay. It being a Sunday in August, everyone else had the same idea, so traffic sucked. I called Becky on my drive there just so I could cry it out. Thankfully, she's a good friend and let me just sob about all of the stupid shit that was on my mind. My frustration at this situation, how my life was so different just a year ago, how I still don't know how to tell a potential partner about my health, and so many other things. I continued the drive on 92, not caring about the traffic, cuz at least I was out of the house. My car has become a safe haven - this little bubble where I can let my emotions just flow out of me, without having to try to explain the tears to someone else. I don't have to keep my walls up and be strong for everyone else. So I continued crying even after Becky and I hung up, continued driving, putting distance between me and my world that's currently filled with cancer. All of the beaches were really crowded, despite that less than stellar weather, so I kept driving for a while, before finally turning around and finding a parking spot at a beach. It was too cold for me to stay long, so I sat on a bench and just looked out at the ocean for a while, then got back into my car.
In the past week, I've had a few people tell me that I'm an inspiration. And both times, that made me so happy, because that's all I've ever wanted to be. So when I'm not in the best mindset, and I don't have the best experiences to write about, I feel like a failure. I want to be this beacon of hope for other people who may be going through their own struggles. The negative experiences I have seem like they'd taint that goal. I know that's not true - because no one can be happy and strong all the time, and I know no one is going to think I'd be capable of being all sunshine and rainbows during the biggest challenge of my life. I'm just hard on myself. I think it's important to write about the bad days, to accept them, to do whatever it is that I need to do to get through them, and move on.
It's strange to look back at what my life looked like last summer, and how different it is now. It feels like a decade has passed since then, not just a year. I looked through pictures from that time, and it broke my heart to see how much I've changed. I know that that's all just physical appearance - and with hard work and determination, I can get there again. It just sucks that I'm going to have to work harder than ever to be that person again. Some things are within my grasp to change - like my weight, but other things, like the rate at which my eyebrows and hair grow in, I just have to deal with. I think I just have a big problem with the fact that I feel like my life was taken from me. I was robbed of my happiness.
Today, I got two letters in the mail. One from my cousin and aunt, and one from one of my chemo angels, Kelli. The universe was conspiring to put a smile on my face just when I needed it most, and it worked. It's funny how that happens.
21/30 radiation appointments down. The end of this phase of treatment is near! Here's to many more good days, filled with cookies and flowers and sunsets and beach days and Maggie cuddles.
Radiation is extremely tiring. The treatment is really easy, the appointments typically go by very fast, and it's not invasive at all, but it's exhausting having to go to the center 5 days a week. My days are structured around these radiation appointments, so it feels like I can't really do much until after they're done. My appointments are smack dab in the middle of the day, too. So I just sit around waiting for 12:20pm to roll around. I could technically go do something beforehand, and a few days I've gone hiking, but my breast is so itchy and swollen, that it's uncomfortable to wear a bra, and I can't put any lotion or creams on it until after radiation is over. I'd rather be uncomfortable at home, where I can laze around in an oversized t-shirt and no bra until it's time to get ready and attempt to look civilized. And for whatever reason that I can't explain, a big side effect of radiation is fatigue, so I'm tired all the time, but I'm not sleeping through the night, and can't fall asleep for naps for the life of me. My body is boycotting me.
So, I felt all of this frustration and anger building up, and then despite my best efforts to rein it in, it boiled over and my mom and I got into an argument yesterday over stupid stuff. I left the house to my usual retreat when I'm having a bad day - Half Moon Bay. It being a Sunday in August, everyone else had the same idea, so traffic sucked. I called Becky on my drive there just so I could cry it out. Thankfully, she's a good friend and let me just sob about all of the stupid shit that was on my mind. My frustration at this situation, how my life was so different just a year ago, how I still don't know how to tell a potential partner about my health, and so many other things. I continued the drive on 92, not caring about the traffic, cuz at least I was out of the house. My car has become a safe haven - this little bubble where I can let my emotions just flow out of me, without having to try to explain the tears to someone else. I don't have to keep my walls up and be strong for everyone else. So I continued crying even after Becky and I hung up, continued driving, putting distance between me and my world that's currently filled with cancer. All of the beaches were really crowded, despite that less than stellar weather, so I kept driving for a while, before finally turning around and finding a parking spot at a beach. It was too cold for me to stay long, so I sat on a bench and just looked out at the ocean for a while, then got back into my car.
In the past week, I've had a few people tell me that I'm an inspiration. And both times, that made me so happy, because that's all I've ever wanted to be. So when I'm not in the best mindset, and I don't have the best experiences to write about, I feel like a failure. I want to be this beacon of hope for other people who may be going through their own struggles. The negative experiences I have seem like they'd taint that goal. I know that's not true - because no one can be happy and strong all the time, and I know no one is going to think I'd be capable of being all sunshine and rainbows during the biggest challenge of my life. I'm just hard on myself. I think it's important to write about the bad days, to accept them, to do whatever it is that I need to do to get through them, and move on.
It's strange to look back at what my life looked like last summer, and how different it is now. It feels like a decade has passed since then, not just a year. I looked through pictures from that time, and it broke my heart to see how much I've changed. I know that that's all just physical appearance - and with hard work and determination, I can get there again. It just sucks that I'm going to have to work harder than ever to be that person again. Some things are within my grasp to change - like my weight, but other things, like the rate at which my eyebrows and hair grow in, I just have to deal with. I think I just have a big problem with the fact that I feel like my life was taken from me. I was robbed of my happiness.
Today, I got two letters in the mail. One from my cousin and aunt, and one from one of my chemo angels, Kelli. The universe was conspiring to put a smile on my face just when I needed it most, and it worked. It's funny how that happens.
21/30 radiation appointments down. The end of this phase of treatment is near! Here's to many more good days, filled with cookies and flowers and sunsets and beach days and Maggie cuddles.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
Cancer Club
The first rule of cancer club is You do not talk about Cancer Club.
I'm just kidding. The first rule of Cancer Club (aka Support Group) is that everything is confidential. So, as much as I want to write about the wonderful women I met at tonight's "Support Group for Young Women with Cancer" put on by the Women's Cancer Resource Center in Oakland, I'm going to respect their privacy and the first rule of the Club (it's actually the only rule). Instead I'll write about my experience and how it made me feel (you know, all the mushy gushy crap).
In the last 7-8 months, I've isolated myself. So many people know someone who's gone through cancer, but no one knows what it's like unless they've been through it themselves. And even though I've had the (un)fortunate opportunity to be in contact with people who have been through their own cancer's, it's still been pretty lonely. I've spent a lot of time and energy trying to make sure that the people around me were comfortable. People tell me that I'm so strong - but what choice did I have? I would sit in my car to cry because I had to be strong for my mom. I had to put on this brave face because I couldn't watch the look on my mom's face when I was sobbing and I didn't have an answer for when she asked me "What's wrong?" In this heroic attempt to be strong for other people, I wasn't allowing myself to grieve for the loss of my pre-cancer life, or to give myself the opportunity to cry just because there were no words to describe what I was feeling. A woman I met early on in my cancer experience told me that it's an incredibly lonely disease. No matter how many people are around you or want to help you, you're the only one going through this horrible thing, so no one really understands. But... that's why there are support groups. Because there are people who understand.
The patient navigator at Kaiser gave me a list of local support groups way back in December, but I was still trying to ignore my cancer and pretend like it wasn't really a part of my life, so I didn't give them any thought. I threw myself into my training, being grateful that my schedule magically worked around my treatment without me having to spill the beans to my new employer. Now that time has passed, and I've come closer to accepting where I'm at, I felt like it would be good for me to meet up with other women who could relate to the emotions I've felt over these last few months. The list that the patient navigator gave me was for breast cancer groups, but I specifically wanted groups that were geared toward younger women facing cancer. So, tonight, I attended my first support group. All of the women that attended were 40 or under, facing various types of cancer, and at different stages in treatment. Even the group leader had been a cancer patient.
I'd say that in any normal situation, a room full of women would have raging hormones and personality differences. Add cancer to that equation, and the hormones intensify. But, having this one common bond, it didn't matter our age, our cancer type, stage of treatment, or whatever. The fear, loneliness, anxiety, betrayal by our own bodies... all of those feelings unified us. While it was a chaotic jumble of different voices struggling to get our story out in the measly 90 minute time frame, starting a tale and getting sidetracked and then segueing into a different topic, there was still a sense of calm in that room. There was no judgment. No walking on eggshells, no pretending to be okay when we're not okay.
I noticed a theme when we all introduced ourselves. Each one of us somehow incorporated that we were grateful for something within our diagnosis - to have had successful treatment, to have an "easy" cancer, to have found the cancer early before it spread, or to simply finally have an answer to what was causing pain. It kind of made me think that even within this safe haven of fellow commiserators, we didn't want to complain about this shitty thing that brought us together. We didn't want to seem weak, even in front of each other. Before we even really had a chance to support each other, we were already denying our own pain. We aren't fully giving ourselves permission to feel our feelings. My heart hurts so much for one of the women in this group, but I know she doesn't want my pity. She's there to cry and get out what she's holding in. My cancer may be easier than her cancer, and I feel guilty for that, but I know that she doesn't want me to feel guilty. Our situations suck equally, in different ways. We all have our own unique struggles that have come with our different types of cancer, but the emotions we've all experienced are so similar that it's nice to no longer feel isolated.
The group ran over by about 20 minutes because we all just had so much to say. I was nervous going in to the group - to be vulnerable with complete strangers. I've gotten more comfortable in talking to people I know about my cancer, but it's still a difficult thing to discuss with people I don't know. I desperately tried not to cry during my introduction, but I failed miserably. And that's okay. Because not crying would've been another way in which I would've been denying myself my pain, and a support group is definitely the place where it's okay to cry. I would say I should've gone to a group sooner, but I don't think I would've been ready. Today it felt right. I'm happy that I went, and I hope I get the opportunity to continue going. As my anxiety about my treatment starting to taper off grows, I feel like this will be a good outlet for me to calm the anxiety, and also have people that won't make feel crazy for missing the security and feeling of DOING something to kill the cancer that chemo provides.
Tomorrow I'm going to a different support group, specifically for young women with breast cancer. I'm excited to see who I'll meet at this Cancer Club.
I'm just kidding. The first rule of Cancer Club (aka Support Group) is that everything is confidential. So, as much as I want to write about the wonderful women I met at tonight's "Support Group for Young Women with Cancer" put on by the Women's Cancer Resource Center in Oakland, I'm going to respect their privacy and the first rule of the Club (it's actually the only rule). Instead I'll write about my experience and how it made me feel (you know, all the mushy gushy crap).
In the last 7-8 months, I've isolated myself. So many people know someone who's gone through cancer, but no one knows what it's like unless they've been through it themselves. And even though I've had the (un)fortunate opportunity to be in contact with people who have been through their own cancer's, it's still been pretty lonely. I've spent a lot of time and energy trying to make sure that the people around me were comfortable. People tell me that I'm so strong - but what choice did I have? I would sit in my car to cry because I had to be strong for my mom. I had to put on this brave face because I couldn't watch the look on my mom's face when I was sobbing and I didn't have an answer for when she asked me "What's wrong?" In this heroic attempt to be strong for other people, I wasn't allowing myself to grieve for the loss of my pre-cancer life, or to give myself the opportunity to cry just because there were no words to describe what I was feeling. A woman I met early on in my cancer experience told me that it's an incredibly lonely disease. No matter how many people are around you or want to help you, you're the only one going through this horrible thing, so no one really understands. But... that's why there are support groups. Because there are people who understand.
The patient navigator at Kaiser gave me a list of local support groups way back in December, but I was still trying to ignore my cancer and pretend like it wasn't really a part of my life, so I didn't give them any thought. I threw myself into my training, being grateful that my schedule magically worked around my treatment without me having to spill the beans to my new employer. Now that time has passed, and I've come closer to accepting where I'm at, I felt like it would be good for me to meet up with other women who could relate to the emotions I've felt over these last few months. The list that the patient navigator gave me was for breast cancer groups, but I specifically wanted groups that were geared toward younger women facing cancer. So, tonight, I attended my first support group. All of the women that attended were 40 or under, facing various types of cancer, and at different stages in treatment. Even the group leader had been a cancer patient.
I'd say that in any normal situation, a room full of women would have raging hormones and personality differences. Add cancer to that equation, and the hormones intensify. But, having this one common bond, it didn't matter our age, our cancer type, stage of treatment, or whatever. The fear, loneliness, anxiety, betrayal by our own bodies... all of those feelings unified us. While it was a chaotic jumble of different voices struggling to get our story out in the measly 90 minute time frame, starting a tale and getting sidetracked and then segueing into a different topic, there was still a sense of calm in that room. There was no judgment. No walking on eggshells, no pretending to be okay when we're not okay.
I noticed a theme when we all introduced ourselves. Each one of us somehow incorporated that we were grateful for something within our diagnosis - to have had successful treatment, to have an "easy" cancer, to have found the cancer early before it spread, or to simply finally have an answer to what was causing pain. It kind of made me think that even within this safe haven of fellow commiserators, we didn't want to complain about this shitty thing that brought us together. We didn't want to seem weak, even in front of each other. Before we even really had a chance to support each other, we were already denying our own pain. We aren't fully giving ourselves permission to feel our feelings. My heart hurts so much for one of the women in this group, but I know she doesn't want my pity. She's there to cry and get out what she's holding in. My cancer may be easier than her cancer, and I feel guilty for that, but I know that she doesn't want me to feel guilty. Our situations suck equally, in different ways. We all have our own unique struggles that have come with our different types of cancer, but the emotions we've all experienced are so similar that it's nice to no longer feel isolated.
The group ran over by about 20 minutes because we all just had so much to say. I was nervous going in to the group - to be vulnerable with complete strangers. I've gotten more comfortable in talking to people I know about my cancer, but it's still a difficult thing to discuss with people I don't know. I desperately tried not to cry during my introduction, but I failed miserably. And that's okay. Because not crying would've been another way in which I would've been denying myself my pain, and a support group is definitely the place where it's okay to cry. I would say I should've gone to a group sooner, but I don't think I would've been ready. Today it felt right. I'm happy that I went, and I hope I get the opportunity to continue going. As my anxiety about my treatment starting to taper off grows, I feel like this will be a good outlet for me to calm the anxiety, and also have people that won't make feel crazy for missing the security and feeling of DOING something to kill the cancer that chemo provides.
Tomorrow I'm going to a different support group, specifically for young women with breast cancer. I'm excited to see who I'll meet at this Cancer Club.
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
Weekend Getaway!
A few weeks ago, I was having breakfast with one of my best friends, Rachel. We've known each other for over 10 years, and have watched each other go through some crazy stuff. We don't see each other very often due to our work schedules, so these breakfast meet ups once every few months is a tradition. We meet up at the one good breakfast spot Castro Valley has to offer - Doug's - and try to dish as much about the going ons in our lives before we get the angry stares from the servers for hogging the table too long (that place is always busy). Then we'll usually walk across the street to Starbucks, and rummage around in Ross for a bit.
For our last meet up, I asked her about her recent trip to Disney World and if she had fun, what it was like, etc. Rachel is a little bit of a Disney freak, and I say that with the utmost love for her. She loves Disneyland and Disney movies, but not to the point where she goes to the theme park monthly. We eventually got on the topic of roller coasters and which ones at Disneyland we liked or didn't like, and it turns out we have the same list of rides we won't go on. I've been to Disneyland a few times, twice as a kid, once as a teenager, and twice as an adult. It wasn't until the trip when I was 13 that I took with my mom that I actually went on the roller coasters, and that's only because my mom made me. My mom isn't a fan of roller coasters either, but she insisted we ride them since it was an expensive trip. It was the two trips as an adult where I actually started to enjoy the roller coasters, but still refused to go on any the went upside down (I don't trust them), or would get me wet. Somehow, the group I went with managed to convince me to get on Tower of Terror - and that one time was enough for a life time. The photo of that is pretty hilarious. As it turns out, Rachel also won't go on the same rides. So that sparked an idea - in our long history of being friends, we've never taken a trip together. Rachel suggested we go for a weekend, and I said "Why not?" I'm off of work, I have the money to do it, and I want to have a little bit of fun and stop feeling like a cancer patient. So we coordinated our schedules, picked a weekend, and put the plan into action!
We drove down in Rachel's car on Friday morning, which means I skipped radiation that day. I'll have a double day on one of my last days of treatment to make up for it. We got to the parks around 1:45pm, and decided to hit California Adventure first since we were only there for half the day, and there's less to see and do at that park. A lot has changed in the 4 years since the last time I was there, like the addition of Cars Land. I didn't get to ride the Cars ride because it was so packed, but that's okay, I'm sure it'll still be there the next time I go. It was incredibly hot that day, and my armpit was chafing against my arm since I was wearing a tank top, and that's where the radiation is burning my skin the most at the moment. I also couldn't wear a bra because it was too uncomfortable, and I wasn't brave enough to walk around without much in the way of eyebrows, so I sloppily drew them on in the car before we went in. So, I wasn't exactly comfortable in my skin while we were there. Rachel's sister, Amber, met up with us around 6pm, and we had dinner not too long after that. Amber graciously let us stay with her for our trip, which saved us a lot of money and hassle.
Saturday morning, we woke up early and went to Disneyland. It was incredibly crowded, due to the summer break and because it's the 60th anniversary. Midday, we took a break and went back to the apartment to get out of the heat and rest our feet. By late afternoon, we were back in the park trying to make plans for what rides we wanted to ride. We didn't do everything since we were only there for the day and it was so packed, but I still had a lot of fun. I wore a shirt instead of a tank top, and my armpit didn't hurt as much. Things that I didn't think about before leaving were whether or not it was okay to ride a roller coaster with my portacath. It started bothering me after the first roller coaster on Friday, so I tried to be more mindful of jerking my head and neck around while on rides. I also didn't think about the fact that it would've been better on my feet to have worn shoes instead of sandals. And while I knew that radiation was going to burn my skin and make me uncomfortable, I didn't realize it was going to get to the point of not being able to wear a bra, and that made the roller coasters uncomfortable.
So, while I was hoping to try to forget about cancer for a few days and try to live a normal life, that wasn't really possible since I'm still in treatment. But I still had fun, and was happy to have finally had the opportunity to take a trip with Rachel. It was also nice getting to spend time with her sister, and tell her more about my story. Amber told me I was incredibly brave, and that she saw me as an inspiration. Hearing that made me want to cry, because that what I want to be to people. In any way I can. It doesn't matter if I touch one life, or thousands, knowing that I've influenced someone makes me happy. I really want to give back to the community, and make a difference in other young women's lives that are facing cancer, and Amber encouraged me to do that, and also offered her help as far as implementing a business plan. I've had an idea in my head for about two weeks now, so I may just take her up on the offer.
It's Tuesday, which means I'm back on track with my radiation plan. I'm slightly more than halfway through, which I'm grateful for, since at the beginning it seemed like this would drag on. But the end is in sight, and one step at a time I'm taking my life back from cancer.
For our last meet up, I asked her about her recent trip to Disney World and if she had fun, what it was like, etc. Rachel is a little bit of a Disney freak, and I say that with the utmost love for her. She loves Disneyland and Disney movies, but not to the point where she goes to the theme park monthly. We eventually got on the topic of roller coasters and which ones at Disneyland we liked or didn't like, and it turns out we have the same list of rides we won't go on. I've been to Disneyland a few times, twice as a kid, once as a teenager, and twice as an adult. It wasn't until the trip when I was 13 that I took with my mom that I actually went on the roller coasters, and that's only because my mom made me. My mom isn't a fan of roller coasters either, but she insisted we ride them since it was an expensive trip. It was the two trips as an adult where I actually started to enjoy the roller coasters, but still refused to go on any the went upside down (I don't trust them), or would get me wet. Somehow, the group I went with managed to convince me to get on Tower of Terror - and that one time was enough for a life time. The photo of that is pretty hilarious. As it turns out, Rachel also won't go on the same rides. So that sparked an idea - in our long history of being friends, we've never taken a trip together. Rachel suggested we go for a weekend, and I said "Why not?" I'm off of work, I have the money to do it, and I want to have a little bit of fun and stop feeling like a cancer patient. So we coordinated our schedules, picked a weekend, and put the plan into action!
We drove down in Rachel's car on Friday morning, which means I skipped radiation that day. I'll have a double day on one of my last days of treatment to make up for it. We got to the parks around 1:45pm, and decided to hit California Adventure first since we were only there for half the day, and there's less to see and do at that park. A lot has changed in the 4 years since the last time I was there, like the addition of Cars Land. I didn't get to ride the Cars ride because it was so packed, but that's okay, I'm sure it'll still be there the next time I go. It was incredibly hot that day, and my armpit was chafing against my arm since I was wearing a tank top, and that's where the radiation is burning my skin the most at the moment. I also couldn't wear a bra because it was too uncomfortable, and I wasn't brave enough to walk around without much in the way of eyebrows, so I sloppily drew them on in the car before we went in. So, I wasn't exactly comfortable in my skin while we were there. Rachel's sister, Amber, met up with us around 6pm, and we had dinner not too long after that. Amber graciously let us stay with her for our trip, which saved us a lot of money and hassle.
Saturday morning, we woke up early and went to Disneyland. It was incredibly crowded, due to the summer break and because it's the 60th anniversary. Midday, we took a break and went back to the apartment to get out of the heat and rest our feet. By late afternoon, we were back in the park trying to make plans for what rides we wanted to ride. We didn't do everything since we were only there for the day and it was so packed, but I still had a lot of fun. I wore a shirt instead of a tank top, and my armpit didn't hurt as much. Things that I didn't think about before leaving were whether or not it was okay to ride a roller coaster with my portacath. It started bothering me after the first roller coaster on Friday, so I tried to be more mindful of jerking my head and neck around while on rides. I also didn't think about the fact that it would've been better on my feet to have worn shoes instead of sandals. And while I knew that radiation was going to burn my skin and make me uncomfortable, I didn't realize it was going to get to the point of not being able to wear a bra, and that made the roller coasters uncomfortable.
So, while I was hoping to try to forget about cancer for a few days and try to live a normal life, that wasn't really possible since I'm still in treatment. But I still had fun, and was happy to have finally had the opportunity to take a trip with Rachel. It was also nice getting to spend time with her sister, and tell her more about my story. Amber told me I was incredibly brave, and that she saw me as an inspiration. Hearing that made me want to cry, because that what I want to be to people. In any way I can. It doesn't matter if I touch one life, or thousands, knowing that I've influenced someone makes me happy. I really want to give back to the community, and make a difference in other young women's lives that are facing cancer, and Amber encouraged me to do that, and also offered her help as far as implementing a business plan. I've had an idea in my head for about two weeks now, so I may just take her up on the offer.
It's Tuesday, which means I'm back on track with my radiation plan. I'm slightly more than halfway through, which I'm grateful for, since at the beginning it seemed like this would drag on. But the end is in sight, and one step at a time I'm taking my life back from cancer.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
Semantics
Since I've been off of work, I've had a lot of time to think about my cancer and the treatment I've gone through. How I feel about it, how I've reacted to it, trying to decide between the have/had aspect, and what I'm going to do with myself when it's done.
After I had that candid talk with my radiation oncologist last Friday about if I'm cancer free or not, I emailed my medical oncologist (I have an army of doctors) to ask when I'd be considered in remission. I don't know why, but this is important to me. I think mostly because it marks a finite ending point of having had cancer and gone through treatment to prevent a recurrence. Unfortunately, I didn't really care for Dr. Shek's answer. Due to the fact that I'm still going in for Herceptin until next March, and then I'll be on a hormone pill for 10 years, my ending point is a little tricky. Dr. Shek said it's an issue of semantics, but most would say I'd be considered in remission at the end of Herceptin. That's a whole lot of waiting to be able to officially consider myself cancer-free. So, I think I'm going to go with Dr. Fisch's idea that at the end of radiation I'll switch from have to had and consider myself in remission from that point. I think it's really a matter of when I feel ready to accept that we did as much as possible to get rid of any lingering cancer, and to move forward. It's not like a broken arm - okay, you need to spend 6 weeks in a cast, then we'll remove it, and a month after that you can resume all regular activities. I'll forever have to be cautious of how cancer has affected my body. For example, I can't have blood drawn or my blood pressure taken from my left arm due to having had lymph nodes removed. If I were to travel right now, I'd have to take this special card with me to the airport that states I have a portacath in my chest and would need a pat down search to get through security. Now, whenever I have concerning pains, I have to be cautious about x-rays, CT scans, and MRI's. The list goes on.
My anxiety about the end of treatment ebbs and flows. Some days, it's nonexistent, and I feel normal. Other days, it's stifling, and it's all I can do to not think "what if this pain in my side is cancer? What if the lump I still feel in my breast is some of the tumor they missed?" (it's not. It's scar tissue. I know this, but there's still that 'what if' hanging there). This is all part of the "new normal" that every cancer patient nearing the end of treatment talks about.
I guess the good part about my treatment being so long, is that it tapers off. Radiation is hard because it's 5 days a week, and I still have to go in for Herceptin. But once radiation is over, then it's only Herceptin once every 3 weeks, which is easy to handle in comparison to my whole chemotherapy arsenal. There's little to no side effects that I've noticed yet, and I'm in and out of the infusion center in less than an hour. Life will be fairly normalized when I'm down to just that. I've been reading up on other women's experiences with Tamoxifen, and their side effects are all across the board. Some experience weight gain, some weight loss, some nausea and vomiting, headaches... It makes me worried to find out what I'll have to deal with for the next 10 years. But I'll just have to remind myself that it's to save my life.
While I trust my doctor's with my life (I kind of have to - they know more science-y stuff than I do), I think making the decision for myself of when I'm deemed in remission will help me heal and move forward with life. It will close another chapter of my cancer story for me, and then I can move on to writing the next one.
There's no doubt that cancer changes your life. You have to mourn the loss of the life you once had, while trying to accept this new life that you never asked for.
Brought to you by one of the forums I frequent on breastcancer.org:
(In case anyone is wondering, the ultrasound I had of my abdomen came back normal. Which is yay happy, but also frustrating because I still have pain there, and I don't like being told that there's no cause for the pain. I also found out I have high cholesterol, so I have to actually start exercising again, not just saying I'm going to, and being more careful with my diet.)
After I had that candid talk with my radiation oncologist last Friday about if I'm cancer free or not, I emailed my medical oncologist (I have an army of doctors) to ask when I'd be considered in remission. I don't know why, but this is important to me. I think mostly because it marks a finite ending point of having had cancer and gone through treatment to prevent a recurrence. Unfortunately, I didn't really care for Dr. Shek's answer. Due to the fact that I'm still going in for Herceptin until next March, and then I'll be on a hormone pill for 10 years, my ending point is a little tricky. Dr. Shek said it's an issue of semantics, but most would say I'd be considered in remission at the end of Herceptin. That's a whole lot of waiting to be able to officially consider myself cancer-free. So, I think I'm going to go with Dr. Fisch's idea that at the end of radiation I'll switch from have to had and consider myself in remission from that point. I think it's really a matter of when I feel ready to accept that we did as much as possible to get rid of any lingering cancer, and to move forward. It's not like a broken arm - okay, you need to spend 6 weeks in a cast, then we'll remove it, and a month after that you can resume all regular activities. I'll forever have to be cautious of how cancer has affected my body. For example, I can't have blood drawn or my blood pressure taken from my left arm due to having had lymph nodes removed. If I were to travel right now, I'd have to take this special card with me to the airport that states I have a portacath in my chest and would need a pat down search to get through security. Now, whenever I have concerning pains, I have to be cautious about x-rays, CT scans, and MRI's. The list goes on.
My anxiety about the end of treatment ebbs and flows. Some days, it's nonexistent, and I feel normal. Other days, it's stifling, and it's all I can do to not think "what if this pain in my side is cancer? What if the lump I still feel in my breast is some of the tumor they missed?" (it's not. It's scar tissue. I know this, but there's still that 'what if' hanging there). This is all part of the "new normal" that every cancer patient nearing the end of treatment talks about.
I guess the good part about my treatment being so long, is that it tapers off. Radiation is hard because it's 5 days a week, and I still have to go in for Herceptin. But once radiation is over, then it's only Herceptin once every 3 weeks, which is easy to handle in comparison to my whole chemotherapy arsenal. There's little to no side effects that I've noticed yet, and I'm in and out of the infusion center in less than an hour. Life will be fairly normalized when I'm down to just that. I've been reading up on other women's experiences with Tamoxifen, and their side effects are all across the board. Some experience weight gain, some weight loss, some nausea and vomiting, headaches... It makes me worried to find out what I'll have to deal with for the next 10 years. But I'll just have to remind myself that it's to save my life.
While I trust my doctor's with my life (I kind of have to - they know more science-y stuff than I do), I think making the decision for myself of when I'm deemed in remission will help me heal and move forward with life. It will close another chapter of my cancer story for me, and then I can move on to writing the next one.
There's no doubt that cancer changes your life. You have to mourn the loss of the life you once had, while trying to accept this new life that you never asked for.
Brought to you by one of the forums I frequent on breastcancer.org:
(In case anyone is wondering, the ultrasound I had of my abdomen came back normal. Which is yay happy, but also frustrating because I still have pain there, and I don't like being told that there's no cause for the pain. I also found out I have high cholesterol, so I have to actually start exercising again, not just saying I'm going to, and being more careful with my diet.)
Friday, July 24, 2015
Candid Conversations
Months ago, I didn't want to talk about my cancer. At all. It was hard to reconcile with, and I hoped that the less I talked about it, maybe the less real it would be. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. There was no magic wand in the world to reverse my diagnosis, or make it un-true. All I could do was accept it, and move forward. So, that's what I've tried my best to do. I still have days where my anger prevails, and the "why me?" feelings gnaw at my head and heart, but I try not to revel in them. With this sort of zen-like acceptance, and going through the motions of treatment, and "coming out" to the public, it's become much easier to talk about my cancer, the treatment I'm going through, and the doubt that I sometimes experience. The candid approach I've taken with talking about my cancer simultaneously helps me accept it, and come to terms with it a little bit more.
I've started to talk openly with strangers about my diagnosis, which seems to be a really common thread in cancer. At the radiation center, I've met several people in the waiting room, and introductions come with an identifier of why you're there. It's like prison scenes from movies. "So, what are you in for?" "Breast cancer, how about you?" "Liver cancer." And then the conversation spirals into where you're at in treatment, what type of surgery you've had, or will have. It's hard not to let it, but cancer becomes a part of your identity.
The other day, I had an intriguing conversation about various radiation techniques with one of my radiation techs. I was curious about why I didn't need to hold my breath, when in the forum I frequent, some women report having to do that. I was informed me of a technique called "caging" in which breath control is required, but that it's not a common practice, and hasn't shown to have any added benefit. These types of differences in care fascinate me. It's amazing to me that treatment styles and techniques vary from clinic to clinic, patient to patient, and doctor to doctor.
Did I mention that I had this conversation while I was on the radiation table, with my breast hanging out, while I was being put into position? Oh, and the radiation tech that I was having this conversation with was a guy. His name is Bob. I couldn't help but laugh on my way out the door about how strange that conversation would have seemed to an outsider. My modesty has gone almost completely out the window.
Today, I had a conversation with my radiation oncologist about my fears regarding not having any scans done, and trying to rid myself of the anxiety of the unanswered question - how do we KNOW that the cancer is gone for sure? I asked him his opinions on the risk involved, and what he would do were he in my shoes. That's when he told me he's also had cancer. My faith in him swelled at that moment, because who better to understand what it's like to have these questions floating around in your head, giving you uncertainty, than someone who's had those same feelings? I mentioned that I haven't been able to mentally distinguish between whether I have or had cancer, and when I'll be able to be considered in remission. Medically billing speaking, they use "have" for radiation treatment, even though the cancer is technically gone, so he feels that after radiation is when I could potentially say had. But then again, I still have to go in for protein infusions, and then do 10 years of hormonal therapy. He assured me that he doesn't think I have any cancer, and that at the end of radiation, I could transition to had. I think I like that idea, but I'm probably going to consult my oncologist to see if he agrees.
I never thought I'd be so concerned with the tense of a verb, but in this case, it holds a lot of meaning. And I think for me, it signals a moment when I can start to move forward, and start to distance myself from active treatment. Right now, I feel in limbo. I'm not really living, just sort of surviving. And I desperately want to start living again.
I've started to talk openly with strangers about my diagnosis, which seems to be a really common thread in cancer. At the radiation center, I've met several people in the waiting room, and introductions come with an identifier of why you're there. It's like prison scenes from movies. "So, what are you in for?" "Breast cancer, how about you?" "Liver cancer." And then the conversation spirals into where you're at in treatment, what type of surgery you've had, or will have. It's hard not to let it, but cancer becomes a part of your identity.
The other day, I had an intriguing conversation about various radiation techniques with one of my radiation techs. I was curious about why I didn't need to hold my breath, when in the forum I frequent, some women report having to do that. I was informed me of a technique called "caging" in which breath control is required, but that it's not a common practice, and hasn't shown to have any added benefit. These types of differences in care fascinate me. It's amazing to me that treatment styles and techniques vary from clinic to clinic, patient to patient, and doctor to doctor.
Did I mention that I had this conversation while I was on the radiation table, with my breast hanging out, while I was being put into position? Oh, and the radiation tech that I was having this conversation with was a guy. His name is Bob. I couldn't help but laugh on my way out the door about how strange that conversation would have seemed to an outsider. My modesty has gone almost completely out the window.
Today, I had a conversation with my radiation oncologist about my fears regarding not having any scans done, and trying to rid myself of the anxiety of the unanswered question - how do we KNOW that the cancer is gone for sure? I asked him his opinions on the risk involved, and what he would do were he in my shoes. That's when he told me he's also had cancer. My faith in him swelled at that moment, because who better to understand what it's like to have these questions floating around in your head, giving you uncertainty, than someone who's had those same feelings? I mentioned that I haven't been able to mentally distinguish between whether I have or had cancer, and when I'll be able to be considered in remission. Medically billing speaking, they use "have" for radiation treatment, even though the cancer is technically gone, so he feels that after radiation is when I could potentially say had. But then again, I still have to go in for protein infusions, and then do 10 years of hormonal therapy. He assured me that he doesn't think I have any cancer, and that at the end of radiation, I could transition to had. I think I like that idea, but I'm probably going to consult my oncologist to see if he agrees.
I never thought I'd be so concerned with the tense of a verb, but in this case, it holds a lot of meaning. And I think for me, it signals a moment when I can start to move forward, and start to distance myself from active treatment. Right now, I feel in limbo. I'm not really living, just sort of surviving. And I desperately want to start living again.
Thursday, July 23, 2015
A love letter
Dear Whitney,
I know that you are hurting right now, and that is completely okay and understandable. Anyone in your position would feel run down, broken, defeated, isolated, and afraid. No one blames you for your emotions - they are all completely valid. Don't let anyone deny you of your pain.
Life has rarely been kind to you, and these last 7 months have been especially rough - the hardest thing you've ever had to endure. No one should have to experience cancer, let alone in their 20's, when life should be about finding your place in the world. It should be filled with nights out with friends, drinking and dancing at the bar, lazy sun-filled days at the beach, reckless romances and passionate kisses, and adventures in far off places that require a stamp in your passport. Instead, your time has been spent at consultations, doctor's appointments, spending countless hours on the computer doing research, surgeries, lab tests, chemotherapy, now radiation, and an endless amount of tears. It's almost as if you could have ended California's drought with the amount of tears you've cried since December. This was supposed to be your golden year, and it's become tarnished, its joy and beauty tampered with by cancer.
But you should know something. You are incredibly brave, and even though I know you almost never feel like it, you are so strong. Think of all of the people you've impressed and inspired that you've met along the way - your surgeon, the breast care navigator, the geneticist, and so many others - your positive attitude and outlook has inspired so many people. I know right now you don't feel positive, and you've been struggling lately with the ability to see life beyond cancer, but it's there. Your attitude since day one is likely what has helped you handle the side effects of chemo with such ease, even though it never felt that way, what with having tissue stuck up your nose to stop what felt like constant nose bleeds, or running to the bathroom because you can never trust a fart. Sometimes ending up with tissue in your nose and your butt simultaneously (now that was probably an interesting sight).
And even though you don't feel or see it, you are so incredibly beautiful. Whether or not you have hair, or no eyebrows, your body is riddled with new scars, or you feel bionic because of Penny (your portacath) or you've gained 20 pounds from chemo. Your body has become a roadmap of your cancer experience, but it's something to be proud of, even though I know how hard it's been to accept every new attack on your skin. Your outward appearance only makes up a small fraction of your beauty. It's things like your ability to laugh when corn is coming out of your butt, or to think of others and ask them how they're doing when you're going through your own hell, having manners, hopelessly believing in love, or smiling at strangers just because you want to brighten their day, that all contribute to your beauty as a person. Those things, and so many others, make you so much more attractive than just your reflection.You've often been told by former lovers, and even friends, that you don't see yourself very clearly. And though I know it's going to be a struggle, you should start trying to see in yourself what they all see in you. You are so much more than your eyebrows.
I know that you feel lost and like a failure, and that you desperately want to find your place in this world. Be patient. You'll figure it out, in due time.
I can't promise you that things will get better or easier, because I don't know what will happen in the future. There will still be days where you don't want to get out of bed because it hurts too much to deal with all of your emotions. There will be days where you can't stop crying. There will be days filled with anger at the world for not giving you the answers that you want. However, what I can promise you, is that there is something beautiful in every day, so long as you're willing to open your eyes. Find the silver linings in your life, and be grateful as much as possible.
Lastly, I am so proud of you. I'm proud of you for taking charge of your health, for overcoming your fears and opening up to people about what you're experiencing, and for being honest with yourself with what you need and when. You are an amazing woman who has handled every obstacle life has thrown at you with grace. Yesterday, you sat in the same spot in which you sat over 7 months ago awaiting surgery to have your tumor removed. Then, it felt like you wouldn't make it through every treatment that was ahead of you. And now? Look how far you've come!
There is still a long road ahead. Be gentle with yourself. Love yourself. Believe in your own beauty. I'm here with you every step of the way, holding your hand.
Love,
Whitney
I know that you are hurting right now, and that is completely okay and understandable. Anyone in your position would feel run down, broken, defeated, isolated, and afraid. No one blames you for your emotions - they are all completely valid. Don't let anyone deny you of your pain.
Life has rarely been kind to you, and these last 7 months have been especially rough - the hardest thing you've ever had to endure. No one should have to experience cancer, let alone in their 20's, when life should be about finding your place in the world. It should be filled with nights out with friends, drinking and dancing at the bar, lazy sun-filled days at the beach, reckless romances and passionate kisses, and adventures in far off places that require a stamp in your passport. Instead, your time has been spent at consultations, doctor's appointments, spending countless hours on the computer doing research, surgeries, lab tests, chemotherapy, now radiation, and an endless amount of tears. It's almost as if you could have ended California's drought with the amount of tears you've cried since December. This was supposed to be your golden year, and it's become tarnished, its joy and beauty tampered with by cancer.
But you should know something. You are incredibly brave, and even though I know you almost never feel like it, you are so strong. Think of all of the people you've impressed and inspired that you've met along the way - your surgeon, the breast care navigator, the geneticist, and so many others - your positive attitude and outlook has inspired so many people. I know right now you don't feel positive, and you've been struggling lately with the ability to see life beyond cancer, but it's there. Your attitude since day one is likely what has helped you handle the side effects of chemo with such ease, even though it never felt that way, what with having tissue stuck up your nose to stop what felt like constant nose bleeds, or running to the bathroom because you can never trust a fart. Sometimes ending up with tissue in your nose and your butt simultaneously (now that was probably an interesting sight).
And even though you don't feel or see it, you are so incredibly beautiful. Whether or not you have hair, or no eyebrows, your body is riddled with new scars, or you feel bionic because of Penny (your portacath) or you've gained 20 pounds from chemo. Your body has become a roadmap of your cancer experience, but it's something to be proud of, even though I know how hard it's been to accept every new attack on your skin. Your outward appearance only makes up a small fraction of your beauty. It's things like your ability to laugh when corn is coming out of your butt, or to think of others and ask them how they're doing when you're going through your own hell, having manners, hopelessly believing in love, or smiling at strangers just because you want to brighten their day, that all contribute to your beauty as a person. Those things, and so many others, make you so much more attractive than just your reflection.You've often been told by former lovers, and even friends, that you don't see yourself very clearly. And though I know it's going to be a struggle, you should start trying to see in yourself what they all see in you. You are so much more than your eyebrows.
I know that you feel lost and like a failure, and that you desperately want to find your place in this world. Be patient. You'll figure it out, in due time.
I can't promise you that things will get better or easier, because I don't know what will happen in the future. There will still be days where you don't want to get out of bed because it hurts too much to deal with all of your emotions. There will be days where you can't stop crying. There will be days filled with anger at the world for not giving you the answers that you want. However, what I can promise you, is that there is something beautiful in every day, so long as you're willing to open your eyes. Find the silver linings in your life, and be grateful as much as possible.
Lastly, I am so proud of you. I'm proud of you for taking charge of your health, for overcoming your fears and opening up to people about what you're experiencing, and for being honest with yourself with what you need and when. You are an amazing woman who has handled every obstacle life has thrown at you with grace. Yesterday, you sat in the same spot in which you sat over 7 months ago awaiting surgery to have your tumor removed. Then, it felt like you wouldn't make it through every treatment that was ahead of you. And now? Look how far you've come!
There is still a long road ahead. Be gentle with yourself. Love yourself. Believe in your own beauty. I'm here with you every step of the way, holding your hand.
Love,
Whitney
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