Moments of hesitation: when you break

Sometimes, I think I'm capable of being a lot stronger mentally than I actually am. I wish I could say that I no longer think about cancer on a daily basis, but that's absolutely not true. What I can say is that I think about my life much differently after having had cancer. I am happy and alive and breathing, and every day that I wake up is a gift that I don't plan on wasting. That counts for a whole hell of a lot in my book. So, yeah, I still think about cancer daily, but it's in a much more positive way than it previously has been. I will never be one of those people who says that cancer was the best thing that ever happened to them, because I wouldn't wish that hell on anyone. But it's made me stronger. Happier. More open to new opportunities. My whole life has been reshaped in an incredibly positive way because of the experiences I've had. I used to be incredibly angry at cancer. Now, I'm at peace with it. It happened. It's part of my story. But it's definitely not the entire book.

Yesterday morning as I was typing away about my bowel movements, I had my tv on, which is a rare occasion these days. I don't watch it much, preferring to read or be outside or at the gym in my spare time. But, I've been waking up a lot earlier before work lately, so as I typed, I decided to put on a movie. And I'm not entirely sure why, but I settled on "50/50". If you've never watched that movie, it stars Joseph Gordon Levitt and Seth Rogen (IMDB page here). It's about a 27 year old who gets diagnosed with a sarcoma on his spine. He goes through the awkwardness of counseling, the chemotherapy, the relentless side effects, the pain of someone he cares about walking away from him in the middle of his treatment, his best friend doing what he could to hold it together, and his family struggling with how to deal. Literally all things that I experienced, including the heartbreak. Especially the heartbreak. Honestly, I thought that the heartbreak aspect of it was going to be what stood out most to me and would tug at my heartstrings, but it actually didn't bother me.

I've watched this movie before and enjoyed it, but that was before my own cancer experience. I literally only put it on for background noise as I clicked away on my keyboard, but after I posted the last blog post, I went downstairs, made myself breakfast, and then came back upstairs to finish the movie before having to get ready for work. And then, a scene came up that caused one of the most intense flashbacks I've had regarding my cancer. There are spoilers below, so if you haven't seen the movie, I don't recommend continuing to read on.


Near the end of the movie, Levitt's character goes in for surgery. He's in a hospital gown, laying on the gurney, and has an IV hooked up to a portacath in his chest, and at one point signs a waiver for being an organ donor. All things that I remember incredibly vividly. I was looking at the tv, and I knew it was Levitt's character that was on the screen, but all I was seeing was my face. All over again, it was me on that gurney. Me in the hospital gown. Me with an IV hooked up to fluids. Me signing the medical releases. A nurse and an anesthesiologist come up to him and start to administer the anesthesia, explaining that they were going to be wheeling him into surgery. And Levitt breaks down. He starts to panic, asking how long it's going to take, whether they're giving him enough anesthesia to keep him asleep, what would happen if he woke up during the procedure... All while his mom is by his side and trying to reassure him the best she could that things were going to be okay. That she would see him in a few hours. That it would all be over soon. They embrace in a hug and start crying, and I just lost my shit. I started bawling, unable to control my tears, and the feelings of fear rushing back practically knocked the wind out of me. I couldn't stop crying or gasping for air.

It was like I was back in that hospital. The four walls of my room transformed into the one wall and three privacy curtains of the hospital where I waited for my table time for surgery. I easily remembered my mom and I sitting there, waiting and waiting, and me trying not to move because I was in pain. I had a wire sticking out of my left breast, and an IV in my right hand. I knew my blood pressure was over the roof. I had brought a book to read, but I couldn't focus on anything, so I turned on the small tv at my bedside table while my mom and I made small talk. I had started crying in the car on the drive over, telling her I was afraid. She put on her brave face, and told me everything would be okay. That we were in it together. So, while we waited in that room for the surgeon to come up, I held back the tears, and reminded myself that everything would be okay. It had to be. I was strong enough to make it through this. I didn't exactly believe it, but I had to keep repeating it. Eventually, my surgeon came into my little "room" and marked my left breast with his initials, a precaution to make sure they operated on the correct side. How they could possibly get it wrong since I had a wire sticking out of the breast, I had no idea. But better safe than sorry. Not too long later, my nurse came by asking if I needed to use the bathroom before I went in. I said yes, so she and my mom helped me unplug my monitor that had me hooked up to the IV, and the nurse followed me to the bathroom and waited outside the door. I was still trying not to move too much because of the IV and my grave dislike for needles, so it was difficult getting my underwear down. It took me longer than it should have to go pee, but I was taking my time, still trying to stay calm. When I came out of the room, the nurse informed me it was time to go. I went back to the area my mom was sitting, and sat back down on the gurney. My mom took my belongings, and followed us partway down the hall. It was when the nurse told my mom that she had to stay behind that I absolutely broke down and started crying hysterically. I didn't want my mom to see me cry like that. I didn't want her to see me so broken. I wanted to be strong for her. She had been so strong for me in the month of doctor's appointments and biopsies and consultations prior to that moment. But, at that moment, I couldn't help myself. I needed her at that moment more than I ever have. Just like in the movie, my mom hugged me tight as I cried, no longer holding back the fear and panic I was feeling. She told me she loved me and that she'd see me soon. Eventually, we separated, either because she pulled away, or the nurse told her we had to go, I'm not really sure. I cried the rest of the way into the operating room, and had to choke back the tears as the anesthesiologist administered my drugs and the surgeon did the walk-through, asking me my name, date of birth, what surgery I was in for... And all I could think about was my mom sitting alone in the waiting room. Other family members had wanted to come to sit there with her and be there for me, but I asked them not to. Not just because I didn't want anyone else there, but because my mom was the only one I needed.

My mom and I have had our differences, but I can say she has been the most amazing support system through all of this. I remember her sitting on my bed after I casually told her about my diagnosis, telling me we would figure it out. I can only imagine how devastating it was hearing that her daughter had cancer. I know that she would've happily taken my place if possible, but I would never have let her. Despite being in school and working a full time job that had her traveling on an almost weekly basis, my mom was there for every single doctor's appointment that I wanted her there for. Every test result she wanted to know about. She was there as I agonized over whether or not I should save eggs through IVF, telling me in the most heartbreaking way that she didn't need to be a grandmother and that the choice was mine alone to make. She came to every single chemotherapy appointment, and helped me carry in the 100 lb cooler of dry ice and cold caps, which was quite a feat for my small framed mother. She helped me change the bandages on my wounds when I practically passed out in the shower from pain. And on one of the days where I had a huge panic attack regarding the IVF, she injected me with hormones when I couldn't bring myself to do it.

So, this less than 5 minute scene of this movie had this effect on me. It opened the floodgates of memories, and I couldn't shake it for a few hours. It wasn't the best start to my day. In the midst of my tears, I texted my mom to tell her I loved her. Not only because she needs to hear it more often, but because I just really needed to say it. And, as moms do, she asked if everything was okay. My mom always knows when something is wrong, which is something I love about her. The fear and anxiety that had built up regarding these memories lasted for a few hours, causing me to randomly break out in tears while getting ready for work, and while at work. Eventually, my day got busy enough to where the feeling passed. But it served as a reminder that at any given moment, the walls I've built up to protect myself from these memories could come crashing down. Most often when I least expect it. Granted, I should've known better than to watch a movie about cancer, but I honestly didn't think it would have any effect on me. I thought that I was far enough removed from my cancer that I could hold those memories at arm's length. Today, I learned that's definitely not the case. Just as I wrote a few days ago, I'm always going to be living in these moments of hesitation. Of being wary of living too much for fear that something might knock me back down.

I refuse to live in fear. I let the feelings come, because they deserved space and recognition. I couldn't stop them, so there was no point in trying to push them back into the recesses of my heart. I allowed myself to feel my feelings, and then, slowly as the day passed, I was able to move forward. It didn't ruin the rest of my day. It just made me realize that much more how much life I have left to live.

My text to my mom.

Joseph Gordon Levitt as Adam in 50/50 - the scene that made me lose it.

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.

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.

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.