Little Reminders

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.

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.

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/

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.