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.
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
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.
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.
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