Jumbled Hurdles

Jumbled.

Conflicted.

Emotional.

Happy.  No, ecstatic.  Giddy, even.

Scared.  

Relieved.

I could list even more emotions -- all of which I have felt today.  

I knew my last chemo treatment would arrive and that it would bring with it the conflict of feelings.  

I knew it.

And yet I was totally unprepared.

Unprepared for the shakiness as I sat in the lab chair waiting for my port to be accessed.

Unprepared to have tears as I talked with nurse Katherine.  

Unprepared for the panic rising.  Literally rising.

Unprepared for the sadness as I realized I won't be able to follow Denny, the man who, -- in January, was given 10 weeks to live.  Or Eleanor.  The Russians.  The young girls, both of whom are probably barely 20.  

Unprepared for the surprise of the nurses -- "what?  today is your last treatment?  You're not doing more herceptin?  Aren't you coming for the weekly 1 year herceptin treatment?"

Unprepared for the second guessing of my decision to participate in the clinical trial.

Unprepared for more tears.  After treatment was finished, nurse Katherine said to me "o.k., when you get up and get your things together, I am going to give you a hug".  So, I get up, hobble to the bathroom, go in and shut the door, and immediately burst into tears.

Unprepared to deal with myself and all this crying.  Oh my goodness.  Wipe away the tears, give myself a verbal lashing -- "pull yourself together, Drenda".  Go back out, hug nurse Katherine, and more tears.  Not sobbing, but the silent tear rolling down the cheek type of crying.  Those eyes/tears ducts are not under my control apparently.

Since December 18th, my life has been chemo. 

Chemo and  its side effects.

I now move on into another unknown.  Knowledge, good and bad, in some ways equals safety. 

But now I feel unsafe.

Unsafe and unprepared.

Unprepared, even though the consent form for the clinical trial was 24 pages of possible side effects.  That is, supposedly, preparation.  That is a lot of side effects, I must say.

I am still unprepared.  

But I am just as happy and excited.

Because I have stayed the course.  

I have jumped one of the major hurdles of breast cancer treatment -- and I didn't fall.  I clipped that hurdle a few times, I hit it with my feet or my legs as I jumped.  But I did jump, and I cleared that hurdle.

There were times that I didn't think I'd make it.  I didn't think I could continue one more day, one more hour, one more minute, one more hot flash or one more night laying awake with severe bone aches.  

But I did.  

I made it.  And I think it is fair to say that I came through chemotherapy with flying colors. 

Jerry would agree.  I know he would.

God has protected me.  My immune system is compromised due to the chemo.  And yet, there have been times when Ellie was very ill, times when Don has been quite ill, people at work sick with coughs and colds, and I have been protected.  No colds.  No illness.  Even with all that illness around me, my blood counts have remained in the "safe" low levels.

I will focus on the excitement.  

I will focus on the achievement.  

I AM stronger because of chemotherapy.  

And I WILL be courageous as I face the next steps.  

"HAVE I NOT COMMANDED YOU? BE STRONG AND COURAGEOUS. DO NOT BE TERRIFIED; DO NOT BE DISCOURAGED, FOR THE LORD YOUR GOD WILL BE WITH YOU WHEREVER YOU GO." JOSHUA 1:9

Six Months

Six months.

One half of a year.

Six short months.

A lifetime.

And yet, just a few short weeks, really.

In some ways, I have come so far.

In other ways, I have not progressed at all.

Some days, it is two steps forward, one (or three) steps backward. But I AM stepping. There is something to be said for that. I did not completely curl up in a ball and retreat. Not completely.

I just read my cousin Hollace's blog. One entry entitled "Good words are good things". She stresses that we should focus on the positive, on the good, and not be weighed down by the negative. 

So, I will list the good of the past six months, the things and people I am eternally grateful for:

I have been overwhelmed.

Overwhelmed with love.

Support.

Care.

Prayers.

Concern.

My God. I call Him "my" God because He is known to me. Not because I have "my" God and you have "yours". There is only One. And it is He.

My husband. He is amazing. Cancer has only proven, again, what a great and wonderful man he is. 

My family.

My friends.

My church family. 

My work friends.

Acquaintances that follow my journey through my blog, on facebook, or through others.

Fellow cancer survivors, some complete strangers, who speak words of encouragement just because they remember.

The Palm Spring Girl Friends. None of whom I have ever met.

Jerry.

So, there is a common thread through most of the good. 

That thread is people. 

People who take time to put action to their care and concern. Action of calling. Sending a card. Praying for me. Crying with me. Lifting me up. Encouraging me. Cheering me on. Propping me up when I am collapsing. Cooking dinners for my freezer. Leaving a comment or short message on facebook. 

This is not a journey I would ever want to take alone. O.k....it is not a journey I would ever want to take at all.

But I didn't get to choose, and I am on the journey. And so very thankful that I am accompanied along the road by people who love me and care for me and have made the effort, some over and over, to make sure I remember that they are there.

Thank you. 

Because I hate being alone on road trips.

Scared

"Courage is being scared to death -- but saddling up anyway." John Wayne

"You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the one thing you think you cannot do." Eleanor Roosevelt

Oh my goodness. Is it possible to be courageous and be "saddled up", but still scared to death? 

Yes.

Scared of death? 

Yes.

Is it possible to gain strength, courage and confidence by looking fear in the face, and still being scared to death? 

Yes.

I know.

Because I am.

I am "saddled up"...on the breast cancer bucking bronco.

I am stopped and looking fear in the face.

I am doing the one thing I thought I could not do.  I am fighting cancer.

I am gaining strength, courage, and confidence.

But I am still scared to death.

And scared of death.

Looking fear in the face is a daily process. A moment to moment process.

I have learned that just because I look fear in the face, stare fear in the face, glare at fear in its face, it doesn't go away for long. Sometimes not at all.

I will keep staring at that monster called fear.

I will keep glaring at that monster.

And I will win.

Stop Talking Already

Disneyland.

The Happiest Place on Earth.

I was riding as a single rider on Toy Story - the arcade ride/game. As soon as I got in the "car" and sat down, I took off my hat. Whew. It was hot and sunny out, so my head was hot and sweaty. The woman I was sitting with immediately asked me if I had cancer.

"Yes."

"Breast cancer?"

"Yes."

"I am a three year survivor!"

Turns out her cancer was later stage, but the same type as I have. She was so happy that I was in Disneyland..."I came here in mid-treatment, too! But my husband had to push me around in a wheelchair".

She asked about my treatment, and this is where I gave too much information. Too much scary information.

I told her about the clinical trial with lapatinib. I told her about the HER-2 neu cancer going to the brain. I told her herceptin doesn't cross into the brain.

I told too much.

Because she was obviously shaken.

Because she didn't know about the brain connection.

Because she didn't want to be scared by cancer again. I could tell.

Too late.

As I walked away and lost sight of her in the crowd, and ever since, I have felt terrible. Here this woman reached out to encourage me, and I frightened her.

Shut up, Drenda.

Close your mouth.

Stop talking already.

Join Team Strong and Courageous...

RACE FOR THE CURE - Walking for Drenda
STRONG AND COURAGEOUS is looking for walkers of all ages!
Join the team "STRONG AND COURAGEOUS" on September 20, 2009 in an untimed 5k walk to help raise money for the cure. (We're listed as a friends and family team.)

The Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation: Oregon and SW Washington Affiliate - Race for the Cure®
Source: www.komenoregon.org

Napping. Required.

Yesterday was chemo #9 of 12 (13 of 16). An uneventful day...except I was, in retrospect, quite crabby.

The "infusion suite" was very quiet when we arrived. Hardly any patients in the suite. Cold, cold. Choosing my recliner (back against the wall so I have a good view of the surrounding area). Making the trip to the bathroom (I don't want to have to get up and walk around pushing an I.V. pole in front of me, so I go to the bathroom early in an attempt to prevent that necessity). Then, because of the apparent presence of air conditioning, I need two, yes TWO, hot blankets. But I chose bad blankets. Because as I sat in my recliner and tucked myself in, the blankets were only warm! not hot. drats. Don to the rescue -- he brought me a third hot blanket, and that one was perfect. Put the hot blanket directly on me, and then tuck it in with the other two blankets on top.

So this is where my upset starts to come in. The first drugs that are "infused" are anti-histamines. They make me drowsy. I am dozing off, and things are good. However, business is starting to pick up in the suite, and more patients are coming in. LOUD patients. Patients who, I think, have never been instructed in the use of their "inside voice".

And why is it that the old men who come in feel it their duty to flirt with the nurses? Loudly? And what are their wives thinking as they sit and have to observe such behavior? And the one nurse who is loud as well -- and so often replies to the flirting inappropriately. I mean, really. No one attempting to kill cancer cells needs to hear sexual innuendo. Please, guys, I am trying to rest here. Even Don crunching ice cubes is loud in my ears.

But, no resting. Because the guffaws and chortling seem to go on and on. Oh my goodness. Irritation.

Obvious irritation, I am afraid.

Then, with no napping in sight, I start to listen.

I hear one older gentleman talking to Bubba (remember Bubba? He's the son bringing his Momma to treatment who I surmise lives at home and doesn't/can't work). I hear the older man tell Bubba that the doctor said that he had 10 weeks to live. "And that was in January. Those doctors don't know a damn thing."

10 weeks to live? And I'm irritated because I can't nap?

I had written yesterday, in response to my sister Sally asking how chemo went: "uneventful...except I should have taken ear plugs with me. One nurse is very loud and crass, and add to her a few patients who do not know the meaning of "inside voice". Makes napping a tad bit difficult. And one needs to nap while getting chemo drugs. It's in the breast cancer manual. Required."

And, in my last post, "Touched", I had written that I want my first responses to be compassion, understanding, love, laughter.

There is no "breast cancer manual" -- except the one I have written in my head. But I know better. Because my head is not always right.

Because the manual I have written on my heart makes it clear that napping is not required.

Compassion, understanding, love, and laughter are.

I flunk.

Touched

"Eventually, cancer touches everyone."

That is the t.v. ad line to sell the Providence Cancer Center.

Obviously, I am "touched".

As is my immediate family.

And my extended family.

And my friends.

My co-workers.

But does my "touching" affect others? People I may never know? The woman in the parking lot?

I wonder about the effect of the affect on all these people, known and unknown?

What is the effect of the affect in me?

In some real ways, I want the "touching" to be merely a "brush"...just a fleeting encounter with sickness, terror, and inconvenience.

But if that is all it is, if the only effect is a fleeting brush, wouldn't touching be wasted? Shouldn't I be different for all I have experienced? Shouldn't there be lessons I learn really well?

I want to be a better person for the cancer. I want to be a better wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend. A better staff assistant. A better landlord. A better Drenda. I want my first responses to be compassion, understanding, love, laughter.

And, if those things happen, I will be able to say that the effect is a strong and lasting change. I will never forget having cancer. And I hope I never forget my lessons learned from going through the sickness, terror, and inconvenience. Especially the terror.

I would love to hear the effect of the affect my cancer has had on you. Good, bad, or ugly! If you are unwilling to make a public comment on this note, please send me a private message.

Because hearing from you will encourage me.

Because hearing from you will "touch" me.