Knocking Cliches

so those words? They're knocking.

At my head.

They want to come out.

I am going to let them out now:

There is a cliche' about trash.

"One man's trash is another's treasure."

I have changed that cliche' in my mind.

For me, it is "one person's routine can be another's terror".

And, I silently bless a few people every time I think of this new cliche'.

I bless them because they saw beyond their routine and stepped out.

I bless the ultrasound technician who left her machine and came around to hold my arm and touch me while the radiologist explained that he was concerned and wanted to do a core biopsy right then. I bless her when I remember her squeeze of my shoulder as the doctor asked "are you here alone?" and the tears rolled down my face.

I bless the pre-op nurse who, seeing my terror while I awaited surgery to insert the port, asked me if I'd like a sedative. She saw the wild look of terror in my eyes. Just my eyes. No words from me. Well, ok, there were a few of those silent-type tears slowly making their way down my pasty white cheeks. But no words.

I bless that same nurse who, when she brought me the sedative, put her hand on my arm and squeezed. And told me I'd be o.k. I bless her.

I bless our friend Gilbert who came to the hospital before my first surgery. I later learned that he came to pray with us, but did not get the chance before they wheeled me away. I bless him for his understanding that both Don and I needed support.

I bless Janis, Don's sister (and a physician), who left her warm home that cold November evening to come to be with me and Don...and brought sedatives with her. I bless her for her calm forthrightness and loving kindness.

I bless Beverly, one of the nurses in the chemo room, er..., the infusion suite, who, on my first visit for treatment, told me "your care is curative, not pallative". She will never really understand the impact those words had on me. They were a ray....a bar to hold on to.

I bless Dr. Lehti, my surgeon, who said "we took the cancer out. It is gone." I bless him when I remember his words telling me not to feel guilty for skipping my mammograms the previous four years. "Stop. It wouldn't have made a difference in your case. The cancer was found early, and it is out. It wouldn't have made a difference." Bless him.

And Jerry. I bless him. I bless him for his matter-of-fact way of explaining things. I bless him for the way he makes me feel safe. I bless him for being my oncologist.

My point in all of this? I am not sure, really.

Except, I recognize that I have routines.

And my routines may not be comfortable for those around me.

My routine of driving. I take it for granted. But for the poor young person who just received their permit and now has to learn to drive in our crazy world, that routine may be their terror.

My routine of public speaking. Sweaty palms, anyone? (Me, too. Still get incredibly nervous.)

My routine of expecting fast, accurate service at checkstands. For the new clerk, customer service can be pretty overwhelming...especially service to demanding, impatient customers.

My routines may not be routine to others.

I want to learn to notice those around me. And maybe take a minute out of my "routine" to be a person first.

Who knows?

I may end up being blessed.

Scarring is a Good Thing

Jerry is not concerned.  

Another lump.

In my breast.

Oh my goodness.

Jerry is not concerned.  

At all.

That helps a little bit.

He is not concerned because he thinks it is scar tissue from the surgical site.  So "not concerned" that he says it will be checked out at the next mammogram, which will be scheduled for early February.

But can there be scar tissue a bit away from the direct incision line?

Take it out.

That's what I want.

But if Jerry is not concerned, I will try not to be concerned.  I'll make conscious effort to leave that bag of fear alone.

I will trust that the trial drug, in conjunction with all of my other treatments over the last 12 months, is killing any microscopic cancer cells that may have been in my body.  

I am down to less than 15 weeks left of the clinical trial.  Good news there.  

That means less than 15 weeks left of uncontrolled itching all over my body.  Itching at all times.  Itching so severe that it sometimes wakes me up in the middle of the night.  How weird is that?

Less than 15 weeks left of acne-like skin rash.

Less than 15 weeks left of severe intestinal duress.

My visit with Jerry today was just a year from my first meeting him.  December 3, 2008.  A day that sent me reeling.  A day where I heard words like "grade 3 cancer", "most aggressive", "this cancer can travel to the brain".

The visit today, December 4, 2009.  A day where I heard words like "you're doing well", "I don't need to see you so often",  "you're tolerating the treatment so well", "I am not concerned".   

I like the words I heard today so much better than those from last year.

So, while all those words I heard are true, the ones today are the most true.  

I am certain.

Please.

Forever Stuck

The phrases below are burned on my brain.  These are some of the things that were said to me or overheard over the last year.  They are burned on my brain.  Burned.

"Is anyone here with you?"

"You came by yourself?"

"We're very concerned."

"I want to do a core biospy right now."

"And, Drenda, bring your husband with you."

"I am sorry."

"It is cancer."

"We'll get through this."

"I love you."

"I guess this is the "in sickness" part."

"I love you.  I LOVE you."

"You'll have surgery to remove the tumor."

"Let not your heart be troubled."

"Dr. Segal is a doctor's doctor."

"This will be a part-time job."

"Cancer takes a lot of time."

"You are strong and courageous."

"Dr. Lehti can't see you until Wednesday."

"Dr. Lehti will meet you at his office in between surgeries if you can come now."

"Surgery will be Tuesday morning."

"Do not be terrified.  Do not be discouraged."

"Come to the hospital early."

"Wires will be inserted into your breast to guide the surgeon."

"Even I could tell it's cancer."

"The surgeon and two pathologists are confident that all of the cancer was removed."

"The Lord your God is with you wherever you go."

"The pathology report is in -- all of the cancer was removed.  Clean margins.  Sentinel lymph node clear."

"Stage 1. Grade 3."

"Agressive."

"Hormone fed."

"Often moves to the brain."

"I am going to take a picture now."

"Curative. Not pallative."

"Good thing you're wearing earrings."

"You have good bones."

"You are amazing."

"Brain MRI is imperative."

"These doctors don't know a damn thing."

"They'll think we're in collusion."

"Can I bring you dinner?"

"You're not going to die from this."

"Have you decided on the clinical trial?"

"If it were my wife, I'd want her to participate."

"The brain MRI is clear."

"Cancer free."

One Year

A lifetime
Just yesterday

Almost over
Only begun

A burning, throbbing fire
Doused with tears

Strong belief
Weak faith
Or weak belief and strong faith?

Questions
So many

Answers
So few

Totally alone
Overwhelmed by the crowd

Blazing a trail
Ensnared in the stinging nettles

Terror
Strength

Darkness
Hope

Tears
Courage

Love
Care
Provision

Family

Friends

Savior

Faith?
Weak

Clinical Trial?
Or Character Trial?

Yes. Both

Strength in Weakness

Love
Care
Provision

Savior

Transitions

I remember the days.

"How old is your baby?"

"Four days."

"Two weeks."

"Eight weeks."

"11 weeks."

"Three months."

"18 months."

"Two years."

The progression.

I always, in some ways, mourned the transition from days to weeks.  Weeks to months.  Months to years.

Mourned because time was moving so fast.  

I remember each phase of those transitions.

They were not bad.

Just signals that my babies were growing up.

I am back to the transitions again.

"How long have you been a survivor?"

"Three days."

"Two weeks and four days."

"One month."  That transition was particularly amazing.  

Because the one month anniversary of being declared cancer free was September 20th.  

Team Strong and Courageous.

Walk for the Cure day.

I am now at "two months and three days" cancer free.

These transitions bring no mourning.

 I am looking forward to making the transition to answering the questions with " one year", "two years".   Looking forward to moving from the answers being months to years.

These transitions bring amazement.

Amazement about how much can happen in a few short months.

One year ago, exactly, I participated in Breast Cancer Awareness activities at work.  

I had no idea that three weeks later, I would find a lump in my breast and begin the odyssey of breast cancer treatment.

Those months brought transition from regular, normal, stable to indescribable upset.

These months bring transition from that upset back to normal, stable, and regular.

Survivor.

Cancer Free.

Two months.

Three days. 

Beauty Comes At a High Price

I could hardly believe it. 

Did I hear correctly?

Really?

"Drenda, your hair is beautiful!"

"Thank you. "

"Do you color it?"

"No."

"Is it naturally curly?  Was it like that before?"

"Yes, it is naturally curly, but not this curly.  No, it wasn't quite like this before."

"Wow!  It must make it all worth it."

"Uhhh.....no."

"Really?"

Was he trying to be funny?

"Uhhh....no.  'It' doesn't make it all worth it."

Another "I'm sure they don't listen to their words" moment.

My hair is beautiful.

And I do like it.

But having beautiful hair does not make up for the pain -- neither the physical pain nor the heart pain.   

It doesn't 'make it all worth it'.

This hair came at a high price.  

Figuratively and literally.

Each chemotherapy treatment cost thousands of dollars.  Thousands.  Each one.  And there were 16 all together.

This hair cost thousands of tears.  Thousands.  

This hair cost thousands of questions.  Thousands.

This hair cost premature aging on the part of three young women who should not have to consider their mother's mortality at their tender ages.  That is expensive.

This hair cost by becoming a defining life "moment" for my babies.  It cost much by being etched in the fabric of their lives.  

This hair cost tremendous strain on my husband.

My father.  My sisters.  My brothers.  My entire family.  My friends.

This hair cost.  And the price is high.  

And it is not worth it.  Not for the hair.

I thought my hair was kind of nice before.

Cancer(?) Update

Below is a note my daughter, Rachel, wrote. She is amazing!


"I want to give a cancer update, even though it's no longer a cancer update as my updates have been in the past.

This summer my mom was declared cancer free by her doctor! Cancer free after months of chemo and radiation - the cancer has gone bye-bye! I am so proud of my mom, who has come out of this a fighter. She has come out victorious and been an amazing example to me and, I'm sure, to everyone around her.

Next month, it'll be a year from the night I got the worst phone call of my life, a year from the night my mom told me she had cancer. This has been a year of tremendous growth. So many blessings have come out of it. One of the big ones is that it has brought my extended family together. I think we all got a wake up call of how important family really is - how important having a support system is.

The race for the cure was in Portland the day after I left for Seattle, so I didn't get to walk with my family. That was hard, because I felt like it was such an honor to be able to be on Team Strong and Courageous (my mom's team), but I didn't get to experience it with everyone. I was glad the leadership conference kept me busy, because, like I said, not being able to be there with all my family and celebrating my mom's accomplishment was... hard.

Tonight we had a worship night in Moyer, it was wonderful. We sang songs talking about how we are broken people, and that we need God to console and complete us. We sang about how great God was. How we would live to love Him. How we need Him.

Whenever we sing songs about brokenness or hard times, I think of cancer. Cancer broke me. Cancer gave me hard times. I hate cancer. But, God consoled me. He gave me strength, He gave my mom strength, He gave my family strength.

Ok, but here's the deal. The cancer is gone, right? Wrong. It has infected my family forever. I am cancerous.

But it does not control me, I am the one in control.

It is going to be a part of my life until the day I die.

I am always going to remember the year of my life when I had to fight cancer.

I will probably always have a small amount of fear that what happened to Mrs. Dowd will happen to my mom; I will always have the fear that the cancer will come back.

I will always avoid soy milk and tofu. Wait, there's a reason. It's because they accelerate estrogen production, and my mom's cancer was a result of some sort of estrogen imbalance. So I will always avoid those foods. Always. Maybe that's unnecessary, but I will also always have the fear of someday getting cancer in the back of my head.

I love this quote: "A woman is like a tea bag: you never know how strong she is, until you put her in hot water."