Cavalier. Who? Me?

adjective
a cavalier disregard for danger offhand, indifferent, casual, dismissive, insouciant, unconcerned; supercilious, patronizing, condescending, disdainful, scornful, contemptuous; informal couldn't-care-less, devil-may-care.

"It is what it is."

"What if it comes back? Well, it comes back. And I'll deal with it then."

Dismissive.

Unconcerned. (not really. ALWAYS concerned.)

Casual.

Have I mentioned that every ache and pain causes heart aches and pain? 

Have I mentioned that the every day type of headache or leg cramp raises my blood pressure? That every one makes me inhale sharply and talk myself calm? Every one? Every damn one?

Jerry's words to me were that if I had bad headaches, or bone pain, he wanted to know about it. Other than that, he basically told me to go and have a good life.

I have had intermittent and recurring leg/ankle pain in my right leg for a few weeks. 

But, I told myself, it was intermittent. Cancer pain would be always there, right?

Yesterday I google searched "bone pain from cancer".

Intermittent and recurring.

Today I called.

oohhh, that was a hard call to make. Hard to quell the quiver in my voice. Strong and courageous? Who? Me? You've got to be kidding.

Jerry doesn't have "advice nurses". He has "triage". I am thinking that 'triage' isn't the best word to use. I shall add that to my list of suggestions for NW Cancer Specialists. 

I talked to nurse Kathryn. She was one of my favorite chemo nurses. Don's favorite, too. She is a Mac girl.

So I describe to nurse Kathryn about the ankle and leg pain. She said "so, do you have a question about it, or do you just want the doctor to know?" 

Um, yes. My question is if the pain is caused by cancer. That is my question. But instead of asking nurse Kathryn my question, I respond "Jerry said he wanted to know if I had bone pain..."

Nurse Kathryn asks for the best phone number to call me back. I ask when the call would be and she said "probably Monday, possibly late this afternoon".

Imagine my surprise when my phone rings within 40 minutes. Dr. Segal wants me to have an xray today. And don't wait too long to go so that he can get the results this afternoon...in case they have to do an "intervention". 

Breathe, Drenda. Breathe. It is probably nothing. Quell the panic. I tell myself that I will feel silly about my upset and fear when I get the news that all is well.

I go to Providence for the xray. No record of the order. Finally found. Sent to xray.

Darrell, the xray tech, asks me why I am having an xray. "Injury?"

"No."

That is all I say. I am laying on the table, and thinking "'no' is enough. He doesn't need to know more." I cannot bear to hear myself say the words that are in my head. I cannot bear to say the words "just ruling out cancer"... or "want to make sure breast cancer has not spread". Can't say them.

Darrell goes to develop the xrays. And he comes back. And spends quite a bit of time at his monitor, looking at the xrays.

Then he comes over to me and asks me to pinpoint for him where, exactly, I am having the pain. I do. He says, "ok. You can go. The doctor will interpret the xrays and then call your doctor, and your doctor will call you."

Cavalier?
Strong and Courageous?

My facade may be all three.

But my heart?

My heart is quivering. 

My heart is often fear-filled. 

My heart is waiting. For the other shoe to drop.


So I am home now. 

Waiting for Jerry to call.

And when that phone rings? 

That's when I'll need the strength and courage. 

Just to answer.

You're Invited...

I had a wonderful conversation with one of my sisters today.  About many things.  So good to really talk.

I asked her if she thought that our family was different now after going through cancer with me.  I asked her if she thought that we knew how to reach out better to others in our midst who were battling cancer.

She said "yes".  She said that she thought that because I had "invited people in" to go through cancer with me that reactions were different.  She said that because I was so "open and willing to answer questions" that our family knew what I needed.

Her words made me stop in my tracks.  

Invited?

No.  

Not really.

I hadn't thought of what I shared as an 'invitation'.

It was more the throwing out of a lifeline, asking, begging, for people to grab the rope and pull me in.  

I was drowning and needed to be lifted out of the quicksand that was engulfing me.

I shared my pain and terror and the details of the photographs and the overwhelming tide of chemo and surgeries and radiation and the nausea and the hair loss and the draining of any energy and the sadness not because I wanted 'my people' to know what I was enduring.  Or because I wanted people to feel sorry for me.  

No.

I shared those things because I knew not what else to do.

I shared those things because, when I laid in bed, the choice was often between more tears or more typing.  

I shared those things in writing because to speak the words was more than I could bear.  And to keep them inside would kill me.

So, there really was no 'invitation'.

But how thankful I am that you RSVP'd.

One Year, One Lifetime

"...a year ago on mother's day my strong, beautiful, and faithful momma was bald, going through chemo, and just trying to get through each day. now my mom is healthy, cancer free, and living life to the fullest. i am so proud to be her daughter and so thankful for her! i love you, mom!"

My daughter, Rachel, posted this on her facebook today.  As I read it, my heart was thrilled.  I was happy.  My daughter is proud of me.  My daughter thinks I am strong.  She thinks that I am beautiful.  She thinks I am faithful.  She loves me.  She has no idea the import of those words.  They make me cry.  Even now as I sit typing this note, I am teary-eyed.  

And then her words made me think about the last 18 months.  It has been quite the journey.

One year ago.  I was going through chemo.  "Going through" doesn't give the true picture.  I think the word "enduring" is better.

One year ago, I was bald.  I was bloated.  I was oh, so tired.  All the time.  And getting through the day was a struggle.

But now?

Now I am healthy.

Now I am cancer-free.

Now I am living life to the fullest.

Thank you, dear Rachel, for the reminder.

And I am proud to be your Momma.  Oh so very proud.

Hate

I hate cancer.

Hate it.

Even though I am thankful for the things I've learned and the ways I've grown because of cancer, I hate it.

I hate that it silently creeps in and rips normal routine out of families' lives.

I hate that it tears into the hearts of our children.  I hate that it causes life-defining moments  for them.   I hate that it makes little ones consider the mortality of their parents.

I hate that it has the power to create panic that knows no bounds.

I hate that it is everywhere.

I hate that it still has the power to punch me in the stomach.  Hard.

I hate that it causes questions over EVERY little ache or pain.  Every one.

I hate that I have the knowledge now of what it feels like to hear unimaginable words.

I (unlike the rest of the world, apparently) hate the pink ribbon.  I know what it means.  I know it is good.  I often wear one.  I still hate it.

It is good that I can be of help to others who are battling cancer.  It is good that I can accompany my dear niece and her strong and courageous husband on their appointment with the oncologist.  And I am so glad they asked me to come.  

But I hate the reason I am there.  

Even being at the 'cancer center' with them punches me in the stomach.  Inside, my head is screaming "why are you here?  OH!  YOU'RE HERE BECAUSE YOU HAVE CANCER!"  And then, my rational side takes over.  "NO!  I HAD cancer.  'HAD' is PAST TENSE."  

All this screaming and discourse going on in my brain while I am listening to the oncologist explain next steps to Jon and Dustine.   I want to protect them from the terrible words they are hearing.  I hate cancer.

In a post I wrote on my birthday last September, I said that I am thankful for the difficulties of cancer because I am thrilled with the blessings.  I wrote that I would not change the past.

I wouldn't.  

Really.  

I am thrilled with the blessings.  I stand amazed at what God has done in me and through me because of the trials of cancer.

But I still hate it.

Heaven's Meanderings

I have been wondering lately.

Quite a lot.

Wondering if people, Christian or not, think about heaven.

And if they do, really, what they think about it.

Do they accept the culture's definition of what heaven will be like?

Or do they go to God's word to learn what He tells us it will be?

Do they get past the cliches?

"It's a better place."  It is.  But how?

"We'll be together again one day -- in heaven."  Maybe.  But not everyone will be there.

"Absent from the body is present with the Lord."  

"He/she is done suffering."

Do they think about what it will be like?

Do they think what it will be to be in the actual, physical, presence of the Lord?

Do they wonder what they will look like?  Act like?  

Do they wonder what they will do?

Do they wonder if they will recognize others?

Or do they accept the 'pat' answers?

"She/he is in heaven now."

"She is an angel now, looking over us."  (um, people don't become angels when they die, just fyi)

The most precious note was included in our church's prayer note this week.  

From a little girl.  Savannah.

Who is thinking about heaven.

“I wish I could talk to God, like hear him talk to me.  I think you talk about that.  It is a very interesting thing.  Do you ever wonder what he sounds like or wonder what he looks like?  You should talk about that.”

Why, yes Savannah, I do wonder.

And one day, I will hear Him talk to me, and I will know what His voice sounds like.  I will see Him as He is, and I will know what He looks like.

One day, there will be a new heaven and a new earth, and I will live there forever.  With Him.

Only recently have I started past the cliches.  The 'pat' answers.

It took staring in the face of the fear of death to get me to consider heaven more seriously.  And I've only just begun.

I wonder.

Quite a lot.

Powerful Nuts

Today was the day to see my radiation oncologist.  

Dr. Alice Wang.

But first, Susie the nurse takes me to the exam room.  Susie is a sweet spirit, with a wonderful countenance.  She is a smiler.

"List of medications, please."  

"Side effects from any of the medications?"  Well, yes, actually, there are.  And they are not pleasant.  "Diarrhea?"  Yep.  "Taking anything for that?"  Nope.  "Why?"  Because, Nurse Susie, I take too many things already.  Too many.  And I am tired.  And what is a side effect here and there?

"Why did you switch off of arimidex?"  Severe joint pain.  "Did you take anything for the joint pain?  Ibuprofen?"  "NO?"  

I interpreted the "NO?" to really mean "are you nuts?"

Honestly, I hadn't even thought to take something for the joint pain.

"Do you just power through the stiffness and pain?"  Pretty much.  

"You need to ask Dr. Wang about taking ibuprofen.  You need relief."  Well, yes, I do.  And I will.

Dr. Wang comes.  

She remembers me.  Good news.

She is very thorough in her examination.  She asks me to show her the range of motion I have in my arms.

I don't have range of motion in my right arm.  In fact, I cannot lift it up over my head.  Which explains why it is so difficult to undress.  So now I am to be referred to physical therapy.

Dr. Wang measures both arms -- around the upper arm, around the lower arm.  The length from my elbow to my mid arm.  And then she compares the measurements from each arm.  If they are not symmetrical, it could be an early sign of lymphedma.  That would not be good.  The measurements are symmetrical.

Dr. Wang says I should be able to take ibuprofen, but should first ok it through the medical trial gurus.  Medical trials complicate everything.  So, when I see Jerry on Friday, I will check on the ibuprofen question.

Until then, I will continue to power through.

And I am not nuts.

Hello Mammogram. So Nice to Meet You.

So, last week I had my 'annual' mammogram.

The first one since my cancer diagnosis.  (I did have a mammogram on the morning of the surgery to remove the lump -- but that one doesn't count because its purpose was to guide the insertion of 'guide wires' to assist the surgeon in identifying the outer edges of the tumor.)

The routine is to wait six months after the finish of radiation treatment.  

And now I know why.

Because it takes a long long time after radiation is over for the tissue to recover from the inflammation.  And mine has not.  Recovered.  From the inflammation.

OUCH!

This time, I did not go alone.

Don took the day off of work to accompany me for my tests. 

Much to the confusion of Kathy, the ultrasound technician, I insisted that Don be allowed to accompany me into the mammogram room.  Husband education day! (Surely, others have brought moral support?)

Kathy was wonderful.  She explained that, after a diagnosis of breast cancer, diagnostic mammograms are done for the next five years.  A diagnostic mammo is different in that more photos are taken, and greater magnification is used.  

She asked if I'd like to see the pictures.

So, after each compression, I went back to her computer and compared the picture with the same pose from last year.

And I saw the cancer clearly on last year's picture.

It was not there on this year's picture.

Gone.

Thank God.

I explained to Kathy about the new lump I have felt.  She arranged for a diagnostic ultrasound to be done immediately.

The ultrasound technician had me pinpoint the lump.  And he went over it again and again with the ultrasound to see if there was anything there.

The radiologist doctor (who is remaining unnamed in this tirade) came in.  

He introduced himself to me and said how pleased he was to meet me. 

I think, to myself, "um, hello?  You met me last year and gave me the worst day of my life.  You don't remember me?"  Really.  

I know, I know.  He sees many patients every day.  But doesn't my chart tell him that he did the core biopsy?  That I would feel so much better if he came in and said "Hello, Drenda.  I am happy to see you again.  How are you doing?"  That I would think I was safe and in good hands if he remembered?  

But he did have good news.  He said the mammogram results were entirely NORMAL.  And then he went over the new lump again and again with the ultrasound.  NOTHING IS THERE.

"Drenda, I see nothing suspicious or of concern.  Everything is fine.  If the lump changes, let us know.   Otherwise, I'll see you next year."

Thank God.

Thank God.

I am getting near the end of 'cancer'.

I can feel it.

There is nothing there.