Still Here

It seems like I am neglecting the blog quite a bit lately.
I think that is a good thing.
Nothing new to report, just me trying to adjust and busy, well, living.

The other day I decided I needed to donate all my wigs and scarfs to the hospital's cancer center.
I called Deb, the first nurse I meet after I was diagnosed.
She is the one who explains the treatments, what to watch for, but mostly how to manage the side effects.
She is an amazing lady and is in charge of meeting all the new cancer patients.

I told her my story about the day I went to find a wig.
The owner of the wig store was very sweet.
She took me to a back room so I could try them on in private.
At this point all my hair had already fallen out.
To be honest I was kind of excited to try diffent lengths and colors.
But for some reason none of them "looked or felt like me".
I tried on more.
Nothing worked.
I felt heart-broken.
She showed me multiple magazines and said to order any that I liked.
I knew my insurance would not cover the cost of the wigs.
So as I looked for a wig that would help me feel like normal, I sadly noticed the prices first. 
Cheaper ones were $300-$400. 
Some of the ones that were hand tied and used real hair were, well, a lot more.
I felt torn, how could I spend that much money on a wig with all my medical expenses coming up. 
Eventually, I left the store with a clearance halo hair piece and tears in my eyes.

I wish I could prevent every women who is faced with that decision from feeling the way I did that day.

Luckily I met friend through an old co-worker who was a few months ahead of me in her cancer treatment.
Her insurance paid for 2 beautiful, expensive wigs.
She gifted them to me.

It was time to pay it forward.
I told Deb to find a young women who was in a similar situation - and give them to her.
I hope she likes them.
I hope they make her feel just a little bit better.

Then Deb asked me how I was doing. 
It is a weird thing with the nurses at the cancer institute.
If any of them ask how I am doing, I usually cry. 
I know they really want to know.
I know I can be honest and real and not have to try to be strong with them. 
So I cry.

But today I didn't.
I didn't cry!
She asked me if I still thought about my cancer everyday.
I do.
And then I thought for a moment and added,
but it doesn't always bring me to tears anymore.

I want to thank everyone who has followed, supported and cared about me this past year.
The posts might not come as often, just know I am doing well.
I truly hope you have a wonderful holiday season surrounded by the ones you love.

I Think So Too

I found this the other day while playing around the internet, wish I would have copied the source.

"I think so too.
That chair you’re sitting in?
I’ve sat in it too.
In waiting rooms. Chemo rooms. Prep rooms. For tests. Surgeries. Procedures. Radiation. Inpatient. Outpatient. Emergency visits. Routine visits. Urgent visits. To see generalists. Specialists. Surgeons. Alone. With friends. With family members. As a new patient. Established patient. Good news. Bad news. I’ve left with new scars. Prescriptions. Appointments. Words of wisdom. Theories. Guesses. Opinions. Statistics. Charts. Plans. Tests. Words of assurance. More bloodwork. Nothing new. Nothing gained. Nothing but a bill.

That feeling you’re having?
I’ve had it too.
Shock. Disbelief. Denial. Grief. Anger. Frustration. Numbness. Sadness. Resignation. Confusion. Consternation. Curiosity. Determination. Dread. Anxiety. Guilt. Regret. Loss. Pain. Emptiness. Embarrassment. Shame. Loneliness.

That day you’re dreading?
I’ve dreaded it too.
The first time you speak the words, “I have cancer.” The first time you hear “Mommy has cancer.” Anniversary day. Chemo day. Surgery day. MRI scan day. Decision day. Baldness day. The day the options run out.

Those reactions you’re getting?
I’ve had them too.
Stares. Questions. Pity. Blank looks. Insensitivity. Jaw-dropping comments. Tears. Avoidance.

Those side effects you dread?
I’ve dreaded them too.
Nausea. Vomiting. Pain. Nose bleeds. Bleeding gums. Weakened heart. Baldness. Hair loss. Everywhere. Unrelenting runny nose. Fatigue. Depression. Itching. Insomnia. Night sweats. Migraines. Watery eyes.  Loss of appetite. Loss of libido. Loss of breasts. Phantom pain. Infection. Fluid accumulation. Bone pain. Abdominal Pain. Neuropathy. Numbness. Joint pain. Taste changes. Weight gain. Weight loss. Mouth sores. Fevers. Anemia. Diarrhea. Brittle nails. Stomach aches. Bruises. Muscle spasms. Chills.

That embarrassment you’re feeling?
I’ve felt it too.
Buying a swimsuit. Getting a tight-fitting shirt stuck on my body in the dressing room. Having a child say “You don’t have any eyebrows, do you?” Asking the grocery line folks to “make the bags light, please.” Wearing a scarf. Day after day. Wondering about wearing a wig because it’s windy outside and it might not stay on. Holding on to the bannister for dear life.

That fear you’re suppressing?
I’ve squelched it too.
Will this kill me? When? How bad is chemo going to be? How am I going to manage my kids and get through it? Will my cancer come back and take me away from my life? Will it make the quality of life I have left so bad I won’t want to be here anymore? Is this pain in my back a recurrence? Do I need to call a doctor? What is worse: the disease or the treatment?

That day you’re yearning for?
I’ve celebrated it too.
“Your counts are good” day. “Your x-ray is clear” day. “Now you can go longer between appointments” day. “See you in a year” day. First-sign-of-hair day. First-day-without-covering-your-head day. First taste of food day. First Monday chemo-isn’t-in-the-calendar day. Expanders-out, implants-in day. First walk-without-being-tired day. First game-of-catch-with-the-kids day. First day out for lunch with friends day. First haircut day. “Hey, I went a whole day without thinking about cancer” day. “Someone asked me how I’m doing, I said ‘fine’ and I meant it” day.

That hope you have?
I have it too.
More research. Easier access. Targeted therapy. Effective treatments. Better quality of life. More options. Longer life. Less toxicity. Fewer guesses.
Ultimately, someday, for my children or grandchildren perhaps: a cure.
Don’t you think that would be amazing?
I think so too.