For A While

A week ago I had another surgery.
Or maybe it is called a procedure.
I am not sure of the difference.
It was in-out patient.
Surgery lasted about an hour or so.
I got to the hospital about 10:30am and was released and home by 4pm.
As far as surgeries go, the first 24 hours wasn't too bad.
Over the next few days it got worse.
But today it seems to be getting a little better.
I needed to stop taking the pain meds after a few days,
because I can not drive while taking,
and come Monday I had to get back to my regular routine.
Taking the kids to school, dance classes,
grocery shopping and errand running.

I had fat grafting done.
It was a year ago that I had my mastectomy.
I didn't have clean margins after the surgery
so that is why I had to have the second one.
During that surgery the doctors had to remove
more skin, tissue and scrape the muscle in hopes
of getting the clean margins.
The second time was a success.
But it left me with a concave chest and my ribs sticking out.
At first if was fine, but as I am slowing getting some feeling
and sensation back -
it is painful.

So my surgeon suggested that he could do some fat grafting, to help with the pain.
Kind of a temporary fix until I am ready for reconstruction.
They remove fat from either the thighs or stomach and inject it back into other places.
I opted for my thighs, because I am saving my stomach area for reconstruction.
I have eight small incision marks.
Two on each thigh and four on my chest.
I am bruised - very bruised.
From my hips to almost my knees and half my chest.
Lots of colors - black, purple, blue, green and yellow.

I realize it is only a week since the surgery and I am still very swollen and sore,
but I am not sure it was totally worth it.
I hope in a few weeks, when I feel better, I will think otherwise.
And just for reference sake, I would rather recovery from a hysterectomy than this procedure.

So I am done for a while.
I am excited about no hospital stays, no bandages and wound care and no recovery times where I can't pick up Gage!
Nothing scheduled in 2016 - except for the routine check-ups, scans, and doctor appointments.
Then in 2017 I will start the big reconstruction process!

FREE

Today is a BIG milestone.

One I have waited for a long time for.
One that proves that I have been through hell, and survived.

ONE YEAR CANCER FREE

One year ago, today, I was coming out of my second surgery
in two days to hopefully rid my body of all traceable cancer cells.

One year ago was one of the hardest days.
I have come a long ways.

I am kinda at a loss for words right now so...

After cancer treatment, I had to walk away from my life as I knew it. 
By: Sonja Koenig

 

That disease that could have killed me back in 2010 had not;
but oooh, breast cancer can whoop one but good.
And while they save you with their chemotherapy, their surgery and their radiation, it is far from the end.
For years after, they continue to slice and dice, taking every last womanly piece
 – all of it gone in the name of prevention –
and you watch the body and face in the mirror morph into that of a stranger.
Thirty extra pounds and ribbons of scars; a highway toward a lost self.
 

Silent battles begin, fights with things not spoken: early menopause, infertility, depression.

A small rectangular box now looms on your counter:
medication to be taken for ten years “after treatment” to help save your life long term, they tell you.
It is exhaustion packaged in a small white pill.
Your muscles stiffen into painful throbbing things.
And here you had assumed the worst of “treatment” was over.

One day, you notice that your house isn’t clean;
that you, once so immaculate and caring, really don’t care much any more.
And that walking the dog is too much effort.
That dinner is a bag of chips or red licorice.
You lie on the couch. You stop showing up.

There are amazing people put on this planet.
You call some of these people friends.
But, because of geography and circumstances, you end up going through some very difficult times alone.

Eventually, you are given back some of what was taken.
They reconstruct part of you, and you are grateful – delighted, in fact – rejoicing in that feeling of fullness.
But beneath it, that persistent strange sense of “lack,” of something still missing, remains.

 

One night, you list out the whole damn thing in a journal and realize there is probably a good reason you are exhausted;
you have been clawed at for so long that you don’t know how to put the pieces of your shredded self together.
You don’t even have the energy to pick up the first piece.
And you have forgotten the feeling of spontaneous joy or excitement,
what it is like to go through a day without it all feeling forced.

And you’re guilty for feeling anything like this when you are “lucky to be alive,” right?
Sometimes you think of the pregnant woman who was getting chemo in the chair next to you,
how the two of you laughed: black humor to fight the disease that wanted to take you.
And then you hear three years later that she didn’t make it.
The child has no mother. Who are you to complain, really?

You know, now, that we are all one heartbeat or wayward cell away from the whole thing going to hell in a hand basket.
You are at your desk, in your car, at the grocery store, and you forget to breathe.

The therapist crosses her legs and listens.
 

And then, one day it comes, the troubling realization that you may,
in fact, still be harboring a killer – one that has nothing to do with flesh and bone but that has,
ever so slowly, crept into your soul.
That somehow, through the course of it all,
you have become so worn down and so depleted that you risk losing yourself forever.
That you’ve drifted away from your ambition, your potential, your drive,
your dreams and the things you know you need to make you happy.
That saving yourself takes more than the poison they put through your veins.

It isn’t over.
Not yet.
 

So, you head to your core.
You haven’t lost that yet.  It is the place where the still, small voice lives.
You lend it your ear, you dig deep.
Remember how you sat on the chair the day they diagnosed you?
The doctor scribbling on the paper covering the examining table –
drawing it all out, giving shape to the hungry monster inside you.
Remember what you thought?
Will I die?
Will my hair fall out?
And then, I can’t die.
There are stories in me I need to tell.

And eventually you begin to work on that thing,
the thing that came from the deep place:
the response to some long-ignored primal creative urge.
The portal to help you find your way again.

This is where I feel I am at.
Trying to find my way again.
Things are getting better, different, but definitely better.
Surprisingly, surviving being a survivor is harder than I thought.

 

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.

October 20th

I am sure for the next few years I will remember lots of anniversaries. 

Some will remain important forever and some will fade and become less significant.

Today, one year ago, I was sitting in the chemo infusion room getting my last big treatment.

My whole family showed up and surprised me with a party.

It felt so good to finally have 18 weeks of chemo behind me.

As with a lot of things that have happened over the last year,

sometimes it feels like yesterday and yet it also feels like a life time ago.

However I feel, I am grateful it is in the past.

Happy October 20th.

All is Well

I feel like a huge weight has been lifted. MRI results came back today - no evidence of disease, everything is all clear !!!!! So relieved and happy. Hope everyone has a fantastic weekend.

Waiting for Friday

This past Friday the kid's school put on their annual Harvest Hop.
We buy drinks, cookies and eat pizza.
Then each grade puts on a dance.
Fun for the kids.
I had fun, too.
So much more so than last year.

As I sat there watching my kids dance - I felt so good.
Last year I got so tired and winded from the short walk
from the road to the pavilion, that I had to lay down,
for almost the entire performance.
I was so sick I couldn't even sit up.

I feel like things are getting "better."
Most days they are.
Then a day like today hits me and I struggle.
This morning I had an MRI.
An MRI will now be one of my annual appointments.
Just to check to make sure there is no cancer they can see.
It took about an hour.
But laying in this machine, with ear plugs and ear muffs on, staring at nothing
trying to drown out the horrendous noise!
Fear found me.
I was too afraid to cry.
I am not supposed to move.
I certainly didn't want to have to start over.

I don't want things like this to scare me.
But I don't know how not to be worried.
Waiting for the results.
Probably nothing.
But not sure how to process my feelings as I wait.

Two days.
Forty eight hours.
Trying to stay positive.