The oncologist did not feel it was right to begin my mom's chemo treatment yesterday. Between the general malnutrition, the feeding tube, the narcotics intolerance and PleurX drain surgery, I can't say I blame him. He wants her to build up strength over the weekend, and is looking for some of her counts to level out (calcium too high, hemoglobin too low, etc).
"Keep your fears to yourself, but share your courage with others." -Robert Louis Stevenson
I am trying my hardest to do this. I read my family the riot act before they arrived yesterday: NO crying in the room. NO negative emotion. NO arguing. NO "what ifs" that lead us down the path of the unthinkable. I held my mom's hand while she was in pain, rubbed her shoulder, stroked her hair. I did all the same things I've been doing all week and tried to show them to do the same. I told them she needs us to be strong. I need them to hold it together. They are.
"To fear is one thing. To let fear grab you by the tail and swing you around is another." - Katherine Paterson
That mistake was made a couple times this week, although the second time wasn't as bad as the first. Wednesday, when I walked out of this room nearly torn apart, I thought I was hiding it well. But it had to be written all over my face. The woman from housekeeping looked at me and asked if everything was alright. For the first time in a long time I think I answered that question with "No." And she hugged me.
"There is a time to take counsel of your fears, and there is a time to never listen to any fear." -George S. Patton
When I stop to think, I'm still in shock. How is this happening? How is this possible? It's just so unbelievable. I'm watching the nurse adjust my mom's feeding tube. Her IVs. My mom's feeding tube? Why does she have all these tubes running into and out of her? My fears did not offer any counsel that I wanted. Nothing the I will utter out loud or type on a keyboard. My fears did nothing but make my stomach sink and eat into my gut and fill my mind with terror and denial and grief. I wage war with them every minute to keep them at bay. Sometimes, somehow, I'm successful. I block them out. I am confident and strong and calm. Sometimes.
One minute, I fear what will happen tomorrow. Will she continue to get stronger? Will she stay awake longer? Will we get her out of bed? Or will a test show something else wrong? Was something that was strong begin to falter? And what of Monday? Will the oncologist change his mind? Will she not be strong enough? It's funny how those are "What ifs" disguised as guesses...
But I fight back. I told my mom that today she was so much better than yesterday. And that tomorrow will be so much better than today. When she says, "I think I'm doing better," I tell her, "You ARE doing better." When she moans, "I hope this pain will go away," I tell her, "This pain WILL go away." I try to be ever-watchful of her words and slay her doubt as fast as they tumble from her dry lips.
"I want to get better" becomes "I WILL get better."
I wonder who would be amused now to see the self-proclaimed realist, but often-accused pessimist forcing himself and others to be positive. Forcing himself to have hope and faith and courage.
I wonder who would believe that he actually feels it, because there are those times when he genuinely does.
Here I sit. In this room. Watching my mother sleep. She WILL get better. I told her she would. And I won't let her forget it.
Our next hurdle sprints to us. We need to be strong enough to overcome it. If you are reading this, pray for us. Think positive thoughts for us. Help us. We WILL do this.
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
"It is such a secret place, the land of tears."
As I write this, I'm sitting in a hospital room in Philadelphia. My mom is laying in a hospital bed, wearing a cheap pair of headphones and falling asleep to a meditation CD on a Coby disc player. My headache has faded, and the pit in my stomach has been replaced with hunger pangs.
While my fingers pluck away at keys on a laptop, my mind is racing like it hasn't done in a long, long time. Depression rises and falls like a wave. With it apprehension and fear and anger. Hope and longing.
What's left of my mom's hair is a mess and still falling out on the pillow. This time more from malnourishment rather than chemotherapy. The light plays tricks with the shadows. Her skin is pulled too tight across her frame, and her port--the port that was supposed to be barely noticeable--sticks out of her chest like a cube of bone.
Rufus Wainwright's version of "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" drifts through my own headphones.
Part of me wants to run away because it doesn't know how to deal. The part of me that never knows how to deal. A part that I hate.
But I don't run away.
There is no beep from an IV drip. There is no mechanical purr of machinery to blow off CO2 from her lungs or alarm rigged up when she doesn't take a deep enough breath. It's just "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" and her breathing. Noise from the nurses drifting through the door. Fingers tapping keys. Stomach growling.
Philadelphia was her second opinion. It turns out it will also be her last chance. Our last chance. The tumor isn't any normal tumor. Why would it be? Look out your window. Do you see that tree over there? Do you see how the branches grow from the trunk, and how those branches extend and grow and have smaller branches and smaller branches growing and extending and reaching into the sky?
Take that picture of that tree with it's almost endless branches, hold it in your mind, and shrink it. Shrink it until it fits not above your liver. Not below your liver. But inside your liver. Those branches? They don't reach to the sky. They crawl along your bile ducts and strangle them closed. They don't shade you from the sun. They prevent your liver from processing toxins. And medications.
My mom is sleeping in the bed with a tube hanging out of her side draining bilirubin from her cancer-riddled liver. But remember those branches we talked about? There are too many. They drain does it's job wonderfully--it drains the bilirubin from the side of the liver it's in. But there is too much. In fact, the organ functions so poorly that fluid drains into her abdomen and her belly painfully swells.
For the second day in a row, they brought her in to drain the fluid from her stomach. It's possible there is cancer there now too, but no one has mentioned it since the possibility was brought up. In truth, until the tests come back, there is no point in worrying about the possibility.
This is the story.
The plan was to drain the liver enough to be able to place a stent or two and help it function on its own. The bilirubin would drop to a safe level. Chemo could begin. Tumor would shrink. Then localized chemo to kill it off. That was then.
Now. The tree is too strong. The stent will never work. Other problems are arising. Like her inability to eat enough to keep the rest of her body working and the fluid pooling in her abdomen. The new plan. If all goes "well." Tomorrow, a feeding tube through her nose. Thursday, a permanent drain in her abdomen. Thursday or Friday, aggressive chemo to be continued once a week for two or three weeks until her body adjusts and a regular schedule can be established.
The nurse just came in to check the drain. My mom stirred but didn't really wake up. She made a sleepy request and I changed the CD in the Coby player. I gave in and am eating half a blueberry bagel. (Blueberry bagel? Seriously?)
I look at her face and I remember wiping the tear from her eye before she went in for the procedure this morning. She cried. I had to leave the room before the doctor told me it was time to go. I couldn't look at my aunt as we walked to the waiting room. It was the only reason we held it together.
Water. All I wanted was some water. And some air. My Klean Kanteen was in the car. I cursed myself with every step there and back. "Pull it together. Pull your shit together."
Suddenly I'm still a little boy. Mothers aren't supposed to cry. They are strong. They are infallible and invincible. I'm a little boy, terrified and huddled in a stranger's body watching my sick mother dying... Is she really dying? in a hospital bed.
But I have to be positive, right? We have to be positive. Take things in stride. One step at a time. One day at a time. We hope and we pray. We put our trust in this hospital with it's cutting edge technology. With it's amazing nurses (who seriously are among the kindest people I've ever met in my life) and it's renowned doctors. With the oncologist who will treat my mom when everyone else gave up. With the surgeon who saw her smile and told us, "I need to make this woman better."
Hope and Faith. Fear and Despair. They are sitting with me on this couch keeping my company. They watch me type. They gaze into her face and look me in the eye. They wave as Regret walks by (yeah, that was from the blueberry bagel...). They will climb under the covers with me. I wonder if they'll stay the night.
My mom is snoring softly. And I wonder if I will find Courage tomorrow.
While my fingers pluck away at keys on a laptop, my mind is racing like it hasn't done in a long, long time. Depression rises and falls like a wave. With it apprehension and fear and anger. Hope and longing.
What's left of my mom's hair is a mess and still falling out on the pillow. This time more from malnourishment rather than chemotherapy. The light plays tricks with the shadows. Her skin is pulled too tight across her frame, and her port--the port that was supposed to be barely noticeable--sticks out of her chest like a cube of bone.
Rufus Wainwright's version of "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" drifts through my own headphones.
Part of me wants to run away because it doesn't know how to deal. The part of me that never knows how to deal. A part that I hate.
But I don't run away.
There is no beep from an IV drip. There is no mechanical purr of machinery to blow off CO2 from her lungs or alarm rigged up when she doesn't take a deep enough breath. It's just "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" and her breathing. Noise from the nurses drifting through the door. Fingers tapping keys. Stomach growling.
Philadelphia was her second opinion. It turns out it will also be her last chance. Our last chance. The tumor isn't any normal tumor. Why would it be? Look out your window. Do you see that tree over there? Do you see how the branches grow from the trunk, and how those branches extend and grow and have smaller branches and smaller branches growing and extending and reaching into the sky?
Take that picture of that tree with it's almost endless branches, hold it in your mind, and shrink it. Shrink it until it fits not above your liver. Not below your liver. But inside your liver. Those branches? They don't reach to the sky. They crawl along your bile ducts and strangle them closed. They don't shade you from the sun. They prevent your liver from processing toxins. And medications.
My mom is sleeping in the bed with a tube hanging out of her side draining bilirubin from her cancer-riddled liver. But remember those branches we talked about? There are too many. They drain does it's job wonderfully--it drains the bilirubin from the side of the liver it's in. But there is too much. In fact, the organ functions so poorly that fluid drains into her abdomen and her belly painfully swells.
For the second day in a row, they brought her in to drain the fluid from her stomach. It's possible there is cancer there now too, but no one has mentioned it since the possibility was brought up. In truth, until the tests come back, there is no point in worrying about the possibility.
This is the story.
The plan was to drain the liver enough to be able to place a stent or two and help it function on its own. The bilirubin would drop to a safe level. Chemo could begin. Tumor would shrink. Then localized chemo to kill it off. That was then.
Now. The tree is too strong. The stent will never work. Other problems are arising. Like her inability to eat enough to keep the rest of her body working and the fluid pooling in her abdomen. The new plan. If all goes "well." Tomorrow, a feeding tube through her nose. Thursday, a permanent drain in her abdomen. Thursday or Friday, aggressive chemo to be continued once a week for two or three weeks until her body adjusts and a regular schedule can be established.
The nurse just came in to check the drain. My mom stirred but didn't really wake up. She made a sleepy request and I changed the CD in the Coby player. I gave in and am eating half a blueberry bagel. (Blueberry bagel? Seriously?)
I look at her face and I remember wiping the tear from her eye before she went in for the procedure this morning. She cried. I had to leave the room before the doctor told me it was time to go. I couldn't look at my aunt as we walked to the waiting room. It was the only reason we held it together.
Water. All I wanted was some water. And some air. My Klean Kanteen was in the car. I cursed myself with every step there and back. "Pull it together. Pull your shit together."
Suddenly I'm still a little boy. Mothers aren't supposed to cry. They are strong. They are infallible and invincible. I'm a little boy, terrified and huddled in a stranger's body watching my sick mother dying... Is she really dying? in a hospital bed.
But I have to be positive, right? We have to be positive. Take things in stride. One step at a time. One day at a time. We hope and we pray. We put our trust in this hospital with it's cutting edge technology. With it's amazing nurses (who seriously are among the kindest people I've ever met in my life) and it's renowned doctors. With the oncologist who will treat my mom when everyone else gave up. With the surgeon who saw her smile and told us, "I need to make this woman better."
Hope and Faith. Fear and Despair. They are sitting with me on this couch keeping my company. They watch me type. They gaze into her face and look me in the eye. They wave as Regret walks by (yeah, that was from the blueberry bagel...). They will climb under the covers with me. I wonder if they'll stay the night.
My mom is snoring softly. And I wonder if I will find Courage tomorrow.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
As for the nerves...
1. Chemo isn't working. Again. "Minor progression of tumors." But it didn't spread beyond the liver. On to chemo #4. But this one "shouldn't be too bad." Guess that port they put into her chest was a good thing after all... (The last chemo caused chemical burning in her veins.)
2. I got a call from HR today... (yeah, so actually more nerves, but some excitement too!)
3. Haha, I just don't even know.
Thanks for the positive thoughts.
2. I got a call from HR today... (yeah, so actually more nerves, but some excitement too!)
3. Haha, I just don't even know.
Thanks for the positive thoughts.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Nerves.
Things that have tied my stomach into knots:
1. Waiting for the results of my mom's tests.
2. Waiting to see if I score an interview for a job that will set me on a new path down a familiar road.
3. Sigh.
Anticipation is distraction.
Now I just have to get better at not anticipating.
1. Waiting for the results of my mom's tests.
2. Waiting to see if I score an interview for a job that will set me on a new path down a familiar road.
3. Sigh.
Anticipation is distraction.
Now I just have to get better at not anticipating.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
The Captain.
Last month's test results were a mixed bag... No, the cancer didn't spread (awesome!). But, the chemo isn't working and it's still there (wtf?).
On to another chemo... Another drug... Another slew of side effects. 5 hour chemo sessions. Self-administered injections.
It's frustrating.
So what do we do? "Face forward, move slow, forge ahead."
Relay For Life barreling across the squares on the calendar, refusing to slow down. It's become this pretty massive thing this year, which is amazing. There are 10 days until our event, and we've already surpassed our goal of $57,000.00 (I only have $373 left to reach my own goal!!). At almost $60,000.00 raised to date, with one person shy of 300 registered, this event has become bigger than the previous 5 in this city. This is going to be the biggest year we've had. It's sort of scary and kind of thrilling.
I don't know how I fell into this role of leadership. It doesn't seem right. It doesn't quite seem like I know what I'm doing. But no one seems to notice... Am I just pretending? Or am I really being a leader?
"Courageous, just like the captain."
The past few days I've been overwhelmed with a few things... (Haha, okay, sort of like "I'm frozen, tied up, cast in lead.") I want to run away! But I can't.
I can, however, put all of this on hold for a few days to totally immerse myself in a most wonderful wedding weekend for two people I could not be more happy for. A couple days of fun to supercharge the batteries... (And give a best man speech!)
"It's simple, so says the captain."
Monday it'll all be there to great me again. But you know what? I'm going to make this start working for me. I'm tired of the frustration. The uncertainty. I might not be able to do anything more for my mom than what I'm already doing. I can't control the weather for this Relay event. I might have absolutely no clue what to do with my own life. My responsibilities aren't endless. "My conscience, mistrust and regret" will still be there for sure.
But it's time to be more like the captain.
"Marching forward, with no doubt in his head."
On to another chemo... Another drug... Another slew of side effects. 5 hour chemo sessions. Self-administered injections.
It's frustrating.
So what do we do? "Face forward, move slow, forge ahead."
Relay For Life barreling across the squares on the calendar, refusing to slow down. It's become this pretty massive thing this year, which is amazing. There are 10 days until our event, and we've already surpassed our goal of $57,000.00 (I only have $373 left to reach my own goal!!). At almost $60,000.00 raised to date, with one person shy of 300 registered, this event has become bigger than the previous 5 in this city. This is going to be the biggest year we've had. It's sort of scary and kind of thrilling.
I don't know how I fell into this role of leadership. It doesn't seem right. It doesn't quite seem like I know what I'm doing. But no one seems to notice... Am I just pretending? Or am I really being a leader?
"Courageous, just like the captain."
The past few days I've been overwhelmed with a few things... (Haha, okay, sort of like "I'm frozen, tied up, cast in lead.") I want to run away! But I can't.
I can, however, put all of this on hold for a few days to totally immerse myself in a most wonderful wedding weekend for two people I could not be more happy for. A couple days of fun to supercharge the batteries... (And give a best man speech!)
"It's simple, so says the captain."
Monday it'll all be there to great me again. But you know what? I'm going to make this start working for me. I'm tired of the frustration. The uncertainty. I might not be able to do anything more for my mom than what I'm already doing. I can't control the weather for this Relay event. I might have absolutely no clue what to do with my own life. My responsibilities aren't endless. "My conscience, mistrust and regret" will still be there for sure.
But it's time to be more like the captain.
"Marching forward, with no doubt in his head."
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
"Tests at the end of April"
That came sort of fast...
Monday: CT and PET scans
Wednesday: MRIs
Friday: Bone scan
Monday: CT and PET scans
Wednesday: MRIs
Friday: Bone scan
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Last cancer post of the year
My mom's scans and tests are next week. Friday I do believe. Results should be in by Tuesday when she goes in for chemo.
I will admit when I stop to think about it I feel sort of nauseous [so I'm not really stopping to think about it too much]. This should determine if the cancer is "gone," when she can stop chemo, etc.
The side-effects are getting worse. While the hair on top of her head has started growing back, her taste is shot to shit again. Since the chemo attacks fast-growing cells like hair, nail and tastebud cells, these things are usually effected the worst. That's why people lose their hair. And their appetites. And lose their finger nails.
She hasn't lost her nails yet, but it's not looking good...
So 2010, let's get this straight now. ENOUGH with the cancer already.
Prayers and crossed fingers would be appreciated.
I will admit when I stop to think about it I feel sort of nauseous [so I'm not really stopping to think about it too much]. This should determine if the cancer is "gone," when she can stop chemo, etc.
The side-effects are getting worse. While the hair on top of her head has started growing back, her taste is shot to shit again. Since the chemo attacks fast-growing cells like hair, nail and tastebud cells, these things are usually effected the worst. That's why people lose their hair. And their appetites. And lose their finger nails.
She hasn't lost her nails yet, but it's not looking good...
So 2010, let's get this straight now. ENOUGH with the cancer already.
Prayers and crossed fingers would be appreciated.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
And soon, another tomorrow...
It's taken me over a week to write this post. Every time I sit and write, my thoughts jumble and I can't eloquently express what has been occupying my mind. So now I'm just going to spew some words onto this keyboard and we'll see what happens.
Remember the "Tomorrow" post? And "Today"? Well now there's this one.
On Thursday, my mom goes in for tests. Of course, this is all assuming that insurance doesn't decide to pull it's temper-tantrum power trip and prevent her from going. [Of course, today when they called to tell her there might be some sort of problem, she was at chemo. And do insurance people work late hours? Nah. Why would they? Libraries need to be open late for the people, because you know, it's free. Insurance, which is pretty much like anal rape and extortion for top dollar, doesn't need to go that extra mile.]
Anyway... there are these 2 tests that come out of this one procedure. If all goes the way it should, results should be in on Tuesday, just in time for next week's chemo.
Here we are again. At that spot in time, where there is nothing to really do but wait. Did it go away? Did it shrink? Did it spread? Is the making-you-sick-so-you-can-get-better chemo working?
Lots of people tell me not to worry, that it will be fine. And honestly, what should I expect anyone to say? Sometimes I want to ask how they will know. Sometimes I agree. Sometimes it's all I can do to ask them not to tell me something they can't guarantee. I guess it depends on the mood.
Once we got over the initial impact earlier this year, the process of "Okay, now what do we have to do to get this taken care of" kicked back in. Business as usual. But a couple weeks ago, the game changed. A comment was made implying the question of "tomorrow" or the possibility of a negative outcome to all of this. While I didn't hear the comment first-hand, it was enough to make me sort of sick. Enough to rattle that thought of "Let's get this done" and to introduce "Oh... How much time?"
I suppose part of it is a crisis of faith. Or what some people tell me is pessimism, although I'm more convinced it's realism. Now I'm not saying that I'm expecting the worst. But I'm not stupid, nor do I consider myself naive in this. I know that for every happy ending, there is a sad one. For all the smiles, there are opposite tears. Our hopes and fears and wants... This selfish notion that things need to be "fair" or at the very least acceptable. Sometimes we can only do so much. Be it God or fate or mystical monkeys, I don't really care at this moment.
Apparently, in order to process this moment, I've decided to step away from it. Like I said, I'm not expecting the worst, and while I hope for the best I won't allow myself to walk blindly into that territory. I've thought about this a lot. I won't go so far as to say I have meditated on it, because I've been awful at sticking to that. But I have tried to keep an open mind--tried to mentally prepare myself for whatever is tossed at me.
***
Well, that wasn't too terribly awful, huh? Now my task: Put it aside. Because here we are with nothing to do but wait. There is nothing to be done but that which is already being done. Think I can manage that one?
Remember the "Tomorrow" post? And "Today"? Well now there's this one.
On Thursday, my mom goes in for tests. Of course, this is all assuming that insurance doesn't decide to pull it's temper-tantrum power trip and prevent her from going. [Of course, today when they called to tell her there might be some sort of problem, she was at chemo. And do insurance people work late hours? Nah. Why would they? Libraries need to be open late for the people, because you know, it's free. Insurance, which is pretty much like anal rape and extortion for top dollar, doesn't need to go that extra mile.]
Anyway... there are these 2 tests that come out of this one procedure. If all goes the way it should, results should be in on Tuesday, just in time for next week's chemo.
Here we are again. At that spot in time, where there is nothing to really do but wait. Did it go away? Did it shrink? Did it spread? Is the making-you-sick-so-you-can-get-better chemo working?
Lots of people tell me not to worry, that it will be fine. And honestly, what should I expect anyone to say? Sometimes I want to ask how they will know. Sometimes I agree. Sometimes it's all I can do to ask them not to tell me something they can't guarantee. I guess it depends on the mood.
Once we got over the initial impact earlier this year, the process of "Okay, now what do we have to do to get this taken care of" kicked back in. Business as usual. But a couple weeks ago, the game changed. A comment was made implying the question of "tomorrow" or the possibility of a negative outcome to all of this. While I didn't hear the comment first-hand, it was enough to make me sort of sick. Enough to rattle that thought of "Let's get this done" and to introduce "Oh... How much time?"
I suppose part of it is a crisis of faith. Or what some people tell me is pessimism, although I'm more convinced it's realism. Now I'm not saying that I'm expecting the worst. But I'm not stupid, nor do I consider myself naive in this. I know that for every happy ending, there is a sad one. For all the smiles, there are opposite tears. Our hopes and fears and wants... This selfish notion that things need to be "fair" or at the very least acceptable. Sometimes we can only do so much. Be it God or fate or mystical monkeys, I don't really care at this moment.
Apparently, in order to process this moment, I've decided to step away from it. Like I said, I'm not expecting the worst, and while I hope for the best I won't allow myself to walk blindly into that territory. I've thought about this a lot. I won't go so far as to say I have meditated on it, because I've been awful at sticking to that. But I have tried to keep an open mind--tried to mentally prepare myself for whatever is tossed at me.
***
Well, that wasn't too terribly awful, huh? Now my task: Put it aside. Because here we are with nothing to do but wait. There is nothing to be done but that which is already being done. Think I can manage that one?
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
That hat...
Mom started wearing the wig today. I think because she went to take care of some stuff at work, and it's easier to get people used to a new 'do after a couple weeks off rather than come in all of a sudden with different hair one day [Okay, so it might work if you're faux-hawkin it and you couldn't really care what people think of your hair, but we aren't all blessed with the ability to pull it off].
Needless to say, I hate the wig. I know it's important, and I understand it's role in this whole process to every person who goes through something like this. The hair loss is the thing that slams this into perspective for me. Why is that? Can it really be just because it makes it a more visible aspect of the illness? Do I write the chemo off as just a bunch of doctors' visits? Pretend the inconvenience of numbness and occasional appetite loss is just a bug now and then?
She doesn't wear the wig around the house, which I'm grateful for. If you can't walk around bald in front of your family [be they blood related family or not], then you have a problem. But there's this blue hat. Her head gets cold, so she wears the hat. And while she still has hair [I buzzed it short about a week ago in prep], I haven't seen her without that hat since Friday. I know this means it's falling out faster and getting thinner.
I'm disappointed in myself because I don't feel like I'm handling it all that well. I'm disappointed that I can shrug off the seriousness of all of this crap until we get to the hair loss. It's just hair. Buddhists shave their heads to keep humble [it's difficult to worry about your hairstyle and how it affects your appearance and societal status when you don't have any]. I know it's just hair and it'll grow back. Who cares?
Don't get me wrong, I'm not falling apart over it or anything. But all day long when someone asked me how it was going, or what's new, all I could think of to say was "My mom had to wear the wig today." Of course I didn't actually say it. But if you were to ask me today, "What's up dude?" that would have been my honest answer.
I fucking hate you cancer.
Needless to say, I hate the wig. I know it's important, and I understand it's role in this whole process to every person who goes through something like this. The hair loss is the thing that slams this into perspective for me. Why is that? Can it really be just because it makes it a more visible aspect of the illness? Do I write the chemo off as just a bunch of doctors' visits? Pretend the inconvenience of numbness and occasional appetite loss is just a bug now and then?
She doesn't wear the wig around the house, which I'm grateful for. If you can't walk around bald in front of your family [be they blood related family or not], then you have a problem. But there's this blue hat. Her head gets cold, so she wears the hat. And while she still has hair [I buzzed it short about a week ago in prep], I haven't seen her without that hat since Friday. I know this means it's falling out faster and getting thinner.
I'm disappointed in myself because I don't feel like I'm handling it all that well. I'm disappointed that I can shrug off the seriousness of all of this crap until we get to the hair loss. It's just hair. Buddhists shave their heads to keep humble [it's difficult to worry about your hairstyle and how it affects your appearance and societal status when you don't have any]. I know it's just hair and it'll grow back. Who cares?
Don't get me wrong, I'm not falling apart over it or anything. But all day long when someone asked me how it was going, or what's new, all I could think of to say was "My mom had to wear the wig today." Of course I didn't actually say it. But if you were to ask me today, "What's up dude?" that would have been my honest answer.
I fucking hate you cancer.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Today.
You have a long day at work, constantly thinking and wondering and anxious. You're a little on edge, and that damn new copy machine [read: office hand-me-down] is just being a piece of shit. The public is crankier than usual, you find yourself biting back comments, cutting off retorts before they drip from your lips.
You look over your shoulder at the clock even though you fully realize that it can't be more than 5 minutes that have passed.
Your stomach sinks a little when it's 3:00--the time you know she's in the appointment. You take your break and do some breathing and calm yourself down.
You text your sister, asking if she thinks there will be a text. [Dad's great at sending cryptic text messages for any such event.] She says she hopes, that she even requested a phone call. It crosses your mind that you should text yourself. Or call. But you're scared.
3:30. 4:00. 4:30. 5:00.
And now you know.
Those 3 hours pass excruciatingly slow. You punch out, get in the car and drive home. Your dad opens the door before you even have a chance to put the key in the lock. This has never happened before. Ever. He tells you everyone is outside and we all need to talk.
You go to wash up, and your sister is in tears in the bathroom. You don't say anything, because what is there to say? You don't ask anything, because you shouldn't hear it from her. And she might exaggerate. She might not have it all straight. You accept that the breast cancer came back and now we have to kick it's ass again.
You go outside to a sea of sad faces--another sister who just finished crying, a cousin who stares blankly ahead, her boyfriend looking slightly uncomfortable but supportive. You walk over to your mom and give her a hug. She kisses your cheek and tells you.
You fully expect to hear: "The breast cancer came back."
Instead you get, "They found a spot on my liver."
You don't really register lots of stuff after that. You sort of hear that it is very important to start the chemo as soon as possible. Monday morning in fact. 3 weeks on, 1 week off. They don't know how long, because they don't know how bad it is yet or how it will respond to treatment.
Your mind flashes back to see her there; pale and skinny, wisps of hair clinging to her white head. You remember when it all fell out, in clumps, and when you had to shave her head. You see the discomfort and weakness that the treatment causes. You despair.
You numbly eat a hot dog because, once again [or as always], work has made you late for family dinner. It doesn't really taste like anything. You try and crack some jokes, and wonder why there isn't a lump in your throat.
Before she leaves for a visit to the monastery, you get a couple minutes alone with her. The doctor specifically made her appointment his last, so he could spend as much time with her as she needed. He walked in and told her: "This is serious." No family reunion trips to SC. "We have to start as soon as possible."
She is strong as ever. Obviously upset, sort of in that "here we go again" mode. But she isn't crying. She doesn't tear up. She is strong. So you decide you are just going to be strong again too.
Today you are reminded, and you are forced to remember. Today was what you feared, and a little bit worse. Your faith is shaken, your fragile smile falters. You try and harden yourself for what comes next. For the next tomorrow.
But today. Today...
You look over your shoulder at the clock even though you fully realize that it can't be more than 5 minutes that have passed.
Your stomach sinks a little when it's 3:00--the time you know she's in the appointment. You take your break and do some breathing and calm yourself down.
You text your sister, asking if she thinks there will be a text. [Dad's great at sending cryptic text messages for any such event.] She says she hopes, that she even requested a phone call. It crosses your mind that you should text yourself. Or call. But you're scared.
3:30. 4:00. 4:30. 5:00.
And now you know.
Those 3 hours pass excruciatingly slow. You punch out, get in the car and drive home. Your dad opens the door before you even have a chance to put the key in the lock. This has never happened before. Ever. He tells you everyone is outside and we all need to talk.
You go to wash up, and your sister is in tears in the bathroom. You don't say anything, because what is there to say? You don't ask anything, because you shouldn't hear it from her. And she might exaggerate. She might not have it all straight. You accept that the breast cancer came back and now we have to kick it's ass again.
You go outside to a sea of sad faces--another sister who just finished crying, a cousin who stares blankly ahead, her boyfriend looking slightly uncomfortable but supportive. You walk over to your mom and give her a hug. She kisses your cheek and tells you.
You fully expect to hear: "The breast cancer came back."
Instead you get, "They found a spot on my liver."
You don't really register lots of stuff after that. You sort of hear that it is very important to start the chemo as soon as possible. Monday morning in fact. 3 weeks on, 1 week off. They don't know how long, because they don't know how bad it is yet or how it will respond to treatment.
Your mind flashes back to see her there; pale and skinny, wisps of hair clinging to her white head. You remember when it all fell out, in clumps, and when you had to shave her head. You see the discomfort and weakness that the treatment causes. You despair.
You numbly eat a hot dog because, once again [or as always], work has made you late for family dinner. It doesn't really taste like anything. You try and crack some jokes, and wonder why there isn't a lump in your throat.
Before she leaves for a visit to the monastery, you get a couple minutes alone with her. The doctor specifically made her appointment his last, so he could spend as much time with her as she needed. He walked in and told her: "This is serious." No family reunion trips to SC. "We have to start as soon as possible."
She is strong as ever. Obviously upset, sort of in that "here we go again" mode. But she isn't crying. She doesn't tear up. She is strong. So you decide you are just going to be strong again too.
Today you are reminded, and you are forced to remember. Today was what you feared, and a little bit worse. Your faith is shaken, your fragile smile falters. You try and harden yourself for what comes next. For the next tomorrow.
But today. Today...
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow my mom finds out if the cancer came back. Or if it spread somewhere else.
But I guess I should backpedal a little bit. A couple weeks ago, she had a check-up and they found that her tumor count (tumor markers?) was too high. While this in and of itself does not mean anything horrible, it isn't a terribly good sign. In fact, it could all be messed up because she recently got over a non-pig related flu. However, it was strongly recommended that she follow up with a PET scan and a bone scan and all that. One was last Friday, the other this past Monday.
[Let me segue for just a moment about insurance companies. They fucking suck. The vindictive part of me hopes that those incompetent assholes get screwed when they need something important. The "I'm trying to be a better person" part of me pities them for being so useless, because that's all that part is capable of doing at the moment.]
Now, I haven't talked about this to anyone. I have found it's been on the tip of my tongue and I just haven't been able to vocalize the words. I think part of the situation has been the uncertainty of it all. Why say anything if it's all going to turn out okay?
But I dunno. I'm sort of scared. That Thanksgiving when she found the lump, I knew it was cancer. You know when you get that feeling--when you are just certain of something? In the olden days, when you just knew you bombed that test [>ahem< style="font-style: italic;">knew you'd wind something [rock on $25 Ski Barn gift card]. Sometimes you just know, and it's going to be good. Sometimes you just know and it's going to be bad.
I have been doing pretty good trying to avoid thinking about it. Yet, every so often I get this sinking feeling, and all that heartache and worry flashes back. And then sometimes I get that almost embarrassed feeling for even thinking it, because I know it will be okay.
And I just totally wrote about how I am sort of getting bummed out [I'm going to refrain from using the "D" word]. Concern and questioning over family and friendships and love. It really went on and on. But don't worry, I deleted it.
Here's to tomorrow.
But I guess I should backpedal a little bit. A couple weeks ago, she had a check-up and they found that her tumor count (tumor markers?) was too high. While this in and of itself does not mean anything horrible, it isn't a terribly good sign. In fact, it could all be messed up because she recently got over a non-pig related flu. However, it was strongly recommended that she follow up with a PET scan and a bone scan and all that. One was last Friday, the other this past Monday.
[Let me segue for just a moment about insurance companies. They fucking suck. The vindictive part of me hopes that those incompetent assholes get screwed when they need something important. The "I'm trying to be a better person" part of me pities them for being so useless, because that's all that part is capable of doing at the moment.]
Now, I haven't talked about this to anyone. I have found it's been on the tip of my tongue and I just haven't been able to vocalize the words. I think part of the situation has been the uncertainty of it all. Why say anything if it's all going to turn out okay?
But I dunno. I'm sort of scared. That Thanksgiving when she found the lump, I knew it was cancer. You know when you get that feeling--when you are just certain of something? In the olden days, when you just knew you bombed that test [>ahem< style="font-style: italic;">knew you'd wind something [rock on $25 Ski Barn gift card]. Sometimes you just know, and it's going to be good. Sometimes you just know and it's going to be bad.
I have been doing pretty good trying to avoid thinking about it. Yet, every so often I get this sinking feeling, and all that heartache and worry flashes back. And then sometimes I get that almost embarrassed feeling for even thinking it, because I know it will be okay.
And I just totally wrote about how I am sort of getting bummed out [I'm going to refrain from using the "D" word]. Concern and questioning over family and friendships and love. It really went on and on. But don't worry, I deleted it.
Here's to tomorrow.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Pink Flamingos
As I opened the shades this morning to get some light for ironing, I was greeted by a sight which actually made me laugh out loud. Upon our front lawn sat not one, not two, not three, but FIVE pink flamingos. (Okay, so not REAL flamingos, but still.)
It was awesome. It's actually a fundraiser for the ACS Strides Against Breast Cancer event in October. One of my former Relayers, a breast cancer survivor, left us this year to concentrate on that event. I played around with the idea of getting involved in that too, for my mom, but it might be too much...
So now I have pink flamingos! We'll have to pay some money to make them flock away. Although I sort of like them there.
It's funny too because we were going to do a similar thing for Relay (except with purple flamingos or some other lawn decoration). I wasn't sure how receptive people would be or how easy it would be to get off the ground. With a small committee it's hard to get spearhead so many different things. But based on my reaction this morning, I'll think we'll have to do it next year. Maybe dueling flamingos?!
Awesome.
It was awesome. It's actually a fundraiser for the ACS Strides Against Breast Cancer event in October. One of my former Relayers, a breast cancer survivor, left us this year to concentrate on that event. I played around with the idea of getting involved in that too, for my mom, but it might be too much...
So now I have pink flamingos! We'll have to pay some money to make them flock away. Although I sort of like them there.
It's funny too because we were going to do a similar thing for Relay (except with purple flamingos or some other lawn decoration). I wasn't sure how receptive people would be or how easy it would be to get off the ground. With a small committee it's hard to get spearhead so many different things. But based on my reaction this morning, I'll think we'll have to do it next year. Maybe dueling flamingos?!
Awesome.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
$1,868.92!!
That's how much money my team has to raise to make $10,000.00 for this year's Relay For Life.
I have made it my personal mission to see this happen. Of course, I have no idea whatsoever on how to make it happen. But here's my thing.
First off, if we raise $10,000.00 we become a flagship sponsor for next year's event. So long as we follow a couple rules (like sign-up before March 1, 2010), our name and logo will be on next year's shirt. For the entire region. (I designed our logo. =))
Secondly, what better way to publicize the library and show our community and the surrounding ones that we aren't just some place for free movies for seniors to complain about and a building where middle-school hoodlums can come to get arrested by cops after school (more on that another day). This wouldn't be our consortium. This wouldn't even be our city, per se. This is US. And we (will have) kicked ass.
This, in turn, would make it more fun to stick it to our anti-library mayor and library board. (How is a library board "anti-library", you ask? Good question! Maybe because the mayor has to appoint the board. You know, said mayor who doesn't like us.)
Plus, I don't know how much longer I can do this. Have so much responsibility with all of this. I don't want to be at my job forever, and when I leave, what happens to the team? This is our best chance. And to be the TOP fundraiser in our BEST year. There's a certain amount of pride in that. Okay, that's a little selfish...
Maybe it just boils down to validation. A desire to be part of a bigger picture, to take part in a stride for change. To fight back against a disease that has threatened my family and friends. To strike out at the illness that has stolen them. I want to make a difference. So I'm going to.
I have made it my personal mission to see this happen. Of course, I have no idea whatsoever on how to make it happen. But here's my thing.
First off, if we raise $10,000.00 we become a flagship sponsor for next year's event. So long as we follow a couple rules (like sign-up before March 1, 2010), our name and logo will be on next year's shirt. For the entire region. (I designed our logo. =))
Secondly, what better way to publicize the library and show our community and the surrounding ones that we aren't just some place for free movies for seniors to complain about and a building where middle-school hoodlums can come to get arrested by cops after school (more on that another day). This wouldn't be our consortium. This wouldn't even be our city, per se. This is US. And we (will have) kicked ass.
This, in turn, would make it more fun to stick it to our anti-library mayor and library board. (How is a library board "anti-library", you ask? Good question! Maybe because the mayor has to appoint the board. You know, said mayor who doesn't like us.)
Plus, I don't know how much longer I can do this. Have so much responsibility with all of this. I don't want to be at my job forever, and when I leave, what happens to the team? This is our best chance. And to be the TOP fundraiser in our BEST year. There's a certain amount of pride in that. Okay, that's a little selfish...
Maybe it just boils down to validation. A desire to be part of a bigger picture, to take part in a stride for change. To fight back against a disease that has threatened my family and friends. To strike out at the illness that has stolen them. I want to make a difference. So I'm going to.
Monday, May 4, 2009
$36,628.85!
That's how much this Relay has raised so far!!! That is more than TWICE what we raised online last year, and if memory serves me correctly, scant hundreds less than what we ACTUALLY raised last year.
I can hardly believe it. With all that's been happening and with the event barreling down on us... Holy crap! Haha.
I want to push for $40,000.00 by the weekend... Maybe even $45,000.00 by the event? Is it possible?
(That's not to mention the $10,000.00 I'm pushing my team to raise. We're at $7,337.57 right now. If I can sell all those t-shirts, that'll give us another $1,200. Another bake sale, maybe another $400... Who's got $1,000 for us?!)
I can hardly believe it. With all that's been happening and with the event barreling down on us... Holy crap! Haha.
I want to push for $40,000.00 by the weekend... Maybe even $45,000.00 by the event? Is it possible?
(That's not to mention the $10,000.00 I'm pushing my team to raise. We're at $7,337.57 right now. If I can sell all those t-shirts, that'll give us another $1,200. Another bake sale, maybe another $400... Who's got $1,000 for us?!)
Friday, May 1, 2009
WTF cancer?
One of my good friends was diagnosed with melanoma, a "serious" [but we're not going to worry about it because it's going to be okay] type of skin cancer. She should be "comfortably" in Stage 1 and after removal and all that everything should be fine.
I was going to say that perhaps I'm more sensitive to it all now that I'm sort of involved so heavily. But that's not it. My mom having breast cancer is pretty much "in your face." My staff partner's dad (how could you even be more involved than working for the ACS?!) passing away last week. Not to mention my grandmother's and father's small bouts with skin cancer. Or that so many of my friends and coworkers have lost people this year alone.
And now my friends.
I'm not going to worry for my friend too much, because as mentioned, it's early and it will be fine. Plus, she's a very strong person and has uber amounts of support. And sarcasm is not foreign to her! That coupled with the sense of humor... she's going to kick its ass.
But seriously, Big C. Lay the f**k off, huh?
I was going to say that perhaps I'm more sensitive to it all now that I'm sort of involved so heavily. But that's not it. My mom having breast cancer is pretty much "in your face." My staff partner's dad (how could you even be more involved than working for the ACS?!) passing away last week. Not to mention my grandmother's and father's small bouts with skin cancer. Or that so many of my friends and coworkers have lost people this year alone.
And now my friends.
I'm not going to worry for my friend too much, because as mentioned, it's early and it will be fine. Plus, she's a very strong person and has uber amounts of support. And sarcasm is not foreign to her! That coupled with the sense of humor... she's going to kick its ass.
But seriously, Big C. Lay the f**k off, huh?
Sunday, April 26, 2009
And cancer again.
This morning I received an email from my ACS partner's husband. He told me that his wife's husband passed away early this morning while she was on the last leg of her trip to the Philippines. She did not get the chance to see him before he passed away.
Her husband admitted he wasn't sure why he emailed me, but thanked me and the committee for all the work and dedication we've put into this Relay. That we've helped out and our efforts are appreciated.
This hit me a little harder than I thought it would. I knew it was inevitable, but I dunno.
It sucks.
Fuck'n cancer.
Her husband admitted he wasn't sure why he emailed me, but thanked me and the committee for all the work and dedication we've put into this Relay. That we've helped out and our efforts are appreciated.
This hit me a little harder than I thought it would. I knew it was inevitable, but I dunno.
It sucks.
Fuck'n cancer.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
The Captain
Unfortunately, my ACS staff partner's dad is not going to pull through. She's leaving again tomorrow to be with her family, and actually said she's not sure if she'd make it there in time to see him before he passed.
I feel awful, and not only because it's one of those shitty things that you can't do anything about. She apologized for leaving us again and promised she'd be back for our event. I tried to assure her I didn't need any apologies or promises. We're talking about family. That comes first, regardless of commitments or relays.
While she hopes to be back in a week or so, we do have another sub. This time at least we know the woman and she's pretty awesome. (And I'm confident will be a much more appropriate fill-in than the last one, who will still be a part of our stuff. Good times.) But as expected, a large brunt will again fall squarely on my co-chair and me.
I'm much more confident than when this happened last month. I feel like we're in a pretty good spot, and if the website is any indication, we are kicking ass. We have raised over $28,000 so far which is $11,000 more than last year's total online amount, and while we have 2 less teams we have about 30 more participants signed up so far. We're sitting pretty good.
I just really, really hope it all goes well. It's tough to pour so much of yourself into something and watch it wash away in the rain, or crumble under stress. I know my committee is ready to handle what we need to get the job done. I would like it more if I could count on the weather. Or the numbers to pull through.
It's the countdown now--23 days... 3 weeks from Saturday. (Yikes!) We're painting the town purple this weekend (with ribbons and banners... I'd prefer real paint but I think we'd get arrested for that) and have a bunch of fundraisers coming up. I am finding it interesting to be the cheerleader and coach when it comes to the teams and committees. All that positive reinforcement! Hahaha. I wonder if it makes a difference.
So here I go, staying the course...
I feel awful, and not only because it's one of those shitty things that you can't do anything about. She apologized for leaving us again and promised she'd be back for our event. I tried to assure her I didn't need any apologies or promises. We're talking about family. That comes first, regardless of commitments or relays.
While she hopes to be back in a week or so, we do have another sub. This time at least we know the woman and she's pretty awesome. (And I'm confident will be a much more appropriate fill-in than the last one, who will still be a part of our stuff. Good times.) But as expected, a large brunt will again fall squarely on my co-chair and me.
I'm much more confident than when this happened last month. I feel like we're in a pretty good spot, and if the website is any indication, we are kicking ass. We have raised over $28,000 so far which is $11,000 more than last year's total online amount, and while we have 2 less teams we have about 30 more participants signed up so far. We're sitting pretty good.
I just really, really hope it all goes well. It's tough to pour so much of yourself into something and watch it wash away in the rain, or crumble under stress. I know my committee is ready to handle what we need to get the job done. I would like it more if I could count on the weather. Or the numbers to pull through.
It's the countdown now--23 days... 3 weeks from Saturday. (Yikes!) We're painting the town purple this weekend (with ribbons and banners... I'd prefer real paint but I think we'd get arrested for that) and have a bunch of fundraisers coming up. I am finding it interesting to be the cheerleader and coach when it comes to the teams and committees. All that positive reinforcement! Hahaha. I wonder if it makes a difference.
So here I go, staying the course...
Courageous, just like the captainHere's hoping we rock it.
Marching forward with no doubt in his head
Sunday, April 5, 2009
41 Days and venting
I can't believe it's April already. There's only 41 days until our Relay For Life event. It's crazy how fast time goes, and I still can't believe I'm in charge of an event for an entire city. Who'da ever thunk that?
It really is approaching the point where it's becoming a little overwhelming. I had the toughest time Wednesday night, where I essentially ran 2 hours of meetings by myself. For having over 100 people so far registered for the event, it's tough to see less than an eighth of that show up for a meeting. It's frustrating to invest so much of myself into this and to see how little other people do for it.
Sometimes I wish I could just be a participant. Go to Unos or Pennellas or Applegates and stuff my face and hand over a flyer so they can donate the money and show up and walk on May 16. It's like pulling teeth to get someone to participate. I'm not even talking about donating at this point. (Although, seriously, I cannot name one person who cannot donate money, economy be damned. You can't tell me that you can't give up your lunch money one day and eat leftovers, or have only 5 beers instead of 10 one Saturday night to support your friends or family.)
Granted, I am making huge, sweeping statements and assumptions. I realize this. I guess I'm just surprised at certain situations.
[Also, please note that my intention is to vent and not make vague accusations against friends who might read this. And I fully intended to plug and praise you in here Em, but I got carried away. Next time! :)]
It really is approaching the point where it's becoming a little overwhelming. I had the toughest time Wednesday night, where I essentially ran 2 hours of meetings by myself. For having over 100 people so far registered for the event, it's tough to see less than an eighth of that show up for a meeting. It's frustrating to invest so much of myself into this and to see how little other people do for it.
Sometimes I wish I could just be a participant. Go to Unos or Pennellas or Applegates and stuff my face and hand over a flyer so they can donate the money and show up and walk on May 16. It's like pulling teeth to get someone to participate. I'm not even talking about donating at this point. (Although, seriously, I cannot name one person who cannot donate money, economy be damned. You can't tell me that you can't give up your lunch money one day and eat leftovers, or have only 5 beers instead of 10 one Saturday night to support your friends or family.)
Granted, I am making huge, sweeping statements and assumptions. I realize this. I guess I'm just surprised at certain situations.
[Also, please note that my intention is to vent and not make vague accusations against friends who might read this. And I fully intended to plug and praise you in here Em, but I got carried away. Next time! :)]
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
"Please keep in sight what makes you care...
...you have it always."
That is my current challenge. It shouldn't be that difficult, huh? Balls. I don't know why I invest so much of myself into things.
This does make me feel a bit better:
"Spinning and spinning..." We're all gonna be dizzy. "Dancing in plastic, shake-up snow." Still dizzy.
I have the itch to fly.
That is my current challenge. It shouldn't be that difficult, huh? Balls. I don't know why I invest so much of myself into things.
This does make me feel a bit better:
April 1. This is the day upon which we are reminded of what we are on the other three hundred and sixty-four. - Mark TwainMaybe that's the excuse. I'm just a foo'.
"Spinning and spinning..." We're all gonna be dizzy. "Dancing in plastic, shake-up snow." Still dizzy.
I have the itch to fly.
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