Fear Not

For most of my life, fear has owned me.  Only in the last year or so, with the help of a good doctor and modern pharmaceuticals, have I evicted fear from its permanent residence in my thoughts. I’d like to think that this comes as a surprise to most of you.  I’ve spent years cultivating a persona of confidence and self-assurance to mask my insecurities.

I have lived my life expecting bad things to happen.  In my mind, recognizing and embracing all that is good in my life summons a sort of cosmic bitch slap to put me back in my place.  I come from a long line of cautiously pessimistic thinkers.  My grandmother could never offer a word of praise without the fear of “giving me the bad eye”.  In my family, “knock on wood” follows almost every proclamation of good news.  Whether you see it as superstition or a lack of faith, it’s a lousy way to live.

Even Gregg has not escaped my irrational apprehension that one day he will wake up and realize he could easily find a better, smarter, prettier, thinner, less neurotic wife.  For twenty years, I’ve been waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop, while Gregg continues to assure me that whoever is watching over our marriage only has one leg, so there is no other shoe.

I’m sharing all of this because what I’m about to say scares the hell out of me:

I feel good. (Knock on wood)

Yes, I really knocked on the table after typing that.  I’m five treatments into radiation and chemotherapy, and I feel really good.  I’m not talking about tolerating therapy or managing despite what’s going on.  I actually feel better now than I have in months. (Knocking again)  I’m sure this sudden flush of energy is the result of several factors.  They gave me an iron infusion last week; I’ve been taking substantial doses of vitamins C and D, as well as sublingual B-12; and for the first time in months, I’m not passing blood.

Unfortunately, fear still lingers.  It may not live permanently in my psyche, but it still has a vacation home there.  Fear tells me that this cannot last.  The cumulative effects of radiation are just around the corner.  The ugly side effects of chemo are going to ambush me when I least expect them.  People with cancer aren’t supposed to feel “good”.

I hope that articulating the irrational notion that enjoying the good somehow invites the bad will release me from its grip.  I suspect that it won’t.  Still, I feel a bit lighter having shared this.  I think, for tonight at least, fear will be lodging somewhere else.

(Knock on wood)

The Early Bird...

My first week of radiation and chemo is over.  I’m pleased to report that it hasn’t been horrible.  The side effects thus far have been minimal.  The only issue I seem to be having is fatigue, although I don’t think I can totally blame the radiation for my lack of energy.  It's partner in crime is the obscenely early time I must wake up, because my appointment is at 6:30 am each day.

Anyone who knows me well will question my decision to willingly schedule something at such ridiculously early hour.  To say that I am not a morning person is understatement raised to the power of ten.  My husband springs forth from our bed each morning like Athena from the head of Zeus, fully armed with energy to face the day (though I don’t think Athena wore boxer-briefs).  I, on the other hand, am usually roused against my will and long for nothing more than a return to the blissful slumber from whence I came.

I’ve been having a love affair with sleep for my entire life.  I yearn for it, crave it, and no matter how much of it I get; I still want more.  I take pleasure in long uninterrupted stretches overnight, but I’m not above a quickie on the couch in the middle of the day. I’ll take it any way I can get it. I guess I’m the Sam I Am of snoozing – I can slumber in a plane; I can slumber on a train; I can slumber here or there; I can slumber anywhere!

So, why did I choose to schedule radiation so early in the day?  I approached the decision practically and made a list of pros and cons.

Pros

·         I can be done and home before Gregg leaves for work and before the kids wake up, which eliminates the need for childcare.

·         It’s the first appointment of the day, so I don’t have to worry about the staff “running behind schedule”

·         It frees up the rest of the day, so I don’t have to plan activities around yet another doctor’s visit

·         All the good parking spots are open

Cons

·         I have to wake up at FIVE freaking FORTY every day.

Therefore, as much as I abhor getting up early, I know it’s the right thing to do for both my family and me.  Fortunately, sleep is a forgiving and patient paramour.  It will wait for my return and welcome me into its embrace no matter how early I abandon it each day.  Sleep will willingly join me in afternoon liaisons whenever I can find the time.

I suppose if my biggest complaint at this point is the early morning wake-up, things must be going pretty darn well.

Though I still believe the early bird doesn't know what he's missing.

Cruel to Be Kind

I’ve had 1984 on my mind today. Not the year mind you, but the novel. I suppose there would be no harm in spending the day thinking about parachute pants, big hair, and The Brat Pack; however, Orwell occupies my brain space today. 

My thoughts keep returning to Big Brother’s ever-present contradictory doctrine:

WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
LOVE IS HATE

Like Winston Smith, I too have been forced to accept a strange paradoxical tenet:

POISON IS CURE

I started chemotherapy and radiation today.  My pharmacy ordered my meds, but they won’t be in until tomorrow.  The oncology staff managed to find some samples, so as not to delay the start of treatment any longer.

The nurse gave me the large sealed plastic bag pictured below:

Inside was a second sealed plastic bag, which contained a third sealed plastic bag.  She also handed me a full box of surgical gloves.  She explained that I should wear the gloves when handling the pills, because they are toxic.  Um…yeah, hold on here.  I can’t touch the pills because of their toxicity, but you want me to put them in my mouth and swallow them?  Does anyone else see the absurd oxymoronic nature of this scenario?

To make matters more complicated, the kids were home when I had to take my first dose.  I should have hidden in the bathroom to avoid the inevitable questions, but I was a little too lost in my own thoughts about swallowing this stuff.  My ever-inquisitive son wanted to know how a pill could be poison to touch, but not poison to eat. 

How could I tell him that I was wondering the same thing? 

New Moon on Monday

A brief warning for the faint of heart: the following commentary contains potentially disturbing descriptions. Continue at your own risk…

Today I spent a little less than 3 hours playing “upstairs / downstairs” with my radiation and medical oncologists. I wanted to get my blood drawn before my 9:30 radiation run-through. Needles give me anxiety, and I fully expected the labs to be the worst part of my morning. I walked into the second floor medical office at 9:00.  I quickly learned that on a Monday morning, the wait for the lab is significantly longer than 30 minutes.

Note to Self #1 – Set aside at least ­one full hour for required Monday morning blood work.  Set aside two hours on the Tuesday after Memorial Day.

So, down I went to the first floor radiation office, where they inquired about the status of my chemo meds.  I explained that my pharmacy did not stock them, and planned to ask the medical staff to order them for me when I went upstairs later for my labs.  Guess what; my plan was flawed.  The radiation staff told me to go back to medical right away, so their staff could start the process required to get my meds to me.   I went up, submitted the request, and came back down again.

Note to Self #2 – Wear comfortable shoes to all oncology appointments.

Back down in radiation, my nurse practitioner informed me that the doctor needed to speak with me before my appointment with the technicians.  I was ushered into an exam room and left to wait with nothing for company but my own neuroses.  In less than 10 minutes, I had myself convinced that something was horribly wrong.  By the time a nurse popped in to apologize for the delay, I was a mess.  When I asked her if she knew why the doctor needed to see me, she explained that he just wanted to “touch base” and see how I was feeling. 

Note to Self #3 – Stop assuming all news is bad.  You are your own worst enemy.

Moving on to my appointment with the technicians, the real fun was about to begin.  It was time for x-rays and my final mark-up for radiation. I lay prone on my stomach on a table, my hips slightly elevated. One blanket covered my back; another covered my legs, leaving only the area between them exposed. Not the most dignified position, to be sure.  I just took a deep breath and reminded myself that this indignity was necessary to save my life.  When I think about it that way, this awkward position, hitherto known as “downward facing moon”, doesn’t seem so bad.

The x-rays were routine and only took a few minutes; the final mark up, however, was definitely the strangest part of this journey thus far.  Two technicians began to mark my exposed skin with Sharpies. (At least I think there were two of them; I was face down at the time.)  You’d be amazed at what passes through your mind when total strangers are drawing lines and circles on your ass.  Here are a few of the random thoughts that meandered through my brain:

·         I wonder if these guys loved to doodle and draw with sidewalk chalk as children?

·         I can’t imagine any child saying, “I want to draw on butts and boobs when I grow up.”

·         Wow, my ass is way more ticklish than I thought it was.

·         Are they playing connect the dots?

·         I feel like a table covering at the Macaroni Grill.

Believe it or not, it gets stranger from here. 

When I finally made it back to the changing room to dress, I glanced at the technicians’ handiwork, which was an odd combination of blue and red lines, crosses, and circles. It looked like Pablo Picasso and Salvador Dali played a bizarre game of tic-tac-toe on my rear.  

Breathe in.  Breathe out. Move on. It’s time to go back up to medical for my labs.

While waiting for the lab, I decided to use the bathroom.  Never in a million years would I have guessed the most mortifying part of my day was about to occur.  Upon finishing what was necessary in the restroom, I stood to discover the red and blue lines had transferred from my bottom to the toilet seat!  I was horrified.  Frantic attempts to remove the ink were not successful.  I finally gave up, put the seat up, and walked out.  Something tells me I’m not the first patient to leave my mark in such a way.

Note to Self #4 – Tuck a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser into your purse for all future radiation appointments.

I’m glad to report the guys who draw blood are wonderful.  Single stick – in and out.  Go figure, getting stuck with a needle was actually the best part of the morning.  J

Slow Cooker of Love

Here is some “new math” for you. In my house tonight, 1 + 1 = 4. Understanding this strange calculation will require a little background information.

I live with mild and treatable cases of both obsessive compulsive and generalized anxiety disorders.  At least they are mild and treatable when I remember to take my Zoloft.  J  I realized a while ago that my tendency to worry went beyond the norm and my coping mechanisms bordered on the weird.  I have no intention of going into detail here.   Maybe one day, in another blog, I’ll discuss the special brand of crazy that makes me who I am.  For now, suffice it to say, I’ve got some issues.

One manifestation of my OCD is the way I obsess about how I feed my family.  Over the past several years, I have become increasingly concerned about our consumption of highly refined, over processed foods.  My own dealings with compulsive eating and food addiction (yet another crazy card in the deck of my life) exacerbate my need to control what Gregg and the kids are eating.  At almost 6 years old, Addie & Gehrig have eaten almost no fast food.  Occasionally I will take them to Chick-fil-a, but that’s it.  (Well that’s not exactly true.  They had McDonalds for breakfast once at a sleepover.  That afternoon, Gehrig threw up all over the Costco parking lot.  Turns out, he had the stomach flu, but he’s convinced the Mickey D’s made him sick. I see no reason to tell him otherwise.)

What does any of this have to do with the bizarre math problem above?   Look below:

1 Girl with OCD + 1 Cancer diagnosis = 4 Slow cookers on my counter tonight.

It’s an understatement to say that cancer and OCD don’t mix well.  The aspects of my life over which I have no power increased exponentially with my diagnosis.  My daily life is now in the hands of doctors, nurses, and technicians.  Any formerly held illusions of control have completely evaporated.  Therefore, I’m trying to focus on the little things within my sphere of command.  I may have no authority over the cancer, but dammit, I’m still in charge of what my family eats for dinner.

Two of the slow cookers hold a combined 12 pounds of pork shoulder, which I will shred and mix with the barbecue sauce I have simmering on the stove. The other two slow cookers are full of lasagna (Don’t turn your nose up at the idea of slow cooker lasagna. It’s very tasty, and you’d swear it came from the oven.)   I will portion, vacuum seal, and label each meal before it goes into the garage freezer.  Oh – just in case you are wondering, I do not own four slow cookers.  I am indebted to three wonderful friends who love and support me even when I act like a nutcase.

This is just the beginning.  I have several other multi-portion meals in the works for this week.  My goal is to stock the freezer before the fatigue from chemo and radiation set in.  I know there are plenty of people around me who will gladly bring a meal over during my treatment, and I will welcome that help.  It’s just that cooking for my family is the one job that falls only to me in our home.  Gregg carries more than his fair share of the load.  If you divided a list of household chores, Gregg’s column would be disproportionately long. I’m not proud of this, as it speaks to my inherently lazy disposition, but I have to admit that my wonderful husband spoils me. The only thing this darling man requests is that I do the cooking.  Considering my love for all things culinary and my need to control what we eat, it’s not as if I’d let him cook, even if he wanted to. 

Finally, I come from a family that expresses itself with food.  Food is love, comfort, and solace.  We eat when we grieve and when we rejoice. We feed each other to nurture and express affection.  Is it any wonder I’ve got food issues?   I know, in the coming months, I’ll receive far more comfort and support than I will give.   I think that all of this cooking is some odd form of nesting.  It’s as if I’m stockpiling love and comfort in the freezer to compensate for how self involved I’m going to be this summer.  It doesn’t make much sense, but then again, neither does much else in my world right now.

Balancing Act

All day I’ve been dealing with the strangest earworm, a song from the Disney movie Mulan II.   Here’s a sampling of the lyrics:

Earth, sky
Day, night
Sound and silence
Dark and light.

One alone is not enough
You need both together
Winter, summer
Moon and sun
Lesson number one.

Like a rock, you must be hard!
Like an Oak, you must stand firm!
Come quick, like my blade.
Think fast, unafraid

Like cloud, you are soft.
Like bamboo, you bend in the wind
Creeping slow, you're in peace because you know
it's ok to be afraid

Yesterday’s experiences have left me thinking about this idea of balance.  It was such a strange day, with the oddest juxtaposition of emotional events. Gregg came home from work early with the wonderful news that he’d selected for the rank of Commander.  For my friends and family in the civilian realm, this is probably the most important promotion of Gregg’s career.  It provides a level of security for our family beyond anything we could have imagined.  More importantly, in my opinion, it validates all of Gregg’s hard work and sacrifice over the past 20 years.  In the words of his skipper, “The Navy finally got it right.”

My joy upon hearing this was palpable.  My pride in my husband burst forth from every pore of my body.  We spent close to an hour in a state of euphoric shock at our good fortune.

Then the jubilance came to a screeching halt. It was time to meet my medical oncologist and discuss chemotherapy.  Sigh…

Here’s the deal.  I’m going to take a chemotherapy drug called Xeloda, which is supposed to improve the efficacy of my radiation therapy.  I’ll be swallowing ten pills a day, five days a week, for at least six weeks.  According to the doc, Xeloda normally doesn’t cause as much nausea as other forms of chemo. This is good, because the radiation is going to do a fabulous job screwing up my digestive tract, and I don’t want to deal with a tag team attacking my gut.  In addition, as a rule, Xeloda doesn’t cause hair loss.  Honestly, I am not too concerned about the possibility of losing my hair.  My crazy curly frizzy hair has given me so much grief; I sometimes think it would be a relief to get rid of it. 

I did a little more research on the side effects when I got home. (I’m wondering if Gregg should block my access to Google for the duration of my illness.)  I will most likely experience mouth sores, redness and peeling on the palms of my hands and the soles of my feet, and  fatigue. It’s a strange contradiction;  I will be ingesting a poison that will both cause me pain and save my life.

It was so surreal to shift so quickly from a state of elation to one of such anxiety. Don’t get me wrong.  I know that I’m going to be ok.  I have full faith in my doctors.  I suppose I’m just now realizing how truly miserable the next year might be.  I guess that’s why I have this idea of balance on my mind.  It’s easier to face what’s ahead when I think of it as a year of awful wretchedness, balanced by a wonderful life waiting for me when it’s over.

Is there really a yin for every yang?  Are there some great universal forces at work maintaining some semblance of cosmic equilibrium, or am I assigning meaning to random events as a way to find solace in my uncertain world?  Right now, I need to believe there is a purpose for all of this.  I cannot accept that my cancer is just some arbitrary happenstance.

Still, it’s really gonna suck.

Wind Ensemble

Today I had biopsy number two. My oncologists want an additional pathology report before making a final decision about my radiation/chemo protocol.  Unlike the colonoscopy two weeks ago, today I experienced my first Flexible Sigmoidoscopy (FlexSig).  On the family tree of gastrointestinal endoscopy procedures, a FlexSig is like the colonoscopy’s obnoxious little brother. Prepping for this required 36 hours of ingesting only clear liquids and Jell-O, followed by 12 hours of ingesting nothing at all.  I also had to make sure everything was “cleaned out”, but I’ll spare you the details of that process.

Unlike a colonoscopy, the FlexSig is a significantly smaller scope, which is good.  However, while a colonoscopy is done under heavy sedation, a FlexSig is not, which is bad.  My doctor informed me that most patients opt out of pharmaceutical aids during this procedure, but, if necessary, I could have a little something to “take the edge off”.  Once I told him that I was a girl who required valium for a trip to the dentist, he knew I wouldn’t be “opting out” of anything.

Now I need to explain the layout of this place.  It’s similar to an emergency room.  Imagine many gurneys next to each other, with only a cloth curtain between them.  Therefore, while I could not see any of today’s other victims, I could most definitely hear them. 

Most endoscopic procedures require the introduction of air into the colon.  Consider now a simple law of physics; what goes in must come out.  In the 20 minutes I had to wait before my turn, I experienced what I can only describe as a veritable symphony of flatulence.  The experience simultaneously grossed me out and cracked me up.  Of course, when my scope was done, I was determined to keep from contributing to the dyspeptic din.

You have to understand, when it comes to passing gas, I’m a very private person.  I don’t think Gregg heard a single fart from me during the first decade our relationship.  The thought of expelling air in this room was mortifying.  I had to wait through two cycles of vitals before they would unhook me and let me go to the restroom.  I’m thankful to say that I held it in and maintained a small scrap of my dignity today. 

It’s a small victory, but I’ll take ‘em where I can get ‘em.

Marked Woman

I got tattooed today.  Four small dots of permanent ink, one on each hip and two at my tailbone, are my personal permanent reminder of the day I officially became a cancer patient. 

I held no illusions that setting up my radiation treatments would be pleasant.  Driving to the hospital this afternoon, NPR’s Terry Gross was interviewing Walt Bogdanich, a New York Times investigative reporter.  The focus of the interview was his investigation of the “hidden dangers of medical radiation”.  As I posted on Facebook, God has a warped sense of irony.

I fought the urge to drive past the hospital for points unknown. I did, however, find the Times article on my phone and share it with the radiation technician.  To my great relief, she was both familiar with the investigation and outraged at the mistakes that had been made.  She assured me that no such incidents have ever occurred in her care.

 It was my understanding that my colon would be once again probed, infused with contrast, and scanned to determine the necessary placement of the radiation.  However, no one told me I would be catheterized to infuse my bladder with contrast as well.  Imagine my surprise when I learned that little tidbit of information.  It took significant self-control to keep from blurting out, “are there any other orifices you intend to violate today?” 

I know from my experience with infertility that there will come a time when I will no longer cringe or feel a loss of dignity in these situations.  One of these days I will see these moments for what they are - simply a means to an end.  Just as the indignity of infertility treatments faded, so shall my discomfort with all of this.  I’m just not there yet.

Next up this week is a second biopsy on Wednesday, followed by a meet and greet with my medical oncologist on Friday.  I am hoping to actually begin treatment sometime next week.  The sooner I can start, the sooner this ends. 

I have faith that one day my body will be free of cancer.  Still, I can’t help but think that I am somehow changed forever. Good or bad, I will never be the same person I was before this diagnosis. I am indelibly marked by far more than ink on my hips and tailbone.  I have to accept that while this experience does not define who I am, it's forever a part of me.

                                                

May 12, 2011

So, it looks like I’m gonna live.  J

However, my journey is far from over.  There’s still radiation, chemo, and…wait – I’m getting ahead of myself.  Today’s story needs to be told in its proper order.

The day began with more anxiety than I ever thought imaginable.  My mother-in-law left NJ at 6:30 this morning for what is normally a two hour drive to my house.  At 9:15 she called me in a bit of a panic from the parking lot formerly known as Interstate 95.  It seems the great state of Maryland thought that rush hour was the perfect time to close the two middle lanes of the interstate and do some maintenance.

To save a little time, I met her in a parking lot just off the highway exit.  She jumped into my car at 9:52.  We pulled into the hospital at 9:58.  With the help of some free valet parking, I made it to my 10:00 appointment with about 30 seconds to spare.  Whew!

Unfortunately, the insanity that was my morning had only just begun.    A few minutes after my arrival, a nurse came out to the waiting room to inform me that my appointment was scheduled not for 10:00, but for noon.  F. M. L.  We walked out in a daze and explained to a confused valet that we needed the car back.

Mom and I kept busy in the interim.  We brought the kids some lunch at school and arranged for them to stay there for the afternoon.  Then I got mom back to her car, went home and packed up for our afternoon trip to NJ.

Finally, it was time to go back to the hospital, but my stress was far from over.  We arrived at noon and were promptly ushered to a consultation room to wait… and wait… and wait.  By 12:45 I was half out of my mind – convinced that the oncologist was avoiding me because the news he had to share was so horrible.

I was saved from my overwhelming angst when my phone rang.  Dr. Blum, the GI who performed the original colonoscopy and told me about the cancer, was calling because the PET-CT center also sent a copy of my scan and report to him.  I don’t remember everything he said, but a few key phrases, like “no signs of metastasis”, “no cancer in any other organs”, and “no indication of cancer in the lymph nodes”, will forever be etched in my brain.  I suppose there is some sort of poetic symmetry in all of this.  The man who told me the scariest news I’d ever heard also delivered me from my greatest fear.  I hung up from that call with the glorious knowledge that I was not going to die.

About 5 minutes later, Dr. Oh, the radiation oncologist, stuck his head into the consultation room to let me know he’d be in shortly.  I don’t think he expected me to greet him so cheerfully.  At this point, I didn’t care how long I had to wait.  All was ok in my world.

So, when all is said and done, this is what I know…

• I do not have Stage IV cancer.

• I do not know if my cancer is Stage I, II, or III.  I will learn that sometime next week after a few more tests.

• Regardless of the Stage, my cancer is treatable and curable.

• I will be undergoing 5 or 6 weeks of radiation and chemotherapy, followed by 6 to 8 weeks of rest.  Then I will have surgery to remove this beastly thing from my body.  Once I have recovered from surgery, I can look forward to about 4 more months of chemotherapy.

I know the road ahead will not be easy; in fact it will most likely suck beyond belief.  I’m ok with that, because I’m looking at the bigger picture.  Addie & Gehrig will not grow up without a mother.  Gregg will not be widowed in his early 40’s.  My family will not grieve for another sister, niece, or cousin lost to cancer.  

I welcome the trials ahead as just a bumpy segment on the path to the rest of my life.

May 11, 2011

I have butterflies in my stomach.  These aren’t your everyday daintily fluttering butterflies.  My butterflies are BIG.  I mean really really BIG.  I’m talking about a gut full of huge steroid taking butterflies wearing steel-toed combat boots.

At least that’s how it feels.

I had my PET-CT scan earlier today.  Overall, it wasn’t a horrible experience. I was temporarily radioactive, and my arms got a little sore after 30 minutes in the same position, but that was essentially the worst of it.  I’ve decided that any procedure that doesn’t directly involve the poking or prodding of my butt is reasonably tolerable.

Next to me on the table is a CD.  On the CD are the results of my scan.  I’m bringing it to the oncologist tomorrow, and he will tell me what my future holds.  It’s strange knowing that the course of my life will be forever changed tomorrow.  Not knowing the stage of my cancer thus far has been difficult, but it has also allowed me the luxury of an irrational kind of hope.  It’s as if in some illogical part of my psyche, I don’t officially have cancer yet.  Tomorrow will set the presence of this disease in stone.

I’m especially antsy, because Gregg has been at my side for every doctor’s appointment up to this point.  Tomorrow, he can’t be there.  As flexible as his job can be, his presence is required at McGuire AFB tomorrow.  I actually think the day will be harder on him than it will on me.

Fortunately, my mother-in-law is driving down to join me.  I have said on many occasions that I hit the “in-law lottery” with Gregg’s parents.  Their constant love and support over the past 20 years has been a blessing beyond words.  I’ve always felt that my mom sent Gregg and his family to me, because she knew they were exactly what I needed in my life. 

In 13 ½ hours I will know…

…It’s going to be a long night.

Tomorrow the real kicking begins.

May 10, 2011

I have known for 6 days that there is cancer in my body.  Yet, I still don’t know how much.  About 90% of the time, I feel confident that we’ve caught this early, and this time next year, I’ll be cancer free.  The other 10% of the time, I’m a stark raving lunatic who’s convinced that this is the beginning of my end.  When I’m in lunatic mode, every twinge in my back, every ache in my foot, every moment of lightheadedness has me convinced that the cancer is everywhere in my body.  Fortunately, my sanity returns quickly, and I remember that I’ve had back problems for years, I’ve destroyed my feet training for multiple races, and I’m anemic. 

Anyone who knows my history will understand my momentary lapses of reason.  My only first hand experiences with cancer have not ended well.  In my teens, I watched a beloved uncle lose his fight with this awful disease.  In college, I lost my mom to melanoma only 6 weeks after we learned of its recurrence.  I suppose it’s only natural for me to fall into these fleeting episodes of despair. 

I hope that once I actually know what I’m facing, I will be able to let go of some of the irrational fear and focus on the business of fighting this thing.  Of course, to know what’s going on, I first have to get my PET-CT scan.  I’m glad to report that at 12:30 tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be drinking some concoction that I’m sure is both foul and radioactive, then lying prone while they see what lights up inside of me. 

Scheduling this scan has been its own unique kind of lunacy.  It took 14 phone calls to 4 different offices (3 doctors and 1 insurance company), as well as 2 faxes marked urgent and a visit to my primary physician’s office to get this done.  For the last few days, the authorization papers for the scan have been sitting on someone’s desk waiting for approval.  I kept imagining some underpaid, unmotivated office worker ignoring a stack of papers, while texting a friend or updating a Facebook status.

Now the procedure is scheduled, and I realize the process to get me this far has taken less than a week.  As difficult as I have perceived this to be thus far, the reality is I should be grateful.  I have good health insurance, and after June 3^rd, when Gregg hits the 20-year mark, I’ll have good health insurance for the rest of my life.  I can’t begin to imagine facing what's ahead with the added fear of how to pay for it all.

I never thought I’d feel lucky 6 days after a diagnosis of cancer, but I do. I am lucky to have access to excellent doctors and specialists, lucky to have insurance that will cover the cost of my care, and most importantly – lucky to have so many wonderful people supporting me.  It is such a blessing to know that I will not be taking a single step of this journey alone.

It seems there are many other frogs kicking in my churn.  J

May 9, 2011

I've decided not to censor myself on this blog.  Colon cancer isn't always easy to discuss. People don't mind wearing "Save the Tatas" bracelets or posting their bra color on Facebook in support of breast cancer.  Breasts are a beautiful, revered part of a woman's body. Colons? Not so much. People are often uncomfortable talking about the body parts in our nether regions.  I no longer have the luxury of such discomfort, so I'm just going to tell it as I know it.

I met with the surgeon this morning.  Seems the tumor is in a tricky location.  It figures…not only do I get uncool butt cancer, but also it’s also poorly positioned.   While I know there is never a good place to have a tumor, my tumor is hanging out in a particularly difficult neighborhood.

Skip the next paragraph if you’re squeamish about TMI.

My tumor is on the border of my colon and my rectum.  (I warned you)  If it were higher, the surgeon would simply remove the tumor, along with a good section of healthy colon from either side, resection what was left, and send me home to heal.  However, it’s not high enough for that.  My tumor’s proximity to my rectum doesn’t allow enough room around it for such a procedure.   Therefore, we have to shrink the sucker first.  Once the pathology comes in and I finally get a Pet-CT scan, I will meet with a radiation oncologist and determine the best radiation/chemo protocol to follow.  Once that is done, I can move on to surgery and get this thing out of my body.

The surgeon indicated the mass was about the size of a large plum, and he says that the radiation and chemotherapy can shrink it down to the size of a pea.  I have this recurring image from the movie Beetlejuice running through my head.  You know the part at the end when Beetlejuice pisses off the witch doctor, and consequently gets his head shrunk?  I keep imagining this tumor shriveling up like Michael Keaton’s head. 

The other eventful part of today was telling the rest of my family that I had cancer.  My amazing nephew is graduating from college at the end of the week, and at first, I wanted to keep the news from him until after his big day.  I didn’t want him to associate such a wonderful time in his life with such awful news.  This meant keeping the news from most of my family for fear he would find out accidently. His mom finally convinced me that he was an adult, and would want to know. 

Once I clued him and my niece in, it was time to contact everyone else.  I learned today that there is no good way to tell someone you’ve got cancer.  Almost every conversation began with the standard question, “How are you doing?”  I don’t think anyone ever asks that question with the expectation of any answer other than, “Fine.  How are you?”  Instead, I had to find a way to tell them I was not fine; in fact, I was about as far from fine as I have ever been. 

I’m glad to say that everyone held it together very well while we were talking.  I don’t know what happened after we hung up, but I hope they walked away from our conversations with the same hope and faith that I have about all of this.

I will beat this.

For now, I’ll just keep kicking.

May 8, 2011

I heard an odd little story on a comedy station in the car this morning…

Once upon a time, a young woman put some cream in her butter churn, but she didn’t have time to churn it.  She took it down to the creek and set it in the water to keep it cool until she could return.

Two frogs came along and had the unfortunate luck to hop right into the butter churn.  They immediately started kicking to stay afloat and tried mightily to jump out, but they could not.  One frog decided the situation was hopeless, so he gave up and drowned.  The second frog kept kicking and kicking and kicking, until, at last, his efforts churned the cream into butter, and he was able to hop out.

What a happy little moral about not giving up.  Still, what was it doing on a comedy station?  It seemed random and out of place, but then, I realized this cheesy little story was the perfect metaphor for my life at this moment.

I have cancer.

I found out last Thursday, when a colonoscopy meant to confirm a diagnosis of ulcerative proctitis instead revealed a tumor.  Splash!  Into the butter churn I went. 

I don’t know much more than what I’ve already written here.  They found a tumor and sent the biopsy out.  The doctor seems to think it’s just a formality; he’s convinced it’s malignant, and I see no reason to doubt him.  I’m off to the surgeon tomorrow and hope to have a Pet-CT scan on Tuesday to see if the cancer has metastasized.  Then I’ll finally learn just how much of my colon I’m going to lose and whether or not chemotherapy is in my future.

Until then I am waiting…and thinking.  This limbo period is a special kind of Hell.  My thoughts swing on a wild pendulum ride from one extreme to another.  One moment I’m confident it’s all going to be ok.  I’ll come through this stronger and healthier, with a new appreciation for life.  The next I’m imagining the worst and thinking of my kids and husband going through life without me.

I’ve also had some strangely humorous thoughts.  In the car, moments after getting the news, I couldn’t help but think, “Colorectal cancer?  You’ve got to be kidding me! Of all the types of cancer out there, I mean, seriously, I’ve got butt cancer, why couldn’t I get one of the cool cancers?”  Gregg and I were cracking up.  Then I thought, “If there is a ribbon for butt cancer, it better not be brown!” (A little research determined that the colorectal cancer ribbon is actually blue, but brown is an alternate color).

So here I am, a frog in a butter churn – hoping to find some solid footing.  Until my next post, I’ll just keep kicking.