I've had a few people tell me that I have a positive outlook on life, or tell me how inspired they are by the way I am handling cancer, or that I am doing a great job of still smiling. People ask me how I do it. It's easier than you think. You will be surprised at how easily you can adapt to life's ever changing moments. We do it daily without even realizing it. It's the slow process of evolution. We do evolve. We evolve and adapt to our new realities, whether it's a new career, the end of a relationship, or a physical change in our appearance over the course of a lifetime. You are stronger than you think you are, and the will to live is deeply ingrained in our own biology.
But let me say, I am not always giggles and sunshine. Far from it. However, I restrain from constantly whining or bitching about life or my circumstances or the weather or any of the other hundreds of things there are to complain about. What's the point? It's not going to change anything. All that's going to accomplish is make the people who are around me miserable having to listen to it. (Just get on any social media site as an example.) Occasionally I do complain. And whine. And sometimes my friends probably get tired of hearing it. Too bad. They are my friends. That's part of the unspoken friendship contract. In return, I listen to them when they want to unload a full day's worth of crap. But for everyone else, I try to put a cap on it.
I figured out a long time ago, that happiness really is an inside job. It's not something you can buy at Wal-Mart or TJ Maxx or even The Bass Pro Shop. It's not hidden inside a lottery ticket. And it most certainly is not found in the arms of someone else. At the most, all you will find in any of these places are fleeting moments that at the time may look like happiness and may even feel like happiness, but it's not. And I know that some will argue, but Jennifer, I love my spouse/boyfriend/lover/significant other and being with them makes me happy. Nope. That's still not real happiness. If your "happiness" resides solely on a new gadget or a friendship or a social status or a reputation or a career or a car or money - then hear me now - it will not last. Because every single one of those things can be taken from you at any moment. Then what? At some point in life you have to find happiness inside yourself. Be happy with who you really are and embrace it. Love life. Love yourself. That's where happiness is.
I wouldn't wish cancer or any disease on anyone. I damn sure wouldn't have wished it upon myself. But it's here. And I can't change that fact. I can try to fight it (which I am) and hope to overcome it (which I will) but I can't erase what has already been. This is the hand I was dealt, and I will play it. And even if I have to bluff from time to time, I will not fold. If I am beaten, it will be with grace and dignity. But I'm going to make sure it's one helluva game before I bow out. In the meantime I'm going to keep on smiling that Cheshire Cat smile, just to make them wonder if there's still an ace in my sleeve.
But the real secret to happiness is
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Monday, June 29, 2015
Tuesday, June 9, 2015
June 8, 2015
Trying to decide what to write about tonight. Do I pick up where I left off telling my tale of how I got to this point? Or do I write about what it is I am feeling at this very moment? It's hard sometimes to write about the past, and give it due justice, while still struggling to juggle the present. So, today wins. This is my story; slightly out of order.
I had perhaps a moment of clarity today, or maybe it was a complete come apart. I guess that depends on how you look at it. I was on my way to a small event, called Look Good, Feel Better, to be held at the West Clinic in Corinth, sponsored by the American Cancer Society. Basically they bring in a few cosmetologists who give makeovers and hand out free makeup. Chemo does hellish things to your body, and it also takes a toll on your skin. So, the idea is to cheer us up and make us feel all pretty again. It's a nice idea. And I was delighted to be invited to attend by one of the nurses at my chemo session last week.
The thing is, front the time my feet hit the floor this morning, I was already in a foul mood. I've been trying feverishly to get some home improvement projects completed that have been on going for far too long now. I bought my house a little over four years ago, and have been plugging away at it continuously, adding something here, redecorating there. For the most part, it's been an enjoyable process, and I love seeing the efforts of mine (and other's) hard work pay off with each small remodel. Well, the latest "big" project has been to enclose my patio space on the back of my house. It hasn't gone well, and by that I mean, it just hasn't gone - mostly due to the incredible amount of rain we've endured the last couple of months, which has delayed everything and everybody. Plus, as I have found out, contracting work out is a headache all on it's own. But alas, I finally had the roots, so to speak, of my patio laid out and someone hired to pour the concrete. And after a few sunny days, I felt sure today would be the day when they could actually get the concrete truck onto my yard and pour. But no, I awoke to dark clouds and thunder rolling. Here's the kicker, I no longer cared. It's like I finally just said, "enough" and honestly at this point, not real sure if I care if the damn thing gets built or not. (Okay, that's probably not completely true, but it's how I feel at the moment.) I'm over it. If it gets completed before the end of summer, fine, great. And if not, oh well.
Plus, my house was a wreck. Being sick all last week, plus going out on the lake this weekend, I had gotten far behind on housekeeping. People ask what chemo is like. To be honest, it's unlike anything I've ever experienced before and sort of hard to explain. The particular kind I am on now is called FolFox and it's one bad mama. I guess the closest way I can think to describe it is, pretend you have the flu. Now pretend you have the flu every other week. That's how it goes for me. I pretty much just try to load up on anti nausea meds and sleep through as much of it as I can. And I also lose the majority of a week of my life every two weeks. Of course, I still have the normal daily to do's, just like everyone else - clean the house, feed the dogs, pay bills, run errands, buy groceries, etc. Add to that, endless doctor's appointments and tests out the wazoo. I'm soon to be scheduled for even more, since my last tests only further baffled my doctors. And of course, it's summer, and I want to be able to enjoy time with friends, boating, and general moments of fun and pleasure. But when you try to cram it all in a week, it becomes absolutely exhausting. I feel like I'm marathon running every other week, just playing catch up. Even the "fun" times, start to feel like a chore. Adding to this, the whole home improvement fiasco, and well, maybe you get the idea.
Also to note, last night I watched a great movie called "The Judge". If you haven't seen it, I do recommend it. Spoiler Alert: Robert Duvall's character has stage four colon cancer. In the movie, he deals with one of the side effects of chemotherapy; dementia. Memory loss is just one of the many side effects. Just last week, my mother told me she had to keep going behind me to close the refrigerator, because apparently I would just forget I had opened it. This scared the hell out of me. I don't like the idea of not being in control or knowing what the hell I am doing.... unless alcohol is involved, and then it's kind of expected. And it could have been side effects from the drugs I am taking too. Ativan, prescribed for nausea, is in the same class as Valium, so it pretty much knocks me out and induces a 'fog' as I call it. But either way, it unnerved me. Point is, the movie, albeit a great film, hit a little close to home.
It's not much of a surprise then, that driving along highway 72, headed toward what should have been an enjoyable event, I had a mini breakdown. Here I am driving along, when it hits me that I have absolutely no desire to go this shindig. None. Nada. Zilch. As a matter of fact, the idea of going anywhere near the cancer center and watching other cancer patients get facials, seriously depressed me. So much so, that I started crying. I kept driving, tears pouring, when I had "that" moment. And I thought, "Why am I doing this? I don't want to do this." That's when I asked myself out loud, "What do I want to do?" Right now, at this moment "What do I WANT to do?" I have spent so much timely lately doing things I don't really want to do. Some because they are necessary. Others, because I feel like I should. And even some still, just because someone else wants me to, and I'm trying to make an effort to make them happy. Turns out, the answer to my question was ice cream. I wanted some damn ice cream. So I turned around on the highway and headed to Sonic. I ordered a caramel sundae with nuts - hold the whipped cream. I sat there and ate every single bite of it. Car turned off, window down, no music, no real thoughts. Just me and my ice cream. It may really be the best sundae I've ever had. I did the polite thing and called to inform them I wouldn't make it, and hopefully someone else got to go in my spot, as space was limited. I did feel slightly guilty about that, but not enough to give up my delicious treat.
So what's the point of telling you this? I really have no idea. There certainly isn't a moral to the story, except maybe sometimes you just have to do what you want to do. Find time to make yourself happy, even if it's nothing more than a caramel sundae from Sonic. And maybe that's why I'm telling you this story... because it make me happy to do so. It's my story. I will tell it however I want to.
Oh, by the way, after my Sonic treat, I came home and cleaned my house with some kind of fury. And it didn't exhaust me or wear me out. Instead, I actually felt rejuvenated when I was finished. So much so, that I took a shower, and got out my laptop to do a bit of writing. And to all you who follow this blog, I want to say thank you for listening to my ramblings as I muddle my way through this chapter in my life, one small moment at at time.
I had perhaps a moment of clarity today, or maybe it was a complete come apart. I guess that depends on how you look at it. I was on my way to a small event, called Look Good, Feel Better, to be held at the West Clinic in Corinth, sponsored by the American Cancer Society. Basically they bring in a few cosmetologists who give makeovers and hand out free makeup. Chemo does hellish things to your body, and it also takes a toll on your skin. So, the idea is to cheer us up and make us feel all pretty again. It's a nice idea. And I was delighted to be invited to attend by one of the nurses at my chemo session last week.
The thing is, front the time my feet hit the floor this morning, I was already in a foul mood. I've been trying feverishly to get some home improvement projects completed that have been on going for far too long now. I bought my house a little over four years ago, and have been plugging away at it continuously, adding something here, redecorating there. For the most part, it's been an enjoyable process, and I love seeing the efforts of mine (and other's) hard work pay off with each small remodel. Well, the latest "big" project has been to enclose my patio space on the back of my house. It hasn't gone well, and by that I mean, it just hasn't gone - mostly due to the incredible amount of rain we've endured the last couple of months, which has delayed everything and everybody. Plus, as I have found out, contracting work out is a headache all on it's own. But alas, I finally had the roots, so to speak, of my patio laid out and someone hired to pour the concrete. And after a few sunny days, I felt sure today would be the day when they could actually get the concrete truck onto my yard and pour. But no, I awoke to dark clouds and thunder rolling. Here's the kicker, I no longer cared. It's like I finally just said, "enough" and honestly at this point, not real sure if I care if the damn thing gets built or not. (Okay, that's probably not completely true, but it's how I feel at the moment.) I'm over it. If it gets completed before the end of summer, fine, great. And if not, oh well.
Plus, my house was a wreck. Being sick all last week, plus going out on the lake this weekend, I had gotten far behind on housekeeping. People ask what chemo is like. To be honest, it's unlike anything I've ever experienced before and sort of hard to explain. The particular kind I am on now is called FolFox and it's one bad mama. I guess the closest way I can think to describe it is, pretend you have the flu. Now pretend you have the flu every other week. That's how it goes for me. I pretty much just try to load up on anti nausea meds and sleep through as much of it as I can. And I also lose the majority of a week of my life every two weeks. Of course, I still have the normal daily to do's, just like everyone else - clean the house, feed the dogs, pay bills, run errands, buy groceries, etc. Add to that, endless doctor's appointments and tests out the wazoo. I'm soon to be scheduled for even more, since my last tests only further baffled my doctors. And of course, it's summer, and I want to be able to enjoy time with friends, boating, and general moments of fun and pleasure. But when you try to cram it all in a week, it becomes absolutely exhausting. I feel like I'm marathon running every other week, just playing catch up. Even the "fun" times, start to feel like a chore. Adding to this, the whole home improvement fiasco, and well, maybe you get the idea.
Also to note, last night I watched a great movie called "The Judge". If you haven't seen it, I do recommend it. Spoiler Alert: Robert Duvall's character has stage four colon cancer. In the movie, he deals with one of the side effects of chemotherapy; dementia. Memory loss is just one of the many side effects. Just last week, my mother told me she had to keep going behind me to close the refrigerator, because apparently I would just forget I had opened it. This scared the hell out of me. I don't like the idea of not being in control or knowing what the hell I am doing.... unless alcohol is involved, and then it's kind of expected. And it could have been side effects from the drugs I am taking too. Ativan, prescribed for nausea, is in the same class as Valium, so it pretty much knocks me out and induces a 'fog' as I call it. But either way, it unnerved me. Point is, the movie, albeit a great film, hit a little close to home.
It's not much of a surprise then, that driving along highway 72, headed toward what should have been an enjoyable event, I had a mini breakdown. Here I am driving along, when it hits me that I have absolutely no desire to go this shindig. None. Nada. Zilch. As a matter of fact, the idea of going anywhere near the cancer center and watching other cancer patients get facials, seriously depressed me. So much so, that I started crying. I kept driving, tears pouring, when I had "that" moment. And I thought, "Why am I doing this? I don't want to do this." That's when I asked myself out loud, "What do I want to do?" Right now, at this moment "What do I WANT to do?" I have spent so much timely lately doing things I don't really want to do. Some because they are necessary. Others, because I feel like I should. And even some still, just because someone else wants me to, and I'm trying to make an effort to make them happy. Turns out, the answer to my question was ice cream. I wanted some damn ice cream. So I turned around on the highway and headed to Sonic. I ordered a caramel sundae with nuts - hold the whipped cream. I sat there and ate every single bite of it. Car turned off, window down, no music, no real thoughts. Just me and my ice cream. It may really be the best sundae I've ever had. I did the polite thing and called to inform them I wouldn't make it, and hopefully someone else got to go in my spot, as space was limited. I did feel slightly guilty about that, but not enough to give up my delicious treat.
So what's the point of telling you this? I really have no idea. There certainly isn't a moral to the story, except maybe sometimes you just have to do what you want to do. Find time to make yourself happy, even if it's nothing more than a caramel sundae from Sonic. And maybe that's why I'm telling you this story... because it make me happy to do so. It's my story. I will tell it however I want to.
Oh, by the way, after my Sonic treat, I came home and cleaned my house with some kind of fury. And it didn't exhaust me or wear me out. Instead, I actually felt rejuvenated when I was finished. So much so, that I took a shower, and got out my laptop to do a bit of writing. And to all you who follow this blog, I want to say thank you for listening to my ramblings as I muddle my way through this chapter in my life, one small moment at at time.
Monday, June 1, 2015
The Thing Is
The thing about cancer is that it consumes your life. It invades every aspect of almost everything you do. It becomes the thing that defines you. People no longer think of you as you once were; all of a sudden now you're the 'girl with cancer'. You live it every single day. And even when you try to forget, someone or something is there to remind you. "Oh, yeah, that. I had almost forgotten." People are suddenly much nicer to you. You get hugs from casual acquaintances in the grocery store. You get messages from complete strangers offering their condolences. It's the first thing people want to ask you about. You find yourself repeating the same brief synopsis over and over. There are endless doctor appointments. It can be overwhelming at times. And tiresome.
And that's not to say I don't appreciate the support I have been given. I do. I really do. I can not imagine having gone through this without the love I have been shown by my friends and family. They have listened to me when I needed to vent, they have provided shoulders for me to lean on, they have cried with me, laughed with me, held my hand, traveled to appointments with me, donated their time and money, and cheered for me with each small victory.
At the same time, it is a strange experience to be semi-famous (in a small town) for something I would rather not be known for. I guess if I had to sum it up thus far, I would call it "surreal". At times it still seems like some strange dream that I will wake up from and laugh about. "Wow. You won't believe this crazy dream I had." "I had cancer and it was this big, long, sort of terrible, but not all bad, adventure - you were in it, too - and it seemed soooo real." "Haha." But then the nurse jabs a rather large needle into my chest, and I'm all like, nope, this is definitely not a dream. That shit hurt.
Someone once told me that cancer was as much a mental battle, as a physical one. I know now what they meant. It wears you down. Some days it gets the best of you, too. I have turned to God and prayer many times, mostly at night, when the house is quiet and darkness has settled in; when the only sounds are the dogs snoring and the insects doing what insects do. The meditation has helped me keep my sanity. These quiet moments have become moments I treasure. I do hope there is a happy ending to my story. But I am determined, to make happy the life I have while I still have it, whether it's only days or many, many years. A good friend gave me a card a few years ago, with a quote on it, that I loved so much, I framed and placed on my coffee table as a daily reminder. It's the most simplest of statements, and perhaps one of the truest. And I shall leave you tonight with this quote:
"Life is what you make it. Always has been. Always will be."
- Grandma (Anna Mary Robertson) Moses
Someone once told me that cancer was as much a mental battle, as a physical one. I know now what they meant. It wears you down. Some days it gets the best of you, too. I have turned to God and prayer many times, mostly at night, when the house is quiet and darkness has settled in; when the only sounds are the dogs snoring and the insects doing what insects do. The meditation has helped me keep my sanity. These quiet moments have become moments I treasure. I do hope there is a happy ending to my story. But I am determined, to make happy the life I have while I still have it, whether it's only days or many, many years. A good friend gave me a card a few years ago, with a quote on it, that I loved so much, I framed and placed on my coffee table as a daily reminder. It's the most simplest of statements, and perhaps one of the truest. And I shall leave you tonight with this quote:
"Life is what you make it. Always has been. Always will be."
- Grandma (Anna Mary Robertson) Moses
Monday, May 18, 2015
The Evolution of My Ass Part 3
After the initial shock wore off, it was time to get down to business. I drew upon years of experience with making lists and planning things. At times, this passion of mine has almost crossed the line into obsession, but at this point, it was a skill that would serve me well. Trust me, when an event like this happens, you have a LOT of information coming at you from all directions. A handy-dandy little notepad or day planner proves to be extremely useful. So I armed myself with planners, folders, binders and other such accouterments and set off to meet my destiny.
The next few months were a whirlwind of tests, exams, and doctor visits. I was poked at so many times with so many needles, I was beginning to resemble a street junkie with a serious heroin addiction. And oh, the paperwork. For every new doctor, comes new paperwork. I actually got a little sarcastic and slightly ridiculous a couple times filling them out. I do hope some overworked, stressed out, medical receptionist enjoyed my attempt at humor. Maybe not. And there were a lot of questions. Being so young, with what is normally considered an "old-person" disease, naturally the medical field was very interested in my case, so there were a few odd inquiries. For instance, I had one doctor who just came right out and asked me bluntly if I had ever had anal sex. Not that there's necessarily any medical data that would link anal sex to ass cancer, but hey, I guess he was either just nosy or thought maybe he had stumbled upon something perhaps revolutionary. I took a DNA test to see if there was a genetic link predisposing me to certain types of cancer, including colorectal cancer. Nope. Not that either.
What they did know was that the tumor was large and aggressive. I don't remember exactly how large; I did see scan results with the exact centimeter size, but it just didn't mean much to me. (According to one doctor, any tumor over the size of your fingernail is considered significant.) Which meant, I didn't have time to waste as far as beginning treatment. They wanted to act just as aggressively. Not long after, about mid-October I began a combo of radiation therapy and chemotherapy. For five days a week, for five straight weeks, I underwent radiation with two oral chemo pills to be taken morning and night. I can't lie. It was five long weeks of pure hell.
Radiation as they described it to me was like getting a bad sunburn. And yeah, I guess that's kind of what it felt like. Of course, having a sunburn on your bottom is no fun if you can imagine. I can literally say my ass was pretty chapped! It hurt to sit. Hell, it hurt to lie down. Everything hurt. Diarrhea was back with a vengeance, I was dropping weight to the point of anorexia, I was in constant pain, dehydrated, and just overall about as miserable as a person can be. I was starting to look forward to a colostomy. No joke. Anything was better than this. As for the colostomy, the reality was setting in. The hope with radiation and chemo was to shrink the tumor as much as possible, but the chances of radiating it completely were very slim. And because the tumor extended down into my anus, reconstructing the colon wasn't very feasible either. I received the maximum amount of radiation allowed. The chemo pills were no fun either, but honestly, it was hard to tell what the Devil in the situation was. People ask what was the worst part, or what caused the most discomfort. But the truth is, when you go through so much at once (don't forget our old friend C-Diff or the abscess) you really have no idea what is causing what. Everything in your body is screaming in agony and you can't point the finger at any one particular cause.
And yes, the abscess that triggered that first doctor appointment had returned. Actually, it never fully left. Combined with the high doses of radiation, it basically turned into the nuclear, Godzilla of abscesses. During my last week or two of radiation, I finally had it surgically drained. That was no barrel of monkeys either. (So sorry to keep being the bearer of bad news but I'm just being honest.) After the surgery, my poor, dear Mother had the unfortunate job of having to pack my butt cheek every day with fresh gauze strips. It did eventually heal after much trial and tribulation. Thank heavens. That was a pain unlike any other, that I never care to experience again.
November 20, 2014 - After five excruciating weeks, I was done with that phase. I did live through it. And my testimony is that a person can endure a lot more than they think they can. Sometimes you just have to bite down on the belt strap so to speak and hang in there until it's over. But, whew! Just looking back on it, it brings me to shivers. For the next couple of months, my only real job in life was to recover. Give my body time to heal. And I did just that. I started a few projects around the house I hadn't really had much time before to do; to keep my mind occupied. I meditated and prayed, quite often. I renewed my faith and my inner determination to get through this and come out on the other side a stronger person. I wasn't done yet. I still had a major surgery looming in my future. But for the time being, it was a time of rest.
The next few months were a whirlwind of tests, exams, and doctor visits. I was poked at so many times with so many needles, I was beginning to resemble a street junkie with a serious heroin addiction. And oh, the paperwork. For every new doctor, comes new paperwork. I actually got a little sarcastic and slightly ridiculous a couple times filling them out. I do hope some overworked, stressed out, medical receptionist enjoyed my attempt at humor. Maybe not. And there were a lot of questions. Being so young, with what is normally considered an "old-person" disease, naturally the medical field was very interested in my case, so there were a few odd inquiries. For instance, I had one doctor who just came right out and asked me bluntly if I had ever had anal sex. Not that there's necessarily any medical data that would link anal sex to ass cancer, but hey, I guess he was either just nosy or thought maybe he had stumbled upon something perhaps revolutionary. I took a DNA test to see if there was a genetic link predisposing me to certain types of cancer, including colorectal cancer. Nope. Not that either.
What they did know was that the tumor was large and aggressive. I don't remember exactly how large; I did see scan results with the exact centimeter size, but it just didn't mean much to me. (According to one doctor, any tumor over the size of your fingernail is considered significant.) Which meant, I didn't have time to waste as far as beginning treatment. They wanted to act just as aggressively. Not long after, about mid-October I began a combo of radiation therapy and chemotherapy. For five days a week, for five straight weeks, I underwent radiation with two oral chemo pills to be taken morning and night. I can't lie. It was five long weeks of pure hell.
Radiation as they described it to me was like getting a bad sunburn. And yeah, I guess that's kind of what it felt like. Of course, having a sunburn on your bottom is no fun if you can imagine. I can literally say my ass was pretty chapped! It hurt to sit. Hell, it hurt to lie down. Everything hurt. Diarrhea was back with a vengeance, I was dropping weight to the point of anorexia, I was in constant pain, dehydrated, and just overall about as miserable as a person can be. I was starting to look forward to a colostomy. No joke. Anything was better than this. As for the colostomy, the reality was setting in. The hope with radiation and chemo was to shrink the tumor as much as possible, but the chances of radiating it completely were very slim. And because the tumor extended down into my anus, reconstructing the colon wasn't very feasible either. I received the maximum amount of radiation allowed. The chemo pills were no fun either, but honestly, it was hard to tell what the Devil in the situation was. People ask what was the worst part, or what caused the most discomfort. But the truth is, when you go through so much at once (don't forget our old friend C-Diff or the abscess) you really have no idea what is causing what. Everything in your body is screaming in agony and you can't point the finger at any one particular cause.
And yes, the abscess that triggered that first doctor appointment had returned. Actually, it never fully left. Combined with the high doses of radiation, it basically turned into the nuclear, Godzilla of abscesses. During my last week or two of radiation, I finally had it surgically drained. That was no barrel of monkeys either. (So sorry to keep being the bearer of bad news but I'm just being honest.) After the surgery, my poor, dear Mother had the unfortunate job of having to pack my butt cheek every day with fresh gauze strips. It did eventually heal after much trial and tribulation. Thank heavens. That was a pain unlike any other, that I never care to experience again.
November 20, 2014 - After five excruciating weeks, I was done with that phase. I did live through it. And my testimony is that a person can endure a lot more than they think they can. Sometimes you just have to bite down on the belt strap so to speak and hang in there until it's over. But, whew! Just looking back on it, it brings me to shivers. For the next couple of months, my only real job in life was to recover. Give my body time to heal. And I did just that. I started a few projects around the house I hadn't really had much time before to do; to keep my mind occupied. I meditated and prayed, quite often. I renewed my faith and my inner determination to get through this and come out on the other side a stronger person. I wasn't done yet. I still had a major surgery looming in my future. But for the time being, it was a time of rest.
Monday, May 4, 2015
Deep Thoughts...
...by Jack Handey. Nope. Just kidding. It's just me.
I've learned a lot while having cancer and more importantly, I've learned a lot about myself. Not long after my diagnosis someone gave me an AARP magazine with an article featuring Melissa Etheridge and Sheryl Crow and their battles with cancer. In the article they talked about how cancer changed their lives, and at least to some extent, for the better. They revealed how they used their diagnosis as a time of reflection, a time to reevaluate their lives, and the strength they gained from it. They are quoted referring to cancer as "A gift".
It really struck me. Here were two women I admired and respected talking about surviving cancer and how it had really been, in many ways, a blessing. It inspired me. It gave me hope, and helped to change my perspective. Instead of looking at this as the end-all, be-all most terrible thing ever, I could look at as a second chance. A second chance to live. To live the way I wanted to. To do the things I wanted to do. To make changes in my life so that I was living a more fulfilled life. And that's not to say I had a bad first half. On the contrary, I have been very fortunate thus far and have lived quite a great life I think. I have had the chances to travel to many places and see a lot of this country, and small parts of other ones. And traveling is one of my passions in life. But, due to whatever circumstances, I haven't really done as much traveling as I would have really liked over the last few years. I've also only come to really realize how unhappy I was in my former career. A career that I had worked hard at for over fifteen years, pushing myself to continue down that career path, inching my way up further in the pecking order of things, making a little more money each time, but only now understanding that's just not that important anymore. And the truth is, the real honest truth, I was never even that good at it. I mean, I was good, I'm not gonna sit here and self deprecate for humility's sake. I worked my butt off during long hours in the studio in college, to long hours sitting behind a desk - only to photoshop someone else's idea of what was good for business. I was selling someone else's dream. But I wasn't GOOD at it. I didn't love it. I didn't spend my off hours perfecting my craft or trying to stay abreast of the latest trends and new tools. In theory, it even goes against my personal thoughts on the misconception that advertising portrays and my distaste for the over photo enhanced world that surrounds us, and the message it sells, most especially the body image/false sense of beauty, it reinforces in impressionable young people.
I always knew I wanted to go into a creative field. I dabbled with four different college majors, starting in liberal arts just to get some basics, moving on to photography for a bit, and did a brief stint in interior design, before settling on graphic design. A decision that was made, in large part, thanks to a young cutie I met at UNA during orientation, who by the way, kept peeking at my class schedule selection so he could arrange his classes to match some of mine. We later sat beside each other at an 8:00 am Art History 101 class, on those days in which I decided to actually show up. (I had figured out I didn't actually have to be there to memorize the necessary slides with paintings, artist's names and dates in order to ace the exams. This is also why, as an art history minor, I am not very good at trivia games involving art history.)
So here I am now, 37 years old, medically unable to work and using it as a chance to try and figure out what it is that I want to do when I grow up. Taking inspiration from women who have been where I am. Because I know that one day this whole cancer thing will all be over. I want to be able to step away from it having learned something - to grow from the experience. I want to become a better person, with better habits and a greater consciousness about how precious each day is. To have the courage to pursue my own dreams and live the life I was meant to live. I want to live life knowing that at any moment it can be taken from us, so treasure the good moments and let go of the bad. One of the many things I have learned is that most problems in life can be fixed; certainly most of the problems that keep us lying awake at night, losing sleep due to useless worry. And most of them we have created for ourselves anyway. And sometimes it takes a tragedy to appreciate that.
I've learned a lot while having cancer and more importantly, I've learned a lot about myself. Not long after my diagnosis someone gave me an AARP magazine with an article featuring Melissa Etheridge and Sheryl Crow and their battles with cancer. In the article they talked about how cancer changed their lives, and at least to some extent, for the better. They revealed how they used their diagnosis as a time of reflection, a time to reevaluate their lives, and the strength they gained from it. They are quoted referring to cancer as "A gift".
It really struck me. Here were two women I admired and respected talking about surviving cancer and how it had really been, in many ways, a blessing. It inspired me. It gave me hope, and helped to change my perspective. Instead of looking at this as the end-all, be-all most terrible thing ever, I could look at as a second chance. A second chance to live. To live the way I wanted to. To do the things I wanted to do. To make changes in my life so that I was living a more fulfilled life. And that's not to say I had a bad first half. On the contrary, I have been very fortunate thus far and have lived quite a great life I think. I have had the chances to travel to many places and see a lot of this country, and small parts of other ones. And traveling is one of my passions in life. But, due to whatever circumstances, I haven't really done as much traveling as I would have really liked over the last few years. I've also only come to really realize how unhappy I was in my former career. A career that I had worked hard at for over fifteen years, pushing myself to continue down that career path, inching my way up further in the pecking order of things, making a little more money each time, but only now understanding that's just not that important anymore. And the truth is, the real honest truth, I was never even that good at it. I mean, I was good, I'm not gonna sit here and self deprecate for humility's sake. I worked my butt off during long hours in the studio in college, to long hours sitting behind a desk - only to photoshop someone else's idea of what was good for business. I was selling someone else's dream. But I wasn't GOOD at it. I didn't love it. I didn't spend my off hours perfecting my craft or trying to stay abreast of the latest trends and new tools. In theory, it even goes against my personal thoughts on the misconception that advertising portrays and my distaste for the over photo enhanced world that surrounds us, and the message it sells, most especially the body image/false sense of beauty, it reinforces in impressionable young people.
I always knew I wanted to go into a creative field. I dabbled with four different college majors, starting in liberal arts just to get some basics, moving on to photography for a bit, and did a brief stint in interior design, before settling on graphic design. A decision that was made, in large part, thanks to a young cutie I met at UNA during orientation, who by the way, kept peeking at my class schedule selection so he could arrange his classes to match some of mine. We later sat beside each other at an 8:00 am Art History 101 class, on those days in which I decided to actually show up. (I had figured out I didn't actually have to be there to memorize the necessary slides with paintings, artist's names and dates in order to ace the exams. This is also why, as an art history minor, I am not very good at trivia games involving art history.)
So here I am now, 37 years old, medically unable to work and using it as a chance to try and figure out what it is that I want to do when I grow up. Taking inspiration from women who have been where I am. Because I know that one day this whole cancer thing will all be over. I want to be able to step away from it having learned something - to grow from the experience. I want to become a better person, with better habits and a greater consciousness about how precious each day is. To have the courage to pursue my own dreams and live the life I was meant to live. I want to live life knowing that at any moment it can be taken from us, so treasure the good moments and let go of the bad. One of the many things I have learned is that most problems in life can be fixed; certainly most of the problems that keep us lying awake at night, losing sleep due to useless worry. And most of them we have created for ourselves anyway. And sometimes it takes a tragedy to appreciate that.
Monday, April 27, 2015
Just another shitty day
So I promised myself I would make every effort to update my blog at least once weekly, and strive to keep it on a fairly regular schedule; aiming for every Monday. It's been a long day of errands and chores, and quite frankly, I'm tuckered out. BUT, I promised. So, here goes. I thought we could take a slight detour from the previous posts and go for a slightly more amusing story.
Throughout the entire pre-cancer diagnosis and in the months to follow, I can't stress enough just how bad my bowel situation was. Now for anyone who is squeamish or uncomfortable hearing poop stories, you should probably just stop reading. But, for the rest of you, you have to consider that my cancer was in my colon, so a large majority of my stories revolve around pooping, or the lack thereof, or the overabundance thereof. Depends on which day, or sometimes hour, we are specifically discussing. This particular story takes place during a diarrhea stage. In addition to the abscess, and the cancer, I also endured an unfortunate bout of C-Diff. Twice, actually, but this was the first occurrence. If you are unfamiliar with c-diff - to sum up what I know about it - it's a naturally occurring bacteria found in the digestive tract of healthy, normally functioning digestive systems, with a much longer, harder to pronounce official scientific name. However, large doses of antibiotics kill off not only harmful bacteria in your system, but also the good ones. And sometimes, during such times, the normally harmless c-diff hanging out in your body all of a sudden turns into the kudzu of bacteria taking over and wreaking havoc on your body. Left unchecked, it can lead to hospitalization, and in rare cases, even death. The most obvious symptom is severe diarrhea. I was unaware at this point, that I even had c-diff, it wasn't diagnosed until later on. I just knew everything down there was completely screwed up and it made life miserable, and quite frankly, I never knew what to expect from day to day. It seemed to range from constipation to diarrhea and at times, within the same day.
On this particular day, I had both a CT Scan and MRI scheduled. My mom, being the absolute trooper that she is and has been, had driven me to the hospital, as was usually the case. We get there. They give me some large, 32 oz. cup of pre-CT liquid prep to drink and we get settled into the waiting room. You have to wait approximately one hour from the time you start drinking before you can do the CT. So, we are in there for awhile. They call me back for my CT. Everything goes fine, no hitches. Afterward, they take me back to a separate, kind of private waiting room, while I wait to get my MRI. It was cold, so they gave me a nice, warm blanket to wrap up in. I'm sitting in this room, alone, that was, eh, maybe bigger than your standard walk-in closet. There's a TV on the wall across from my chair and a bathroom about 10 feet or so to my right. I'm sitting there, wrapped in my blanket, purse in my lap, watching whatever was on the tube, patiently waiting. THEN IT HITS ME. My stomach rolled over on itself. I panicked. I was wrapped up all snugly, and I couldn't move. I am frantically trying to unravel myself, finally manage to get the blanket off me, flinging my purse in the floor, and make a mad, insane dash to the bathroom door. It's no more than ten feet. Ten small feet. I can make it.
I didn't make it. I barely managed to even get the door slammed behind me, when it's already starting to run down my leg. I half trip over the toilet and finish what has already begun. I finish my business and start to assess the situation. Without getting into anymore graphic detail than necessary, all I can say is that my lower half is pretty much shit soaked. Fortunately, my socks and shoes were spared, though two more seconds in that blanket would have most likely ruined them too. My panties and yoga pants are covered in poop. My legs are covered in poop. Watery, watery poop. First order of business, remove pants/panties and clean myself up. So I strip down to nothing but my t-shirt and hobble over to the sink where I clean up with soap, water and paper towels. Okay, I'm clean, now what? I look at my pile of clothes. There is no way they are salvageable. This is not a case of a spot or two here or there, I'm telling ya, they are covered. I hear shuffling feet in the small waiting room outside, most likely someone looking for me, I think. And probably wondering what the hell happened outside to cause such an Armageddon of blanket and purse. Perhaps I was kidnapped. I crack the door slightly and poke my head out. There's a male nurse standing in the room. "Ummmm, I'm gonna need some assistance." He asks me if I would like for him to get a female nurse. "Yes. That would be great." I close the door. And I stand there. In my t-shirt and socks that I had put back on.
A few minutes later, there's a knock on the door, and she asks if she can come in. "Yes." She opens the door and there I am. T-shirt and socks. Just standing there. Feeling a bit shell-shocked and of course, completely embarrassed. "I shit myself." Now, there may have been more eloquent ways of explaining the situation, but that's honestly the only thing I could to say. I mean, well, that's what happened. No two ways about it.
God bless medical professionals. They have seen it all, and absolutely nothing seems to faze them. She never even blinked twice; just asked me if I would like a pair of hospital pants (scrubs). Hospital pants!!!!!! YES, YES, and More YES. I had never even thought about hospital pants as a viable option to my current predicament. I tell her yes, please, and thank you. Just a few moments later, I was dressed again. Granted, hospital pants are a one-size-fits-all kind of deal, and these easily could have fit a 300 pound grown man, and at this point, I'm not even a buck-oh-five soaking wet. But whatever. They are clean and they cover my bare bottom. I'm thrilled. I dispose of my old clothes in the trash and go in for my MRI. All ends well, and I gather my purse, and walk out to the main waiting room to meet my mom.
Her first words to me? "Where are your pants???"
"Weeeeellllllllll....... it's a long story."
Throughout the entire pre-cancer diagnosis and in the months to follow, I can't stress enough just how bad my bowel situation was. Now for anyone who is squeamish or uncomfortable hearing poop stories, you should probably just stop reading. But, for the rest of you, you have to consider that my cancer was in my colon, so a large majority of my stories revolve around pooping, or the lack thereof, or the overabundance thereof. Depends on which day, or sometimes hour, we are specifically discussing. This particular story takes place during a diarrhea stage. In addition to the abscess, and the cancer, I also endured an unfortunate bout of C-Diff. Twice, actually, but this was the first occurrence. If you are unfamiliar with c-diff - to sum up what I know about it - it's a naturally occurring bacteria found in the digestive tract of healthy, normally functioning digestive systems, with a much longer, harder to pronounce official scientific name. However, large doses of antibiotics kill off not only harmful bacteria in your system, but also the good ones. And sometimes, during such times, the normally harmless c-diff hanging out in your body all of a sudden turns into the kudzu of bacteria taking over and wreaking havoc on your body. Left unchecked, it can lead to hospitalization, and in rare cases, even death. The most obvious symptom is severe diarrhea. I was unaware at this point, that I even had c-diff, it wasn't diagnosed until later on. I just knew everything down there was completely screwed up and it made life miserable, and quite frankly, I never knew what to expect from day to day. It seemed to range from constipation to diarrhea and at times, within the same day.
On this particular day, I had both a CT Scan and MRI scheduled. My mom, being the absolute trooper that she is and has been, had driven me to the hospital, as was usually the case. We get there. They give me some large, 32 oz. cup of pre-CT liquid prep to drink and we get settled into the waiting room. You have to wait approximately one hour from the time you start drinking before you can do the CT. So, we are in there for awhile. They call me back for my CT. Everything goes fine, no hitches. Afterward, they take me back to a separate, kind of private waiting room, while I wait to get my MRI. It was cold, so they gave me a nice, warm blanket to wrap up in. I'm sitting in this room, alone, that was, eh, maybe bigger than your standard walk-in closet. There's a TV on the wall across from my chair and a bathroom about 10 feet or so to my right. I'm sitting there, wrapped in my blanket, purse in my lap, watching whatever was on the tube, patiently waiting. THEN IT HITS ME. My stomach rolled over on itself. I panicked. I was wrapped up all snugly, and I couldn't move. I am frantically trying to unravel myself, finally manage to get the blanket off me, flinging my purse in the floor, and make a mad, insane dash to the bathroom door. It's no more than ten feet. Ten small feet. I can make it.
I didn't make it. I barely managed to even get the door slammed behind me, when it's already starting to run down my leg. I half trip over the toilet and finish what has already begun. I finish my business and start to assess the situation. Without getting into anymore graphic detail than necessary, all I can say is that my lower half is pretty much shit soaked. Fortunately, my socks and shoes were spared, though two more seconds in that blanket would have most likely ruined them too. My panties and yoga pants are covered in poop. My legs are covered in poop. Watery, watery poop. First order of business, remove pants/panties and clean myself up. So I strip down to nothing but my t-shirt and hobble over to the sink where I clean up with soap, water and paper towels. Okay, I'm clean, now what? I look at my pile of clothes. There is no way they are salvageable. This is not a case of a spot or two here or there, I'm telling ya, they are covered. I hear shuffling feet in the small waiting room outside, most likely someone looking for me, I think. And probably wondering what the hell happened outside to cause such an Armageddon of blanket and purse. Perhaps I was kidnapped. I crack the door slightly and poke my head out. There's a male nurse standing in the room. "Ummmm, I'm gonna need some assistance." He asks me if I would like for him to get a female nurse. "Yes. That would be great." I close the door. And I stand there. In my t-shirt and socks that I had put back on.
A few minutes later, there's a knock on the door, and she asks if she can come in. "Yes." She opens the door and there I am. T-shirt and socks. Just standing there. Feeling a bit shell-shocked and of course, completely embarrassed. "I shit myself." Now, there may have been more eloquent ways of explaining the situation, but that's honestly the only thing I could to say. I mean, well, that's what happened. No two ways about it.
God bless medical professionals. They have seen it all, and absolutely nothing seems to faze them. She never even blinked twice; just asked me if I would like a pair of hospital pants (scrubs). Hospital pants!!!!!! YES, YES, and More YES. I had never even thought about hospital pants as a viable option to my current predicament. I tell her yes, please, and thank you. Just a few moments later, I was dressed again. Granted, hospital pants are a one-size-fits-all kind of deal, and these easily could have fit a 300 pound grown man, and at this point, I'm not even a buck-oh-five soaking wet. But whatever. They are clean and they cover my bare bottom. I'm thrilled. I dispose of my old clothes in the trash and go in for my MRI. All ends well, and I gather my purse, and walk out to the main waiting room to meet my mom.
Her first words to me? "Where are your pants???"
"Weeeeellllllllll....... it's a long story."
Monday, April 20, 2015
The Evolution of My Ass Part 2
September 5, 2014
I am scheduled for a colonoscopy. If you've never had one, they are horrible. The procedure itself is no big deal. They put you to sleep, you wake up, it's over. It's the day before that sucks. You can have nothing but clear liquids all day, and you must drink the most gawd awful tasting drink to cleanse yourself. Then the cleansing begins. Liquid, explosive, uncontrollable diarrhea for the next few hours. Rule #1: stay close to the bathroom. Like, just get a pillow and get comfortable in the bathroom. You're not going anywhere too far. Forget wearing pants. You will just ruin them.
I go in for the procedure. They put me to sleep. And then, poof, it's all over! I sort of half wake up on the ride home. I am starving, so we (my mom, dad and me) go to a nearby Chinese buffet. I stumble around the buffet looking like I've been on a three day drunk. My mom walks behind me to keep me from falling. I notice a few strange glances from other customers. I don't care. I weeble wobble my way back to the table. I dig in.
"Oh, yeah, so what did the doctor say? Did he tell y'all anything after my procedure?" It's all a blur. I still feel quite loopy from the anesthesia.
The exact exchange is still blurry. All I really remember hearing is the word CANCER. "You have a tumor. They want to start chemo and radiation immediately."
Time stops. What? Me? A tumor? Cancer? Radiation? Chemo? Oh My God, my hair is gonna fall out. ....I swear that was my first real thought. I've been on some heavy drugs that are still floating around my system, clouding my brain. I start to cry - right there at the table of a Chinese restaurant. I can't stop it. The tears just start flowing. This can't be right. But for some reason, I am not as surprised as maybe I should have been. I think I already knew. I don't know, I think the subconscious knows more than it lets on at times. Denial is not a river in Egypt.
We finish lunch; well, sort of. My appetite is suddenly gone. The car ride home is a quiet one. I get home, exhausted from the procedure and the anesthesia. I make myself comfortable and start sending messages to my friends. A few even come over to visit, and tell me how much they love me. I don't fully understand what is happening, but I am determined to accept my fate and face it head on. No worries, right?
Later that evening, my mom and I are talking about the cancer and what it means. She is trying to explain that according to the doctor I will need to undergo radiation and chemo, followed by a surgery. I am not thrilled about the idea of radiation or chemo. "Why can't we just skip right to the surgery part?" She doesn't really answer. I press on. So now I am being stubborn. "But I don't want chemo! I don't want to go through that!" I am getting frustrated. So is my mom. We start to argue. She is getting more and more agitated, which is only infuriating me further. Finally, she explodes. "You don't understand, Jennifer!" She is practically yelling and visibly tearing up. "If they can't shrink the tumor with radiation and chemo, you are going to have to have a colostomy!" "Permanently!!!" At this point, she completely breaks down and is completely sobbing.
The words hit me like a Mack truck. I can't breathe. I can't move. I can't think. If hearing I had cancer earlier in the day stopped time, hearing the word colostomy completely froze it. It was like being punched in the gut; you can't get oxygen and your whole body is paralyzed briefly. I think I yelled at her. I am not really sure. What I do know is that I bawled my eyes out. It all came crashing down on me as the gravity of the situation started to hit me. This was not going to be one of those easy fixes in life. No. This was some serious shit. No pun intended. I still did not know what lie ahead down the road, but I knew for certain it was going to be a rough ride.
Time stops. What? Me? A tumor? Cancer? Radiation? Chemo? Oh My God, my hair is gonna fall out. ....I swear that was my first real thought. I've been on some heavy drugs that are still floating around my system, clouding my brain. I start to cry - right there at the table of a Chinese restaurant. I can't stop it. The tears just start flowing. This can't be right. But for some reason, I am not as surprised as maybe I should have been. I think I already knew. I don't know, I think the subconscious knows more than it lets on at times. Denial is not a river in Egypt.
We finish lunch; well, sort of. My appetite is suddenly gone. The car ride home is a quiet one. I get home, exhausted from the procedure and the anesthesia. I make myself comfortable and start sending messages to my friends. A few even come over to visit, and tell me how much they love me. I don't fully understand what is happening, but I am determined to accept my fate and face it head on. No worries, right?
Later that evening, my mom and I are talking about the cancer and what it means. She is trying to explain that according to the doctor I will need to undergo radiation and chemo, followed by a surgery. I am not thrilled about the idea of radiation or chemo. "Why can't we just skip right to the surgery part?" She doesn't really answer. I press on. So now I am being stubborn. "But I don't want chemo! I don't want to go through that!" I am getting frustrated. So is my mom. We start to argue. She is getting more and more agitated, which is only infuriating me further. Finally, she explodes. "You don't understand, Jennifer!" She is practically yelling and visibly tearing up. "If they can't shrink the tumor with radiation and chemo, you are going to have to have a colostomy!" "Permanently!!!" At this point, she completely breaks down and is completely sobbing.
The words hit me like a Mack truck. I can't breathe. I can't move. I can't think. If hearing I had cancer earlier in the day stopped time, hearing the word colostomy completely froze it. It was like being punched in the gut; you can't get oxygen and your whole body is paralyzed briefly. I think I yelled at her. I am not really sure. What I do know is that I bawled my eyes out. It all came crashing down on me as the gravity of the situation started to hit me. This was not going to be one of those easy fixes in life. No. This was some serious shit. No pun intended. I still did not know what lie ahead down the road, but I knew for certain it was going to be a rough ride.
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