Another Christmas Eve is coming to a close; another Christmas approaches. I have shopped and baked and wrapped and worked and cleaned and laundered and prayed and sang and danced and dined and hugged and kissed and laughed and cried and picked and packed. It is time to stop and sit and appreciate the "reason for the season" - the birth of Jesus.
I sat in church (St. Joseph's, along with Taryn and Warren) tonight and gazed at the 2 tapestry panels above the altar, one depicting the manger scene, the other the approach of the 3 wise men and I tried to imagine what it must have been like that holy night 2,010 years ago. I listened to the choirs joyfully sing about the coming of our Savior and joined in the chorus of voices around me. And I allowed myself to really hear the priest's homily instead of thinking about what I had left to do before tomorrow. How wonderful to be able to reflect on the greatest gift of all in the company of those I love.
The dizzying whirlwind of activity will begin anew tomorrow - opening presents, making breakfast for my family, last-minute packing for my trip with Taryn (a cruise to Grand Cayman and Cozumel!), and finally a trip to the airport where Warren will see us off. And it will continue up until and well into the new year I'm sure. But for now...I sit in joyful contemplation of His Coming and thank God for the blessing of another Christmas with all of you.
Blessings and Love to All.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Your Presence
"The more time we spend thinking about the past and the future, the less time we spend in the present." - Leslie Van Bell
Although I did not know her, the death of Elizabeth Edwards hit me hard this week, a stark reminder of where stage IV breast cancer can lead in a very short period of time. In a weird way, completely illogical and unscientific, Elizabeth Edwards was my "standard" - her diagnosis, at the outset, was worse than mine. As long as she was alive and hanging on I was "safe." There was no way my cancer would progress faster than hers. Worse, after my most recent diagnosis, I'd used her as an example to my kids of someone who could live with tumors in their body and still be OK. Let's hope they don't remember that.
I cried when I heard she was gravely ill, that the cancer had spread to her liver, and I cried again upon hearing the next day that she had passed. I feel sad for her children; I think about the fact that she didn't get "just one more Christmas" with them; I wonder if I will be as capable as she seemed to be of holding on to hope and grace and dignity in the face of a terminal diagnosis. And I eventually, humbly realize that it is as she said: "The days of our lives, for all of us, are numbered."
It is a time of year when we seek to feel the presence both of God and of those we have lost, and perhaps they are intertwined. I don't know how or why but my memory is sometimes triggered by losses from long ago (Lauren Bellis, Cynthia Rech), losses of those I didn't know but who touched me nonetheless (Elizabeth, John Lennon), losses of heroes (Vinnie Kane, Jim Ryan), recent losses (Margaret, Charlie, Mickey, Patricia), and losses of loved ones (Mom, Julie, Aunt Pat) and I imagine (somewhat selfishly) that all are watching over me. I would like to believe that when these thoughts come unbidden about any of those I've lost, that it is God's way of making His and their presence known to me in an effort to provide comfort in a time of need.
Presence. Presents. Present. I can't help but continue to hope for all. Yes, even presents...like Christian Laboutin shoes (well, in keeping with the spirit of the season they ARE Christian!). And to honor Elizabeth and all the other inpsirational stage IV survivors out there, I'd like to include one of her last comments:
"I have found that in the simple act of living with hope, and in the daily effort to have a positive impact in the world, the days I do have are made all the more meaningful and precious. And for that I am grateful."
All I can say is...me too.
Blessings and Love to All.
Although I did not know her, the death of Elizabeth Edwards hit me hard this week, a stark reminder of where stage IV breast cancer can lead in a very short period of time. In a weird way, completely illogical and unscientific, Elizabeth Edwards was my "standard" - her diagnosis, at the outset, was worse than mine. As long as she was alive and hanging on I was "safe." There was no way my cancer would progress faster than hers. Worse, after my most recent diagnosis, I'd used her as an example to my kids of someone who could live with tumors in their body and still be OK. Let's hope they don't remember that.
I cried when I heard she was gravely ill, that the cancer had spread to her liver, and I cried again upon hearing the next day that she had passed. I feel sad for her children; I think about the fact that she didn't get "just one more Christmas" with them; I wonder if I will be as capable as she seemed to be of holding on to hope and grace and dignity in the face of a terminal diagnosis. And I eventually, humbly realize that it is as she said: "The days of our lives, for all of us, are numbered."
It is a time of year when we seek to feel the presence both of God and of those we have lost, and perhaps they are intertwined. I don't know how or why but my memory is sometimes triggered by losses from long ago (Lauren Bellis, Cynthia Rech), losses of those I didn't know but who touched me nonetheless (Elizabeth, John Lennon), losses of heroes (Vinnie Kane, Jim Ryan), recent losses (Margaret, Charlie, Mickey, Patricia), and losses of loved ones (Mom, Julie, Aunt Pat) and I imagine (somewhat selfishly) that all are watching over me. I would like to believe that when these thoughts come unbidden about any of those I've lost, that it is God's way of making His and their presence known to me in an effort to provide comfort in a time of need.
Presence. Presents. Present. I can't help but continue to hope for all. Yes, even presents...like Christian Laboutin shoes (well, in keeping with the spirit of the season they ARE Christian!). And to honor Elizabeth and all the other inpsirational stage IV survivors out there, I'd like to include one of her last comments:
"I have found that in the simple act of living with hope, and in the daily effort to have a positive impact in the world, the days I do have are made all the more meaningful and precious. And for that I am grateful."
All I can say is...me too.
Blessings and Love to All.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Breathless
This has been quite an eventful 10 days, starting with a Girls Night Out in New York City on the 19th and ending with my oncology visit and Zometa infusion yesterday. Oh yeah, and a little event called Thanksgiving worked its way into those 10 days. Yep – I’m exhausted. But Christmas is a-coming so there’s no time to relax just yet.
Let’s get the boring stuff out of the way. I met with my oncologist yesterday and she and my other doctor want to treat me with the Zometa every other month instead of every month in an effort to forestall any possible side effects related to jaw necrosis. So I had my treatment yesterday, but don’t have to go again until late January. So far I’ve had minimal side effects from either of the medications (some bone pain, some neuropathy, some fatigue) – nothing to write home about, as they say, and nothing that seems to interfere with my everyday activities. All the blood work looks good, my recent mammogram came out clean, and other than having a bunch of small tumors in my body I’m perfect!
Ahhh, Girls Night Out. My best pals, a fun restaurant, and 2-for1 martinis. You all get to see the “before” picture (above). We’ll keep the “after” pictures to ourselves. JK – we may not be the wildest bunch, but I find myself smiling and laughing an awful lot when we’re together. So Patty – what are we going to do for your 50th???
Thanksgiving was a usual frenzy of shopping, preparing, cooking, eating, drinking and football with an added dose of fun when Taryn and I ran a 5K Turkey Trot that morning. She had to do a 5K as a requirement for her Jogging class and asked me to run with her, this despite my not having run in a couple of years (my hips and knees just couldn’t tolerate it any more – spin, yoga, and Zumba seem to be much easier on the old joints). But guess what? We did great, better than expected although not nearly at the level I once was. Dinner was filled with laughter and toasts and enough food to send my uncle and stepdad and brother-in-law home with plenty of leftovers. We enjoyed the company of Emily’s college friend, Cat; we were grateful to have all 3 kids at our table this year; we offered our thanks for all that we are privileged to have; we groaned when it was time for dessert (“I’m so full!” was the standard lament), but sampled a little something anyway. We rooted for the Lions; we booed the Cowboys; and we cheered loudly for the Jets.
Of course, the best part of Thanksgiving weekend was yet to come – the annual Black Friday shopping trip to the outlets with Taryn! Up before dawn, out to Riverhead while the sky lightens, and into the shops as the rest of the world is just beginning to stir. Although a much more frugal trip than in years past, it was nonetheless very satisfying as was our lunch at Friendly’s afterwards. Top it off with a movie and a nice nap later and we agreed that it was an overall fantastic day.
Yep – I’m exhausted. But I am nothing if not appreciative of the fact that I still have the energy to do all this, that the inevitable deterioration of my body is not yet manifest, that putting together a Thanksgiving feast for those I love or sharing a meal with friends is not yet beyond my abilities. With so much to look forward to in the coming month (The birth of our Savior! The decorating of the house and tree! The sharing of gifts, both practical and magical! The vacation cruise planned with Taryn!) I am truly grateful that, for the time being at least, God has granted me physical strength as well as emotional strength.
Blessings and Love to All.
Let’s get the boring stuff out of the way. I met with my oncologist yesterday and she and my other doctor want to treat me with the Zometa every other month instead of every month in an effort to forestall any possible side effects related to jaw necrosis. So I had my treatment yesterday, but don’t have to go again until late January. So far I’ve had minimal side effects from either of the medications (some bone pain, some neuropathy, some fatigue) – nothing to write home about, as they say, and nothing that seems to interfere with my everyday activities. All the blood work looks good, my recent mammogram came out clean, and other than having a bunch of small tumors in my body I’m perfect!
Ahhh, Girls Night Out. My best pals, a fun restaurant, and 2-for1 martinis. You all get to see the “before” picture (above). We’ll keep the “after” pictures to ourselves. JK – we may not be the wildest bunch, but I find myself smiling and laughing an awful lot when we’re together. So Patty – what are we going to do for your 50th???
Thanksgiving was a usual frenzy of shopping, preparing, cooking, eating, drinking and football with an added dose of fun when Taryn and I ran a 5K Turkey Trot that morning. She had to do a 5K as a requirement for her Jogging class and asked me to run with her, this despite my not having run in a couple of years (my hips and knees just couldn’t tolerate it any more – spin, yoga, and Zumba seem to be much easier on the old joints). But guess what? We did great, better than expected although not nearly at the level I once was. Dinner was filled with laughter and toasts and enough food to send my uncle and stepdad and brother-in-law home with plenty of leftovers. We enjoyed the company of Emily’s college friend, Cat; we were grateful to have all 3 kids at our table this year; we offered our thanks for all that we are privileged to have; we groaned when it was time for dessert (“I’m so full!” was the standard lament), but sampled a little something anyway. We rooted for the Lions; we booed the Cowboys; and we cheered loudly for the Jets.
Of course, the best part of Thanksgiving weekend was yet to come – the annual Black Friday shopping trip to the outlets with Taryn! Up before dawn, out to Riverhead while the sky lightens, and into the shops as the rest of the world is just beginning to stir. Although a much more frugal trip than in years past, it was nonetheless very satisfying as was our lunch at Friendly’s afterwards. Top it off with a movie and a nice nap later and we agreed that it was an overall fantastic day.
Yep – I’m exhausted. But I am nothing if not appreciative of the fact that I still have the energy to do all this, that the inevitable deterioration of my body is not yet manifest, that putting together a Thanksgiving feast for those I love or sharing a meal with friends is not yet beyond my abilities. With so much to look forward to in the coming month (The birth of our Savior! The decorating of the house and tree! The sharing of gifts, both practical and magical! The vacation cruise planned with Taryn!) I am truly grateful that, for the time being at least, God has granted me physical strength as well as emotional strength.
Blessings and Love to All.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Hit Me With Your Best Shot
The last few days have been filled will shots of medicine, shots of vodka, and shots of reality. It will come as no shock to anyone that the shots of vodka are my preference!
Last Thursday I got the first infusion of the bisphosphonate drug Zometa that my oncologist now has me taking. It wasn’t fun (IV insertions rarely are), but it did go quickly and without any complications. I did have a fever and chills most of Friday, but that turned out to be unrelated to the drug and did resolve itself by Saturday. Unfortunately, it manifested itself in Warren on Saturday night, but again, by Sunday he was fine as well. Just a fluke illness, I suppose, and today I’m feeling good.
Saturday night was Girls’ Night In – my neighbors and I getting together at my house for “Cocktails and Cupcakes” (NOT “cocktail cupcakes” Carol – although your margarita cupcakes were quite divine!). We gathered together to enjoy a stiff drink (mmmm whipped cream vodka – thank you Jill!), a sugar rush (yep, we all ignored the fruit and veggie platters in favor of the salty and the savory), and stories that made us both laugh and cry ( MJ’s meatloaf anyone?). We missed those neighbors that couldn’t join us (Linda and Sue) and we toasted those of us that did. We tossed our shoes off, curled up on the couches, sipped our drinks, and talked about our kids, our husbands, our homes, our families, our pets, our health, our schools, our government, our neighborhood, our bad habits, our good qualities, our lives. Michelle had us crying, Sandra had us laughing, and Mary had us shaking our heads (“I’m leaving now. No I’m not.”). We took a picture to preserve the memory and posted in on Facebook to celebrate our good fortune with all of our friends. And…we all relished the extra hour of sleep afforded to us by Daylight Savings Time!
With a quiet football-filled Sunday to recover, it was back to reality on Monday. Very early this morning, I took my stepdad to Memorial Sloan-Kettering again for a further procedure that will hopefully keep his liver cancer at bay for some time to come. We are fortunate that it hasn’t spread yet, that it can be contained, but we are cognizant of the fact that this won’t always be so, and we pray that he enjoys many more years with us. He is tired of working so hard to stay healthy, regretful of youthful choices made that brought him down this path, fearful of more invasive treatments (hmmm…some of this sounds very familiar!). But he is grateful for his family and for his good-hearted lady friend Dee (who has taken such very good care of him); he still manages to enjoy a very good quality of life, with recent travels to Italy and Vermont; and he still jokes and teases as only he can (“you know that what I really have is kryptonite poisoning”). Please share some of the prayers you reserve for me with him as well.
Blessings and Love to All.
Last Thursday I got the first infusion of the bisphosphonate drug Zometa that my oncologist now has me taking. It wasn’t fun (IV insertions rarely are), but it did go quickly and without any complications. I did have a fever and chills most of Friday, but that turned out to be unrelated to the drug and did resolve itself by Saturday. Unfortunately, it manifested itself in Warren on Saturday night, but again, by Sunday he was fine as well. Just a fluke illness, I suppose, and today I’m feeling good.
Saturday night was Girls’ Night In – my neighbors and I getting together at my house for “Cocktails and Cupcakes” (NOT “cocktail cupcakes” Carol – although your margarita cupcakes were quite divine!). We gathered together to enjoy a stiff drink (mmmm whipped cream vodka – thank you Jill!), a sugar rush (yep, we all ignored the fruit and veggie platters in favor of the salty and the savory), and stories that made us both laugh and cry ( MJ’s meatloaf anyone?). We missed those neighbors that couldn’t join us (Linda and Sue) and we toasted those of us that did. We tossed our shoes off, curled up on the couches, sipped our drinks, and talked about our kids, our husbands, our homes, our families, our pets, our health, our schools, our government, our neighborhood, our bad habits, our good qualities, our lives. Michelle had us crying, Sandra had us laughing, and Mary had us shaking our heads (“I’m leaving now. No I’m not.”). We took a picture to preserve the memory and posted in on Facebook to celebrate our good fortune with all of our friends. And…we all relished the extra hour of sleep afforded to us by Daylight Savings Time!
With a quiet football-filled Sunday to recover, it was back to reality on Monday. Very early this morning, I took my stepdad to Memorial Sloan-Kettering again for a further procedure that will hopefully keep his liver cancer at bay for some time to come. We are fortunate that it hasn’t spread yet, that it can be contained, but we are cognizant of the fact that this won’t always be so, and we pray that he enjoys many more years with us. He is tired of working so hard to stay healthy, regretful of youthful choices made that brought him down this path, fearful of more invasive treatments (hmmm…some of this sounds very familiar!). But he is grateful for his family and for his good-hearted lady friend Dee (who has taken such very good care of him); he still manages to enjoy a very good quality of life, with recent travels to Italy and Vermont; and he still jokes and teases as only he can (“you know that what I really have is kryptonite poisoning”). Please share some of the prayers you reserve for me with him as well.
Blessings and Love to All.
Monday, November 1, 2010
No Surprise
After seeing my doctors last week, as expected (or at least as hoped for) there will be no major changes to my current treatment plan. No surgery, chemotherapy or radiation for now - just one medication being changed (the estrogen blocker) and one medication being added. The consensus is that the tumors are so small that they are not giving me any symptoms and therefore it would be best to try and contain their growth at this time with the aforementioned medications.
One medication (the estrogen blocker) is a pill taken once daily to replace the once-a-month shot that I had been getting. (Note: a short tutorial on estrogen blockers. I have a particular type of breast cancer that is called ER positive. That means my tumors grow when fed by estrogens, so medications that block circulating estrogens may help in stopping tumor growth or development. And despite the fact that I had my ovaries removed over 11 years ago - a long story - estrogen can still develop in one's body, for instance by eating fats. Surprise! - more cancer info you wish you never had. Me either.) The other medication is new, a bisphosphonate designed to reduce bone destruction and important for someone whose cancer has spread to the bone. This medicine will be infused once a month at the hospital, much like chemotherapy but without the benefit of that happily-altered-state-inducing Benadryl.
With both medications I've got a 3-page list of possible side effects so it'll be an adventure finding out which, if any, I develop. With luck there will be no surprises and I will continue my energetic, extraordinary, everyday existence at least until it's time for the next PET/CT scans to determine the effectiveness of this strategy (about 2 months from now).
I'm not quite sure how to convey how well I'm doing both physically and emotionally. While I have my moments (and always will, even if I live to 90), I truly feel that at this stage (ha ha cancer pun) it would be pointless to worry. I feel too good! And I am SO appreciative of all the good wishes I've received - as I told my pastor, keep the prayers coming because I've had good results so far. You are all my angels.
Blessings and Love to All.
One medication (the estrogen blocker) is a pill taken once daily to replace the once-a-month shot that I had been getting. (Note: a short tutorial on estrogen blockers. I have a particular type of breast cancer that is called ER positive. That means my tumors grow when fed by estrogens, so medications that block circulating estrogens may help in stopping tumor growth or development. And despite the fact that I had my ovaries removed over 11 years ago - a long story - estrogen can still develop in one's body, for instance by eating fats. Surprise! - more cancer info you wish you never had. Me either.) The other medication is new, a bisphosphonate designed to reduce bone destruction and important for someone whose cancer has spread to the bone. This medicine will be infused once a month at the hospital, much like chemotherapy but without the benefit of that happily-altered-state-inducing Benadryl.
With both medications I've got a 3-page list of possible side effects so it'll be an adventure finding out which, if any, I develop. With luck there will be no surprises and I will continue my energetic, extraordinary, everyday existence at least until it's time for the next PET/CT scans to determine the effectiveness of this strategy (about 2 months from now).
I'm not quite sure how to convey how well I'm doing both physically and emotionally. While I have my moments (and always will, even if I live to 90), I truly feel that at this stage (ha ha cancer pun) it would be pointless to worry. I feel too good! And I am SO appreciative of all the good wishes I've received - as I told my pastor, keep the prayers coming because I've had good results so far. You are all my angels.
Blessings and Love to All.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Love The Way You Lie
I’m not gonna lie – I was not expecting to have to bring you the news of another recurrence of my cancer so soon. According to my quite flawed and in no way scientific calculations, I shouldn’t have had to write this particular blog post until mid-2011 at the earliest. And yet, here we are.
This time, it is a tiny spot (i.e. less than 2 cm) in my shoulder (“the neck of the scapula” to be precise) that was found on my routine PET/CT on the 8th (you know it can’t be good when the oncologist calls you mere hours after you’ve completed the exam). Truthfully, I had kind of expected this news – a shoulder MRI that I’d had earlier for a separate (minor) problem showed a suspicious lesion and my tumor markers were rising. What I didn’t expect was that the PET also showed a few very small (“none larger than .8 cm”) lesions in my left armpit lymph nodes. That for sure didn’t mesh with the construct I’d fabricated for my disease based on its history - one small lesion at a time in the bone only, take care of that and then enjoy the time in between disease-free and maybe, just maybe I have beat it for good. My blissful state of denial is officially over.
“What does this mean?” I asked my oncologist, opening the door for a series of best-case scenario statements that may or may not turn out to be true:
“It might not even be cancerous – there’s no way to know for sure without a biopsy”
“Let’s do the blood work again – maybe the results were an anomaly”
“The tumors are so small it’s not even worth doing surgery/chemotherapy/radiation at this point, especially since you aren’t experiencing any pain”
“We should be able to control the tumor growth by continuing with the hormone therapy, maybe adding a drug to increase effectiveness”
I understand that metastatic breast cancer is incurable, but I often tell myself that maybe I will be the exception. I understand that I have already beaten so many odds by surviving as long as I have, but I eagerly devour stories of women with stage IV who’ve lived 17 years, 22 years, 27 years after diagnosis. I understand that this disease is, in fact, a killer (not necessarily of me, and not necessarily any time soon but a killer nonetheless) but I tell my children that it’s more like a chronic disease that must be managed (like diabetes or cold sores) so that they don’t worry while they’re away at college. And I understand that no one wants this diagnosis to be true about me, but it is and I am sorry for once again visiting it upon you.
My next oncologist’s appointment is later this week and I’m sure by then I will have a clearer picture of the treatment plan. I AM optimistic that it will not involve major surgery or debilitating chemo at this time – but I spend a lot of time fooling myself. And I’m glad I do.
Blessings and Love to All.
This time, it is a tiny spot (i.e. less than 2 cm) in my shoulder (“the neck of the scapula” to be precise) that was found on my routine PET/CT on the 8th (you know it can’t be good when the oncologist calls you mere hours after you’ve completed the exam). Truthfully, I had kind of expected this news – a shoulder MRI that I’d had earlier for a separate (minor) problem showed a suspicious lesion and my tumor markers were rising. What I didn’t expect was that the PET also showed a few very small (“none larger than .8 cm”) lesions in my left armpit lymph nodes. That for sure didn’t mesh with the construct I’d fabricated for my disease based on its history - one small lesion at a time in the bone only, take care of that and then enjoy the time in between disease-free and maybe, just maybe I have beat it for good. My blissful state of denial is officially over.
“What does this mean?” I asked my oncologist, opening the door for a series of best-case scenario statements that may or may not turn out to be true:
“It might not even be cancerous – there’s no way to know for sure without a biopsy”
“Let’s do the blood work again – maybe the results were an anomaly”
“The tumors are so small it’s not even worth doing surgery/chemotherapy/radiation at this point, especially since you aren’t experiencing any pain”
“We should be able to control the tumor growth by continuing with the hormone therapy, maybe adding a drug to increase effectiveness”
I understand that metastatic breast cancer is incurable, but I often tell myself that maybe I will be the exception. I understand that I have already beaten so many odds by surviving as long as I have, but I eagerly devour stories of women with stage IV who’ve lived 17 years, 22 years, 27 years after diagnosis. I understand that this disease is, in fact, a killer (not necessarily of me, and not necessarily any time soon but a killer nonetheless) but I tell my children that it’s more like a chronic disease that must be managed (like diabetes or cold sores) so that they don’t worry while they’re away at college. And I understand that no one wants this diagnosis to be true about me, but it is and I am sorry for once again visiting it upon you.
My next oncologist’s appointment is later this week and I’m sure by then I will have a clearer picture of the treatment plan. I AM optimistic that it will not involve major surgery or debilitating chemo at this time – but I spend a lot of time fooling myself. And I’m glad I do.
Blessings and Love to All.
Monday, October 11, 2010
I Wanna Be Sedated
Tuesday I finally went to get the dental implants in the left side of my jaw/fibula. While I didn’t feel I needed them for functionality (hey, I can eat steak and bagels! Who needs teeth?), my oral surgeon advised that they were necessary for overall jaw health both in the fibula bone and also for the opposing upper teeth.
This surgery actually scared me a bit more than the original surgery last year; I was fearful of damaging the fibula, which would have necessitated more (and more difficult) surgery than just implants. But it went well – despite the fact that my oral surgeon needed to use large chucks to get my mouth open wide enough for his dental instruments. Not surprisingly – it hurt like hell, at least until I was able to relax a little. And all of this without any kind of sedation, twilight sleep or laughing gas. In fact, he didn’t even have to massively numb my mouth because there’s no feeling in the jaw; he used just a little bit of novocaine “just in case.” Just in case? Is there a nerve there or not? It made me paranoid to the point where I flinched a few times despite not feeling any pain, just a little bit of pressure (well…a lot of pressure. It is bone after all). As uncomfortable as it was, though, it only took about an hour and I was feeling good enough afterward that I was able to head in to work.
The real fun began later. I left work a little early, after starting to feel some pain in the mandible, gum and cheek as the novocaine wore off. After filling my prescriptions (antibiotics, painkillers) I went home; ate a little (soft) something; marveled that I once again had a swollen face (not a good look for me, I can tell you); and realized the pain was pretty steady and strong and that I needed to partake of some Tylenol + Codeine. Now, I’m not a big fan of narcotics (always seem to have a headache the next day), but I do appreciate that they work and well, yeah, I do seem to get a nice, happy (temporary) buzz from them. So…I took one and sat down to watch my Monday night shows (thank God “House” didn’t feature any sicknesses, scans, or symptoms that I’m familiar with – usually I end up shouting out “Hey, I had that test!” at some point during the show). Three hours later I’m ready for bed and conscious of the fact that a) I am still in pain; and b) I am still completely sober and coherent. The painkiller has had no effect.
I make the fateful decision to take another, even though it hasn’t been 6 hours. The instructions (yes, I read them – this is DonnaLee we’re talking about here) did say that a patient might need two if one doesn’t work. Of course, they also said one could supplement with ibuprofen. But I figured after 3 hours another one would be fine (forgetting that these instructions may apply to a 180 pound man but not necessarily to a 110 pound woman) and that maybe, just maybe, it would be OK, that I could tolerate another dose just fine, especially since the first one seemed to be a dud. As Alex Rodriguez would say – “Ha!”
I woke up an hour or so later with some serious heartburn and a definite awareness of my now-altered state. I tried sitting up; I tried walking (um, staggering) a bit; I tried sleeping in different positions; and I finally went to the bathroom, just off our bedroom. Next thing I know, Warren is picking me up off the bathroom floor – he heard a thump. That was me…going down…with a bump on my head to prove it. According to Warren (the story now becomes his as I am clearly out of it), he tried to help me back to bed whereupon I had a small seizure (probably, as we later found out, due to dehydration as well as the medication) and lay rigid on the bed, eyes wide open, perhaps even not breathing. Poor Warren, with the telephone in hand ready to dial 911, thought I was gone. I mean, really gone. At least until a second later when I bolted upright, gasped, and told him I felt nauseous. The next hour was scary for both of us (at one point, Warren got cold and clammy and dizzy and I urged him to check the carbon monoxide detectors – but there were no CO readings and Pixie, our “shih-tzu in a coal mine” was fine), with me vomiting and Warren debating whether or not to run across the street to MJ’s for help. Luckily, I gradually felt better and after reading (again) the prescription information and warnings, I surmise that what I had probably experienced was a good old-fashioned drug overdose.
A day of recovery (no, not at the Betty Ford Treatment Center) on Wednesday and I was good as new, back at work, still swollen from the surgery but in no pain and eating and drinking normally. By the weekend I had plenty of energy (went to spin class Saturday, taught Sunday school, did laundry, cleaned the house, etc.) and I actually feel pretty darn good, even excited that in a few months when the jaw if fully healed, I’ll have teeth on the left side again.
And despite how frightening (for Warren more so than for me!) this incident was I am grateful that he didn’t call an ambulance. Can’t you picture it? “So you have incurable, metastatic breast cancer and this overdose was ‘accidental’ Ms. Stewart, is that correct? Are you…sure? Let’s give you a little sedative to take the edge off and talk about it here in our Psych ward for a few days!” To which I would need to respond – “Are you kidding me? And miss the Yankees winning their Division Series?” Now THAT would be crazy!
Blessings and Love to All.
This surgery actually scared me a bit more than the original surgery last year; I was fearful of damaging the fibula, which would have necessitated more (and more difficult) surgery than just implants. But it went well – despite the fact that my oral surgeon needed to use large chucks to get my mouth open wide enough for his dental instruments. Not surprisingly – it hurt like hell, at least until I was able to relax a little. And all of this without any kind of sedation, twilight sleep or laughing gas. In fact, he didn’t even have to massively numb my mouth because there’s no feeling in the jaw; he used just a little bit of novocaine “just in case.” Just in case? Is there a nerve there or not? It made me paranoid to the point where I flinched a few times despite not feeling any pain, just a little bit of pressure (well…a lot of pressure. It is bone after all). As uncomfortable as it was, though, it only took about an hour and I was feeling good enough afterward that I was able to head in to work.
The real fun began later. I left work a little early, after starting to feel some pain in the mandible, gum and cheek as the novocaine wore off. After filling my prescriptions (antibiotics, painkillers) I went home; ate a little (soft) something; marveled that I once again had a swollen face (not a good look for me, I can tell you); and realized the pain was pretty steady and strong and that I needed to partake of some Tylenol + Codeine. Now, I’m not a big fan of narcotics (always seem to have a headache the next day), but I do appreciate that they work and well, yeah, I do seem to get a nice, happy (temporary) buzz from them. So…I took one and sat down to watch my Monday night shows (thank God “House” didn’t feature any sicknesses, scans, or symptoms that I’m familiar with – usually I end up shouting out “Hey, I had that test!” at some point during the show). Three hours later I’m ready for bed and conscious of the fact that a) I am still in pain; and b) I am still completely sober and coherent. The painkiller has had no effect.
I make the fateful decision to take another, even though it hasn’t been 6 hours. The instructions (yes, I read them – this is DonnaLee we’re talking about here) did say that a patient might need two if one doesn’t work. Of course, they also said one could supplement with ibuprofen. But I figured after 3 hours another one would be fine (forgetting that these instructions may apply to a 180 pound man but not necessarily to a 110 pound woman) and that maybe, just maybe, it would be OK, that I could tolerate another dose just fine, especially since the first one seemed to be a dud. As Alex Rodriguez would say – “Ha!”
I woke up an hour or so later with some serious heartburn and a definite awareness of my now-altered state. I tried sitting up; I tried walking (um, staggering) a bit; I tried sleeping in different positions; and I finally went to the bathroom, just off our bedroom. Next thing I know, Warren is picking me up off the bathroom floor – he heard a thump. That was me…going down…with a bump on my head to prove it. According to Warren (the story now becomes his as I am clearly out of it), he tried to help me back to bed whereupon I had a small seizure (probably, as we later found out, due to dehydration as well as the medication) and lay rigid on the bed, eyes wide open, perhaps even not breathing. Poor Warren, with the telephone in hand ready to dial 911, thought I was gone. I mean, really gone. At least until a second later when I bolted upright, gasped, and told him I felt nauseous. The next hour was scary for both of us (at one point, Warren got cold and clammy and dizzy and I urged him to check the carbon monoxide detectors – but there were no CO readings and Pixie, our “shih-tzu in a coal mine” was fine), with me vomiting and Warren debating whether or not to run across the street to MJ’s for help. Luckily, I gradually felt better and after reading (again) the prescription information and warnings, I surmise that what I had probably experienced was a good old-fashioned drug overdose.
A day of recovery (no, not at the Betty Ford Treatment Center) on Wednesday and I was good as new, back at work, still swollen from the surgery but in no pain and eating and drinking normally. By the weekend I had plenty of energy (went to spin class Saturday, taught Sunday school, did laundry, cleaned the house, etc.) and I actually feel pretty darn good, even excited that in a few months when the jaw if fully healed, I’ll have teeth on the left side again.
And despite how frightening (for Warren more so than for me!) this incident was I am grateful that he didn’t call an ambulance. Can’t you picture it? “So you have incurable, metastatic breast cancer and this overdose was ‘accidental’ Ms. Stewart, is that correct? Are you…sure? Let’s give you a little sedative to take the edge off and talk about it here in our Psych ward for a few days!” To which I would need to respond – “Are you kidding me? And miss the Yankees winning their Division Series?” Now THAT would be crazy!
Blessings and Love to All.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Dancing With Myself
Tuesday night I’m home alone (Warren is on a job out of state) and I decide I’m going to slip on my iPod headphones and dance around the house, something I haven’t done for a long time (it just doesn’t feel quite right when there’s someone in the house). Truth be told, I’m an uncoordinated, awkward and uncreative dancer, but I make up for it with energy, passion and joyfulness. I dance to Def Leppard and I dance to Miriam Makeba; I dance to 80’s music and I dance to Lady Gaga; I make even the Hoff look skillful on the dance floor. But thirty minutes later I’m exhausted, sweaty and feeling pretty damn good.
Wednesday night I go to yoga and my amazing instructor Leslie shares a story about her 95 year old grandmother-in-law, who’s being cared for in a facility run by nuns, a story that ends with an observation about how the nuns caring for her are happy no matter what their circumstances because they see God in everyone around them. She then related that to what we say at the end of each class – “Namaste” – or bowing to the divine light within ourselves and in others around us, a similar concept. She invited us to really think about what that means and finished the discussion with a quote she had recently read in Yoga Journal magazine that immediately spoke to me – “I’m dancing better with the Divine all the time.” Which, to me, means that every day I get better at recognizing the divine in myself and in others, hopefully leading to a happier, more peaceful, more compassionate DonnaLee. And I can’t help but marvel (yet again) how certain things occur coincidentally.
So…Tuesday night…was I dancing with myself? Or was I dancing with the Divine and just didn’t know it at the time?
Blessings and Love to All.
Wednesday night I go to yoga and my amazing instructor Leslie shares a story about her 95 year old grandmother-in-law, who’s being cared for in a facility run by nuns, a story that ends with an observation about how the nuns caring for her are happy no matter what their circumstances because they see God in everyone around them. She then related that to what we say at the end of each class – “Namaste” – or bowing to the divine light within ourselves and in others around us, a similar concept. She invited us to really think about what that means and finished the discussion with a quote she had recently read in Yoga Journal magazine that immediately spoke to me – “I’m dancing better with the Divine all the time.” Which, to me, means that every day I get better at recognizing the divine in myself and in others, hopefully leading to a happier, more peaceful, more compassionate DonnaLee. And I can’t help but marvel (yet again) how certain things occur coincidentally.
So…Tuesday night…was I dancing with myself? Or was I dancing with the Divine and just didn’t know it at the time?
Blessings and Love to All.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Sweet Mary
Twenty years ago (what?!), Mary was my Lamaze coach when I was pregnant with Taryn. On the night I went into labor (11 days early), she was on a date (and it may have been a first date) attending a New York Knicks basketball game at Madison Square Garden. Already in the throes of labor; and having been given the news that my mother was not available to help as she had been hospitalized for dizziness earlier in the day; AND getting little to no real assistance from my other coach, Janet (recently returned from a Florida vacation and in no condition to remember any of the Lamaze teachings); AND having alienated my brother by screaming at him “Why didn’t you tell me about Mommy?!” (he stuck around my apartment anyhow, just quietly and as unobtrusively as possible); AND being exhausted from working a full day followed by pacing back and forth for a few hours as contractions came and went; I finally beeped Mary (I know – “BEEPED” – can you imagine?) to let her know she was needed. And fast.
She was an unbelievable model of efficiency once she arrived at my apartment – timing contractions, calling the doctor, arranging the transportation to the hospital, guiding me through the breathing exercises (“Blow out the candle. Blow out the candle.”), and finally joining me in the delivery room at 2:21 in the morning for Taryn’s birth. (Note to readers: Try to avoid having a single, childless person as your birth coach. After observing my antics and sometimes-over-the-top histrionics, I am surprised Mary still chose to go ahead and have Cecelia and Alana. Glad she did – but still surprised.) She was the first person I told about my pregnancy and the first person (besides me of course) to hold Taryn.
I am to this day profoundly in awe of her calm handling of this momentous event, which kind of set the stage for the next 20 years, as Mary stepped up again and again over those years to provide sage advice, stalwart friendship and soothing compassion. I could fill several blog pages with examples of her kindness, not only to me but to family, friends, and strangers - but all of you probably know this, and have your own stories of Mary’s positive impact on your lives. And it continues – she recently took 3 hours out of her night (a school night for the kids, you know what that means – she had plenty of other things to do!) to offer me a needed sounding board, a few laughs, some wise words (all right MANY wise words) and an update on all things Mary (which I confess I don’t ask for often enough!). As always, I left feeling extremely grateful to have such a special person in my life – after all, who else but Mary could have insistently, patiently pressed forward to insure that Galaganza took place?
Throughout the years that I have known Mary, one thought has consistently come to mind when I think about her – being friends with her makes me a better person AND... makes me want to be an even better person than that. I am filled with admiration for her intelligence, her loyalty, her compassion, her achievements, her determination, her equanimity, her pragmatism, her thoughtfulness, her patience, her humor, and her seemingly endless generosity. I’m glad she’s on my side, and I’m equally glad that she will call me on it if I am wrong (yes, yes, it does happen on occasion). She has been tolerant of my flaws and a champion of my strengths. She has dealt with her own adversities with courage and resolve. She is a wonderful mother, wife, daughter, sister, aunt, cousin, friend, co-worker, etc. She has made more people smile than I could ever possibly count. Mary is simply - a pretty awesome human being.
Blessings and Love to All.
She was an unbelievable model of efficiency once she arrived at my apartment – timing contractions, calling the doctor, arranging the transportation to the hospital, guiding me through the breathing exercises (“Blow out the candle. Blow out the candle.”), and finally joining me in the delivery room at 2:21 in the morning for Taryn’s birth. (Note to readers: Try to avoid having a single, childless person as your birth coach. After observing my antics and sometimes-over-the-top histrionics, I am surprised Mary still chose to go ahead and have Cecelia and Alana. Glad she did – but still surprised.) She was the first person I told about my pregnancy and the first person (besides me of course) to hold Taryn.
I am to this day profoundly in awe of her calm handling of this momentous event, which kind of set the stage for the next 20 years, as Mary stepped up again and again over those years to provide sage advice, stalwart friendship and soothing compassion. I could fill several blog pages with examples of her kindness, not only to me but to family, friends, and strangers - but all of you probably know this, and have your own stories of Mary’s positive impact on your lives. And it continues – she recently took 3 hours out of her night (a school night for the kids, you know what that means – she had plenty of other things to do!) to offer me a needed sounding board, a few laughs, some wise words (all right MANY wise words) and an update on all things Mary (which I confess I don’t ask for often enough!). As always, I left feeling extremely grateful to have such a special person in my life – after all, who else but Mary could have insistently, patiently pressed forward to insure that Galaganza took place?
Throughout the years that I have known Mary, one thought has consistently come to mind when I think about her – being friends with her makes me a better person AND... makes me want to be an even better person than that. I am filled with admiration for her intelligence, her loyalty, her compassion, her achievements, her determination, her equanimity, her pragmatism, her thoughtfulness, her patience, her humor, and her seemingly endless generosity. I’m glad she’s on my side, and I’m equally glad that she will call me on it if I am wrong (yes, yes, it does happen on occasion). She has been tolerant of my flaws and a champion of my strengths. She has dealt with her own adversities with courage and resolve. She is a wonderful mother, wife, daughter, sister, aunt, cousin, friend, co-worker, etc. She has made more people smile than I could ever possibly count. Mary is simply - a pretty awesome human being.
Blessings and Love to All.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Crazy Train
My sister, Bonnie, who turned 50 years old this year, won’t go get a mammogram. This despite the fact that her sister has a history of breast cancer. She won’t see a doctor for a breast exam or for any other reason. This despite the fact that she has free lifetime medical coverage through the Veteran’s Administration, having served in the Coast Guard for 4 years. She won’t stop smoking, drinking excessively, eating poorly or living unhygienically (those of you who have seen her apartment know what I’m talking about!), and won’t exercise. Her “lifestyle” lands her in the ER about once a year with a dizzy/fainting spell, which she chalks up to “low potassium – I’ll just eat a banana.”
She writes off any family illnesses to factors not related in any way to her choices. Our mom’s pancreatic cancer, caused by years of smoking? Bonnie says, “Well, she had a death wish.” Our uncle’s (the one who smoked for 55 years) emphysema? Bonnie says, “Well, he had asthma as a kid.” Our stepfather’s liver cancer? Bonnie says, “That’s because he eats so poorly.” Not because his drinking led to cirrhosis, which led to the tumors. My breast cancer? I haven’t had the nerve to ask what she thinks about that (although she probably thinks my uncontrollable obsession with shoes is a factor) and I know better than to get into a serious discussion with her about this, since any of my knowledge about the matter is summarily rejected.
In a recent go-around we had about my stepfather (who, by the way, is actually doing well despite his diagnosis – he’s vacationing in Italy with his lady friend!), Bonnie asserted she believes that all cancers are caused when someone “has an operation, and they get cut open, and the bad air and germs get in from the hospital into the open wound.” Now I realize it’s not ridiculous that some people do acquire infections and such as a result of surgery. Been there – I got an infection when my port was removed several years ago. I also know this way of thinking is not entirely uncommon among some cultures, and was certainly in vogue at a certain point in our medical evolution. And as a matter of fact, I don’t know the cause(s) of my cancer (C’mon! It’s NOT shoes!). But I can’t help it – I think she is just plain crazy.
Is she in denial? Perhaps – it sure sounds like she has (subconsciously?) constructed a scenario that insures she “won’t” get cancer. No doctors, no tests, no surgeries, no cancer! And I’m sure it does not escape her that the healthiest sibling in the family is the one who got sick – why give up smoking, drinking, eating poorly, and a sedentary life? It sure didn’t help me! Is she dead set (uh, no pun intended. Well, maybe a little intended) on dying early so as not to die alone? I know it is one of her fears, and she does believe that my mother “waited” to see a doctor until it was too late because of the very same fear (She didn’t. She regularly saw her doctors, and took her medications as directed. Just can’t stop cancer sometimes).
My sister is not unintelligent. But her ability to reason, to understand, to comprehend truth diminishes every year and it makes me sad. She has a good heart, a wonderful sense of humor, a genuine love of family, and an abundance of artistic talent. But these qualities get lost by her belligerent drunkenness, her misguided memories, her crudeness and carelessness. I have long since gotten used to the insanity that occurs whenever I am in close proximity to Bonnie (we all have – even the kids are wary of “kooky Auntie Bon”), but I still wish she’d hop off the train and visit Reality for a little bit. Because I love her and I’d really like her to be around a lot longer.
It’s been a truly wonderful summer. Here’s hoping fall and winter are similarly spectacular.
Blessings and Love to All.
She writes off any family illnesses to factors not related in any way to her choices. Our mom’s pancreatic cancer, caused by years of smoking? Bonnie says, “Well, she had a death wish.” Our uncle’s (the one who smoked for 55 years) emphysema? Bonnie says, “Well, he had asthma as a kid.” Our stepfather’s liver cancer? Bonnie says, “That’s because he eats so poorly.” Not because his drinking led to cirrhosis, which led to the tumors. My breast cancer? I haven’t had the nerve to ask what she thinks about that (although she probably thinks my uncontrollable obsession with shoes is a factor) and I know better than to get into a serious discussion with her about this, since any of my knowledge about the matter is summarily rejected.
In a recent go-around we had about my stepfather (who, by the way, is actually doing well despite his diagnosis – he’s vacationing in Italy with his lady friend!), Bonnie asserted she believes that all cancers are caused when someone “has an operation, and they get cut open, and the bad air and germs get in from the hospital into the open wound.” Now I realize it’s not ridiculous that some people do acquire infections and such as a result of surgery. Been there – I got an infection when my port was removed several years ago. I also know this way of thinking is not entirely uncommon among some cultures, and was certainly in vogue at a certain point in our medical evolution. And as a matter of fact, I don’t know the cause(s) of my cancer (C’mon! It’s NOT shoes!). But I can’t help it – I think she is just plain crazy.
Is she in denial? Perhaps – it sure sounds like she has (subconsciously?) constructed a scenario that insures she “won’t” get cancer. No doctors, no tests, no surgeries, no cancer! And I’m sure it does not escape her that the healthiest sibling in the family is the one who got sick – why give up smoking, drinking, eating poorly, and a sedentary life? It sure didn’t help me! Is she dead set (uh, no pun intended. Well, maybe a little intended) on dying early so as not to die alone? I know it is one of her fears, and she does believe that my mother “waited” to see a doctor until it was too late because of the very same fear (She didn’t. She regularly saw her doctors, and took her medications as directed. Just can’t stop cancer sometimes).
My sister is not unintelligent. But her ability to reason, to understand, to comprehend truth diminishes every year and it makes me sad. She has a good heart, a wonderful sense of humor, a genuine love of family, and an abundance of artistic talent. But these qualities get lost by her belligerent drunkenness, her misguided memories, her crudeness and carelessness. I have long since gotten used to the insanity that occurs whenever I am in close proximity to Bonnie (we all have – even the kids are wary of “kooky Auntie Bon”), but I still wish she’d hop off the train and visit Reality for a little bit. Because I love her and I’d really like her to be around a lot longer.
It’s been a truly wonderful summer. Here’s hoping fall and winter are similarly spectacular.
Blessings and Love to All.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Come Sail Away
There are many things I have been able to enjoy since turning 50 last year - none so much as the event last Saturday that has come to be known as "Galaganza" (and yes, we SHOULD trademark that name). I'm not sure that in these pages I will properly be able to express how wonderful and special my friends and family made me feel, but I'll give it my best shot.
To say that Mary, Patty, Patti, Jackie and Taryn got together to throw me a spectacular 50+ birthday party doesn't remotely begin to explain the creativity and effort that went into planning and executing this amazing (a word you'll hear a lot in this post) affair. You want details? A chartered NYC water taxi escorting 30 of us around Manhattan at sunset. Could the Statue of Liberty have been more awe-inspiring? The patriot in me, in all of us, was practically brought to tears thinking of our beloved country and those that gave their lives (like our Vinnie) for the freedoms we enjoy. My favorite munchies scattered around the boat - Jelly Bellies, Kit Kats, Peppermint Patties, M&M's. Atomic Fireballs, popcorn - with plenty left over for me to scarf throughout the rest of this month. Music that made me want to dance all night - and it wasn't easy on a boat that was rockin' and rollin' in the waves of the Hudson (but we all managed, and yes there are scary pictures of Lisa and I going crazy to "You Shook Me All Night Long"). An absolutely perfect "cake" created by my super-talented sister-in-law Ellen - stacked boxes of homemade half-moon (aka "black and whites") cookies that were the hit of the party. A collage of my best and worst photo moments (geez, was my hair really THAT big in the 80's? And why do we all look so damn YOUNG?). A loving and heartfelt tribute by Taryn, who hates public speaking, but got up in front of everyone and eloquently expressed the sentiments of the evening (all right, eloquent might be a little exaggerated, but it was so damn sweet!). And best of all - 30 (or so) of the most wonderful human beings on the planet sharing all of this splendor with me, both on the boat and afterwards at Chelsea Brewing Company.
Even the pre- and post- partying was amazing. Warren rented a limo that took 16 of us into the city and home afterwards. We sang (loudly), we danced in our seats (badly), we laughed, we sipped champagne and drank Coronas, we took funny pictures (umm, most of which will NOT be shared), we told stories, we got to know each other better, and mostly we savored this "here and now" opportunity to live, love and laugh.
This was a big deal (yes...bigger than Chelsea Clinton's wedding). This was my friends and family recognizing that reaching 50 (yeah, yeah I know I'm 51 but this just wasn't possible last year as we all know) was more than just a milestone for me, it was an achievement. The celebration of that achievement, the extraordinary effort put into making everything perfect (and it WAS PERFECT), the amazing way everybody made me feel has created a memory for me unlike any other in my life.
In the (soon-to-be) immortal words of my beautiful daughter - I had a lot of good!
Blessings and Love to All.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Poker Face
Spoiler alert - it's all good! (I've learned not to toy with my readers)
Thursday I visited my oncologist for a regular routine follow-up visit, not really expecting anything unusual, but never really at ease until I actually leave the building (and then only if no bad news has been imparted). She did the physical exam, satisfied with the results, then sat down and said, "I think we need to do another PET/CT."
I remain impassive - on the outside. My heart leaps into my throat, my mind moves into overdrive imagining out-of-control tumor markers and another round of slash-burn-poison (where is it this time? is it even operable?), my palms start to get sweaty, my mouth gets dry (oh, wait, it's already dry because of the radiation aftereffects. Nevertheless...). None of this is evident to my doctor as I ask in a calm voice whether there's a reason we need to do it right now. She looks surprised and I suddenly realize she means she wants another PET/CT at the usual 6-month mark in September, not right now. She notes that everything is fine physically, I have no evidence of any symptoms (I ruefully note to her that I've been gaining weight, not losing weight), and that my last PET/CT was "absolutely perfect" as she put it. She wasn't even terribly concerned about my recent blood work, telling me that she didn't have the report from the lab yet but her nurse coordinator would get a copy and mail it to me. Dare I say she was even a little bit giddy about my current N.E.D. status? I do dare!
I leave shortly thereafter, my internal drama hidden from view, my heart rate returning to normal, my mind already moving on and looking to the evening ahead (gotta find out where LeBron's gonna go!). And...no reason to think that I need to fold 'em and cash in my chips yet. The game of life continues.
Blessings and Love to All.
Thursday I visited my oncologist for a regular routine follow-up visit, not really expecting anything unusual, but never really at ease until I actually leave the building (and then only if no bad news has been imparted). She did the physical exam, satisfied with the results, then sat down and said, "I think we need to do another PET/CT."
I remain impassive - on the outside. My heart leaps into my throat, my mind moves into overdrive imagining out-of-control tumor markers and another round of slash-burn-poison (where is it this time? is it even operable?), my palms start to get sweaty, my mouth gets dry (oh, wait, it's already dry because of the radiation aftereffects. Nevertheless...). None of this is evident to my doctor as I ask in a calm voice whether there's a reason we need to do it right now. She looks surprised and I suddenly realize she means she wants another PET/CT at the usual 6-month mark in September, not right now. She notes that everything is fine physically, I have no evidence of any symptoms (I ruefully note to her that I've been gaining weight, not losing weight), and that my last PET/CT was "absolutely perfect" as she put it. She wasn't even terribly concerned about my recent blood work, telling me that she didn't have the report from the lab yet but her nurse coordinator would get a copy and mail it to me. Dare I say she was even a little bit giddy about my current N.E.D. status? I do dare!
I leave shortly thereafter, my internal drama hidden from view, my heart rate returning to normal, my mind already moving on and looking to the evening ahead (gotta find out where LeBron's gonna go!). And...no reason to think that I need to fold 'em and cash in my chips yet. The game of life continues.
Blessings and Love to All.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
See Emily Play
Today is Emily's 21st birthday. Yet another milestone I get to enjoy, although as always I have mixed feelings. Because as happy as I am to see her turn 21, as wonderful as it is to watch the joy on her face as she opens gifts (yes, still), as much as I am looking forward to her celebration dinner tomorrow night, the reality is every milestone gives me pause to wonder whether I will be able to enjoy the same milestone for Taryn. I have to make a mindful effort to stay in the present - to "Be. Here. Now." - or I run the risk not only of not being able to take pleasure in these special moments in her life, but of being resentful that I might not get the same opportunity with Taryn, who is 2 years younger than Emily. I must remind myself that at one point, I didn't even think I'd make it to Taryn's 8th birthday, much less see her off to college. And yet, here I am.
Mostly I want to enjoy these times with Emily simply because I love her. I love her unique sense of humor, her dogged commitment to her academics, her deep desire to travel, her intense focus when she wants something, her thirst for learning anything and everything, her varying obsessions (shoes one day, a particular website another day, a certain musical artist yet another day. And so on.), her love of storytelling (like her Dad!), her willingness to quickly forgive, her need to change her room around regularly, and her wide-open heart. She eats cupcakes at midnight in Midtown and she buys groceries in Harlem bodegas. She goes to Russia knowing not a soul and she goes to movies by herself. She gets into trouble - but only a little. She delights in giving gifts, and whether or not they make sense to the recipient (Emily CAN have quirky taste sometimes), they are clearly chosen with a great deal of care. She'd rather have a boyfriend than not have one but she's perfectly content when all she has are boy friends. She wants to be there for her little brother and she longs to do good in this world - preferably all over the world. She loves being alone (when she wants to) and she hates being alone (when she doesn't want to). She thinks her Dad is the greatest guy on earth (OK, we agree - he is!). She remembers the tough times in her life and she is grateful for all the good things that have happened in her life. She is 21 years old, the world is her oyster, and lucky me -I'm her stepmom.
Blessings and Love to All.
Mostly I want to enjoy these times with Emily simply because I love her. I love her unique sense of humor, her dogged commitment to her academics, her deep desire to travel, her intense focus when she wants something, her thirst for learning anything and everything, her varying obsessions (shoes one day, a particular website another day, a certain musical artist yet another day. And so on.), her love of storytelling (like her Dad!), her willingness to quickly forgive, her need to change her room around regularly, and her wide-open heart. She eats cupcakes at midnight in Midtown and she buys groceries in Harlem bodegas. She goes to Russia knowing not a soul and she goes to movies by herself. She gets into trouble - but only a little. She delights in giving gifts, and whether or not they make sense to the recipient (Emily CAN have quirky taste sometimes), they are clearly chosen with a great deal of care. She'd rather have a boyfriend than not have one but she's perfectly content when all she has are boy friends. She wants to be there for her little brother and she longs to do good in this world - preferably all over the world. She loves being alone (when she wants to) and she hates being alone (when she doesn't want to). She thinks her Dad is the greatest guy on earth (OK, we agree - he is!). She remembers the tough times in her life and she is grateful for all the good things that have happened in her life. She is 21 years old, the world is her oyster, and lucky me -I'm her stepmom.
Blessings and Love to All.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
My Little Town
Tonight my neighbors and I gathered for a sad occasion (a wake for MJ's mother Margaret, who died Monday after a years-long battle with breast cancer and who will be greatly missed by her family and friends). Ten days ago, it was for a happy occasion - celebrating the birthdays of MJ and Anthony's two small children. And a few weeks from now, we will gather once again for our annual neighborhood block party. And each gathering - sad or happy, hours long or minutes long, with all of us or just some of us - reminds me of just how blessed I am to be living in this little town with these amazing individuals, who all have their own share of troubles, trials and tribulations but who nevertheless find time to support me when I find myself needing a hand.
Tim and Linda. MJ and Anthony. Carole and Mickey (who we continue to miss dearly!). Sandra and Doug. Michelle and Peter. Mary and Fred and Louise. All have at one point or another over the years come to the rescue somehow of me and/or my family during our various and sundry health or housing crises. I am beyond grateful, particularly since I know my personal battles are not likely over for good. The care they give is communicated in many ways - sometimes it's said with flowers; sometimes it's said with food (OK fine, that's one of my favorite ways - it means I don't have to cook); sometimes it's said with a hug; sometimes it's said with a small gift or card; sometimes it's said with a welcoming get-together; sometimes it's said with a humorous blog comment. But any way it's said it is deeply appreciated.
I may not always live here on "Upper Lou" - I'd like to believe that my dream of retiring to North Carolina will come true. But for now - I can't imagine wanting to live in any other town, on any other street, with any other neighbors.
Blessings and Love to All.
Tim and Linda. MJ and Anthony. Carole and Mickey (who we continue to miss dearly!). Sandra and Doug. Michelle and Peter. Mary and Fred and Louise. All have at one point or another over the years come to the rescue somehow of me and/or my family during our various and sundry health or housing crises. I am beyond grateful, particularly since I know my personal battles are not likely over for good. The care they give is communicated in many ways - sometimes it's said with flowers; sometimes it's said with food (OK fine, that's one of my favorite ways - it means I don't have to cook); sometimes it's said with a hug; sometimes it's said with a small gift or card; sometimes it's said with a welcoming get-together; sometimes it's said with a humorous blog comment. But any way it's said it is deeply appreciated.
I may not always live here on "Upper Lou" - I'd like to believe that my dream of retiring to North Carolina will come true. But for now - I can't imagine wanting to live in any other town, on any other street, with any other neighbors.
Blessings and Love to All.
Friday, June 4, 2010
We Belong
I don't belong here. That is the overwhelming feeling I get as I walk around College Park, as I drive through the University of Maryland campus, as I trudge in and out of Taryn's apartment building with bags from Target and IKEA, as I sit in Applebee's watching her and her boyfriend share secret stories over dinner. This is a real college town, so filled with students that at times it seems that no other brand of human even resides here, making my presence feel like an alien one, an intrusive one, a foreigner in a strange land.
I belonged here once, many years ago (not literally of course - I went to SUNY Oswego, then SUNY Stony Brook), and I don't believe my experience was vastly different from Taryn's, at least not according to the parts of her life that she shares with me. The late night cramming for tests, the bar-hopping, the inside jokes with friends, the 2 a.m. Domino's deliveries, hours spent at the library, finding the new friends that just get who you are, the sharing of ideas, the football games (OK, fine, maybe not that - Stony Brook didn't have much of a sports presence back then). Back then - I was not a stranger.
What's funny is that as much as I loved my college experience, I don't find myself wishing I was back there, even when I am surrounded by it again, as I have been during the past week while helping Taryn move into her new apartment (she's taking summer classes). It is true that I don't belong here - but I DO belong exactly where I am right now, in the present, and that's a feeling I enjoy immeasurably, particularly since I never really know when that is going to be taken away from me.
She belongs here, this place where she is loved and respected and adored and cherished. I've met her friends; I've seen the light in their eyes when they are around her; I've watched how they care for her and protect her and make her laugh. I love that she has this, but at the same time I deeply sigh - she is probably not going to be back home with us for any real length of time (a few weeks maybe? At Christmastime?) in the next few years and at times that causes my heart to lurch, to skip a beat, to sink slowly into the pit of my stomach, to come close to breaking. But...but...she belongs here, here at the beginning of the next stage of her life, where she will craft a present and a future that will make her happy.
Because really, no matter what, we will always belong to each other. I am her mother, she is my daughter and whoever else we belong to as well, now and in the future, it will never change this fact, it will never diminish the bond, it will never feel like a foreign place to either of us. We belong.
Some practical (health) matters: I've begun meeting with the oral surgeon and the maxillofacial prosthodontist ("What do YOU want to be when you grow up Johnny?" "Either a fireman or a maxillofacial prosthodontist Dad!") to map out a strategy for replacing the teeth that were pulled during surgery and radiation. I'm guessing late summer/early fall for actual work to be done, either implants or a bridge depending on their recommendations. Other than that, I am feeling great - I'm in the "Hey, maybe I beat this thing for good" phase (denial is my favorite part of all this, I'm gonna hang onto it as long as I can) and am preparing for an awesome summer.
Blessings and Love to All.
I belonged here once, many years ago (not literally of course - I went to SUNY Oswego, then SUNY Stony Brook), and I don't believe my experience was vastly different from Taryn's, at least not according to the parts of her life that she shares with me. The late night cramming for tests, the bar-hopping, the inside jokes with friends, the 2 a.m. Domino's deliveries, hours spent at the library, finding the new friends that just get who you are, the sharing of ideas, the football games (OK, fine, maybe not that - Stony Brook didn't have much of a sports presence back then). Back then - I was not a stranger.
What's funny is that as much as I loved my college experience, I don't find myself wishing I was back there, even when I am surrounded by it again, as I have been during the past week while helping Taryn move into her new apartment (she's taking summer classes). It is true that I don't belong here - but I DO belong exactly where I am right now, in the present, and that's a feeling I enjoy immeasurably, particularly since I never really know when that is going to be taken away from me.
She belongs here, this place where she is loved and respected and adored and cherished. I've met her friends; I've seen the light in their eyes when they are around her; I've watched how they care for her and protect her and make her laugh. I love that she has this, but at the same time I deeply sigh - she is probably not going to be back home with us for any real length of time (a few weeks maybe? At Christmastime?) in the next few years and at times that causes my heart to lurch, to skip a beat, to sink slowly into the pit of my stomach, to come close to breaking. But...but...she belongs here, here at the beginning of the next stage of her life, where she will craft a present and a future that will make her happy.
Because really, no matter what, we will always belong to each other. I am her mother, she is my daughter and whoever else we belong to as well, now and in the future, it will never change this fact, it will never diminish the bond, it will never feel like a foreign place to either of us. We belong.
Some practical (health) matters: I've begun meeting with the oral surgeon and the maxillofacial prosthodontist ("What do YOU want to be when you grow up Johnny?" "Either a fireman or a maxillofacial prosthodontist Dad!") to map out a strategy for replacing the teeth that were pulled during surgery and radiation. I'm guessing late summer/early fall for actual work to be done, either implants or a bridge depending on their recommendations. Other than that, I am feeling great - I'm in the "Hey, maybe I beat this thing for good" phase (denial is my favorite part of all this, I'm gonna hang onto it as long as I can) and am preparing for an awesome summer.
Blessings and Love to All.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Rock and Roll Girls
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On the left is the Goddess of the East Coast; on the right is the Goddess of the West Coast. My cousin Lysa and I "inherited" these titles from our mothers, who resided on opposite coasts (California and New York) as do Lysa and I (Washington and New York). We spent a lot of time together as children before she and her brothers moved with her mother to San Diego. And we've gotten to spend a good deal of time together in the last 20 years, alternating visits between both coasts, although never as much time as we would like.
Our most recent get-together actually occurred in California, where we met to celebrate a friend's 50th birthday (yeah, I'm talkin' about you Dan the Man), to spend time with family, and to enjoy some "girl time" with each other, which included a trip to L.A.'s Rodeo Drive - and let me say I thought we both exercised ADMIRABLE restraint considering the many temptations in Versace and Valentino and Vuitton. We shopped, we laughed, we downed a few cocktails, we reassured each other that we were NOT bad mothers for spending Mother's Day with each other instead of with our childredn, we sang (badly) out loud to Rush while driving down the coast, we enjoyed our family, and we marveled at how alike we are in so many ways despite not growing up together (note the similarity of our outfits in the picture - NOT planned).
I'm not sure I can adequately convey what Lysa has meant to my life. She is my best friend. She gets my tears first and she gets my triumphs first. She is an amazing mother to three bright, beautiful, and busy boys (one of whom is my godson). She is gorgeous and fun; passionate and smart; competitive and adventurous; and she always seems to know the right thing to say when I am at my lowest point. She can hit a softball a mile, can Zumba with the best of them, can make even MY hair look good, and can juggle 3 jobs seemingly effortlessly. She is at the center of many of my favorite memories ("My name is Tiny. I work at the prison.") and I look forward to her being at the center of many more (one word Ly - Galaganza!).
Shout outs this week to some other special women - Patti, Mary, Patty and Jackie (for taking me out for a wonderful birthday celebration in NYC - yep, I made it to 51!); Bonnie, my sister (for making me smile with ten little rubber ducks); and Thea and Sheryl (for making sure I got the birthday cake I've been craving since last year).
Blessings and Love to All.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Mother and Child Reunion
We are at TGI Friday's and I am listening to Taryn tell me stories about her friends and classmates at Maryland. She doesn't like to talk about her classes or what she is learning or her grades or her professors when she is with me. And no matter how much I ask about her academics she will find a way to turn the conversation back to her social life, to shopping, to sports, to music, to movies, to family...to anything except school.
When she was in high school (around the time I was realizing that my cancer was treatable but incurable) this drove me nuts - I thought she was unfocused, unambitious, squandering her potential, not properly preparing for the future, putting herself in a position where her choices would be limited despite her obvious intelligence. I was fearful every day that she would be unprepared to deal with life without me in it; that she would be unsuccessful; that she would end up married to some loser and working at King Kullen barely able to make ends meet. It has taken me several years to realize just how much she has prepared herself for a life without me and how much my illness has guided her actions.
Her friends - they are the family she will need to lean on when the time comes that I finally succumb to either cancer or its complications. As much as she loves her father and Warren and Ian and her aunts and uncles and cousins, the reality is she (along with all our children) is forging her own life and her own path. She will spend more time with her friends in the next few years than she will with us. Is it any wonder that those connections are of paramount importance to her? That she is compelled to work diligently on creating and maintaining those relationships? That making sure there is a network of love and caring surrounding her, protecting her, supporting her takes precedence over tests and essays? She (subconsciously) has been quite successful defining her priorities and executing a plan to achieve them. I just didn't get that at first.
I am a planner, a scheduler, an achiever, an organizer, a saver, a list-maker, a prioritizer. None of which was enough to stave off cancer. Taryn understands this all too well and so lives for the moment. She has one simple desire - to be happy today. And although she knows that's not always how the day turns out (yes, sometimes she does have to go to class even when she doesn't want to!), she starts each day believing that she can achieve happiness. And knowing what I know now about the nature of my disease, particularly the likelihood that it will shorten my life significantly, I often wish I'd been a little more like her, not because I'm particularly unhappy (quite the opposite actually) but because I didn't always appreciate the here and now.
Which is why, driving down to Maryland today, I made it a point to look around and enjoy the brushstrokes of the day - the greening of the leaves, sunlight reflecting crystals off the river, cotton puffs of clouds lazily traversing the sky, yellow mums blooming in the "M" on the campus green. I tuned my iPod to my favorite songs, I sang out loud, I ate as many jellybeans as I wanted, and I happily and proudly listened to Taryn tell me stories about her friends and classmates at Maryland.
Prayers for John, Donovan, Brennan, Gavin and the entire Billings family who are mourning the loss of Sherri this past week. We hope they are comforted by their many memories and the knowledge that she is safe in God's loving arms. A few extra prayers as well for Charles Doonan - may recovery become a realization very soon so that his family can once again enjoy his company.
Blessings and Love to All.
When she was in high school (around the time I was realizing that my cancer was treatable but incurable) this drove me nuts - I thought she was unfocused, unambitious, squandering her potential, not properly preparing for the future, putting herself in a position where her choices would be limited despite her obvious intelligence. I was fearful every day that she would be unprepared to deal with life without me in it; that she would be unsuccessful; that she would end up married to some loser and working at King Kullen barely able to make ends meet. It has taken me several years to realize just how much she has prepared herself for a life without me and how much my illness has guided her actions.
Her friends - they are the family she will need to lean on when the time comes that I finally succumb to either cancer or its complications. As much as she loves her father and Warren and Ian and her aunts and uncles and cousins, the reality is she (along with all our children) is forging her own life and her own path. She will spend more time with her friends in the next few years than she will with us. Is it any wonder that those connections are of paramount importance to her? That she is compelled to work diligently on creating and maintaining those relationships? That making sure there is a network of love and caring surrounding her, protecting her, supporting her takes precedence over tests and essays? She (subconsciously) has been quite successful defining her priorities and executing a plan to achieve them. I just didn't get that at first.
I am a planner, a scheduler, an achiever, an organizer, a saver, a list-maker, a prioritizer. None of which was enough to stave off cancer. Taryn understands this all too well and so lives for the moment. She has one simple desire - to be happy today. And although she knows that's not always how the day turns out (yes, sometimes she does have to go to class even when she doesn't want to!), she starts each day believing that she can achieve happiness. And knowing what I know now about the nature of my disease, particularly the likelihood that it will shorten my life significantly, I often wish I'd been a little more like her, not because I'm particularly unhappy (quite the opposite actually) but because I didn't always appreciate the here and now.
Which is why, driving down to Maryland today, I made it a point to look around and enjoy the brushstrokes of the day - the greening of the leaves, sunlight reflecting crystals off the river, cotton puffs of clouds lazily traversing the sky, yellow mums blooming in the "M" on the campus green. I tuned my iPod to my favorite songs, I sang out loud, I ate as many jellybeans as I wanted, and I happily and proudly listened to Taryn tell me stories about her friends and classmates at Maryland.
Prayers for John, Donovan, Brennan, Gavin and the entire Billings family who are mourning the loss of Sherri this past week. We hope they are comforted by their many memories and the knowledge that she is safe in God's loving arms. A few extra prayers as well for Charles Doonan - may recovery become a realization very soon so that his family can once again enjoy his company.
Blessings and Love to All.
Monday, April 5, 2010
The Warrior
And once again, I have kicked cancer's ass - at least for the time being.
I went to see my oncologist today and was rewarded with the news that my latest PET/CT scan came back with no evidence of disease. I must admit, waiting for her to enter the exam room is nerve-wracking. Numerous iterations of "Bad news - it's back" tumble around in my mind while I'm waiting for her to come in, my blood pressure shoots way above normal, and her nurse gives absolutely no clues as to what the report contains. She's a crafty one too (the nurse), did not take the bait when I mentioned that my oral surgeon was prepared to do the dental implants "once I get a clean scan" and I KNOW she knows because her name is at the bottom of the written reports each time I get my copy since she prints them out for the doctor. She merely smiled and said "Sounds like a plan! Dr. Lu will be in shortly!" So I wait, and the doctor comes in and breezily announces that everything looks great on the PET, hands me a copy of the report for my own records, gets done with the exam (I remind her that I need blood work done next time) and says see you in 3 months. The battle is won - the war continues.
Taryn turned 19 last week - another birthday that, at points in my life, I didn't think I'd get to see. So I am thankful and tearful and joyful and grateful. Oh yeah - and broke. That kid has a pretty big birthday wish list (and we all now how hard it is for me to say no to my princess).
Friday night my yoga instructor read us an article she found particularly inspiring, about taking time to share the good things we find in life with others. And one phrase she read really struck me. I don't fully remember the context (spending time afterwards in Downward-facing Dog and Peaceful Warrior robbed me of some of the memory of what she read) , but the description was of "a love affair with life" and it perfectly captures how I feel (most of the time at least). I contemplate this gift of life often (probably more often than is healthy truth be told) and am awed by how much I truly do just love to breathe. In and out and in and out (OK right I know there's no other real way to breathe, probably didn't need to offer up a description) and I'm not talking about the things I like to do or see or feel or taste in life - it is life itself that makes me giddy and I suppose it's why that phrase spoke to me as it did. A love affair with life. Hey, at least it won't cheat on me (yeah, I'm talking to you Jesse James!)
Hope everyone had a wonderful Easter (or Passover). Spring weather is rapidly approaching (as well as, ahem, a certain bloggers birthday).
Blessings and Love to All.
I went to see my oncologist today and was rewarded with the news that my latest PET/CT scan came back with no evidence of disease. I must admit, waiting for her to enter the exam room is nerve-wracking. Numerous iterations of "Bad news - it's back" tumble around in my mind while I'm waiting for her to come in, my blood pressure shoots way above normal, and her nurse gives absolutely no clues as to what the report contains. She's a crafty one too (the nurse), did not take the bait when I mentioned that my oral surgeon was prepared to do the dental implants "once I get a clean scan" and I KNOW she knows because her name is at the bottom of the written reports each time I get my copy since she prints them out for the doctor. She merely smiled and said "Sounds like a plan! Dr. Lu will be in shortly!" So I wait, and the doctor comes in and breezily announces that everything looks great on the PET, hands me a copy of the report for my own records, gets done with the exam (I remind her that I need blood work done next time) and says see you in 3 months. The battle is won - the war continues.
Taryn turned 19 last week - another birthday that, at points in my life, I didn't think I'd get to see. So I am thankful and tearful and joyful and grateful. Oh yeah - and broke. That kid has a pretty big birthday wish list (and we all now how hard it is for me to say no to my princess).
Friday night my yoga instructor read us an article she found particularly inspiring, about taking time to share the good things we find in life with others. And one phrase she read really struck me. I don't fully remember the context (spending time afterwards in Downward-facing Dog and Peaceful Warrior robbed me of some of the memory of what she read) , but the description was of "a love affair with life" and it perfectly captures how I feel (most of the time at least). I contemplate this gift of life often (probably more often than is healthy truth be told) and am awed by how much I truly do just love to breathe. In and out and in and out (OK right I know there's no other real way to breathe, probably didn't need to offer up a description) and I'm not talking about the things I like to do or see or feel or taste in life - it is life itself that makes me giddy and I suppose it's why that phrase spoke to me as it did. A love affair with life. Hey, at least it won't cheat on me (yeah, I'm talking to you Jesse James!)
Hope everyone had a wonderful Easter (or Passover). Spring weather is rapidly approaching (as well as, ahem, a certain bloggers birthday).
Blessings and Love to All.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Divine Thing
On this day, 28 years ago, I went out on a date. I met Chris through his brother, whom I worked for at the time, and we got to know each other a little bit before actually going on this date. I'm not even sure who proposed it (although there is a very good possibility that I took the lead in this).
We went to a steakhouse and all I really remember of that night is that we laughed almost constantly (OK, I also remember a little of what went on afterwards - don't judge me, it was the 80's!). We dated for a couple of years, off and on, laughing way more than we ever cried, but ultimately came to the realization that we were better off as friends as opposed to being in a relationship.
When the time came that I was ready to have a baby, I turned to him. Unexpectedly, I got pregnant on the first "try", before Chris had a chance to even realize the implications or understand that this really was my plan. It hasn't been easy for him, but boy has he turned out to be an amazing father! Taryn and I both count ourselves lucky for having him - and quite fortunately, so do Warren, Emily and Ian.
Chris was a part of our wedding party. He's helped see me through 3 bouts with cancer. He's been there for all of Taryn's important moments and a good number of Emily and Ian's. He's had his share of good fortune and his share of sadness, and 28 years later he can still make me laugh like almost nobody else.
This is his own personal "shout out" for saying "yes" 28 years ago (either that or saying "Can I interest you in a date?" which sounds absolutely nothing like how he would have said it) and for completing our family. And THAT - is a divine thing.
Blessings and Love to All.
We went to a steakhouse and all I really remember of that night is that we laughed almost constantly (OK, I also remember a little of what went on afterwards - don't judge me, it was the 80's!). We dated for a couple of years, off and on, laughing way more than we ever cried, but ultimately came to the realization that we were better off as friends as opposed to being in a relationship.
When the time came that I was ready to have a baby, I turned to him. Unexpectedly, I got pregnant on the first "try", before Chris had a chance to even realize the implications or understand that this really was my plan. It hasn't been easy for him, but boy has he turned out to be an amazing father! Taryn and I both count ourselves lucky for having him - and quite fortunately, so do Warren, Emily and Ian.
Chris was a part of our wedding party. He's helped see me through 3 bouts with cancer. He's been there for all of Taryn's important moments and a good number of Emily and Ian's. He's had his share of good fortune and his share of sadness, and 28 years later he can still make me laugh like almost nobody else.
This is his own personal "shout out" for saying "yes" 28 years ago (either that or saying "Can I interest you in a date?" which sounds absolutely nothing like how he would have said it) and for completing our family. And THAT - is a divine thing.
Blessings and Love to All.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Do You Believe in Magic?
Every so often I am taken aback by the extraordinary amount of effort I put into preserving what little is left of my not-so youthful appearance. Special “anti-aging/rejuvenating” cleansing face wash; “clarifying toner”; “dramatically different” moisturizing lotion; “anti-gravity firming under eye cream”; lip cream to eliminate “fine lines”; “deeply hydrating” body moisturizer; overnight “regenerating” face cream; “softening” hand cream; “magic” concealers – well you get the picture (and some of you are saying “Is that it?!). Of course, some of it is necessary because of the treatments I’ve had (I’m probably the only person in the world who will actually use the entire amount in that huge jar of Aquafor to soothe my poor over-radiated lips) but most of it is good old magical thinking that I will live long enough to say “Well that was money well spent!”
I go to work, I fuss with my hair (yeah, don’t even get me started on how many hair products I use – thank God I go bald every once in awhile otherwise I might go broke), I get to the gym, I clean the house (um, sort of, we do have a cleaning service every other week), I pay the bills, I even cook a meal every once in awhile (ok, collectively now – “Poor Warren!”). All things that on occasion cause me to stop and wonder “Now WHY am I doing this again?” because the overwhelming desire at times is to just let it all go. Get fat, get ugly, get wrinkly, get bankrupt, get lazy, get dirty (and I don’t mean in the wink-wink way - get your minds out of the gutter!) because maybe I won’t really have the chance to get there. And yet…I don’t stop. Mostly because I really do love shopping for shoes and ya can’t do that without money! Seriously though, it’s because no matter what the reality of this disease tells me, I can’t help sometimes believing EACH TIME that THIS time I’ve beat it. For good.
Tomorrow I go for my regular PET/CT scan (can’t believe it’s already been 6 months since the last one) and so the cycle begins anew. Test, wait, results, freedom, test, wait, results, freedom. Test. Wait. Results. Freedom?
A loving and heartfelt shout out to Lynne and Dom who kindly, untiringly and tenderly shepherded Dom’s cousin Mark to a peaceful passing last Saturday. Their extraordinary compassion and commitment to making his last days tolerable is proof positive in the power of love and I am lucky to have such amazing people in my life. I am praying that the grief they feel at their loss is tempered by joyous memories of Mark’s life and the support of family and friends.
Shout outs as well to Carol M. (it’s been a year since Mickey’s passing and all of our memories of him hold strong) and Patti B. (it’s been a year since we almost lost you and I am ever so thankful that you remain firmly anchored in this world).
Blessings and Love to All.
I go to work, I fuss with my hair (yeah, don’t even get me started on how many hair products I use – thank God I go bald every once in awhile otherwise I might go broke), I get to the gym, I clean the house (um, sort of, we do have a cleaning service every other week), I pay the bills, I even cook a meal every once in awhile (ok, collectively now – “Poor Warren!”). All things that on occasion cause me to stop and wonder “Now WHY am I doing this again?” because the overwhelming desire at times is to just let it all go. Get fat, get ugly, get wrinkly, get bankrupt, get lazy, get dirty (and I don’t mean in the wink-wink way - get your minds out of the gutter!) because maybe I won’t really have the chance to get there. And yet…I don’t stop. Mostly because I really do love shopping for shoes and ya can’t do that without money! Seriously though, it’s because no matter what the reality of this disease tells me, I can’t help sometimes believing EACH TIME that THIS time I’ve beat it. For good.
Tomorrow I go for my regular PET/CT scan (can’t believe it’s already been 6 months since the last one) and so the cycle begins anew. Test, wait, results, freedom, test, wait, results, freedom. Test. Wait. Results. Freedom?
A loving and heartfelt shout out to Lynne and Dom who kindly, untiringly and tenderly shepherded Dom’s cousin Mark to a peaceful passing last Saturday. Their extraordinary compassion and commitment to making his last days tolerable is proof positive in the power of love and I am lucky to have such amazing people in my life. I am praying that the grief they feel at their loss is tempered by joyous memories of Mark’s life and the support of family and friends.
Shout outs as well to Carol M. (it’s been a year since Mickey’s passing and all of our memories of him hold strong) and Patti B. (it’s been a year since we almost lost you and I am ever so thankful that you remain firmly anchored in this world).
Blessings and Love to All.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Photograph
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It has been one year since my surgery on February 17, 2009. It is hard to believe how profound the difference is only one year later (look at all that hair!), how renewed I now feel - and how appropriate is that given that it is Ash Wednesday today, the beginning of Lent, our time of religious renewal? And trust me, you think I look bad in the post-surgery photo? I felt a 100 times worse than I look (and so you have to wonder what the hell Warren was thinking taking a picture, eh? Just kidding - I'm pretty sure I asked him to). In any case, there are not many words I want to say in this post - it's just a reminder to myself that "this too shall pass" when all seems darkest. There's your proof.
Thanks for getting me through this year. Blessings and Love to All.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Feel Like A Number
So I spent the last month wondering – would the tumor marker numbers be up or down? For a month now I have veered wildly between the 2 extremes that I normally bounce between: “This is the beginning of the end – really this time” and “No way you haven’t beat this thing this time.”
For 10 or 12 years I never even knew what “my numbers” were, never even knew what the threshold was, never knew how “out of range” I was. It was not something my oncologist and I ever discussed beyond his usual “all the blood work looks good. Perfect.” Honestly, that worked for me. At a certain point (5 years? 7 years?) I became aware that I was typically out of range (high) and that my markers fluctuated up and down. At 10 years, of course, I was told my tumor markers (CA27,29 by the way – not that it means much to most of you, thank goodness) were spiking, continuing to go up and up, signaling a problem. Even after the diagnosis of metastatic breast cancer and subsequent treatment, I still didn’t have much interest in “my numbers,” instead trusting that my oncologist knew me well enough to know what I did and didn’t need to hear. And then he left me.
Now of course, my oncologists not only tell me my numbers, they discuss them and provide me with copies of the lab reports (so I know also that my white counts are low as well, not unsurprising of course given the treatments I’ve had over the years). And although I know they are not a definitive predictor of the presence or absence of disease (says so right on the report!), I can’t help but churn a multitude of scenarios out in my head when I hear one of the numbers: “43? Wasn’t it 45 last year when I was diagnosed? But it was 39 when I got the clean PET/CT and that’s out of range too. It must be because I just had the gall bladder surgery. It must be because I gained weight. It must be because it was early in the morning. It must be because of the hormone shots. It must be because I’m exercising again. It must be just one of those fluctuations. It must be cancer.”
At the doctor visit Monday, we once again went over the numbers. The tumor markers are down. All the other blood work looks good (except for that damn WBC, it’s amazing I haven’t really gotten sick this winter when it seems like everyone else around me has). Routine surveillance studies should be scheduled for March (6 months after the last ones – a typical follow up). No evidence of disease. Have a great day!
Oh, and by the way, I am somewhat of a “mini-celebrity” at Stony Brook Hospital – my patient number is the lowest they have ever come across apparently (they assign 7 digit numbers and mine is 4 zeros followed by my number, which is under 300). Whenever one of the nurses, or clerical people, or lab workers, or doctors see that number they are impressed (“You were one of the first patients at the hospital!”). I explain that I was a student at Stony Brook 30 years ago (Ouch…pun intended) while the hospital was being built and did have need of their services shortly after it opened. Hence – the low number.
Speaking of numbers – I can’t even count high enough to measure the blessings I have received, the prayers I’ve accumulated, the love I’ve been privileged to enjoy. My continuing gratitude to all my family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues for listening to my story.
Blessings and Love to All.
For 10 or 12 years I never even knew what “my numbers” were, never even knew what the threshold was, never knew how “out of range” I was. It was not something my oncologist and I ever discussed beyond his usual “all the blood work looks good. Perfect.” Honestly, that worked for me. At a certain point (5 years? 7 years?) I became aware that I was typically out of range (high) and that my markers fluctuated up and down. At 10 years, of course, I was told my tumor markers (CA27,29 by the way – not that it means much to most of you, thank goodness) were spiking, continuing to go up and up, signaling a problem. Even after the diagnosis of metastatic breast cancer and subsequent treatment, I still didn’t have much interest in “my numbers,” instead trusting that my oncologist knew me well enough to know what I did and didn’t need to hear. And then he left me.
Now of course, my oncologists not only tell me my numbers, they discuss them and provide me with copies of the lab reports (so I know also that my white counts are low as well, not unsurprising of course given the treatments I’ve had over the years). And although I know they are not a definitive predictor of the presence or absence of disease (says so right on the report!), I can’t help but churn a multitude of scenarios out in my head when I hear one of the numbers: “43? Wasn’t it 45 last year when I was diagnosed? But it was 39 when I got the clean PET/CT and that’s out of range too. It must be because I just had the gall bladder surgery. It must be because I gained weight. It must be because it was early in the morning. It must be because of the hormone shots. It must be because I’m exercising again. It must be just one of those fluctuations. It must be cancer.”
At the doctor visit Monday, we once again went over the numbers. The tumor markers are down. All the other blood work looks good (except for that damn WBC, it’s amazing I haven’t really gotten sick this winter when it seems like everyone else around me has). Routine surveillance studies should be scheduled for March (6 months after the last ones – a typical follow up). No evidence of disease. Have a great day!
Oh, and by the way, I am somewhat of a “mini-celebrity” at Stony Brook Hospital – my patient number is the lowest they have ever come across apparently (they assign 7 digit numbers and mine is 4 zeros followed by my number, which is under 300). Whenever one of the nurses, or clerical people, or lab workers, or doctors see that number they are impressed (“You were one of the first patients at the hospital!”). I explain that I was a student at Stony Brook 30 years ago (Ouch…pun intended) while the hospital was being built and did have need of their services shortly after it opened. Hence – the low number.
Speaking of numbers – I can’t even count high enough to measure the blessings I have received, the prayers I’ve accumulated, the love I’ve been privileged to enjoy. My continuing gratitude to all my family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues for listening to my story.
Blessings and Love to All.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Should I Stay or Should I Go?
My favorite part of the drive to Maryland is crossing the bridge over the Susquehanna River. It's a flat bridge, no cables or trusses to block the view and whether you look left or right, all you see is water, trees, and hills. When the sun is out, the water just sparkles like diamonds and I end up smiling inwardly at the beauty of this planet.
My least favorite part is being in Taryn's dorm room after we've carried in all her belongings and realizing that she is ready to transition from daughter to college student. I stand awkwardly, a lump in my throat, trying to figure out ways to stay longer ("Do you want me to help you put your things away?"), offering up hug after hug, wanting to give her her space but also wanting to hold on as long as I can. Finally, achingly, I go.
Having metastatic breast cancer is like waiting for the other shoe to drop. The first shoe dropped when I had the initial recurrence 4 1/2 years ago - coming to the realization that what I have is chronic and incurable. The other shoe? The inevitable terminal diagnosis. I confess, there are times when I wish it would happen already, so I can stop having these imaginary conversations in my head over how I will react when the doctor gives me the bad news. So I can stop worrying about the future and how much of it I will have. So I can remove this...annoyance from all of your lives. So I can stop feeling so damn tired of thinking about my cancer, treating my cancer, following up on my cancer, wondering if that pain in my hip is cancer, and educating my daughter about my cancer so that it doesn't become her cancer. Gone too soon? Sometimes, I think I have not gone soon enough.
And then I see the images on television and on the Internet, the injured and crying and despondent Haitian people whose hearts are as broken as their homes and I remember that as long as I AM alive I am needed to help (even if it's only in a small way, with a check or a text) to alleviate the supreme sadness of loss. I remember that this precious gift of life from God has an unknown expiration date - for all of us - and it is better to put aside the internal debate of whether it is better to be here or not. Because it's better to be here. Hands down.
Love and a healing hug to Linda, Tim, Victoria and Timmy mourning the loss of their family member. Prayers for my wonderful angel Caralyn and the whole Stein family as they wait for "Grandpa Charlie" to come back. And a special shout out to Trish, who celebrated her 40th birthday Saturday - she is an amazing mother, wife, cousin, friend, aunt, teacher and sister. She is nothing short of fabulous!
Blessings and Love to All!
My least favorite part is being in Taryn's dorm room after we've carried in all her belongings and realizing that she is ready to transition from daughter to college student. I stand awkwardly, a lump in my throat, trying to figure out ways to stay longer ("Do you want me to help you put your things away?"), offering up hug after hug, wanting to give her her space but also wanting to hold on as long as I can. Finally, achingly, I go.
Having metastatic breast cancer is like waiting for the other shoe to drop. The first shoe dropped when I had the initial recurrence 4 1/2 years ago - coming to the realization that what I have is chronic and incurable. The other shoe? The inevitable terminal diagnosis. I confess, there are times when I wish it would happen already, so I can stop having these imaginary conversations in my head over how I will react when the doctor gives me the bad news. So I can stop worrying about the future and how much of it I will have. So I can remove this...annoyance from all of your lives. So I can stop feeling so damn tired of thinking about my cancer, treating my cancer, following up on my cancer, wondering if that pain in my hip is cancer, and educating my daughter about my cancer so that it doesn't become her cancer. Gone too soon? Sometimes, I think I have not gone soon enough.
And then I see the images on television and on the Internet, the injured and crying and despondent Haitian people whose hearts are as broken as their homes and I remember that as long as I AM alive I am needed to help (even if it's only in a small way, with a check or a text) to alleviate the supreme sadness of loss. I remember that this precious gift of life from God has an unknown expiration date - for all of us - and it is better to put aside the internal debate of whether it is better to be here or not. Because it's better to be here. Hands down.
Love and a healing hug to Linda, Tim, Victoria and Timmy mourning the loss of their family member. Prayers for my wonderful angel Caralyn and the whole Stein family as they wait for "Grandpa Charlie" to come back. And a special shout out to Trish, who celebrated her 40th birthday Saturday - she is an amazing mother, wife, cousin, friend, aunt, teacher and sister. She is nothing short of fabulous!
Blessings and Love to All!
Thursday, January 14, 2010
All She Wants To Do Is Dance
So every time I go to the oncologist, they say the same thing about my tumor markers being "slightly out of normal range" and not to worry about it if it's fluctuating up and down, there is only something to worry about if it goes up and up and up (which, as we know, it has 3 different times). I have been hearing this for 15 years. Then why, with a clean PET scan, a clean mammogram, no physical symptoms, and positive doctor visits do crazy fears of another recurrence consume my mind? Because living in the present is never as easy as I would like it to be...and because deep down I know it is not a question of "if" it's a question of "when" and "where" (oh, please let it be in some bone I don't really need this time - maybe that extra fibula I have in the right leg. Or the middle finger on my right hand - I really should stop using that anyhow).
Missing left fibula notwithstanding, I am back shaking my 50-year-old (somewhat) arthritic hips in Zumba dance class again. I'm a bit uncoordinated still, and fact is I've never been much of a dancer anyhow (well, except when I have a few cosmopolitans in me - then I'm a GREAT dancer!), but I am loving the chance to move my body again. I am clearly out of shape - my only dancing over the past year has consisted of a lively group dance at our block party during our "Mickey" tribute and solo dancing around the house with my iPod on (new favorite: "Pata Pata" by Miriam Makeba, a song from the 60's that is featured on a TV commercial). Dancing makes me feel strong, and alive, and joyful, and invincible. (Oh yeah, and awkward too, but it's like my singing - put the music on loud enough and it drowns out and obscures my poor performances!). The biggest challenge in dance class (and spinning too, which I have started up again as well)? The excessive dry mouth (a side effect of the surgery and radiation) that comes with vigorous activity, resulting in a need to drink water more frequently during exercise. A small price to pay though for the chance to whirl and chacha and swivel and salsa.
Updates on: THE HAIR (oh never mind, it's just a mess for now anyhow); taste (about 90% back and the last 10% is really a matter of degree on certain foods); appearance (the left side of my face, once way puffier than the right side after the surgery, is now thinner than the right side as the effects of the radiation continue. Not terribly noticeable to anyone but me. Improvement is in very small increments and I continue to imagine that I look worse than I do); weight (it has been a HUGE amount of fun re-gaining the 12 pounds I lost during radiation and I fit into all my old clothes now - it's like I have a whole new wardrobe without spending any money!). Believe it or not, I really feel...healthy.
Some folks needing our prayers: the Stein family, the Hughes family, the Ryan family, and the many people of Haiti struggling to overcome this most horrible of disasters. May God watch over them as he did Jessica, who flew out of Haiti just 2 hours before the earthquake struck. I thank Him for sparing her mother (my friend Joanne) the profound heartbreak of losing a daughter whose smile inspires love in all who are lucky enough to receive its gift and who will get to dance another day.
Blessings and Love to All.
Missing left fibula notwithstanding, I am back shaking my 50-year-old (somewhat) arthritic hips in Zumba dance class again. I'm a bit uncoordinated still, and fact is I've never been much of a dancer anyhow (well, except when I have a few cosmopolitans in me - then I'm a GREAT dancer!), but I am loving the chance to move my body again. I am clearly out of shape - my only dancing over the past year has consisted of a lively group dance at our block party during our "Mickey" tribute and solo dancing around the house with my iPod on (new favorite: "Pata Pata" by Miriam Makeba, a song from the 60's that is featured on a TV commercial). Dancing makes me feel strong, and alive, and joyful, and invincible. (Oh yeah, and awkward too, but it's like my singing - put the music on loud enough and it drowns out and obscures my poor performances!). The biggest challenge in dance class (and spinning too, which I have started up again as well)? The excessive dry mouth (a side effect of the surgery and radiation) that comes with vigorous activity, resulting in a need to drink water more frequently during exercise. A small price to pay though for the chance to whirl and chacha and swivel and salsa.
Updates on: THE HAIR (oh never mind, it's just a mess for now anyhow); taste (about 90% back and the last 10% is really a matter of degree on certain foods); appearance (the left side of my face, once way puffier than the right side after the surgery, is now thinner than the right side as the effects of the radiation continue. Not terribly noticeable to anyone but me. Improvement is in very small increments and I continue to imagine that I look worse than I do); weight (it has been a HUGE amount of fun re-gaining the 12 pounds I lost during radiation and I fit into all my old clothes now - it's like I have a whole new wardrobe without spending any money!). Believe it or not, I really feel...healthy.
Some folks needing our prayers: the Stein family, the Hughes family, the Ryan family, and the many people of Haiti struggling to overcome this most horrible of disasters. May God watch over them as he did Jessica, who flew out of Haiti just 2 hours before the earthquake struck. I thank Him for sparing her mother (my friend Joanne) the profound heartbreak of losing a daughter whose smile inspires love in all who are lucky enough to receive its gift and who will get to dance another day.
Blessings and Love to All.
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