Three pills in the morning, three pills at night for 14 days, then 7 days off. This is my new chemotherapy regimen, started this morning. I will wait and watch to see what side effects present themselves; I will wait and hope that the scans a few months from now show a disease at bay.
Before deciding on my current treatment, I was faced with having to make a choice whether or not to do a clinical trial with one of two experimental drugs. I reached out to several of you seeking your thoughts, advice, concerns, and recommendations and you responded with a heartfelt but measured analysis. I will never be able to thank you enough for taking on the difficult task of evaluating this opportunity along with me for I know it forced you to confront some undesirable realities. Together you made my decision easier and I am grateful for your guidance. My heros - you know who you are.
Life continues. An amazing group of people gathered in Central Park on September 10th to honor our fallen hero, firefighter Vinnie Kane, who ten years later continues to inspire us all to be better people. When I start to feel sorry for myself I think of Vinnie and remember that I am not so unfortunate after all. I spent last weekend doing all the things with Taryn that I love to do, grateful for the time we have today. And I look forward to celebrating Warren's birthday Friday and a weekend of fun with Lynne, Dom and Laura.
I enjoy my solitude; sometimes I need it - desperately. But a coming together of reliable friends; of kindred souls; of a mother and daughter; of a family; is truly something to be cherished.
Blessings and Love to All.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Friday, September 2, 2011
Take Me In Your Arms
She woke me at 1:00 in the morning and asked me to come into her room. She sat on her bed and, lip quivering and voice shaking, said "Mommy, I just read your blog." So caught off guard was I that the only thing I could say was, "Why?"
Later, after we had talked a bit, we turned out the light and lie down on her little twin bed, her back to me, my arms tightly around her, stroking her hair, brushing away her tears, and sharing in the sadness of that which is soon to be lost. At one point she had trouble breathing and I held her tightly against me and told her "Breathe with me. Follow my breath." Four or five deep yoga breaths later she was calmer. Still sad, still terrified - but calmer.
Who will take care of me, she asks, I don't know how to do anything! (And of course, she knows way more of how to make her way in the world than she realizes) Who will I talk to, she sobs, when I feel like this? (I lose track of all the names I mention that love her and will be there for her) You will be with Grandma and Auntie Bon and GranJulie and Grandpa and I will be all alone, she says sadly. (I tell her that I will ALWAYS be with her, watching over her, and I will not miss a thing in her life) Isn't there any hope that you will be cured, she begs? (There is always hope, I state carefully, but more than likely this disease will take my life sooner than we both want) I am devastated to be having this conversation with my daughter, but I don't hold back from the truths that exist at this moment about the progression of my disease. I make only the promises that I can keep.
An hour later, we are both physically and emotionally exhausted and ready to succumb to the sleep that has eluded us to this point. She turns in bed to look at me and holds my hand and asks hesitatingly, "Do you think things happen for a reason?" I do not immediately respond, thinking that I want to be truthful with her, I want to communicate what it is I really feel on this subject. It is not a question I was expecting, not one I have chosen to give a great deal of thought to, not one that allows for an easy yes or no answer despite its form. And although I start out having trouble saying what it is I want to say to her, I do, eventually, answer her. She sighs lightly, satisfied, and I know she is ready to stop talking.
Blessings and Love to All.
Later, after we had talked a bit, we turned out the light and lie down on her little twin bed, her back to me, my arms tightly around her, stroking her hair, brushing away her tears, and sharing in the sadness of that which is soon to be lost. At one point she had trouble breathing and I held her tightly against me and told her "Breathe with me. Follow my breath." Four or five deep yoga breaths later she was calmer. Still sad, still terrified - but calmer.
Who will take care of me, she asks, I don't know how to do anything! (And of course, she knows way more of how to make her way in the world than she realizes) Who will I talk to, she sobs, when I feel like this? (I lose track of all the names I mention that love her and will be there for her) You will be with Grandma and Auntie Bon and GranJulie and Grandpa and I will be all alone, she says sadly. (I tell her that I will ALWAYS be with her, watching over her, and I will not miss a thing in her life) Isn't there any hope that you will be cured, she begs? (There is always hope, I state carefully, but more than likely this disease will take my life sooner than we both want) I am devastated to be having this conversation with my daughter, but I don't hold back from the truths that exist at this moment about the progression of my disease. I make only the promises that I can keep.
An hour later, we are both physically and emotionally exhausted and ready to succumb to the sleep that has eluded us to this point. She turns in bed to look at me and holds my hand and asks hesitatingly, "Do you think things happen for a reason?" I do not immediately respond, thinking that I want to be truthful with her, I want to communicate what it is I really feel on this subject. It is not a question I was expecting, not one I have chosen to give a great deal of thought to, not one that allows for an easy yes or no answer despite its form. And although I start out having trouble saying what it is I want to say to her, I do, eventually, answer her. She sighs lightly, satisfied, and I know she is ready to stop talking.
Blessings and Love to All.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
