Sandra called me at work at the end of August 2007 to tell me she was in the same boat as I was. She said she had been trying to reach me for a week.
"What do you mean?" I asked with dread in my heart.
"I have just been diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer " was her response.
I started to cry and had to ring off. I cried all day long and all evening.
The next day I called her significant other and my very dear friend of over 30 years, AJ.
He said she had told him telling me had gone badly. I agreed that sobbing and crying was tough for someone facing lung cancer.
I contact Sandra again and told her that I was done crying and we had some things to face together. She agreed. She said her reward for overcoming cancer was to go to Cuba. I suggested she go right away but she said she needed to wait until her battle was over.
And so, for the next the next 9 months, Sandra showed me what courage in the face of no propect for success looks like.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Obsessive Behaviour Seeking Universal Control
The first inklings of obsessive thinking arose during chemoville. I would get up in the morning during the first week following chemo and make myself blueberry pancakes with yogurt and maple syrup. If I tried not to do this, I became obsessed with eating them.
My mind would tell me I deserved blueberry pancakes. I had suffered and had earned the blueberry pancakes. I could not think of anything else. After a while, I simply gave in and made them as soon as the craving arose. It is of note that after that first week had passed, pancakes never crossed my mind. I seldom, almost never, eat them now.
During chemo I was like a baby again. Wake up. Eat. Clean myself. Nap. Walk around. Lunch. Nap. Walk around. Eat dinner. Nap. Bed time. If I ignored the nap need I literally began to shake from the inside out until I went to sleep.
Need I add after the last description that in contrast to most people who get chemo and experience significant weight loss, my notable family appetite did not desert me.
The other obsession that only just about has faded is about money and my income. I was petrified to spend a penny for fear that....I don't know what would happen. In my line of employment I hear from people continuously who lose everything when faced with a serious illness such as cancer. I felt that something had been forceably taken from me and the only way I could quantify the something was to think of it as money. Even though logically I knew I would lose little income if any during the cancer treatment.
My employer has a very generous sickness plan...60 days at 100% of salary and 80 days at 70% of salary, before starting long term disability.
I became unnaturally focused on not going over 60 days. Very focused and probably obsessed. I had calendars, grids, running totals,and estimated future needs. I am sure I went back to work from chemo early so that I would use as few days as possible.
The website that collects this data to report on totals is about three months behind. I contacted the benefits administrator constantly to check my totals versus hers of days I had used. Poor woman...she was dealing with nut.
In the end, I used 54 of 60 days. There, I had control even though my entire universe was doing the cha cha. Didn't I? Well, maybe just control over writing lists.
When I started this blog in February I had some mighty big plans. I wanted to write some more, learn to play some music and to run a half marathon. I had to drop out of the marathon plans, I can't strum a note but at least the writing is starting to emerge. However, nothing is finished yet.
My mind would tell me I deserved blueberry pancakes. I had suffered and had earned the blueberry pancakes. I could not think of anything else. After a while, I simply gave in and made them as soon as the craving arose. It is of note that after that first week had passed, pancakes never crossed my mind. I seldom, almost never, eat them now.
During chemo I was like a baby again. Wake up. Eat. Clean myself. Nap. Walk around. Lunch. Nap. Walk around. Eat dinner. Nap. Bed time. If I ignored the nap need I literally began to shake from the inside out until I went to sleep.
Need I add after the last description that in contrast to most people who get chemo and experience significant weight loss, my notable family appetite did not desert me.
The other obsession that only just about has faded is about money and my income. I was petrified to spend a penny for fear that....I don't know what would happen. In my line of employment I hear from people continuously who lose everything when faced with a serious illness such as cancer. I felt that something had been forceably taken from me and the only way I could quantify the something was to think of it as money. Even though logically I knew I would lose little income if any during the cancer treatment.
My employer has a very generous sickness plan...60 days at 100% of salary and 80 days at 70% of salary, before starting long term disability.
I became unnaturally focused on not going over 60 days. Very focused and probably obsessed. I had calendars, grids, running totals,and estimated future needs. I am sure I went back to work from chemo early so that I would use as few days as possible.
The website that collects this data to report on totals is about three months behind. I contacted the benefits administrator constantly to check my totals versus hers of days I had used. Poor woman...she was dealing with nut.
In the end, I used 54 of 60 days. There, I had control even though my entire universe was doing the cha cha. Didn't I? Well, maybe just control over writing lists.
When I started this blog in February I had some mighty big plans. I wanted to write some more, learn to play some music and to run a half marathon. I had to drop out of the marathon plans, I can't strum a note but at least the writing is starting to emerge. However, nothing is finished yet.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Radio City Here I Come
If you had to go to Safeway, or to the library every day, Monday through Friday for five weeks, I predict you would start to weary. But this is the treatment pattern for radiation therapy. Some people get less and some even more than I got. But because I had a lumpectomy, I was scheduled to get radiation therapy.
My radiation oncologist was quite a character. His English is impeccable but not quite idiomatic. He met with me and my posse in another one of those amazingly, teeny treatment rooms that line the hallways at the Cancer Institute…or at least the room seemed that way with me, the oncologist, Pepsi, F. and J. who took notes of course.
He examined my breasts and then asked me; “How old are you?” The posse snickered because his tone of voice was amazement. I didn’t have the courage to ask why. He then discussed treatment options as if I really had an option except not having radiation. Finally he reassured me in all earnestness that because I have such small breasts, here he emphasized that several times, I should avoid the toxicity that many women with bigger breasts experience from radiation treatment. That was good, I think.
So off I went in October/November to start the last leg of my treatment process. I thought I would have been done all treatment by September but I hadn’t even finished chemo until then. The Cancer Institute prefers that patients wait about a month until they start radiation.
There is a preliminary calibration process so that correct and same amount of radiation is directed to the breast and underarm at each treatment. The only indignity in that was I had three anchor spots tattooed, yes, I am now tattooed, just under each breast and the centre of the breast plate.
My daughters were fabulously entertained that I, too have a tattoo. J. and F. declared they would get the same three spots tattooed on their chests in solidarity with me. I know that J. got a spot for sure but F. got something more. Hard to guess, since she recently had the word “Yarr” tattooed on her bottom lip to show her true pirate nature.
I arrived in the waiting area where I would be arriving every day for five weeks. I got changed into a little shortie nightgown and a housecoat that was so wrinkled that I thought they should be ashamed. I put my clothes in the lockers provided, straightened my wig and sauntered into the waiting area. It is hard to be cool in a wrinkled hospital issued house coat. The men in the same waiting areas get on pajama bottoms to facilitate the radiation on their prostrates. We sat there pretending to read and cautiously peeking at each other. It felt very similar to being in a detention hall.
A technician came to get me, I got my attendance card marked and I went into the radiation therapy area which is completely lined in lead.
I took off my nightgown and housecoat and laid on the table. The technicians fiddle and fuss to ensure that the dose is the same each time. The three tattoos are anchor points for tracking this. Everyone leaves the room but me. Lights flash, buzzers sound, the machine rotated around me and it was over. The technicians are just splendid. They get me in and out in a very short time.
One day the radiation machine didn’t work. They sent me back to the waiting room. Everyone looked up at me and I announced, “I broke the machine.” Everyone laughed so hard at that I realized I had jibed at the common enemy over whom we had no power.
I continued to work throughout my radiation treatment. I tried to schedule the radiation in the afternoons so that I could work in the mornings. As the doctor predicted my small breast saved me from radiation burn and I had absolutely no toxicity. But I began to get tired. Finally, when I had about 8 treatments left, I got up for work, got dressed, and realized I couldn’t get out the chair. I tried hard but there was no way I could go to work. So I called in sick. I had the same experience the next day so I signed myself off sick for the rest of the treatments. And, then, the treatment was finished. Not done yet, but finished.
My radiation oncologist was quite a character. His English is impeccable but not quite idiomatic. He met with me and my posse in another one of those amazingly, teeny treatment rooms that line the hallways at the Cancer Institute…or at least the room seemed that way with me, the oncologist, Pepsi, F. and J. who took notes of course.
He examined my breasts and then asked me; “How old are you?” The posse snickered because his tone of voice was amazement. I didn’t have the courage to ask why. He then discussed treatment options as if I really had an option except not having radiation. Finally he reassured me in all earnestness that because I have such small breasts, here he emphasized that several times, I should avoid the toxicity that many women with bigger breasts experience from radiation treatment. That was good, I think.
So off I went in October/November to start the last leg of my treatment process. I thought I would have been done all treatment by September but I hadn’t even finished chemo until then. The Cancer Institute prefers that patients wait about a month until they start radiation.
There is a preliminary calibration process so that correct and same amount of radiation is directed to the breast and underarm at each treatment. The only indignity in that was I had three anchor spots tattooed, yes, I am now tattooed, just under each breast and the centre of the breast plate.
My daughters were fabulously entertained that I, too have a tattoo. J. and F. declared they would get the same three spots tattooed on their chests in solidarity with me. I know that J. got a spot for sure but F. got something more. Hard to guess, since she recently had the word “Yarr” tattooed on her bottom lip to show her true pirate nature.
I arrived in the waiting area where I would be arriving every day for five weeks. I got changed into a little shortie nightgown and a housecoat that was so wrinkled that I thought they should be ashamed. I put my clothes in the lockers provided, straightened my wig and sauntered into the waiting area. It is hard to be cool in a wrinkled hospital issued house coat. The men in the same waiting areas get on pajama bottoms to facilitate the radiation on their prostrates. We sat there pretending to read and cautiously peeking at each other. It felt very similar to being in a detention hall.
A technician came to get me, I got my attendance card marked and I went into the radiation therapy area which is completely lined in lead.
I took off my nightgown and housecoat and laid on the table. The technicians fiddle and fuss to ensure that the dose is the same each time. The three tattoos are anchor points for tracking this. Everyone leaves the room but me. Lights flash, buzzers sound, the machine rotated around me and it was over. The technicians are just splendid. They get me in and out in a very short time.
One day the radiation machine didn’t work. They sent me back to the waiting room. Everyone looked up at me and I announced, “I broke the machine.” Everyone laughed so hard at that I realized I had jibed at the common enemy over whom we had no power.
I continued to work throughout my radiation treatment. I tried to schedule the radiation in the afternoons so that I could work in the mornings. As the doctor predicted my small breast saved me from radiation burn and I had absolutely no toxicity. But I began to get tired. Finally, when I had about 8 treatments left, I got up for work, got dressed, and realized I couldn’t get out the chair. I tried hard but there was no way I could go to work. So I called in sick. I had the same experience the next day so I signed myself off sick for the rest of the treatments. And, then, the treatment was finished. Not done yet, but finished.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Get by with a little help from my friends
I have a routine that I treasure. When I can carry out these activities, I can imagine that everything is right in the universe.
Starting on Sunday I run or walk, depending on how debilitated our bodies are at that that particular moment from injury, treatments or surgery, with my friend Peter. Following that I have coffee and rearrange the world, or at least what social life I have, with Alison. On Sunday afternoon you will find me with Susan and sometimes her son Nick in the off leash walking the four dogs. She has the three dogs.
Every morning Monday through Friday I walk for an hour with Gerry. Sometimes my wonder Yorkie joins us, but never if it is wet or chilly. She hides until I leave the house.
On Tuesdays, I have yoga with Jennie. One year we took Zen meditation from a monk in a small stinky apartment. We attended a session on grief through the Jungians. That was intense. People cried at every meeting. Some years we have attend alternative religious sessions when K. our yoga takes a break. This year we are taking belly dancing. No recital for me, I already warned her.
On Saturday mornings and sometimes Wednesday after work I run with Michael. Beautiful life I think.
And, about 11 or 12 years ago, Alison and I started a bridge group of eight women. So far only one woman has dropped out…well, she moved to British Columbia but she comes back annually so we play with nine women. Someone is always glad to sit out.
The Bridgettes, as I have lately decided to call us, meet through thick and thin at each other’s houses. We eat cheezies, bridge mix, drink, catch up, commiserate and oh, yeah, we do play a hand or two of bridge. When we started out, we had to break for summer and holidays with children but that is all history now.
We don’t have many hard and fast rules except one..no criticism of each other’s playing, despite how bone-headed the play might have been. Like trumping your partner’s ace. Once we had a woman who joined us for a bridge retreat who said to one of us, me in fact, “Why would you do something that stupid?” I said that she played bridge at a much higher level than I did. Maybe I might have trumped her ace. But, this woman was not welcome at further bridge games. That is the Bridgette basics.
We have seen each other through many life changes such as divorces, unexpected job loss, 9/11, parental deaths, strokes, and children’s marriages.
Menopause has meant that we continually lose track of who dealt, what’s trump and what was the bid….this conducted to the sound of fanning and jackets being cast off as we have hot flashes.
And we have our own unique medical cluster. We are about the same age, ethnic origin, education and socio-economic status and four out of nine of us have had breast cancer. WOW!
Beth was the first with breast cancer. She dove into the diagnosis and treatment with vigor and courage. It was surgery and then radiation. We beat our breasts to beat that cancer back from our Brigette. To symbolize how covered her with our love we made her quilt. The cancer came back in her bowels so she has been going through chemo to continue to beat that brute back for over year. She has such courage. So far so good, especially since she found a new love.
Berni was next. She faced surgery, then surgery again, followed by radiation with courage and dignity. Again we rallied the troops. We delivered so much food to her house that the message got passed for us to hold back on the food. Berni and her husband could not being to eat all the food that showed up.
As Berni’s husband worked in construction we set up a schedule to drive her to radiation which was once a day for four weeks. I coordinated the schedule. There were some dicey moments setting this up because there were people who wanted to do more than their share, leaving others with no chance to Drive Ms. Berni. I had to be firm with these overachievers. They were not allowed to hog one whole week.
We wanted to remain along side of Berni as she moved through this experience. And we did this thanks to the talented seamstress in our midst who made her a blue jacket with our names written on the red lining. She can feel our support when she wears this garment.
Bobbi broke the news to us at bridge that she has been diagnosed with breast cancer. We were all prepared to jump into breast cancer support mode when she gently told us that it was not her way to make a big fuss. She wanted to get her surgery and whatever treatment was needed and just put it behind her. A large portion of her breast right up to her breast plate and twelve lymph nodes were removed. Even though she didn’t want anything we could not accept this. S we gave her a sophisticated pink scarf, soft and beautiful to wrap her in our loving thoughts.
The last to date is me. My friends came to chemo with me, sent me cards, called me, emailed me. I felt so loved and supported. And, they came up with the most perfect show of their strength and love for me. It is a string of worry beads made up of quite large and wonderfully coloured stones and stored in a marvellous handmade bag. I brought it with me to the Cancer Institute whenever I went. Just touching the beads gives me a thrill of pleasure and comfort.
So the Bridgettes provide me with an enduring sense of womanly community. Whenever we meet one of the women will stare hard at me. I wait for the verdict. "Your new white head of hair looks good and so do you." I breathe a sigh of relief. I am safe for a while.
Starting on Sunday I run or walk, depending on how debilitated our bodies are at that that particular moment from injury, treatments or surgery, with my friend Peter. Following that I have coffee and rearrange the world, or at least what social life I have, with Alison. On Sunday afternoon you will find me with Susan and sometimes her son Nick in the off leash walking the four dogs. She has the three dogs.
Every morning Monday through Friday I walk for an hour with Gerry. Sometimes my wonder Yorkie joins us, but never if it is wet or chilly. She hides until I leave the house.
On Tuesdays, I have yoga with Jennie. One year we took Zen meditation from a monk in a small stinky apartment. We attended a session on grief through the Jungians. That was intense. People cried at every meeting. Some years we have attend alternative religious sessions when K. our yoga takes a break. This year we are taking belly dancing. No recital for me, I already warned her.
On Saturday mornings and sometimes Wednesday after work I run with Michael. Beautiful life I think.
And, about 11 or 12 years ago, Alison and I started a bridge group of eight women. So far only one woman has dropped out…well, she moved to British Columbia but she comes back annually so we play with nine women. Someone is always glad to sit out.
The Bridgettes, as I have lately decided to call us, meet through thick and thin at each other’s houses. We eat cheezies, bridge mix, drink, catch up, commiserate and oh, yeah, we do play a hand or two of bridge. When we started out, we had to break for summer and holidays with children but that is all history now.
We don’t have many hard and fast rules except one..no criticism of each other’s playing, despite how bone-headed the play might have been. Like trumping your partner’s ace. Once we had a woman who joined us for a bridge retreat who said to one of us, me in fact, “Why would you do something that stupid?” I said that she played bridge at a much higher level than I did. Maybe I might have trumped her ace. But, this woman was not welcome at further bridge games. That is the Bridgette basics.
We have seen each other through many life changes such as divorces, unexpected job loss, 9/11, parental deaths, strokes, and children’s marriages.
Menopause has meant that we continually lose track of who dealt, what’s trump and what was the bid….this conducted to the sound of fanning and jackets being cast off as we have hot flashes.
And we have our own unique medical cluster. We are about the same age, ethnic origin, education and socio-economic status and four out of nine of us have had breast cancer. WOW!
Beth was the first with breast cancer. She dove into the diagnosis and treatment with vigor and courage. It was surgery and then radiation. We beat our breasts to beat that cancer back from our Brigette. To symbolize how covered her with our love we made her quilt. The cancer came back in her bowels so she has been going through chemo to continue to beat that brute back for over year. She has such courage. So far so good, especially since she found a new love.
Berni was next. She faced surgery, then surgery again, followed by radiation with courage and dignity. Again we rallied the troops. We delivered so much food to her house that the message got passed for us to hold back on the food. Berni and her husband could not being to eat all the food that showed up.
As Berni’s husband worked in construction we set up a schedule to drive her to radiation which was once a day for four weeks. I coordinated the schedule. There were some dicey moments setting this up because there were people who wanted to do more than their share, leaving others with no chance to Drive Ms. Berni. I had to be firm with these overachievers. They were not allowed to hog one whole week.
We wanted to remain along side of Berni as she moved through this experience. And we did this thanks to the talented seamstress in our midst who made her a blue jacket with our names written on the red lining. She can feel our support when she wears this garment.
Bobbi broke the news to us at bridge that she has been diagnosed with breast cancer. We were all prepared to jump into breast cancer support mode when she gently told us that it was not her way to make a big fuss. She wanted to get her surgery and whatever treatment was needed and just put it behind her. A large portion of her breast right up to her breast plate and twelve lymph nodes were removed. Even though she didn’t want anything we could not accept this. S we gave her a sophisticated pink scarf, soft and beautiful to wrap her in our loving thoughts.
The last to date is me. My friends came to chemo with me, sent me cards, called me, emailed me. I felt so loved and supported. And, they came up with the most perfect show of their strength and love for me. It is a string of worry beads made up of quite large and wonderfully coloured stones and stored in a marvellous handmade bag. I brought it with me to the Cancer Institute whenever I went. Just touching the beads gives me a thrill of pleasure and comfort.
So the Bridgettes provide me with an enduring sense of womanly community. Whenever we meet one of the women will stare hard at me. I wait for the verdict. "Your new white head of hair looks good and so do you." I breathe a sigh of relief. I am safe for a while.
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