Cancerversary and I'm Still Kicking

I am a little bit late in catching folks up, but I thought today would be the perfect day as it is my CANCERVERSARY, meaning it's been 3 years since I was diagnosed and welcomed to the sadly not-so-exclusive club of those who go through cancer treatment (but happily for me, survive). Knock on wood, always.

Shortly after my all-clear visit in March, I made arrangements to have my beloved-yet-hated port removed.  Although it can stay inside a body for years and years without causing any trouble (as long as you are diligent about getting it flushed out every six months to prevent clogging), I was assured by my oncologist that in the (hopefully very slight, and by that I mean zero) chance that I need a port again to get infusions of heinous meds, I can have the port put back in place.

I have to say, the removal process didn't leave me as impressed as the implantation process.  For starters, the doc who put it in did such a lovely and careful job that, once the incision healed, it really was as well done as anyone could hope for; however, I can't really say that about the scar I have now.  In fact, what it reminded me of at first was someone who is making a pie crust and, instead of taking the time and care to cut away the excess crust, simply mashed it in an overlapping fashion to fit the pie plate.  In case you didn't follow that, I am meaning that my skin is raw pie dough, and instead of making some nice edges, he just...smooshed?   Maybe I'm expecting too much, maybe I am talking out of my tush because I am totally NOT a surgeon (really? you aren't?), maybe I'm just bitter because my planned post-cancer career of being an upper right chest model was cut short before it began.  I realize we all are hypercritical of ourselves and magnify flaws in a way that is unrealistic, but you can see for yourself:

Can you even see the scar under the port?  That's before the removal.

Ouch. Bruised from yanking that port out.

I suppose as long as I don't walk around and point at it, no one but me will notice!

Also, if I'm going to be critical, I might as well go all the way.  When they wheeled me from prep to the operating room, they parked me for a bit outside the room while they...did whatever they needed to do.  But they parked me in this narrow little space next to a wall adjacent to the trash and biohazard bins.  Close enough that, had I wanted to, I could put my arm outside the gurney and open the lid without stretching my arm or turning my body. I mean, wow.  Maybe I wasn't supposed to notice?  But it was like being seated at a restaurant table and finding yourself right next to the bathroom.  Not appetizing.  Not really the presurgical environment I felt good about being in.  And I also felt a wee bit ripped off by my Twilight Sleep.  As in there was too much twilight and not enough sleep.  I was expecting the awesome propophol  experience and wow, I've got to say, there must have been a metric ton of scar tissue to deal with because the yanking, pressing and, in general, DISTURBING MY SLEEP that went on was certainly not what I was looking forward to going into the procedure.  (I was actually feeling irked that I was being disturbed while this was going on, which tells you how much I dearly love my sleep.)  But done is done, I'm happy not to be reminded anymore of my port every time my sports bra rubbed against it.  I partied with Mederma for a few months, and it is as good as it's going to get.  Small price to pay, really.  (As they were rousing me out of the non-sleep state, I asked to see the port.  They said they had already thrown it away. I responded that I had really hoped to see it. So they fished it out and held it up for me.  And I blew it a kiss and said, "Bye bye, port.")

Since August I've been dealing with a recurring eye condition called iritis (an inflammation of the colored part of your eye).  It's painful, makes you sensitive to light, gives you a WICKED eye/headache, not fun. (AND, in time for Halloween, it makes the white of your eye so bloodshot that it appears red.  Gruesome.) Anyway, my cornea specialist said there is no specific cause, it's just a thing that can hit you at least once in your life, the whole "beauty of getting older you are around long enough to have weird maladies" syndrome.  But if you are hit with iritis more than once, they start to wonder if possible immune system factors are at play.  

Yeah.  I had that ding-ding-ding red alert thought come into my head as well. 

The third time it popped up I called my Supermodel Oncologist to leave a message and bring her into the information loop.  She decided, just to be on the safe side, to move my scheduled March CT scan to December.  I just saw her in September and had excellent blood work again at the time.

And my specialist says that, if the iritis were somehow being triggered by a recurrence of lymphoma, he would expect to see a different type of cell in my eye, and he would also expect to see it in both eyes rather than one (Lisa "Left-Eye" Lopes, shout out).

Since cancer treatment, my white cell count has consistently been on the low side, but it's not anything my oncologist hasn't expected.  So perhaps I am now more prone to picking up yucky health crap and/or having a harder time fighting it off.

So we've done steroid eye drops, we've done steroid eye drops combined with oral steroids, and now (drumroll please), I do believe that on Tuesday I will have a steroid injection IN MY EYE!  Ick! Eeew! Yuck! Blech!  Yes, after everything else I've experienced, this one freaks me the heck out!  Don't you remember the pledge from childhood:  "Swear to God, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye!" That was serious juju as a kid because the needle in the eye part was always worse than the dying part to me!

To end on a good note, I'm feeling (aside from the eye) really great!  My sister cajoled me into training to run a 5K and, although my progress has been tremendously slow since February, I can now run (walk with a bounce?) for 25 minutes straight (as opposed to the 1 minute I could barely do without stopping for a walk interval when I began).  My upper left lung sometimes hurts when I run, and I find my breathing is adversely affected by poor air quality or any inflammatory foods I might have eaten the evening before a run. But the fact that I am here on the planet to lumber along and sweat up a storm is something I always celebrate.

I leave you with a photo of me and my Gorgeous Oncologist at my September appointment.  Isn't she a beauty?!?

Two Years and Counting

This promises to be short and oh-so-sweet. The results of my CT scan are in:

• No evidence of cancer activity.
• Residual tumor undetectable.
• Having made it to the two-year remission mark, the chances of me having a relapse drop to a very UNscary 10%.

I follow up with blood work ONLY (no scan necessary) in 6 months.

Dr. Beautiful Supermodel said I look great, and I feel great!  I have been working on improving my health over the past year, and I'm excited that my office visit shows my resting heart rate is down and my blood pressure (even during a super-stressful "I'm-getting-the-results-of-my-scan-what-if-I-have-cancer-again" doc appointment) is the lowest I've had in...well, it's been so long that I can't even remember.

Some loved ones who used to read my blog are no longer with us, having succumbed to their cancers. But I know they know of my happy news.  One told me, shortly before he passed: "I'm glad you survived."

So am I, Uncle Don. 

Every day is a gift. 

Write to y'all in 6 months.

Mission: Remission

So my official year of remission anniversary came and went at the end of April; at least I think it's the official date.  I was declared "in remission" at the end of chemo in April 2016, but some other providers didn't seem to want to bestow that recognition until I finished radiation at the end of June 2016.  So maybe, posting here in May, I am splitting the difference and should just declare a day in May to be my Remission Remembrance.

Did I do anything special, like have a cake made in the shape of a mutated B-cell?  No.  Did I even mark the occasion mentally?  No.  Give it even the slightest, most cursory and casual fleeting thought?  Nope, nope, soap on a rope.  

I frankly forgot all about it.

And I think THAT's the most vivid illustration of how well I am doing.  

My last PET in February showed that, months after completing chemotherapy and radiation, my tumor/scar tissue has shrunk even more.  And perhaps it will show even less of itself on the next scan.  Which, by the way, doesn't even have to be a PET.  I'm doing so well, with the tumor shrinkage and the numbers in my blood work, that I warrant only a CT scan at the next check.  A PET will only be done if something looks hinky on the CT.  So I can EAT before my next scan, whoo hoo!

All of this is wonderful news.  I am confident that, a year from now, I will be allowed to have my port removed.  Because I will never need it again.  I know I'm not supposed to used the mighty C-word (no, not that one...not cancer, either..."cured") for 5 clear years but, at the risk of invoking some bad juju, I really do consider myself to be cured, now and for always.

I am enjoying my life and my family and friends.  I am better.  Stronger.  Faster.  (Well, okay, maybe not faster.)  I feel "new and improved" as far as my daily approach to the world in which I live and the people in it.

My hair is currently an external reflection of my internal joy at being here on the planet.  

My Come to Jesus or Diety of Your Choosing Moment:  Don't wait for your own mortality to smack you in the face to embrace who you are, to live your life in a way that brings you happiness, and to revel in the moment and in the relationships that nourish your heart. Strive to minimize regret's role in your life, because drastic and sometimes permanent change can come without warning.

I will certainly wave my next all-clear CT scan results all over this blog when next I sign in. Be well, be happy, be your own most fierce medical advocate.   

Happy Cancerversary to Me!

   

 
     This week marked a year since the day I was diagnosed with the Big C...I had planned to write something fabulous on the actual date, November 10, but things got a little bit, uh...hectic...here in the ol' USofA.  I had some other things on my mind that pushed that milestone out of my head.  
     Which is perfect evidence of how good I have been feeling, of how much having cancer/being a cancer patient/being a cancer survivor is NOT in my brain in my day-to-day life. 
     My sister says this is my superpower: the ability to compartmentalize traumatic or just extremely unpleasant episodes and news in my life, and either tuck those things away in a far corner of my brain or, in some cases, completely erase them from my memory.  
     I don't know if this is necessarily always a good thing.  
     Sadly, it is also apparent that I will never merit a snazzy cape or shield because this superpower cannot be controlled--I cannot summon it at will.  (Otherwise, I would have kicked that power into high gear this week.  I'm just sayin'.)
     So much has happened in just one year.  From diagnosis through treatment to Seal of Remission to now.  My daughter graduating high school and entering college.  My son starting high school.  My husband becoming a part-time East Coast resident.  Extended family having babies.  My cat having a wee little cancerous tumor removed.  Me having ulcers (they think that's what all the pain was about--I saw the pictures, ewwww).  Me losing hair.  Me growing hair back.  Me losing weight.  Me gaining weight back.  
     The point is, it's not that much different from a lot of people's lives, really.  Things happen, good and bad, and you keep moving forward, and you get through the bad stuff and you celebrate the good stuff where you can.  No reason to complain because, in comparison to others, I'm living an awesome life.
     Anniversary dates are a time for reflection, so...at the risk of stepping squarely into a cliche, cancer brought bonus features to this past year's journey that, in the right frame of mind, I can honestly say serve as substantial consolation prizes for the unvarnished turd that is cancer and it's treatment.  I'm only sorry these cancer party favors don't get distributed among my entire cancer-fighting team at large, who certainly deserve the silver-lining perspective as much as, if not significantly more, than I do.

Things I Always Knew But, Because of Cancer, Am Finding Much Easier and More Natural to Embrace in My Life, In No Particular Order

     
You must empower yourself to be your most dedicated health advocate.  It sucks.  It requires time and effort and energy.  But don't accept that there is "nothing" wrong if you don't feel well.  

Long hair, don't care.  In fact, no hair, don't care.  Doesn't matter.  Enjoy having it, or just don't have it, it's all good. 

Stop saving the "good" stuff for some unnamed "special occasion."  Every day you are here is a pretty darn special occasion, really.  The good plates, the pretty sweater, the bottle of champagne that's been chilling in the fridge since you don't even remember when, the pair of earrings passed down from your grandmother.  Seriously.  What are you waiting for?  

Enjoy the things you have, or move them along to someone who will enjoy them or use them.  I had a profound sense of stress during cancer treatment related to the fear that, should I die from cancer, my family would be left to sort through the massive amounts of crap that I have accumulated.  I felt this intense pre-potential-death guilt about it.   I pictured my family's grief interrupted by angry exclamations of What the f***?! as they waded through endless piles of things and, because I was dead of course, I would not be able to defend my need to hang onto, for example, those beading supplies from 15 years ago when I indulged in a short-lived hobby that hadn't been used since.  As if by magic, all the crap that had managed over time to fade into a misty and undemanding mental background moved sharply into focus.  This is NOT to say that I have been successful at streamlining my surroundings into a shining example of stark, clinical, modern chic--but I am slowly chipping away at things.  It makes me feel good to go through things and donate or give to a friend who appreciates it.  My desire to acquire things has diminished greatly. Don't get me wrong--I looove stuff, all kinds of stuff.  I like to look at things and think "that's so cool" and imagine having them but, when it comes down to it, actually possessing most (not all) of these things isn't something I really want anymore.  It becomes mental clutter and makes stress.

Related to the above, I think this change in my relationship with things goes hand in hand with my experience during treatment of my relationships with people.  It was all the people in my life, friends and family, who helped me through the experience.  I think having cancer enriched my relationships because it elevated them to and cemented them in the level of importance and priority they should always occupy, something it is too easy to forget when I allow all the other brain-clutter of life to occupy my thinking.  The farther I get from cancer treatment, the louder the extraneous brain noise gets and the more it intrudes, but at the very least I am aware of it and I can work diligently to silence it.  Maybe I should just call this the La-La-La-I-Can't-Hear-You lesson.

It is really super cool to get mail.  Meaning an actual card or note or straight-up multi-page letter sent through the US Postal Service with a stamp.  People were incredible and sent me lots of it.  Having a hand-addressed envelope pop up in a stack of bills and junk mail is just the most awesome thing ever.  I'm going to try to send more mail.  It makes the person receiving it feel good.

Avoiding having people over to your house because "my house is a mess" is stupid.

Tell people what they mean to you.  There is no lifetime maximum on saying I love you to someone.

Be as kind as you can.  You just don't know what people are going through.  Until I was bald, no one would have suspected I was dealing with cancer.  Hopefully I wasn't rampaging through my world acting like a complete witch but, if I had been, I likely would have appreciated a little bit of slack being given under the circumstances.

Sometimes scrambled eggs are the best food ever.  Same for steamed rice with butter. 

 If singing makes you feel good, belt it out even if your voice sounds terrible.  If putting on "that outfit" makes you feel sassy, then wear it out the door.  If you think the cashier has beautiful eyes, say it.  If the lady ahead of you in line is rocking a fierce look and, by the way, is wearing shoes to die for, tell her.  If you need to apologize for something, or even if you suspect you might need to apologize, do it.  If bringing up an "awkward" subject will truly help you or someone else, put on your big girl panties and stop avoiding it.  If bringing up an awkward subject will be of no benefit but merely scratches some mental itch you're having, then shut your mouth.  Don't be afraid to look silly or stupid or be the subject of derision. Live your life.  Be happy.  A stranger giving you the stink eye isn't going to kill you.

NED Is Good For Me!

     Important things first:  My September PET scan showed no evidence of disease.  I am still in remission.  Unless I start to experience symptoms of lymphoma again, I do not have to go back for a scan for 6 months!
     We interrupt this program for a moment of jubilation:

Note the adorable Calvin Butt Wiggle. 

     Aaaaand...we're back.
     Things were going well, I was getting back in the groove of regular life, and then I started feeling this pain in my abdomen.  At first it was insignificant enough to be more of a huh, that's weird acknowledgement, but as time went on it became pronounced enough that it was a real distraction.  Over the span of two weeks it got to the point where Advil and Tylenol just weren't having any effect, and the pain was radiating from the upper right side around to my back.  Not a fan, I can tell you.
     So during these two weeks, I was working very hard to resist the lure of hypochondria and catastrophizing.  When the pain increased and became constant, I relied on my Google medical degree to ascertain that this pain is located in the area in which one might experience gallbladder pain.  And I certainly fit the profile of the 3 Fs:  fair, fat, and forties (okay, I'm fifties, but whatever).  So I tried not to be too worried about it, but I can't say that the spectre of some hideous tumor wasn't lurking at the corners of my brain.  Which is ridiculous:  the average person doesn't immediately leap to ohmyGodI'vegotatumor with random aches and pains.  I rationalized that, because I was due to have my PET scan sometime in the month, I would be able to just sit tight and the scan would reveal if this was cancer.  If it wasn't the Big C, then I could seek attention in addressing this more mundane medical anomaly.
     The problem was that the approval for the PET scan was not forthcoming.  I don't know if this was entirely the insurance company's fault.  Seems like, being a person in remission, I'm not necessarily on the priority list at the cancer center, so there was really no one cracking the whip of urgency for those responsible for following up with the insurance company to obtain authorization.  Hard to say.  Perhaps it was a combination of both parties.
     Well, I waited as long as I could.  I began fantasizing about grabbing a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and an X-acto knife and just having at it in the bathroom.  Also, the idea of taking a swim in shark-infested waters and allowing a hungry shark to chomp an exact semi-circle out of my right side seemed really appealing.  
     So I called my primary care...yes, THAT primary care doc (I'm still working on finding a replacement).  No open appointments for 7 days.  But this is two weeks of worsening abdominal pain, is there no way to make an earlier appointment?  Okay, the nurse practitioner has an opening in 6 days.  But I'm welcome to keep calling back to see if there are cancellations.  Uh, don't you just put me on a cancellation list and call me if an opening comes up? No, we are too busy to do that.  Silly me, what was I thinking, of course I'll call you every hour on the hour like a crazed stalker and ask about cancellations, that's a much better way to go about it, you're totally right, my bad.
     So I took the appointment with the nurse practitioner.  And I thought maybe I could stick it out.  But I couldn't hack it.  At the urging of my hubs who was scheduled to leave town, I ended up in the ER. And I was there for almost 7 hours.  I guess my Google med creds weren't too far off because they did an x-ray and ultrasound of my gallbladder.  And they came up negative.  After a shift change (waiting, waiting, waiting in a room, waiting, waiting, okay, you've been to the ER, you know how it goes) a new doctor comes in and says that I can go, there is nothing wrong with me.  Whaaaaa?  The gallbladder is not enlarged.  Probably a muscle strain.  But this has been going on for two weeks!?!  Oh, really? Hmmm. (Wow, did you not read the notes?  Just take a second before you walk in the room, really, you can make a much better impression on me by doing that.)  It's radiating to your back?  Pneumonia can cause that pain.  I'll order a chest x-ray.  (Did I somehow miss someone listening to my lungs?  No stethoscope has made an appearance here.  Have I mentioned any other symptoms that might correspond with pneumonia?)
     I should have spoken up.  I think the pain and the shock at the possibility of the doctors just kicking me loose with a so sad, too bad attitude about the pain made me desperate enough to grab onto the slight glimmer of medical curiosity this doctor was showing like a life preserver, even if it didn't make much sense to me.
     Waiting, waiting, waiting.  Finally, I got dressed.  I'm cranky.  I'm feeling like they've forgotten I'm here.  Lost in the shift change.  I'm thirsty (they won't give me any water), and I'm hungry (no breakfast, no lunch), and I'm sick of this.  Someone comes in the room to take vitals (oh, so you DO know I'm here), and I ask when the results of the x-ray will be available, how much longer will this take, I have to pick up my kid from school, what's going on?  So that guy leaves and in about 10 minutes the doctor comes in.  Tells me that they see something on the x-ray but they don't know what it is.  Do I want to come look?  Well, yes, I do.
     So he's showing me my lung and explaining that there is mystery crap in my lung.  Well, that looks sort of like pneumonia.  But that looks sort of like lymph nodes (red alert, red alert, danger Will Robinson), and that stuff, well, I dunno what that is.  But he starts patting me on the shoulder and starts getting really super duper nice to me, and rubbing my arm, and asks me when I'm going to be following up with my oncologist, and AAAAACCCCKKK!   STOP BEING NICE TO ME! The ER staff is getting all ooey gooey nicey nice and I'm expecting to hear a mournful trumpet playing Taps, and holy crap is my cancer back?!?  
     So this doctor says he's just going to put down a diagnosis of pneumonia, give me some antibiotics, and I should definitely follow up with my oncologist.  Frankly, I'm a little discombobulated at this point, so instead of saying, "What the hell are you talking about, you're 'just going to put down something', you don't know what it is, why would you give me meds for it, why don't I just hang out a shingle and become a doctor, I can just put down anything I feel like.  Oh, is today Friday, well that's Mad Cow Disease Diagnosis Day in my office," I only ask what they are going to do to help with the pain I came in with.  Oh, yeah, THAT...here's some oxycodone.  Which made me think that if I were a prescription med junkie and had 7 hours to burn, I might have thought it worth my while to say ow-ow-ow this hurts and sit on my ass in an ER if I could walk out with 20 tablets.  What the hell?
     I drove straight to my oncologist's office, gave them the report, and wrote a note for her that summarized this nonsense and said, if nothing else, maybe something hinky on an x-ray could shake loose an authorization for my follow-up PET scan.  Before I made it home I had a message that I had an appointment with her on Monday.  So I made it through the weekend with my hard-earned drugs, saw her on Monday, and she was not happy.  She said she hates when this happens, when ER doctors don't know what they are looking at and freak her patients out.  She explained that, according to the report, all the funk is showing in my left lung.  Okay, so none of that crap the ER doc was pointing to was anywhere near the pain I'm having.  And she said that there is likely going to be funk showing in my lung forever from the scar tissue and the radiation.  And that there is another gallbladder test that should have been done, and yes, maybe this will get the authorization for the PET, and that I should calm down and she's not worried about the lung.  
     Whew, thanks for talking me off the ledge, doc.  See, I thought I was all good about this stuff, but not really.  The paranoia just lurks.  Waiting for something to set it free.
     Anywho, this story is going on far too long.  I apologize.  Had the other test.  Nada.  Talked with a surgeon who said I had all the symptoms, had the pain in the right place (seriously, OW, stop pressing there!), and that 70% of people who have negative tests and present with gallbladder symptoms are shown to, upon removal of said organ, have something hinky with their gallbladder.   But he also said he has had personal experience with removing a gallbladder from someone with all the symptoms and negative tests and...nothing is wrong with the gallbladder. So...it's up to me.  I HATE that!  I don't want to be the decision maker, I want science to make the decision for me!
     So I have a surgery date set.  Just in case.  In the interim I have another consult with a GI doc to discuss other possibilities and to see if I can get an "I concur with the surgeon" out of her.  My pain has lessened dramatically, which is wonderful (I don't really like to be on pain meds all the time...cuts into my evening glass of wine consumption).  But the pain is still there, just a little hey, don't forget about me kind of poke in the gut.  
     So we'll see what happens.  I do have a quasi-medical, unsubstantiated feeling that, if I have a gallbladder that goes in and out of states of irritation and inflammation, maybe residing in my guts at a low level of inflammation most of the time, but nothing horrific (like it is now...I can feel the slight ow, and if you poke it I'll give you big OW and shove you, but it's not at the forefront of my mind), this is not good for my body.  Specifically, if my immune system is allocating resources to manage chronic inflammation, it is perhaps not going to be in the most excellent shape to keep cancer away.  Given the whole immune-system connection with lymphoma.  So, that's just where my brain is.
     It's too bad gallbladders don't weigh 10 or 15 pounds...it would make the decision to remove it much easier for me.

     

Cankle Head

     It has been so long since I've returned to this page...a sure sign that I'm doing well.  When you have places to go and people to see because you don't have treatment appointments and doctor appointments and you don't feel like hibernating all the time, who wants to be blah blah blogging, right? Nothing to say on a cancer blog when...you don't have cancer anymore?
     Friends have suggested that I keep writing about things other than cancer, but ongoing cancer treatment provides a fairly inexhaustible supply of subtopics, meaning: I really didn't have to work very hard to find something to say.  Maybe I'll take a page from other cancer blogs...each year that I get my clear PET scan I'll check in and share the gold-star moment with everyone!  (And in case you are wondering, I have to wait until sometime in September for my PET...my doc wants 8-12 weeks after last radiation.  And of course I will share the happy news once I get results.) 
     So last I wrote, radiation treatment was over and that bell was rung (I'm speaking literally...a much more petite bell than the one at chemo...more aesthetically pleasing and yet not QUITE as satisfying as making the uber-racket that the Chemo Room ship's bell allowed...)  Let's hope I do not have the opportunity to go through this again, because there's a fine line between enjoying a celebratory moment with family and becoming a hopeless bell-clanging attention whore.
     As soon as I got cut loose from radiation, I was able to travel out of state to spend time with family...got to have both West and East Coast experiences this summer, which I haven't had in a long time.  Things got pretty busy this month as my son began high school and my daughter moved into her dorm and started college--milestones for both kids, and I'm excited to see them move forward with confidence to start these next phases of their lives.
     Throughout the fall and spring I felt constant guilt at the Big C competing for the family focus that should have been, in a non-cancer life, unwaveringly on things like, oh, I don't know, college acceptances and graduations maybe?  It pleases me to no end to see my kids doing so well after going through this little drama.  They were champs.  
     While I was visiting out East I was fortunate enough to meet Redthreader, and she gifted me with some handmade awesomeness!  I'm fairly sure she's one of those people who, if she sees something cool, says to herself, "Hmm...I think I can make that."  And then she learns how to do it and flawlessly executes whatever it is that strikes her fancy.  (I'm sooo not one of those people.)  One of the goodies she made is this etched baking dish:

     The big question is:  How in the world did Redthreader know that my sister and I have had an ongoing dialogue for years about working to be a 2.0 version of ourselves? (Methinks Redthreader must have some mad psychic skills?)  Being "the 2.0" is about trying (and failing and trying again) to reflect on and pay attention to how I think and speak and act.  The ultimate goal is to be aware of myself as the thoughts or words or actions are forming, to enable myself to make a better choice.  Before the damage is done, so to speak.  It doesn't matter that the process never ends.  Or that I forget on way-too-many days.  Or that I'm endlessly shutting the barn door after the horses (cows? farm creatures?) are already out. The point is to become conscious of sliding into autopilot and to drag myself away from it. To strive to achieve that goal, no matter how many times I fail in the attempt, is to be a 2.0 version of myself.  
     It is a cliche, I know, but the Cancer Awareness Gift was real.  At least for me.  Having cancer and going through treatment gave me a tremendously compelling reason to focus inward, to appreciate the people in my life and the world around me, and to stay focused on what is positive and make those things the priorities.  I got to live in this bubble in which the regular bullshit that can so easily hijack my mind couldn't penetrate.  And that was amazing!  It wasn't that I stopped caring about anything but myself--even though, as I read this, that's just what it sounds like.  But my brain would instantly assess and discard things that, in the scheme of life, just didn't matter a whole heck of a lot--and it did this without me being aware of it.  It just happened.  This cancer change was an intense personal experience, and it was a more complete and all-encompassing mental shift than I've ever experienced before.  My sister calls it being in Small World--this place you go to live in your head when you are dealing with protracted (medical/other) crisis.  You learn a lot about yourself when  you reside in Small World.  And Big World baloney just doesn't get to follow you there.
     My hope was that this magically delicious new way of being would remain post-cancer treatment.  In perpetuity.  Lessons learned.  Done.  Like that adorable Rio Olympics weightlifter:  You drop that weight on the mat and do a little dance.  (Did you not see him?  Stop and Google him right now.  Oh.  My.  Goodness.)
     However, what has actually come to pass is a little different.  Yes, after chemo there was a honeymoon period during which I  continued to experience the world around me with my Small World Bubble Attitude--it was amazing.  I felt this lightness of spirit and nothing stressed me out.  All the little things just didn't bother me.  Everything rolled off my back.  Cue the choir of angels:  I'm a different person! Whoo hoo!
     Then one day I was driving and trying to merge onto the freeway.  Speed limit 65 mph.  And this car in front of me was moving down the onramp, not only having a hard time maintaining the lane (texting, maybe?) but also doing so at a speed maybe 20 mph under said speed limit.  Soooo sloooooow.  Come ON! Let's go!  Oh my gosh!  Just drive, do you know how to drive?! Are you kidding? And now you're putting on your brakes?!?  What?!?  Idiot!  Merge, merge, MERGE already!!! AAAUUUGGGHH!!
     Whoa, Nellie.  Who the hell was that?  She does NOT live in Small World!
     I'm not saying that I think it's possible for me to be this saintly, unperturbed, spiritually evolved being who never gets upset about anything.  Puh-leeeeeze.  That ain't happening.
     But should I spike my blood pressure about how some yahoo is driving?  Really, that's the thing that's going to put me over the edge? Out of everything under the sun?  I can't control how this person is driving.  But I can make a choice to control myself.  Do I really want to pop a vein over this?  Save the emotional investment for something that merits it--and traffic definitely doesn't  rate as a high priority.  Why do I want to give some stranger in a car control over my headspace?  
    I thought the 1.0 me was long gone.  I can't say I was pleased to hear that me coming out of my mouth.  A blast from the pre-cancer past.
      Another example:  During the months of chemo, the constant voice inside my head that would always tell me how fat I am, how terrible I look in some outfit, yada yada yada over my appearance, the voice that's been with me for my entire life (well, okay, since 4th grade, probably)--that voice fell silent.  I didn't hear a peep from it.  I thought it was dead and gone.  Halle-flippin-lujah!  Ding-dong the witch is dead!  Excellent!  You have no idea how much I HATE that voice. The voice that wants me to live every moment in a place of self-consciousness and low esteem, the voice that wants me to have no confidence and feel unworthy.  Based on how I look.  Because that's more important than my character, right?
    All during cancer treatment I wore what I wanted to and didn't give a thought to how I looked in comparison with others.  I just wore what made me happy and felt good about myself for just being around to wear the damn clothes.
     Well, here I was, living my life after chemo, and suddenly that familiar voice piped up again.  It wasn't dead after all--it just hadn't been able to penetrate the Small World bubble.  Now, you know I was totally down with my bald head.  I was diggin' it.  Easy maintenance, nice and cool, great for hats, no hair covering fun earrings...I'm a big fan.  Well, I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror and that obnoxious voice said, "Wow, that's some big fat head you've got there.  On a fat neck.  Your head sitting on your neck looks like a cankle.  How ugly is that?  Wow."  
     Is everyone familiar with the cankle?  "A leg with no clear definition where the calf ends and the ankle begins."  Yet another thing that those of us with body-image issues can find fault with.
     So I finished chemo treatments for good and this is what my brain conjures up?  Because that's important?  I'm alive, for cryin' out loud!  Doesn't that matter more than having a cankle head?  I mean, why should I even care if my head/neck combo is a cankle?!?  To quote the noted philosopher Carrie Fisher:  "My body is my brain bag, it hauls me around to those places and in front of faces where there's something to say or see."  Enough said.
     It comes down to all these little moments in my day.  All the opportunities to make a better choice than the one that, sadly, just comes naturally too much of the time.
     So I can either feel insulted and uncertain when the woman at the cash register--who, no lie, looked very much older than me--asked if I would like the 60-years and older senior discount, or I can find the humor in that:  Me, slowly, with my head slightly cocked to the side:  "Well...I don't know.  If you think I LOOK like I'm 60, then go ahead and give me the discount."  Rrroww!  Hisssss!  I dare you!  (Trying. To. Find. Humor. Trying.  Failing.)
     Or:  My primary care doctor, while I'm explaining how my health is now that I am finished with treatment, interrupts several times to clarify my address and phone number and pharmacy location so he can be super-efficient and type it in his laptop instead of listening to me.  After I've told him about all my hot flashes, night sweats, and joint pain, he says cheerily: "Well, I see your weight has been trending downward." At that moment I had some choices.  I could get up and punch him in his clueless face...or start quietly seething...or I could laugh out loud and say: "Uh, well, that would be the CANCER!"  And then start looking for a new doctor.  I chose the latter.  Two-point-oh.  Bam!
     So although I feel as if I am, more frequently than I was before I had cancer, looking at situations through the rosier 2.0 lenses, increasing those moments really does require work. I know that even the best relationships take work to remain healthy and to evolve and grow, and this is a relationship between me and the world around me.  I would have been much happier if this had been a permanent shift that required no further thought or effort on my part.  Damn.  I'm lazy that way.  But having had a glimpse of what is possible is a motivator to keep trying.  So I don't have too many two-point-oh-no moments!
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Independence Day

      Yes, we just celebrated American Independence Day--but I think I'm also celebrating independence from the constant doctor and treatment visits and my body's independence from cancer.  It's a bit selfish of me, I know, to ride the coattails of the Continental Congress like that.  But I do favor doubling-up on celebrations where possible!  More food!  More fun!
     Two days after my final radiation treatment I dragged myself back (with a mixture of excitement and trepidation) to my sorely-missed Jazzercise class!  As a post-chemo encouragement gift, my sister had sent me cute workout clothes (finding my selection of workout wear on her visit during my exercise hiatus to be, well, lacking in fit and style, I suppose).  I used the lure of that sassy exercise outfit to motivate me to haul my wobbly bottom out of the bed I so dearly wanted to stay in.  I felt that I was missing out for all those months on something good with my class, but I had forgotten how very much I enjoy being in the company of those energetic women and having fun moving to the music!  Awesome instructor, awesome ladies, everyone working to stay strong and have a good time while doing it.  Let's be honest--the routine kicked my butt and hard!  I had no doubt that it would.  But what was so exciting for me was how I felt during the workout.  I was sweating up a storm (I truly think I'm the sweatiest person there--always was--and not because I'm working out the hardest...I'm just really gross that way).  I was huffing and puffing and tired out by the end. But I was not feeling the tight, constricted sensation in my chest that I had somehow gotten used to feeling during class.  It wasn't a feeling I had always experienced...but because it came on slowly, increasing incrementally, I think I just got used to feeling that way and rationalized that it was a "gee, you're getting older and you must be more out of shape than you thought, you should work out harder and get in better condition" kind of thing. 
     What I hope is that I will remember the before and after feelings so that I can remain aware of my body and be proactive when things aren't normal.  Thankfully my voice was the symptom of something gone wrong that I couldn't ignore--I had successfully managed to explain away fatigue, shortness of breath, wheezing, and that constricted feeling in my chest that were occurring months prior to that. 
     I'm not trying to spread a message of paranoia.  But I do think it's worth a mention that most people I know tend to brush off persistent symptoms until they become chronic and, once chronic, simply mentally absorb those conditions as part of the way they "normally" feel.
    So when you have aches and pains, a cough, fatigue unconnected to a change in routine or lifestyle, it makes sense to use ice or heat, rest the area, take pain relievers, or whatever is appropriate.  But if you've been doing that for 2 weeks and the situation hasn't improved, well...maybe you might think about getting checked out.  And, if a doctor says I don't know what that is, you're just getting older, it happens, whatever and doesn't seem to be the least bit curious as to the cause of the symptom, maybe you should talk to someone else.  I'm just sayin'.
     Speaking of all that, in following the recommendations of the ENT, I have experienced an improvement in my ear and neck pain.  It hasn't disappeared completely, but it is much less painful than before.  So the teeth clenching seems a likely culprit.  I imagine myself with some mouth guard in combination with my CPAP mask and my glasses with the super-thick lenses before bed..things don't get any more attractive than that, I must say.  Unless maybe you fancy a look reminiscent of a deep sea diver?  Surgical patient?  Life-sized science experiment?  Hey, good lookin'!  Mmmrow!!  Hubba hubba!

     And now for something serious.  I know I said it was my personal Independence Day.  But I want to acknowledge my bottomless thanks for all the people I have depended on these past 7 months.  From the moment of my diagnosis to the last day of treatment, I have been absolutely astounded by the steadfast support, encouragement, and assistance that a huge network of family and friends has provided to me and to my family every step of the way.  I have the most amazing, massive, and enthusiastic cancer-beating team--virtually and in person.  How could I have done this alone?  Impossible.  I am forever humbled, forever changed for the better in being the recipient of such limitless human kindness and generosity.  I hope to be able to pay it forward in kind.  Thank you everyone.