Takin’ it one “are you fucking kidding me” at a time

I received my first Taxol treatment. 1 down, 11 to go. It is supposedly less harsh on the system, easier to tolerate and there is the potential that my hair could reemerge. The most common side effect is fatigue and fatigued I am feeling. 

Similar to life, the eb and flow of cancer treatment is something that takes some getting used to. Just when I seemingly embrace my current situation and learn what “to expect” shit changes. 

There’s no comfort in CHemo. Just cold, brass tax slap your ass, cell killing action. Ain’t nothing warm and fuzzy about it. One day pasta is your friend the next your tongue is revolting against your mouth. 

I woke up this morning with a panicky, chest grabbing, air escaping, wind blown mind. WHYYY? Oh maybe it’s because my hands are forever vibrating, or because the cool fall air makes my body quiver, or that the cankers on my cheeks are enough to rival dentistry tactics ala the civil war. Maybe it’s because every time I enter a room Tommy in an overly exasperated voice asks, “Is your chemo done yet??” And when I tell him “No, not yet bud”, he looks to the ground, takes a big sigh and says “Oh mama I feel so bad for you.” 

I didn’t want to contemplate the part of my journey when people treat me differently because I “look sick.” I don’t care what PeOPLe ThiNK oF MEEEEE. Or do I? No, I don’t, but the lingering looks stick in the psyche. And when the air changes to a chill instead of a kiss, or when Tommy notices the countdown to my chemo finale, the “looks” resurface and rear their ugly judgmental heads.

Most days I count my blessings. I feel gratitude that I’m able to discuss my diagnosis openly and honestly with my children. I appreciate that the roles of caretaker and patient have been reversed and that Steve and I have the opportunity to value the strife that we each under take. I hate that my parents are forced to witness to their only child grapple with a life threatening illness but I’m grateful to show them that I can and will grapple til the end.

Most days I appreciate. But some days I take it one “are you fucking kidding me??” at a time. And that’s ok too. 

Storms, rainbows and supermarkets

Slip and slide into the day, go play.

Embrace it. 

Sometimes I feel like the scene from Stigmata when Patricia Arquette is experiencing unforeseen forces pushing and pulling her. WHAT DO YOU WANT DEMONNNNNN? Fine take it. 

Get up. Move. Easier said than fucking done especially when your entire being is screaming for you to do the exact opposite. 

When Steve was in the hospital I would get up early, shower, blow dry my hair, put on makeup, dress as if I was going to work and walk to the train station.  It was my ritual. My kick ass and take names preparation. It prepared me for “war.” 

It’s easy to “mail it in.” It’s easy to feel like your sweatsuit will save the day. But it won’t. It’s the opposite actually. It’ll steal your day and make you feel like you don’t deserve nice things.

I went food shopping with the kids. It was the highlight of my week. Is everyone aware of the fact that we are able to arrive at a destination, peruse aisles stocked with nutritional items from around the world, go home and eat them? Well you should be. 

Upon deciding to embark on our adventure I put on pants that did not have an elastic waist, stenciled on some eyebrows, selected some hair and embraced the storm. 

AND I ROCKED THAT SHIT

In the cereal isle I got a solid head nod and a thumbs up from a woman in scrubs. AND LET ME TELL YOU it filled my freaking bucket. 

There’s a constant running train thought process in my mind, contemplating if people know I’m sick. Do they look at me and think “aw poor thing?” Do they notice my wig and wonder why? Do I care? Should I care? Lately I’ve cared too much. Worrying what “they” think. But lemme tell you THAT notion is reaching it’s expiration date. Don’t tell me my business and enjoy the view. 

However this head nod, this affirmation made an impact. Her eye contact said “I see you. And YOU BETTER WORK.” I felt it. I felt her acknowledgment of my attempt. She understood how hard it was to get myself in that aisle. And without words she confirmed my endeavor.

My friend who is a breast cancer survivor once told me, “people will treat you like you’re sick and it will get in your head. Don’t let it.” She’s right. I choose to see the light. I choose to see the yes.

It is a process. It is a long road. It is ok.  After every storm comes a rainbow. Be grateful for the small things, the big things and everything in between. And that includes supermarkets. 

 

Rise

Phoenix

A mythological bird that cyclically regenerates or is otherwise born again. Associated with fire and the sun, a phoenix obtains new life by arising from the ashes of it’s predecessor. 

Knocked down, get back up. Consistency, breathe in and out. Support the sadness, feel the future, embrace the anxiety.

 

“I’ll always take care of you mama,” Tommy says as he stares down at me from the side of my bed. His face is encapsulated in the warm glow of early morning air creating, if possible, a heightened level of innocence and angelic emphasis surrounding his cherub cheeks. I’m not sure how long he has been staring at me but I can tell this thought isn’t new to his psyche.

 

I spent today staring at my children. Blonde streaks framing their faces, freckles placed sporadically where the sun hits most often. Innocent, worried, trying to comprehend their role in this rollercoaster we’ve been assigned to. It’s hard not to have answers. Or not to have the “right answers” we all want to hear. That’s the hardest lesson. Be still. Feel your feelings. They are all ok. They are all correct. Even the half breaths that you work into full breaths. Even the tears for REALLY WANTING TO BE AT THE BEACH AND NOTTTTT STUCK IN A HOSPITAL BED. 

 

I received my (fingers, toes, arms, legs, ears whatever else you got hanging around crossed) last AC chemotherapy treatment. This treatment is supposedly the knock down, drag you out bad mother trucker and lemme tell you it knocked my ass on it’s ass. I lost an entire 48 hours in and out of consciousness. Which if you haven’t experienced this feeling it is wild ride. WHAT TIME IS IT?? I yell as I wake up sweating and shaking in the middle of the night. Where are the kids? Where are my PANTS? 

 

I came home looking all sorts of green, barely able to hold up a glass and unable to walk to the bathroom unassisted. No one said it but the way they left me alone and side eye glanced told me all i needed to hear. 

 

It’s a big accomplishment. Or at least that’s what I try to tell myself. I get pissed off when I don’t FEEEEEL all ACCOMPLISHED. It’s hard to hold a sense of fulfillment with a larger picture looming ahead. But if you don’t take time to celebrate achievements, how will you truly appreciate triumph?

 

I have 12 weeks of an additional chemo staring at me from around the bend. 12 consistent weeks of Chemo, a month off to recover and then Victoria Secret’s better hide their women and children because these boots (and boobs) are made for walking.