Oh hi

Today marks the first Friday in 17 weeks that I won’t be receiving CHemotherapy. I honestly don’t know what to do with myself. Should I sauté a chicken or something? Put on some bubbly? Bathe the cat (we don’t have a cat so that one would be challenging). 

It’s an arduous feeling to face that I have been compromising my immunity with red hot toxins or remembering that I don’t typically run to the bathroom every time I feel a fart coming on JUST IN CASE it proves to pack more of a punch. Recognizing what it feels like not to worry about my calf muscles cramping. Recalling how my body felt before cancer and that “having energy” is a very real attribute. Realizing that I needed to block out normalcy to make room for organized chaos. 

It’S ThAT tImE oF tHe YeAR FOLKSSSS. IT’S LESSON TIME!  It’s time to stop and ask what lessons I have learned from my CHemotherapy sessions. HOW should I feel? Should I celebrate this milestone even though the finish line is so far away? Should I look at this step as an accomplishment? I had to do it. I didn’t have a choice. And I did it. It’s done. What’s next? 

No. 

Excuse me while I have a little pep talk with myself. 

Listen here self. The secret to success is to applaud yourself when each task is complete. Say thank you and well done for all you have endured to finish this job. Sure, you have surgery looming on the sidelines but take today to stop and recollect about each week leading up to this point. How much you didn’t want to go, how you counted down the amount of treatments you had left while your kids documented it on the kitchen chalkboard. The long nights of nausea and incurable headaches. Pushing yourself on a Saturday so you could feel a small sense of normalcy resulting in you throwing up in the Target parking lot. Wondering if you would be in the 70% of women who lose their hair and brushing it a week after your first session to witness a large clump fall onto the tile. The crippling anxiety you felt after finally feeling good only to realize that it’s time for another dose. Sometimes it’s the pain that reminds us that we’re alive (credit given to my husband Steve for that statement).

But YOU KNOW WHAT I did it. I fucking did it. So today raise your glass and offer a big FUCK YOU to CHemo. So long and sayonaraaaaaa. And thank you. Thank you for helping me see my strength. 

Bad ass bitch

My former boss called me today. She is someone I admire. I respect her desire and passion to directly impact the lives of thousands of low income children and families throughout Boston. She is the Vice President of Head Start, and someone I aspired to become. 

I haven’t told her that I’m sick. I’m not sure why. Is it because talking about my cancer makes me sad? No, not particularly. Is it because I am worried that it might make her sad? No, not necessarily. Then why? Why have I been seemingly avoiding telling her? 

My decision to leave Head Start came out of necessity. Steve’s health was showing signs of deterioration and I wanted/needed to be more accessible. I also knew that I needed to fill my days with something that fed my soul instead of feeding everyone else’s. It was never my plan to leave my post. My plan was to work towards accepting my boss’s position and I was well on my way. I quickly climbed the ranks from Teacher assistant, to Teacher, to Education Supervisor, to Assistant Director. Next stop the top. And I loved it. I loved giving my all to children and families in need. I loved driving though East Boston on a Saturday and hearing “MISS DANIELLE!!” screamed from three story windows. I loved my 100 employees and the closeness that it brought. 

When I saw my former director’s number flashing on my phone my heart skipped a beat. I didn’t feel “nervous” So what’s with the butterflies?

Although I am proud of who I am, who I have become, seeing her number made me a bit morose. It was my first true connection to being reminded of who I was. The girl before the cancer.

Although it has been a short amount of time since my diagnosis I don’t feel like the girl my former director expects to talk to. I froze. Should I pretend? That wouldn’t make sense. I don’t think I could fake it even if I tried. I feel so far away from that girl I’m not sure I would remember how to act. So I let it go to voicemail. 

Looking at photos taken of me just months before my diagnosis, I hardly recognize her. C’monnnnn stop being so dramatic. It’S YoUUUU. Nah, it ain’t though. That girl is cute, gets shit done but does it with sugar. This bitch knows that some shit needs to be done with a hammer instead of a feather. This bitch knows what it’s like to be the hand that needs to be held instead of the hand holder. 

And that’s when it hit me. The recollection of my former boss, my former career, made me remember the girl that didn’t know what a port was, the girl that didn’t know what chemo consisted of or how her face would look without eyebrows. She made me harken to a time when I consistently battled night sweats and would wake up several times a night shaking because I had sweat so much that my clothes were soaked through. A girl that always wondered how women found their tumors instead of finding her own. Back to a time when my biggest problem was needing to purchase shampoo instead of wondering how long will it take to have nipples tattooed onto my manufactured breasts. 

Am I in the same “place” as I was then? No. Am I where I want to be? Nope. Do I love being able to feel my feelings without feeling like a FaiLUreeee. Yup. Am I excited to combine the girl of the past with this bad bitch? Fuck. Yes. 

Thank god I got this cry out it had been a full 48 hours since my last, I was beginning to get concerned. 

Fan your flow

 

Life makes plans, god laughs. 

God you ironic bastard.

My medical team decided to add one more week of chemotherapy to my existing regiment due to a minor set back aka my horror film sized stye. This means my last day of chemo will be 12/11. The same day as the first day of Hanukkah. For the Festival of Lights I was going to ask for a helicopter wrapped in mink carrying 55 lbs of Godiva, and peace on earth of course, but I’ll settle for my final day of toxic chemicals coursing through my bloodstream.

Since my last day for treatment has been moved, so has my mastectomy date. My new surgery date is 1/13. Mixed feelings on that one. On one hand I’m wildly disappointed. I told my friends, marked it in my day planner and even circled the date on our chalkboard refrigerator calendar. On the other, more responsible hand, I’m relieved that I won’t be ushered in to have major surgery on the same week as Christmas. 

Ho hum.

If I’ve learned nothing it’s I know nothing. Kiddingggggg. I know a little. And mostly it consists of the reality that we should all be like water. Flowing, tranquil at times, tumultuous at others. Be like water. Go with the flow. Don’t wish your life away. Enjoy it all. Even the reschedules. 

Walking the line of feeling grateful, obsessively trying to appreciate every moment given, maintaining a level of sincere hatred towards big business and greed while facing my own mortality seems to be exactly what the Christmas spirit is all about. 

My “hair” is growing in and as if feeling the need to rival the awkwardness of my seventh grade soft touched laser backgrounded school picture, is portraying itself in a fuzzy chick bum that is neither cute nor couture. 

Don’t wish your life away.

Lilah trying to hold in her laughter after the dog farts because she’s “mad.” Tommy giving the “finger gun” in every picture. My mom saying “for crying out loud” every time she makes the slightest marginal mistake. My dad playing bass to an imaginary musical arrangement while “listening” to my diatribe of why there should be more trades taught in the public schools. Steve finally committing to growing a beard after being told he didn’t look a day over 19. 

These are a few of my favorite things. 

Have they always been there? Why did it take me getting cancer to stop and see them? Does it matter? No it doesn’t. I see them now and I’m never letting go.