Uh ok good

30 days of proton radiation. 30 days of mouth sores, a constant sunburn, a swollen esophagus preventing me from swallowing food or liquid of any kind. 30 days of extreme exhaustion and debilitating dehydration. 30 days of my son counting down the days until mama didn’t have to get “red red” anymore. 30 days of relentlessness. 

But I did it. I fucking did it. 

My skin is peeling so badly that it looks like I’m bleeding. The skin underneath the thick brown elephant-esk epidermis that has emerged via treatment is cracked revealing a red raw pathway. Like a volcano splitting the land exposing the volatile lava flowing below. Certain spots itch, others ache. Best be sure you know the difference because if you inadvertently scratch a sore spot OUCHIE MAMA CALL ME A CAB IT’S TIME TO GO HOMEEEEEEE. So to speak. 

My skin oozes and leaks where you least expect it and is constantly hot to the touch. They said to expect “the area to worsen before it gets better” however if it gets much worse I’ll be able to select a different ethnicity on my census survey and possibly get a full boat scholarship to Xavier’s School for the Gifted. X-men unite. 

Because the radiation took place in close proximity to my throat it caused my esophagus to swell. Each swallow feels as if I’m choking. “But don’t worry,” my radiologist reassured, “you won’t actually choke to death it will just feel like you are every time you swallow. Yup even when you swallow saliva.” Sharp, painful, gripping asphyxiation for a solid 3 seconds. With. Every. Swallow. For. 30. Days. 

When receiving treatment I’m required to lay flat on a stretcher inside a large tunnel with my arms overhead secured in plastic holders and my hands gripping metal rods. I’m naked from the waist up. The radiologist technicians are kind and professional. They flit around like butterflies, yelling out confirmation numbers to each other ensuring that my body is in the correct position. My chin is held in place with a strap so my head stays completely still during treatment. The enormous tunnel creaks and moves up and down ever so slightly. Just enough to feel like I’m preparing for take off or enjoy an amusement park ride without the amusement. 

Green, yellow and red lasers crisscross my body attempting to ensure the exact point of contact. “We got it” the tech says, “Green light, we’ll be back.” For the first few treatments I didn’t know what that meant. “Green light we got it?” Are they drag racing? “We’ll be back?” How long will you be gone for? Should I stay here? I never know what to say in return. I can’t see them or move my body to wave goodbye. “Uh ok good.” Is all I can muster. “Uh ok good.” 

The technicians leave the room as the large microscope type device slowly inches towards my face. With my hands secured above my head and my chin fashioned tightly in place I have no choice but to watch out of my peripheral vision as the machine creeps downward. I feel vulnerable and powerless. 

Vulnerable and powerless. At the whim of this enormous radioactive machine promising to provide me a few more years of living. 

The radiation lasts about 2-3 minutes. After the set up process and radiating I’m tits up and exposed for about 20 minutes. 

During the last week of crisping me bewbs the radiologist enthusiastically proclaimed, “You’re in your boost!”  A secret that I’ve succumbed to during my medical adventure is I usually don’t know what they’re talking about so I repeat what they say in the hopes that it will jar something loose in the comprehension department.

“I’m in my boost” I skeptically say out loud. I’m still not entirely sure why they call the last week of radiation “boost week” except knowing that my radiating days were numbered sure as fuck gave me a boost. 

It’s spring time in Boston. A time of revival, rebirth, regrowth and resurgence after a long, cold winter. The trees are awakening. The birds are singing. I’ve always felt that we are all connected. The sun, the sky, the trees, the sand, dogs, humans. We are one and the same.

My skin is shedding, revealing a renewed layer underneath.  Like spring I feel a resurgence, a rebirth if you have it. The end of radiation truly feels like a milestone. A win that I needed. I have one surgery and 12 chemo treatments to go. “To everything, there is a season, and a time to every purpose.” As always, but especially now I thank dog for another turn in this game. Check and mate. 

Thank dog

So much has happened IN MY MIND in my PSYCHE. And I can’t wait to share it all with you.

My surgical team removed 23 cancerous lymph nodes from my right arm pit. A person has 20-40 lymph nodes in the under arm area. Unfortunately the pathology revealed that the cancer found in my removed lymph is the more “serious form of cancer.” 

If you liken your body to a Brita Water Purifier system as I often do, the lymph nodes are your filters. They clean your body of toxins. So everything travels through them. The good and the bad. Because the “more serious form of cancer” was found in my filter, and even though they removed it during surgery, my oncologist is concerned that “micro cells of cancer” could have potentially been transported throughout other parts of my system. SOOOOOOO they are giving me a few extra doses of chemo. A few as in 14. THE GOOD NEWS, because dude THERE IS ALWAYS GOOD NEWS, I will only be receiving treatments every 3 weeks and the side effects are minimal. THANK FUCKING ALL THE DOGS IN THE WORLD FOR THAT SHIT. Also you should know I no longer say “god.” Dog is now my chosen form of religion because I owe all that I am and all that I have become to the love, respect and support that I have received from the dogs in my life. Humans too but dogs man. Dogs. 

Now don’t get me wrong. Chemo is chemo. It is poison for your body. It erases and kills cells that might just be chillin’ helping their buddies move a couch from the liver to the kidney and then BAM fucking dead on impact. But it also kills the mother fuckers that are eating my blood and littering in my spleen. Side effects include, hot flashes, bitch those things suck but I’m handling them with as much grace as I possible. My kids might ask me why I’m dressed like summer all the time but who cares, I officially do not have sweat on my upper lip for the first time in 3 weeks. Nausea, dizziness, and SHOULD NOT EFFECT HAIR GROWTH. HALLELUJAH. Big win here. Leave my hair alone. It just arrived from a very long time away and is homesick. Baby hairs need some matzo ball soup and mama’s loving.

Hills and valleys baby. Hills and mother fucking valleys. It’s not just a theory used in life. It’s a thought that has carried me through my cancer journey. Sometimes you’re on top of a hill breathing that cool, crisp, clean hill fresh air and feeling fucking spiritual. And sometimes you’re stuck in a valley kicking trash on the sidewalk so you can shuffle through the rain and clouds. But you need both. You need to realize that they are both necessary. Without the valley you would never appreciate the hills. It’s the struggle, the hardships that keep us funky fresh. 

The lesson(s) I’ve been working on as of late …

1.)   REALIZE, INTERNALIZE how far I have come. Look back a bit. Baby we’ve done A LOT OF HEALING.

2.)   Be still. Rest. Recoup. And respect that shit. Rest is key. Give it to yourself as a gift. Thank you self for all you do for me. For fighting for my daily survival. And as a thank you, let’s rest. 

3.)   DO NOT look ahead. Why, so you can give yourself a panic attack in the middle of CVS because you can’t find the fluoride toothpaste that your Dr. mentioned might be a good idea to use during radiation treatments. BITCH YOU ARE A MONTH AWAY FROM RADIATION TREATMENTS CHILL DA FUCK OUT.

4.)   Accept. This is a hard one. This is hard because my body, my feelings, my treatments are forever changing. Human beings aren’t built for change. We like consistency. Now imagine EVERYTHING you have EVER known changing entirely in a blink of an eye. And then every time you start to accept the new reality WHAM it changes again. SHIT’S HARD TO ACCEPT. But here’s the thing… accept it. Just do it. Accept. Let it in. Feel how you feel. Don’t shy away. Face it. You feel sad? Ok. Angry? Fuck ya. Worried? I hear ya. Accept it all. It’s all ok.

5.)   Attitude of gratitude. Are you alive? What does it mean to live? Am I living “my best life?” It’s unfortunate that our brains have been hard wired to focus on negativity. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe we can blame big business for pitting us against each other in order to feed the competition monster of keeping up with the Jones’ but the buck stops here. It’s time to root for your neighbor who gets a new BMW. Root for the girl who puts up constant selfies, ya bitch you look cute we see you go girl! It’s not a competition. It’s not a race. It’s a JOURNEY. It’s YOUR journey. Appreciate it. Appreciate you. And let the rest GO. RELEASE THE CRAKEN and fucking OHM babies.

6.)   I like control. No. I like to feel in control. I’m a mom, a wife to a husband with extra health requirements, a business owner. I NEED TO HAVE THINGS IN ORDER. I always thought in order to be “successful” I needed to have all boxes checked, T’s dotted I’s crossed. That was until I got cancer. Then I realized we ain’t gat control of shit and instead of worrying if my radiation schedule fits adequately into my weekly trips to Target I feel grateful that I live 15 minutes from the best cancer care in America. I feel grateful that my husband and kids will drive me and pretend that we’re going on a “small road trip.” I’m grateful that I can kiss my kids whenever I want. I’m humbled by the love, support and the absolute rooting for my survival vibe that I have received from people, some strangers from all over the world. Rooting for MY LIFE. It’s amazing, humbling and breathtakingly beautiful. 

Life is about the journey. Why be sad? Don’t. Why be mad? Don’t. Let’s do this. With grace, acceptance, LOVE, kindness, compassion, hugs, rooting for each other’s accomplishments. Let’s root for other people to love their lives. And let’s love our own life. It’s yours. No one else’s. Congratulations! You won! I love you. Thank dog

Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and start all over again

Pain: noun “Physical suffering or discomfort caused by illness or injury. An unpleasant sensory and emotional experience associated with actual or potential damage. Pain is not only a physical sensation.” International Association for the Study of Pain

It’s been 72 hours since my last surgery. I can feel my body trying. Having a go (we’ve been watching Mary Poppins a lot lately) at healing from the inside out. 

My skin stretches. It feels tight across my chest matched with a sharp tinge over the incision with every breath I take. The pressure on my ribs ache. I look down and expect to see blues and yellows spreading across my torso. Instead I see the attempt of a bosom masked by surgical tape and gauze. A slight bosom but an attempt nonetheless. 

I didn’t know what “pain” felt like before now. Even though I’ve threatened my children with the notion of adoption rest assured both turds sprang from my loins. I felt pain during birth but that was different. Firstly I received an epidural so that masked most of the misery and secondly once they arrived any semblance of discomfort was forgotten and replaced with a living, breathing, majestic distraction. 

I’ve felt emotional pain not knowing if Steve was going to make it through the night when he was battling necrotizing pancreatitis. But this… THIS type of pain I was not privy to. 

This irritation is large, stabbing, sharp, all encompassing, intrusive. And there are no spanking new, sparkley babies to divert me. 

This pain has changed me. My innocence has been sprung from ignorance. 

I’m shocked into the reality of pondering HOW people living with pain live their lives on a daily basis. The experience of dealing with pain while attempting to “live my life” has been a mother fucking JOURNEY. 

Which leads me to ruminate, what is our role here? How do we define our journey? Do we set our own standards and strive to uphold? Or do we look to the left and attempt to mimic?

Having cancer while being a mom to two young kids has forced me to look inward. Cancer has given me the opportunity to prove to that even if we have blockages in the road the journey must resume. 

Pick yourself up, dust yourself and start all over again. Repeat. 

 

Bring on the pause

  

I’m having surgery on tomorrow to place tissue expanders. This is the step before implants. They essentially sew in deflated balloons and pump them with saline over a 2-4 week span. Although an additional surgery will be required to place the permanent implant I’m looking forward to some temporary pumpage. It has been a mere 2 weeks since my bilateral mastectomy and although doctors typically like to give more respite in between procedures, I require radiation so it’s best to get these bewbs ready for “show time.”. 

Another tit (see what I did there? ;) bit of knowledge that has been recently relayed is due to the fact that they removed 4 cancerous lymph nodes and because one of my cancer “feeds off of estrogen” (isn’t that a strange way to phrase it and don’t you immediately imagine a giant, teethy monster gobbling up ovaries?) I will officially be placed into menopause.

Menopause. Hardy fucking har comedic blog gods. Move over flat stomach, testosterone gut here I come. No more estrogen based hormonal explosions, no more periods and all THAT entails and no more babies. 

That one stings. 

I’m not going to say it “kills” but the idea of not having more children definitely warrants a big time “bummed out.” Also and yet again it’s the reoccurring theme that the decision has been taken from me rather than it being a personal choice. 

So you know what?

Fuck it. FUCK IT. I have 2 beautiful, wonderful, fucking fabulous babies. I HEAR BY DECLARE THAT IT IS MY MOTHER FUCKING CHOICE NOT TO HAVE MORE KIDS. YoU HeAr That MaSS GeNeRAl AnD My ReCeNTLY DepaRTed TuMORS??! I’m steering this ship.

But in honesty, how will this effect me? Will my character change? Do I go into menopause or do I become a menopausal woman? Do I get a pin or some sort of recognition of achievement? How will I know I have officially arrived at said meno-pause? I’ve never been a menopausal woman before so there will be an adjustment period but I’m a quick learner.

I’ve often heard that menopause is the chapter in a woman’s life when “she puts put men on pause and herself in the forefront.” It’s a shame that the common pattern is not to put herself first FROM THE START but alas here we all are.  

If menopause allows women to gain knowledge and freedom that was once forbidden then sign me the fuck up. This entire journey has been a rediscover of myself. Realizing who I truly am. It sounds like menopause is the perfect destination stop on my drive home. 

Lilah asked me to buy her a shirt that says, “Black and Proud.” I said, “Sure baby if you want it I’ll buy it but you’re not black.” She answered with a combination of shock and disappointment, “I’m not?!?” 

So where does that leave me? A 37 year old menopausal mom to a formerly Caucasian, 8 year daughter and a 5 year old son who repeatedly sings the lyrics to “whoop there it is.”

Right fucking here that’s where. Bring on the pause.

 

It’s about the process babies

I’ve dealt with the mental/emotional upheaval associated with losing my body, my hair, my stamina. I had yet to experience physical pain. But worry no moreeee! Da pain is heahhhhh!

Sweet mother Mary does this shit hurt. I’m sore like you read about. Bruised from the top of my collar bone all the way to the top of my thigh. Just one big ole bruise with a few drains stuck in the middle of my ribs. 

Laying on the hospital bed, watching a sea of blue scrubs flitter in and out of my room I hear one of the nurses whisper to the other, “He’s here.”

I glance up at the clock. 7:41 am. Surgery was supposed to start at 7:30.

“He’s late,” I reply.

“Haha don’t tell him that,” one nurse nervously mutters.

In walks my plastic surgeon wearing one size too tight scrubs and his favorite thinly lined beard. 

“You’re late,” I say slyly with a wink as I eyeball both nurses. 

The surgeon responds with a tight lipped smile and a nod.

“Ok, so here’s the plan. You’ll see Dr. Hughes, have that cancer taken out and then you’ll see me straight after.” 

He interrupts his anticipated plan with a side story, “ha you know, I was at the beach this summer and I saw a lovely lady swimming,” cue my skeptical and where is this shit going side eye. “She looked great, actually so great that I almost let my son drown because I was too busy admiring” insert dry gag with an ExCuSe ME head tilt face. He concludes with a big goofy grin, “and guess what? She was one of my patients.” 

Not knowing if his yarn was meant to induce a level of comfort, disgust or applaud I say, “oh cool, good for you.” 

The surgery did not go as smooth as his seaside sighting and reconstruction did not occur. The good news is I’m cancer free. I’ll say that louder for the folks in the back I AM CANCER FREE. But because I’m of “an athletic build” aka small bewbs to begin with, there wasn’t enough tissue to place the expanders. Reconstruction will occur in a month or so.

Get angry? Get upset? Get sad? Nah.

Baby ain’t gat time for that. 

A.)   My white ass has a good 4 months before anyone sees it

B.)   This lesson is about learning and if I have learned nothing it’s waiters get good tips

C.)   I’M CANCER FREE

We’re expected to ascertain the idea of “feeling alive”as the goal.  Collectively we’re supposed to instinctively appreciate “being alive.” But how? 

The multitude of life’s ups and downs get a bad rep. When did being comfortable become the only thing to be? What if celebrating the bad times turns life into living? In order to feel alive you must accept the process of life. 

If your day pushes your time from one end to the other with a glimmer of satisfaction in the middle, are you living? If your name is Sally and you sell seashells by the seashore, drinking booze from start to sunset, is that living?  If you can’t and won’t try thinking from another person’s perspective is your life full to satisfaction? 

Life doesn’t hand you lemons so you could throw them at one another. Make some mother fucking lemonade, carry on and enjoy every step of the way while you’re at it. 

 

Monster farts

I woke up early. I can feel my body vibrating. My fingers are buzzing with electricity. My jaw is tight. 

I sit alone in my darkened living room listening to the sun rise. I can see the pink and yellow shine through the cracks of the blinds but if you listen instead of simply looking you learn a lot more. Hear that? It’s the dawn of a new day.

My husband wakes to use the bathroom. He walks over and gives me a kiss on my forehead before returning to bed. 

He lets out a disgusting monster fart that makes my dog’s eyes water and says, “was that you?” Mother. Fucker. 

That was something his dad used to say. It was his dad’s birthday last week. He would have been 63. He passed 7 years ago. Before he saw his son build our home, before he met Tommy who was named after his father and before he could witness my transformation into a bad ass bitch. But I know he sees. And I know he approves. Hi papa. 

I slept all day Saturday. I don’t remember one moment of the day. ZZZ. 

I used to feel horror if I had a day when I just could no longer function and resolved to shutting down. I would feel the rise of the mom/wife guilt monster peering over my shoulder. YoU SlEpt ALL dAy?? Were the kids ok? Did they eat their mother fucking fruits and veggies during meals? Did they get a bath and read Shakespeare before bed?? BITCH. WHO CARES.

Right now this moment is yours. Right now your body, your mind says stop. What you’re going through is enough that you need to unplug and try again tomorrow.

The fear, anxiety, the unknown anticipation of my upcoming surgery feels heavy. I know it’ll “be all right” but will it? I know I’ll “do fine” but will I? I know “I’m strong” but am I?

Fuck. I feel moments of greatness and preparation peppered in with debilitating anxiety. I feel scared, mad, sad, glad one at a time and then all at once. 

I wrote letters to Steve, my parents and the kids. Not necessarily in case something goes wrong during surgery but so they have a personal message from me during this moment in time. I want them to know what they mean to me. Not in the obligatory this experience has changed me and I feel more enlightened so this is how I love you sense. But more of a personal connection to each of them. Hey. We did this together. You. And me. Can you believe it? Look at our strength. I know you love me and I love you. But we stood together, held each other up, and look at where we are. 

In the last few days I’ve felt the energy of a warm buzz in our home. Tommy nervously asks “when will they take your boobies mum?” I tell him I’ll have surgery on Wednesday and they’ll give me new and improved boobies bud don’t worry. He looks up with his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide. He runs to Lilah sitting closely to her, he squeezes her arm and says “they’re taking mommy’s boobies Lilah.” 

Steve immerses himself in cleaning the house, doing laundry, taking out the trash, occasionally lifting weights, staying quiet, walking back and forth. I can see his brain running like a car that needs to be turned on but can’t be driven. 

Lilah is my right hand. She carries the torch without letting the weight get her down. She glows. I can see the stress in her eyes but she ain’t gat time to let it get in the way. She occupies her space with projects, drawing contests in magazines resulting in funds for her school. She holds Tommy’s hand and says, “I know bud. But if they didn’t take mama’s boobies then she would still have cancer and she wouldn’t be here at all.”

Today is the final day that I’ll spend in the only body I’ve ever known.

 New bewbs. 

I can look at it like the end result will be an upgrade but it’s an upgrade that I didn’t choose. 

How will the scars look? Will they travel directly across my breast like a newly paved road? Will I have nipples or will I have to wait months before I’m able to tattoo pale pink lumps onto my manufactured breast? How will they feel from the inside?

I’m not worried about the pain, or the tight feeling in my skin after the reconstruction. I’m not worried that I won’t wake up after surgery. It’s having to say goodbye which is the hardest part.  It’s like leaving a job you worked at for years, all of the friends you made, memories you shared now it’s time to leave and your life will forever be changed. And you’re not sure where you’re going from here but you can’t ever look back.

A friend once said, “Don’t wish your life away. Don’t wish it was Friday. Don’t wish it was over. Be in the now.” I’m not wishing the surgery was behind me. I’m not thinking ahead to whether or not I’ll require radiation. This is my life. This is today. And I love every minute of it. 

Monster farts and all.

New bewbs here I come. 

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.