I am over half way through radiation (14 down, 11 to go), and I feel great. My skin is a little pink, but not at all irritated, and although I feel a little more tired than usual, it is definitely manageable. Nothing compared to chemo. If chemo were a marathon, radiation would be a stroll on a sunny beach (where you get a little sunburn). Piece of cake.
My next surgery is scheduled for Feb. 16th. Occasionally I wonder if I’m making the right choice by having my ovaries removed. But when I imagine keeping them, all I feel is fear. It would be like leaving a ticking bomb inside my body. I cry when I think of the little girl I won’t have, but I cry harder when I think of my three little boys without a mother.
Tomorrow is my 7-year wedding anniversary. Keith has been an amazing husband, especially this last year. I don’t know how I would have gotten through all this without him.
Life is pretty much back to normal. I’ve started working again, part-time at home doing HR stuff, I’ve been writing again, and I’m looking forward to LOST starting its final season this week. However, fear occasionally pokes me in the side and whispers, “Hey, what if…” That’s when I reply, “I am healed, the cancer is never coming back. I will be here for my husband and my children, and I still have WAY too much to do to leave this life or to be sick again!”
I love my life! I love doing laundry and dishes, I love making food for my kids and cleaning it off the floor when they’re done “eating” it. I love wiping runny noses and kissing owies. I love reading books and singing songs before bed. I love saying “I love you, good night,” every night to my husband before we go to sleep. I am so glad that I am here to do all these things. And here I will stay.
Here I will stay.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
Purple Bike
Six months ago, I was putting my kids to bed after having just found out that I had cancer. My 5-yr-old (4 at the time) had just learned to ride his bike without training wheels, and he asked, "Mom, are you proud of me that I can ride my bike with two wheels?" I told him I was. Then he said, "You should get a bike too. What is your favorite color?" I told him it was red. Then he said, "Mom, I'm going to buy you a purple bike for your birthday." It was dark in his room, so he didn't see the tears streaming down my face. I told him I would love a purple bike, but inside I was in agony. He was so innocent; he had no idea I was going to be sick for a long time - too sick to go on bike rides. I was so scared. I didn't yet know what stage my cancer was in and how much longer I had to live.
For Christmas, Keith gave me a purple bike.
Today, I went on a bike ride with my little boys. It was cold, but I bundled everyone up, strapped Graham in the baby seat on the back of my bike, and Jonas, Liam, and I rode to the church parking lot. When we were riding around the parking lot, Jonas rode up next to me, and with a big smile, asked, "Do you like your bike, mom?" I told him I loved it. It was wonderful to feel the cold wind on my face, to pedal uphill without feeling fatigued, and to see my sweet little boys so happy to go on a bike ride with their mommy.
I started radiation treatments on Tuesday. 4 down, 21 to go. Maybe I should count by weeks, not days. 1 down, 4 to go. Yes, that sounds better. So far, I feel great. No skin irritation, no fatigue. Well, I'm a little more tired than usual, but that's probably because I've been staying up too late. Anyway, with everything going on in the world right now, I feel my problems are pretty insignificant. I have a wonderful life. I am happy. Truly happy.
For Christmas, Keith gave me a purple bike.
Today, I went on a bike ride with my little boys. It was cold, but I bundled everyone up, strapped Graham in the baby seat on the back of my bike, and Jonas, Liam, and I rode to the church parking lot. When we were riding around the parking lot, Jonas rode up next to me, and with a big smile, asked, "Do you like your bike, mom?" I told him I loved it. It was wonderful to feel the cold wind on my face, to pedal uphill without feeling fatigued, and to see my sweet little boys so happy to go on a bike ride with their mommy.
I started radiation treatments on Tuesday. 4 down, 21 to go. Maybe I should count by weeks, not days. 1 down, 4 to go. Yes, that sounds better. So far, I feel great. No skin irritation, no fatigue. Well, I'm a little more tired than usual, but that's probably because I've been staying up too late. Anyway, with everything going on in the world right now, I feel my problems are pretty insignificant. I have a wonderful life. I am happy. Truly happy.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Tattoos, Memories, Temple
The next time I hear someone talking about tattoos, I can proudly say, "Yeah, I've got six."
I wasn't sure I still needed radiation after getting back a clean surgical pathology report. But I met with the radiation oncologist yesterday, and after going over the pros and cons, and looking at years of studies, we decided that it would be beneficial for me to have radiation. Maybe the guy just wanted to make some money, but the studies he showed me were pretty convincing. Basically, having radiation can reduce my risk of recurrence by quite a bit. So I figured, better safe than sorry. If there is one cancer cell remaining in my chest, the radiation will vaporize it. Besides, the doctor said the radiation should make me a little tired and make my skin irritable, but that the side effects were nothing compared to chemo.
After the consultation, they took me to a room with a bit CT scan machine. Not to receive radiation, but to set up the location on my body which will be receiving radiation. I laid down on the machine, and they had to tape down my right breast (a skin expander covered with my skin, more accurately), because it was in the way. Then I had to raise my hands above my head and grip these handles (very painful... still sore from surgery).
Next they put all these metal stickers all over my chest, and marked a few spots with a felt-tip. They sent me into the CT scan machine, which, if anyone has ever been in one, it's quite creepy. Reminds me of that huge machine they built in the movie Contact - remember the scary mechanical howling sound? At least I didn't have to be dropped hundreds of feet into the ocean while encapsulated in a little metal ball. Or travel billions of miles away to visit my dead father who is actually an alien. Yes, now that I put things into perspective, a CT scan machine is harmless; relaxing even. Anyway, by the time I was done, my left arm was tingling with pain and almost numb. But I couldn't put it down yet, not until they gave me the tattoos.
A very nice girl then poked a pin into my skin in six different places, leaving a freckle-sized mark in each spot. Now when I come in for radiation, they will be able to align everything with the tattoos for accuracy.
Starting next week, I have to go in 5 days a week, for 5 weeks (25 treatments total). Which is actually great news to me, since I was expecting 6 weeks.
I am feeling great and am optimistic that I will be completely cured of this thing. I look forward to years ahead when the memories of this horrific experience will begin to fade. Right now, just thinking about some of the things I went through these last few months brings me to tears. I am no longer hurting physically, but I still remember vividly the fatigue, the pain, the fear, the helplessness. I remember how my arm looked when it was swollen from phlebitis, the yellow tint of my skin, the pleading, fearful look in my eyes every time I looked in the mirror. The shine of my scalp, the darkening of my fingernails, and the energy being sucked from my muscles. My heart pounding and my bones aching, screaming objections at the poison seeping into every cell in my body. Hearing my little boy say, "Mommy, I don't want you to die, because I love you." The aching in my heart as I watched my boys sleeping peacefully and wondered how much longer I would be able to be their mother. And worst of all, my dreams and plans for the future being ripped out of my hands and dangled over my head, while cancer taunted, "You may be able to have these, and you may not." These are the things I long to forget. I hope that with time I can forget.
The temple has been a great refuge to me. I have had more powerful, amazing experiences there in the last few months than at any other time in my life. I have felt the love of my Heavenly Father and my Savior so strongly there, and have been reminded that this life is so temporary. Our earthly bodies are so fragile, yet, they are still in God's hands. And someday this fragile body of mine will be raised to immortality, never again to succumb to illness or death. But in the meantime, I will use this fragile body to do the work the Lord has sent me here to do. I pray that he allows me to serve him for many, many years to come.
I wasn't sure I still needed radiation after getting back a clean surgical pathology report. But I met with the radiation oncologist yesterday, and after going over the pros and cons, and looking at years of studies, we decided that it would be beneficial for me to have radiation. Maybe the guy just wanted to make some money, but the studies he showed me were pretty convincing. Basically, having radiation can reduce my risk of recurrence by quite a bit. So I figured, better safe than sorry. If there is one cancer cell remaining in my chest, the radiation will vaporize it. Besides, the doctor said the radiation should make me a little tired and make my skin irritable, but that the side effects were nothing compared to chemo.
After the consultation, they took me to a room with a bit CT scan machine. Not to receive radiation, but to set up the location on my body which will be receiving radiation. I laid down on the machine, and they had to tape down my right breast (a skin expander covered with my skin, more accurately), because it was in the way. Then I had to raise my hands above my head and grip these handles (very painful... still sore from surgery).
Next they put all these metal stickers all over my chest, and marked a few spots with a felt-tip. They sent me into the CT scan machine, which, if anyone has ever been in one, it's quite creepy. Reminds me of that huge machine they built in the movie Contact - remember the scary mechanical howling sound? At least I didn't have to be dropped hundreds of feet into the ocean while encapsulated in a little metal ball. Or travel billions of miles away to visit my dead father who is actually an alien. Yes, now that I put things into perspective, a CT scan machine is harmless; relaxing even. Anyway, by the time I was done, my left arm was tingling with pain and almost numb. But I couldn't put it down yet, not until they gave me the tattoos.
A very nice girl then poked a pin into my skin in six different places, leaving a freckle-sized mark in each spot. Now when I come in for radiation, they will be able to align everything with the tattoos for accuracy.
Starting next week, I have to go in 5 days a week, for 5 weeks (25 treatments total). Which is actually great news to me, since I was expecting 6 weeks.
I am feeling great and am optimistic that I will be completely cured of this thing. I look forward to years ahead when the memories of this horrific experience will begin to fade. Right now, just thinking about some of the things I went through these last few months brings me to tears. I am no longer hurting physically, but I still remember vividly the fatigue, the pain, the fear, the helplessness. I remember how my arm looked when it was swollen from phlebitis, the yellow tint of my skin, the pleading, fearful look in my eyes every time I looked in the mirror. The shine of my scalp, the darkening of my fingernails, and the energy being sucked from my muscles. My heart pounding and my bones aching, screaming objections at the poison seeping into every cell in my body. Hearing my little boy say, "Mommy, I don't want you to die, because I love you." The aching in my heart as I watched my boys sleeping peacefully and wondered how much longer I would be able to be their mother. And worst of all, my dreams and plans for the future being ripped out of my hands and dangled over my head, while cancer taunted, "You may be able to have these, and you may not." These are the things I long to forget. I hope that with time I can forget.
The temple has been a great refuge to me. I have had more powerful, amazing experiences there in the last few months than at any other time in my life. I have felt the love of my Heavenly Father and my Savior so strongly there, and have been reminded that this life is so temporary. Our earthly bodies are so fragile, yet, they are still in God's hands. And someday this fragile body of mine will be raised to immortality, never again to succumb to illness or death. But in the meantime, I will use this fragile body to do the work the Lord has sent me here to do. I pray that he allows me to serve him for many, many years to come.
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