41: A Look Back

So today’s my birthday.  And in my honor, I spent some time reading back through my 2012 blog entries.  Holy shit, what a year!  I wept a bit reading my 40^th birthday post, My Birthday (Pyramid) Scheme; how I so naively presumed that my biggest concern in life was getting the word out about my blog.  Then my heart quickened as I read Hx of Overactive Imagination and I Am Zen-bunny: my intuition was certainly preparing me for difficult news, wasn’t it?  And then, The Results.  This title certainly caught your attention: March 9, 2012 remains my top viewed day.  Many of you followed my journey through surgery, Mother’s Day: The Dawning of a New Perspective; through chemo, Sweet Relief and Release; and beyond, The Crap of Cancer.  Crappy or not, cancer defined my 40^th year of life.

But now I’m 41.

This year I’m focusing my attention on other matters:  Muncie Habitat will serve seven families through the building/rehabilitating of homes which they will then purchase with a zero-interest mortgage.  Our model is biblical, you see: “If you lend money to any of my people with you who is poor, you shall not be like a moneylender to him, and you shall not exact interest from him.” Exodus 22:25.  While I’m not typically one for pulling snippets from the Old Testament to satisfy personal beliefs, I do love this idea of extending a hand-up to the poor.  Jesus agrees:  “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.”  Luke 6:20.  See, I’ve learned is that poverty is as much a mindset as it is a lack of money.  Personal resources are as powerful as financial resources.  Informal and formal education are not mutually exclusive, but the value we place on them is.  I will focus my 41^st year on spreading the news about Habitat’s biblically-based, personal resource-building, home (re)building program.  I do hope you’ll join me on the worksite either here in Muncie or in the community you call ‘home’.

I’m also going to enjoy the heck out of my family.  The night of my 40^th birthday, Tony and the girls took me to Sitara, Muncie’s very own Indian restaurant.  What I now see as apropos for what the year had in store for me, I came down with the flu.  During dinner.  By the time I left the restaurant I was feverish and ill; destined to spend the next three days curled up on the couch.  But my family came through for me, as they did most of the rest of the year.  It turns out that Amelia would spend the summer laundering and retrieving water to quench my inexhaustible chemo thirst.  Maya would wash dishes and entertain me with her unique brand of shtick.  Lexie lay by the couch during the dog days of summer, offering a meager thump-thump of her tail every time I switched positions; loyal in sickness and in health.  Tony spent restless nights on hospital chairs while nurses poked and prodded me at all hours.  He loved me through the pain and the grief and the celibacy.  And yet he also gave all to Ball State.  How he juggled everything this past year is beyond me, but juggle he did.

And then there’s my mom, who deserves her own paragraph.  Plain and simple: my mom gave up four months of her life to devote to the care and keeping of me and my family.  She cooked, she cleaned, she drove (and had adventures!), she counseled, she dispensed pills, she assessed wounds, she listened, and she rallied her oldest baby to fight back against cancer and the hopelessness that dared grab hold.  Amazing, huh?  But that’s my mom for you.  She’s one in a million.

I also plan to spend my 41^st year enjoying Henry, our new pooch.   You see, Henry allows me to nurture hope.  If I were younger I might have considered a baby, but I just so happen to enjoy a full night’s sleep and then there’s that small detail of finding myself without working ovaries…  Rescuing a seven year-old dog fulfills my caretaking needs perfectly and, based on his Velcro-like attachment to my legs, he feels well-caretaken.  Let’s just try not to trip over each other on the stairs, okay buddy?

Because health is on the forefront of my mind, I also registered for my 7^th mini marathon.  My dear friends, Amy and Jami (no relation), each came down with the running bug this past year, so we will travel to Chicago in June to join 4,997 other women in chasing dreams and a big bag o’ goodies at the end.  While my friends have the jump on me, my training began yesterday: twenty minutes of walk-runs that jostled me enough to reach for the Ibuprofen afterwards.  But I’ll get there.  I always do.

Lastly, I plan to dedicate my 41^st year to paying it forward.  Friends, you came through for me last year in a big way.  Because I know not how to repay each and every one of you adequately, I vow to extend the same grace and kindness to others who find themselves in need.  I promise to do you proud.

Be inspired,

Natalie

Score!

Keeping score.  It’s human nature, isn’t it?  In fact, first thing each morning, my daughters duke it out over breakfast to determine whose Flintstones vitamins are worth the most points.  Yes, you read that right, Maya devised a point system which looks something like this: red vitamins = 2 points; orange and purple vitamins = 1 point; Pebbles = 3 points; Dino = 2 points; (poor) Fred = 1 point.  So, if the moon and stars align, it is possible to get a perfect 10.  More often than not, though, scores are unforgettable, ranging between 4-6.  But the girls never forget to check.  Or compare.

And then there’s Tony and I.  We’ve seen a couple of counselors over the years, not because our relationship is irrefutably flawed, but precisely because we’re committed to our marriage, which, as was promised when we spoke our vows, sends us in a tailspin of “worse” every now and then.  Anyway, one of our counselors pointed out that were so busy keeping score we no longer listened to each other.  (This was not the same counselor who shook her finger at me, in front of my husband, admonishing me for behaving “like a princess”, telling me that I “should feel honored to be married to Tony”.  Even Tony had to admit this therapeutic technique was flawed…)

We keep score.

I think knew I was doing it subconsciously, but it was so ingrained, so integral to the way in which I related to Tony, that I didn’t know how to stop doing it.  And even if I wanted to, how could I?  He was keeping score too and I didn’t want to lose.

But I’m grateful to this therapist (not the insidious one who called me spoiled) for helping us both see that by winning we were losing.  In those moments of keeping score we were losing our hearts as well as our minds.  Mostly, though, we were losing ground.

That’s what these last few days before the election feel like to me.  A lot of scorekeeping for the sake of winning, when all we really do is lose.  We lose our humanity as well as our souls.  We forsake all that is great about our nation with our negative tweets and posts and chatter.  We assert our rightness not imagining just how wrong we just might sound to our brothers, sisters, neighbors, and friends.

I’m not claiming innocence here.  I’m just as staunchly supporting my candidates as you are.  I feel certain my picks are who is best for our state/country, just as you do.  I’m scared about what might happen if the other candidates are elected, as I’m sure you can relate.

We can agree on that, right?

Politics = 0

Relationships = 1

Be inspired,

Natalie

Chocolate and Whine

We decided a couple of weeks ago to travel over the girls’ Fall Break.  Not because we had saved money to take a trip, but because we NEEDED to get away for a while.  NEEDED as in WANTED DESPERATELY to get away for a while.  Tony and I both agreed that it was worth a little pain in the checking account to go off as a family and have some fun together, so limited has that opportunity been these past several months.  Naturally, we settled on chocolate and 1776: Hershey and Philadelphia, PA.

Stress followed us, though, as we navigated through some less-than-savory neighborhoods west of Benjamin Franklin’s stomping grounds.  On one occasion, my husband and kids screamed at me, passengers-all, as I careened toward a concrete divider, divided on whether to take Exit 12 or 13.  It turns out I was right, but we spent a lovely few minutes taking in the bustling activity of the Philadelphia International Airport gates as I made a split-second decision to follow Tony’s directions.  Turns out it’s even more satisfying to say ‘I was right’ in print.  Don’t worry about Tony, though, he’s been right about a lot of things over the years. Like insisting on this getaway, and budgeting to have our van’s tires replaced prior to going.  That split-second decision at Exit 12 might have turned out differently with worn tread.

Fortunately the tense moments were few and we found the fun we were looking for.  The coolest part of this trip was watching the girls unwind and enjoy each other.  Maybe it was the sugar high, or maybe it was because we had left breast cancer back in Indiana.  Here in Pennsylvania we looked like an ordinary, average family with an above-average interest in consuming chocolate.  (At one point Amelia said, “We should have weighed ourselves before the trip and again after we got home!”)  Here in Pennsylvania I had no need to explain my strange cowlicks or crooked boobs – no one was paying attention.  My girls were in the clear too, with nobody checking in on ’mom’.  We played the part of tourist well and silliness ensued.

We laughed at our younger daughter’s antics, engaged in our older daughter’s observations and vice versa.  We took a horse-drawn carriage tour, taking in the sights and sounds of a great, old city, wiping tears of laughter from our eyes after Maya deadpanned about her relief at declaring her independence from our spit-prone guide.  I may have mentioned this already, but we ate Hershey’s chocolate at will and tried our first cheesesteak sandwiches, forgoing broccoli for four whole days.  Yes, we unbuttoned our jeans and digestive tracts, but it was worth it.  We drove for hours and hours to get to these grand adventures, sipping our lattes (mine: mocha, Tony’s: chai) and taking in the hilly Pennsylvania countryside – white church steeples rising up out of the reds, yellows, and oranges of a glorious fall – while catching up on podcasts of This American Life.

My cares fell away as the van climbed and descended the gentle grades.  We passed the sign for Youngstown, OH and I thought of Defending Hope, and the way in which this story arrived at just the right time; how I crafted a piece about overcoming obstacles then used it as a guide and reference in my own journey.  A journey that will be punctuated on Friday, November 2, with a final surgery to exchange out the expander in my breast mound with an implant; a lift performed on my intact breast to even them out for a better cosmetic result.

Please pardon me while I whine a tad.  I’m nervous about the recovery from surgery.  I know I can handle the pain, achiness, and discomfort of the incision sites, but anesthesia nauseates me terribly.  I’m also concerned about the lengthy lifting restriction and a little scared that my cognitive functioning will take another hit just when I feel as if I can carry on a conversation different than, “What’s the word that starts with ’c’ and is coming straight at us up ahead?  Oh right: concrete divider!”  But I’ll have a matched set once more, and isn’t that pretty amazing?  Scarred but symmetric.  Perky if not pretty.

And before you know it I’ll feel the DESPERATE NEED as in WANT to put on a cute t-shirt and show off my new, million-dollar* breasts.  Maybe even the one I bought in Pennsylvania with the Hershey logo emblazoned across the front.  Did I mention the chocolate?

Be inspired,

Natalie

*This is a gross exaggeration of the expense of breast cancer and reconstructive surgery.  When all is said and done, it will have actually cost our insurance company somewhere between $400,000-$600,000.  Since all surgeries and treatments were completed within the calendar year, we need only pay my 2012 deductible.  We are a fortunate, fortunate, FORTUNATE family.

Belly-Up

Last week I took my ten year-old pooch to the vet for another tumor check. While I officially graduated her to “senior” food last year, Lexie is still relatively youthful. Okay, so standing takes a little effort these days, climbing the stairs involves concentration, and when she stands guard in the back yard at night she sometimes even allows bunnies to nibble clover in peace, but all-in-all she seems to be aging well. Except for these pesky tumors, which she detects and detests. They pop up on her legs where she licks and chews at them, removing the hair in the process, giving me a clear look at the red and raw offending areas.

At the vet’s office, my typically charming dog plays timid when the tech calls her over. Since her last visit to the vet involved a surgical removal of a (benign) tumor, Lexie wants no part of getting up on the scale. She sits while I beg, then coax, then drag her 72-pound shaking self to the exam room. She cowers next to me, demanding that I lay both hands upon her as she sheds the equivalent of a scarf while we wait.

The vet perks her up, so kind and gentle is his demeanor. She gazes into his eyes, cataracts likely obscuring the small details: his beard, the stethoscope around his neck. She rolls over to produce her belly, asking for a small favor in return for all the poking and prodding. She trusts him enough to expose her vulnerable soft spot.

“It doesn’t appear to be cancerous,” he says of the lump, “but I would like to do a biopsy to be sure.”

My body tenses at the word as my stress response kicks in. Adrenaline and cortisol flood my system as my heart races, my throat constricts, and I start sweating. Cancer. It’s a word I speak, or write about, most days, openly acknowledging that I have, indeed, beaten breast cancer. I talk about it with my kids; with my husband; with my colleagues; with my mom and dad; with my therapist; with the cashier at the grocery store who sports a nose ring and a pink ribbon; with the graying, African-American man at Walgreens who offers me a fist-bump me as we stand in line, comrades-in-arms as ours are both filled with the small, white, paper bags universally understood to contain prescription medications.

I can handle Cancer.

Or can I?

As I await the biopsy results of my dog’s tumor, déjà vu dictates the scenario of how this will play out: I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but the results were malignant. Unfortunately the cancer has spread so we’re going to need to remove the (leg). My mind recalls a painfully familiar conversation with the kids: Girls, we need to talk to you. Cancer takes me right back to March 9, 2012, the day that changed me and my family forever.

Just as I spiral toward a forgone conclusion, our wonderful vet walks in, acquiesces to Lexie’s offer to rub her belly once more, smiles and delivers the news my traumatized mind can’t imagine: “She’s fine.” It takes a moment to believe him, but my dog’s belly-up posture motivates my own trust in his words. She’s fine.

I know it’s inevitable that we will continue down this path until one day our vet will speak a truth none of us wants to hear. In the meantime, she will enjoy her daily Greenie, walks around the neighborhood, and the occasional burst of energy directed at the four-legged intruders hopping around our back yard.

And I recognize the encounter at the vet for what it is, knowing that it will take time (and a few benign results of my own) to hear the word and not be stricken. I’m willing to learn from my dog and expose my vulnerable soft spot with the understanding that it often leads to contentment.

I’m fine, I’ll continue to say until I truly believe it.

Be inspired,
Natalie

Fake It ‘Til You Make It

Yesterday I had my survivorship appointment in Indy.  It’s essentially a physical exam plus a recap of my breast cancer diagnosis and treatment.  I got copies of my surgeon’s consult, biopsy results, and oncologist’s notes.  The months of March-August condensed into two dozen documents with words like MALIGNANT, Multiple Foci of Invasive Carcinoma, and Docetaxel + Cyclophosphamide (TC) that still manage to incite a quickening of my pulse.

I also received a large packet of information about moving forward after cancer.  More reassuring than the lab reports, I found myself smiling with recognition at the person they described.

My mantra after chemo had run its course and life was presumably heading back into the territory known as “normal”, was “fake it ‘til you make it.”  My husband, Tony, provided me this phrase after I panicked at the prospect of returning to the juggling act of my former life: work, kids, house, chauffeur.  I was convinced that I had been permanently altered in a life-changing way; one which prevented me from resuming my typical daily activities, at least as I remembered them.  I was tired, grouchy, anxious, and my self-image reflected the puffy, pale, hairless woman staring back at me when I snuck a peek in the mirror.  Smiling was an event.

Fake it ‘til you make it?  That was the solution?

Admittedly I was a little irritated that Tony had boiled it down so simply, so strong was my need to hash out my woes over-and-over, but I had to admit that I liked not only the cadence of it – fake it ‘til you make it – but the idea that I was capable of a mind-over-matter transformation; that I was now at the part of beating cancer during which I could choose to become a survivor or a victim.

I chose survivor.  So I faked it and faked it.

I got up at 6am, woke my daughters, made them breakfast, gave my oldest the encouragement she needed to be assertive and my youngest the encouragement she needed to be organized.  I put on my running clothes and did the ugliest rendition of jogging you ever did see.  I showered and sought out pants to fit my pudgy legs.  I drove to work and sat at my desk, took a deep breath and started recruiting volunteers for the fall construction schedule.  I grocery shopped.  I prepared dinner.  I read Amy Tan.  I took meds.  I did it with my mantra in the back of my mind: “fake it ‘til you make it.”

I did it over and over again until I no longer needed to remind myself; the transition so seamless I can’t point to a day or incident when it shifted, but it did.

I’ve made it.

Be inspired,
Natalie

Onward and Upward

Good morning, friends, and how the time has flown!  The last time I posted, back in July, I was waist-deep, trying to come to terms with eminent freedom from Cancer: Summer of ’12.  And lo-and-behold, I did it!  I’ve settled in nicely to my new status (too bad Facebook doesn’t offer this option) and have been easing my way back into my old life.

Mostly.

There are still parts of me wondering if I will ever be the same.  And would I even wish for that?  Although I’ve used this tired, old metaphor before, I really have climbed the mountain and discovered fantastic new views.  My reality and perspective shifted as I made my way along a precarious precipice, leaving me with memories no photos could ever do justice.  Ironically, I gained many of these life-changing experiences from the confines of my couch, itself becoming a danger to me, so strong was its gravitational pull.  But I digress…

I learned that people step up.  I am the proud owner of a basket full of greeting cards, of which I have read and reread in an attempt to understand how my story impacted so many.  My family was inundated with gift cards, small tokens (one friend sent weekly gifts), floral arrangements, food-a-plenty, offers to clean, garden, and bring me ginger when I was nauseous.  I have known some of these fine folks my entire life.  Others I met only days before my surgery.  A few I don’t know at all.  I have also been cared for electronically, via Facebook and email: from personal messages to “likes”, people have overwhelmed me with love, hope and the desire to pay-forward such kindness to others in need.

I also learned that kids are truly resilient.  Now I’m not saying that my children have not been profoundly impacted by their mother experiencing cancer, but I see no evidence of lifelong trauma as a result of it.  They do enjoy teasing me with the memory of my retching into a blue bucket on my hands-and-knees in front of them, but I have a few kid-puke stories of my own to counter.  And even if I could have shielded them from the worst of it, I wouldn’t do it any differently.  It’s cancer, not a cold.  They watched me fight back.  I must admit, though, that the sight of my 11 year-old’s pale winter-white legs this past weekend did fill me with sadness.  Cancer: Summer of ’12 did leave a wake.

Finally, I learned that no matter how self-aware, no matter how loved or admired or respected, I needed professional help to rally.  First of all, my hormone imbalance was too much for me to overcome by sheer force of willpower; my brand of despair called for drugs.  I am now taking an anti-depressant, Effexor, often used with chemo patients experiencing drug-induced menopause because it also calms hot-flashes.  Two weeks of this SNRI has me feeling more myself: smiley, happy, eager, and not-so-sweaty.  I am also seeing a therapist to help reframe what Cancer: Summer of ’12 means for me moving forward.  Am I ashamed to seek help?  No way!  Nor should anyone be.

Because I learned so much on that mountain ledge.  First and foremost that we need never experience dire moments alone.

Be inspired,

Natalie

The Crap of Cancer

I’ve intentionally stayed away from blogging these past couple of weeks because they’ve been tough.  Damn tough.  I’m physically and emotionally drained from nearly three months of chemo, along with all of the drugs I’m taking to counteract the side effects.

Mostly, though, I wanted to spare you my whining, but since you asked…

I’ve gained nearly fifteen pounds in eleven weeks on this regimen, sending me scrambling each morning through my drawers to find clothes that fit my normally modest frame.  I did manage to procure a few summer outfits from a friend of mine who has recently taken up running and found herself awash in fabric.  While I’m so pleased for her newfound fitness, these donations amount to a hollow victory for me.  The me I recognize, that is.  I do double-takes in the mirror at the bloated version staring back at me.  I attempt to (waddle) walk around the neighborhood, but uncomfortable edema forces me into the cool confines of my home sooner than I would like.

Speaking of hot: chemo-induced menopause during this, the hottest summer in my short-term memory, leaves me reeling with an intense heat that sparks in an instant, igniting my neck and moving simultaneously up to my bald head and down to my swollen toes.  Fortunately, it is followed by an equally intense, yet brief, period of profuse sweating that dampens my clothing to the point of cooling me off.  To those of you who have gone through “the change”, I have newfound appreciation!

I also appreciate that I’m sleeping better now.  Just last week I dreaded going to bed as I found myself staring at the ceiling hours upon hours after I headed upstairs.  It was not only disappointing, but debilitating to my cognitive functioning (plus it gave me those dreaded dark circles – such a beauty faux pas!).  Now that I’m taking Ambien I’m lulled into a gentle sleep within fifteen minutes.  We’ll deal with dependency/withdrawal later, cuz this lady needs her zzz’s.  Primarily because my waking hours are fairly joyless right now.

That’s right: depression has kicked in.

I’ve written multiple times about hope and how I refuse to allow cancer to take it from me.  I realized early on how important that was in my fight.  And good news, friends, I still do.  What I didn’t realize is that hope and joy are independent of each other.

How is it that I can move through these months like a warrior against a disease that, unbeknownst to me, had ravaged my breast tissue and yet have to force myself to smile each day?  Why is it that I can look at the calendar and see the note for this Friday, July 20^th, 2012: “LAST CHEMO TREATMENT!” yet feel no giddiness at the accomplishment?  Who ever said I could beat this bitch without feeling the pain of loss?

Oh right.  Me.

When my breast cancer social worker introduced herself, I scoffed at the presumption that I would need her services.  Support groups?  Lady, I wrote the book on cancer and grief and hope, I thought but didn’t say to her.  I simply smiled and dismissed her: I’ve got this.  And I really thought I was onto something, didn’t I?  That by selling novels and blogging an account of my cancer journey; acknowledging my thoughts and feelings at the time I was having said thoughts and feelings would somehow allow me to bypass this: the crap of cancer.

Well, I’m waist-deep it in.

But I recognize it.  That’s a start, right?  And I’m taking steps to metamorphose from the cocoon that holds me captive for the time being, like reading and cooking and seeking out a new four-legged friend to bring into the fold of our family.  And today I joined an online community: the Young Survival Coalition.  Hey, it’s a start.

It’s not enough, though.

One of the persistent worries that kept me up at night (before Ambien) was the notion that soon enough I will transition from cancer patient to cancer survivor.  Sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?  Well…  It’s also scary as hell.  It means I will soon need to emerge from my cancer cocoon and rejoin the world.  And I truly don’t know how to do that.  I feel so different – too much like a clunky, old caterpillar – to understand how my wings work.  I desire to move through the world with grace and ease, but neither my body nor mind can grasp that quite yet.  For now I’m grounded.

But I’m sure once I find myself (cancer) freed instinct will kick in and I’ll discover the pleasure of soaring.

And that will be a joyous day indeed.

Be inspired,

Natalie

Celebrating A Year Of Proudliving!

Dear Friends,

Today marks one year since I began blogging as proudliving, and what an adventure it has been!  Despite its low-tech functionality and appearance, proudliving has logged 11,557 hits, with the most popular post being The Results, with 153 hits in a matter of three hours.

True to its tagline, proudliving aspired to inspire through honest and earnest stories and personal reflections.  I lost a few job opportunities and discovered a few passions.  I was diagnosed with breast cancer and published my first novel, Defending Hope, on the same day as my mastectomy.  I continue to both appall and amuse you with my first-hand accounts of what life as a cancer patient entails.

While it’s great fun to celebrate the past, I want to share with you some exciting news moving forward.  I’m following my dreams, literally, and writing a second novel.  One night last week I awakened from a most vivid dream: a serial mystery novelist with writer’s block and her two vastly different teenage daughters journeying around the country in search of a connection they had long since lost.  Throw in her financially frustrated, impatient husband and borderline-agoraphobic, cynical mother and let’s call it my next new adventure.

So today begins my own new journey.  I plan to spend July writing this story.  On the days when my twitchy eyes don’t cooperate, I’ll use my handy Voice Memo app to record my words, to be typed at a later date.  My cocktail of medications might lend itself nicely to writing, or may result in a big pile of slag.  I’m going to give it a shot anyway.

Because what have I got to lose?

Thanks for being such an integral part of proudliving.  Here’s to a brand new year of personal insights and amazing adventures!

Be inspired,

Natalie

Restless to Reposed (for now)

It was 5am and I’d already screwed up: I woke up in time to make it to the bathroom after a day of pushing water (a win! – see Sweet Relief and Release) and made the critical mistake of looking in the mirror as I washed my hands.  I looked like a corpse.  And not a vampire or zombie corpse that might actually gain me some “cool” points with my kids, but simply a frightenedly accurate deceased version of me: hairless, grey skin with matching lips, vacant eyes, and a puffiness reminiscent of the embalmed.  I know what I’m talking about because of four years’ dedication to Six Feet Under.  That, and saying my final, heart-wrenching goodbyes to a few of my beloved, deceased friends and relatives.

Needless to say, I freaked out.  I went back to bed and lay there, heart racing in a panic.  What if I didn’t survive this?  What if my own lovelies had to say their final goodbyes to me?  Breathe, Natalie, breathe.  I breathed and it worked for awhile, but then I envisioned my face in the mirror…  Breathe, Natalie, breathe.

So I did.  And then I thought, Why not write?  You’re clearly not going back to sleep right now.  Use this time to liberate yourself from anxiety and rediscover your strength.  So I nibbled two Saltines before ingesting my hundred-dollar-a-pop anti-nausea meds and here I am.  Trying to rediscover.

Unfortunately my mind is distracted by the amazing thunderstorm and light show happening right outside my window.  That, and a morbid curiosity over whether Six Feet Under is available for instant streaming on Netflix.

Bottom line: the odds are absolutely in my favor.  When I’m truly awake and rational (and hopefully less grey) I will remember this and be pacified.  So what if my current regimen of medications inspired me to buy a weekly pill holder.  It’s temporary.  And then there’s the night sweats/hot flashes which awaken me often; an internal oven mistakenly set to ’Broil’ originates in my head and travels down the length my body to the tips of my toes.  Turns out my ovaries are responding to the chemo, giving me menopausal-like symptoms.  No worries, though, there’s a pill for that – it’ll look great in my pill holder.  Why worry about tomorrow’s impending Neupogen injection to stimulate bone marrow production.  My oncologist scolded me for suffering through the leg pain last time.  “You have pain meds leftover from surgery, right?  Take them!”  I’ll place those in my pill holder too.  My incessant eye-twitching?  Turns out Taxotere Cytoxan (otherwise known as “poison”) can cause Magnesium deficits.  But guess what?  That’s right, friends: there’s a supplement for that!  It’s going in the pill holder.  Who cares that my hemoglobin levels have dropped too low, requiring an extra trip to Indy for a second iron infusion.  It will kick in in a few weeks and boost my energy, saving my couch from a permanent Natalie indentation.

Well, at least I’ve rediscovered sarcasm.

Seriously, though, by this time next month I will be ten days out from my final chemo treatment.  Ten days after that I begin to feel much more normal, ready to assume some responsibilities and activities.  Ten days later I will be free from the worry, the slight edginess with which I assess every new symptom. And ten days or twenty days or thirty days or three months after that I will be free.  Free of (most of) my pills, free of the puffiness, free of morbid thoughts, simply free.

Cancer-free.  And that, friends, will be the third most significant feat of my life – aside from the incredible experience of giving birth to my two daughters – a cause for joyous celebration!  (Is it indecorous to throw yourself a cancer-free party?)

But I do need to pass the body scan first.

And you can bet I’ll pull a few more all-nighters before that critical exam.

Be inspired,

Natalie

Multi-taxing

I’m attempting an experiment right now.  Usually when I write I need complete silence.  When I was penning Defending Hope there were a few times I sat down at the computer at a loss for words and turned to my trusty Van Morrison Pandora station thinking his type of crooning might set the right mood for inspiration.

It didn’t.

When I was growing up, I so desperately wanted to be the type of learner to blare Night Ranger while attempting quadratic equations.  I tried, several times, and failed (including a few assignments in the process).  My mom suggested Mozart once and I tried that too, but it turns out that multi-tasking during the learning or creative process is simply not what my brain is wired to do.

But I’m a mom, forced to multi-task nearly all the time: giving spelling words while deboning chicken thighs, driving while helping “refocus” disputes, and, more recently, nixing my teen’s desire to wear last year’s shorty-shorts while defending my position all at once.

Cancer, it seems, makes my brain even less able to process so much external stimulation all at once.  Even the joyful noise of my girls’ laughter makes me cringe when I’m trying to be zen-like in my attempt to settle my upset stomach or quell my woozy head.  Again, I’m a mom.  What’s to be done other than ship my kids off for the summer?

I’ll tell you what: buy a piano.

Oh yes we did.

So this morning I’m writing while listening to the enthusiastic pounding of all the wrong keys accompanied by made-up lyrics to made-up songs that my youngest has spent an hour perfecting.

What’s a mom to do except attempt the impossible?

Except now it seems I’ve developed a new symptom: eye-twitching.

Be inspired,

Natalie