2015 - New Year - New Me

2015...  I have never been so happy to put one year in my rear view mirror and to see a new year ahead of me. 
In the months since my last surgery, I expected that I'd just jump into my old 'BC' routine (BC = Before Cancer)... easier said than done I found out.  Establishing new routines takes time - and I need to figure out what the 'new normal' is going to be.  The truth is, my body gets tired easier.  Hot flashes are a routine occurrence throughout the day (and night).  I've lost most of the strength that I had gained (BC) and it's going to take time and effort to get it back.

AND THAT'S OKAY!

I'm learning that I have to give myself some grace.  To be patient.  But 'grace' is not an excuse for not trying.  It's not an excuse to be lazy.  It means I get to CrossFit 2 or 3 times a week and that I'm okay with just using an empty bar in my workouts.  That I'm okay with going slower and making modifications.  It means hikes with the dogs take a bit longer to get to the top.  But it means that I do get to the top.  That I keep moving forward.


I kept myself sane last year by rewarding the small victories in my journey.  And so I will continue to do just that.

While it would be very easy to remember all the negatives of 2014... there were also some amazing positives.  I met some wonderful new friends and reconnected with some precious old ones.  I also got back into riding again and (for better or worse) I bought a horse.  'Tailor' is a bit like me.  He was young and shiny and full of promise at one time - and then years passed.  He's a little out of shape and has some aches and pains and likes to do things 'his way'.


....fast forward to Spring 2017...
I logged into my blog for the first time in 2 years to find the above post still in 'draft mode'.  I contemplated just deleting it, but then thought better of it and figured I should instead, just add on.
For better or worse, not a ton has changed... I am still trying to figure things out and am constantly asking myself, is this how I'm supposed to be feeling?  The hot flashes still continue; the weight hasn't decreased; day-to-day aches and pains seem more than they should for a person not yet 50.  And yet... I was told by my surgeon in January that I had passed my 3 year mark and no longer needed to see him; I continue to go to my crossfit classes and am still modifying my workouts but am still just fine with that; my golf game is still nothing to write home about, but I'm still out there playing with a great group of ladies; and Tailor and I have gotten good enough to try competitions last year - and while we placed close to last in every class, it was a success just to be there!

So I encourage all of you to embrace every day and the challenges it brings you.  Until next time...

A Year Ago

A year ago today, I heard the words 'you have cancer'.  My, what a year it's been.  Yesterday was (fingers crossed) the final surgery... a "laparoscopic bilateral salpingoopherectomy".  In other words, I had my ovaries and tubes removed as a preventative measure against developing ovarian cancer, and as part of the post-breast cancer maintenance program to limit the amount of estrogen my body produces, since my kind of breast cancer uses estrogen as a fuel.  No fuel = No cancer.  Or at least, that's the theory.

I've spent the last year with one primary focus:  Getting rid of the cancer and doing everything possible to better my odds so that it never returns.  A whole year governed by doctor's appointments, treatments, and procedures.  A whole year dominated by one thought and one thought only -- 'beat the cancer'.  To now be 'done' seems rather strange.
So, what now?  I hope what comes next is spending the next year getting back to the activity and strength level I had a year ago.  I also hope that the word 'cancer' starts to become less of a day-to-day topic.
So who am I now?  I'm definitely not the same person I was a year ago.  I have become stronger in other ways; I look at the world differently with a new set of filters; I have less patience for drama and instead try to see the beauty in others and in the world around me;  Family, friends, time with my pets, and service towards others is what is important.  I want to take my cancer experience and try to help someone else that might be afraid and in need.  To share my story so that they can gain strength that someone has walked this path and survived.  I started as a Warrior - now I'm a Survivor.  But I don't want to just 'survive'.  I want to 'thrive'.  So that will be my goal for the next year, 5 years, 10 years, and beyond.  Look out world -- here I come!

Pink Boat Regatta

 

Sunday, September 7, was the Pink Boat Regatta.  An event to help raise money for the Breast Cancer Research Foundation - obviously a cause that is rather close to my heart (literally).  Seattle and the Sloop Tavern Yacht Club have been hosting this event for 2 years now, and back in February, the organizer, Ashley, and my husband, Neil, sat down and thought about hosting 2 regattas on the same day.  One in Seattle - the other in Bellingham.

Sunday was the culmination of a ton of planning, heroic volunteer efforts, and an overwhelming amount of monetary support from both communities.  I'm told that they will announce the final amount on October 1, but I think we can safely say it will be well over $50,000.  A-MAZ-ING! 

We even had a news crew from Seattle come up to interview me!  The reporter, Kristin Drew, had gotten wind of my blog (pardon the bad pun) so they included me in the story about the Pink Boat Regatta.  How cool is that!?

 

KOMO 4 News video



 

Finish Line!

223 days -- from the first day of chemo to the last day of radiation.  223 days of grit, determination, challenges, and a few tears.  223 days of being constantly amazed at the love and support that I received. 
Am I 'cancer free'??  Only time will tell -- but for now, we can consider the bitch's ass kicked! 

So what did I do to celebrate?  Pop champagne?  Go out to a really fancy dinner?  Nope... instead I chose to get my WOD on (Workout Of the Day) at the CrossFit X's Ladies Night with 24+ amazing women all cheering each other on.  It's been months since I've attempted any kind of cardio, but this was just what I needed to get back in the game. 

Burning Through Radiation

The radiation portion of my treatment has begun.  35 daily (Monday thru Friday) treatments.  So far - I'm 17 treatments in - there are no visible side-effects.  There's a chance I will get a bit of a sunburn feel to the treated area and also some fatigue, though nothing like the fatigue I felt during chemo.  I'm guessing that the effects of all this will be cumulative, so it may be a couple more weeks before my body catches up to what's happening.
So, what's a typical treatment session like?  Weird.  It's all just weird. 
I arrive at the Cancer Center and head back to the radiation waiting area.  There are some chairs and the usual scattering of old magazines to read.  There is also a table with a puzzle on it, so most of us poke away at the puzzle while we wait.  A large glass door opens and one of the radiation technicians comes out to get you.  They pull a warm blanket out of something that looks like a refrigerator and back you go to a huge room:

They hold the blanket up to you while you strip down to your waist (all sense of modesty or embarrassment has been completely removed from my psyche by now) and then hand you the blanket as you walk over to lay down on the 'bed'.  Between me and the 'bed' is a blue "form".  Before treatment began, I was brought in for a set-up session where I laid down on what felt like a bean bag pillow.  The technician packed the bean bag all around me and then sucked all the air out.. leaving a hard form that forces me to lay in the exact same position for every treatment.
Once I'm laying in my usual position, the blanket gets removed from my right side (there goes the modesty again) and 2 to 3 technicians all stare down at me while one of them has a large remote control in their hand and moves the bed this way and that trying to line everything up.  A light is shining down on me that illuminates a ruler, and the technicians rattle off various numbers to each other.  Once I'm all set the way they like it, they leave the room and that large machine rotates around me and stops in 4 different locations and makes a long beep sound -- that's the radiation beam going off. 
That's it.  From the time I walk in, to the time I walk out, takes about 10 minutes.

So, why am I doing this?  Didn't the chemo kill everything possible?  Well, yes and no.  The chemo goes through the bloodstream and kills off any potential cancer cells it can, but blood doesn't go everywhere.  It doesn't penetrate scar tissue, nor the milk ducts of the breast - which is where my cancer started in the first place.  That's where the radiation comes in.  It specifically targets those areas on my effected side, once again killing cells.  Healthy cells regenerate - cancer cells can't regenerate as quickly, so by being zapped each day, they don't get a chance to regenerate.  All to build up the odds in my favor that this bitch doesn't ever return.

Intermission

The month of June was "intermission" for me.  Chemo was done and radiation was set to begin in July.
I had my last work event to go to.. the Astronomy conference in Montreal, Quebec.  These guys build the large land and space-based telescopes.  Remember Hubble?  Or the big observatories found on mountain peaks around the world?  These are the guys.  Because the things they work on are so large, the exhibit is pretty interesting as they try to show off scaled models.. check out this one made of Lego!

Neil got to join me for the final weekend and we enjoyed exploring the beautiful city and its amazing basilica, Notre Dame.  Montreal feels like Europe but without the long plane ride.  We found the people to be very friendly (and very bi-lingual) and the food to be amazing.

Finals Week

Remember finals week?  A week of one trial after another.  People on campus didn’t talk much – everyone was buried in their books – sequestered in the library – or hunkered down at a coffee shop. 

Sometimes life becomes a series of final exams – designed to test your will – your fortitude – that inner strength that pushes you beyond which you thought you were capable of coping…  that’s what last week was for me.

When I arrived home from Baltimore a couple of weeks ago, my left arm was noticeably swollen.  I mentioned it to my chemo nurse the next day and she thought perhaps it was a result of flying and my altered diet from normal of Neil’s home cooking to eating out on the road.  Over the course of the next week, the swelling went down a bit, but it still felt tight and not quite right.  My next chemo treatment – a week later – I mentioned this condition again to my chemo nurse, and she immediately went to chat with my doctor.  While they weren’t worried anything was life threatening, it was still something I should get checked out.  So the treatment went on as planned and I left with an appointment for an ultrasound the next day.

Friday afternoon, I head in for my ultrasound and there is definitely some kind of blockage going on.  So at 5:30 I get sent to the ER to be administered a shot and get started on blood thinners.  Lovely – just where I want to go on a Friday night.

I arrive at the ER and am escorted to a curtained “room” with a bed and told to hang out.  My neighbor to the right is a woman who has fallen at her house and broke her shoulder in 4 places.  My neighbor to the left arrives via the EMTs – her name is Patricia – a nice little old lady that has dementia and keeps complaining of chest pains (this is her 2^nd time here in 2 weeks) and she answers ‘yes’ to any question posed to her.

Finally, the doc comes to see me and confirms that yes, I have a blood clot – though apparently clots that develop in the arm aren’t prone to be life threatening, but they want to make sure it doesn’t get any worse and I don’t develop any more.  Fair enough.

I get to hang out for a couple of hours and I’m visited by a variety of nurses.  Finally one comes in with my very own ‘home injection kit’ and I’m told that I have to self-administer shots to my stomach twice a day for the next 5 days.  Are you kidding me?  She pulls out a syringe and asks if I want to do it?  Um – no thanks, why don’t you do the first one?

I leave with a prescription for 5 days of shots and pills and told if I hurry, I can make it to the pharmacy before they close.

Test #1 complete.

The next morning, I open up my little injection kit and just stare at the little needle.  Really?  For once, I’m grateful for the added padding around my mid-section, so I pinch a good inch, swab it with alcohol, pick up the syringe and take a couple deep breaths…. 3 – 2 -1 – Go.

Test #2 complete.

Sunday morning I take Neil to the airport – he’s off to Austin, TX for a conference.  I meet a friend for coffee and then head home to mow the yard.  Mom and Dad are due to arrive in a couple of hours for a visit.

The next couple of days are spent visiting with the folks and just hanging out.  They take off around lunchtime on Tuesday and I head off to meet up with Dr. Chemo to talk about my blood clot.  Turns out he’s not too concerned – he’s sorry it happened but knows that with my chemo almost over, this won’t be happening anymore.

I came home and made some cupcakes – I wanted to make something special to take to the chemo nurses on Thursday for my final treatment.  I spend the evening just hanging out with the dogs and turn in around 10pm.  As I turn out the light, I hear a strange noise from the backyard.  The dog door has opened, but it didn’t shut properly and now there’s a weird noise coming from the gravel below.  I get out of bed and look out the window, trying to see something in the darkness.  What I see makes my heart stop – there is Mocha, my dog of 14+ years… her back legs aren’t working and she is pulling herself through the gravel and off into the bushes.  I race down 2 flights of stairs with the other 2 dogs in hot pursuit and I pause at the back door just long enough to pull on a pair of old sailing boots.  I get to Mocha before she’s managed to drag herself under the depths of a spiny, thorny bush and the poor girl is in a panic and absolutely covered in beauty bark.  I manage to pick her up and carry her upstairs (thank you, CrossFitX).  I call the emergency vet and they agree that I should bring her in, so off we go.  X-rays are taken and nothing very decisive is learned, so blood work is done and her protein levels are very low.  This leads us to believe that there may have been a tumor that ruptured and the resulting internal bleeding weakened her enough that her already weak backend couldn’t function.  They want to keep her the rest of the night to monitor her and will continue to check her blood every 4 hours.  I’m to return at 7:30 the next morning to transport her to my vet so they can perform an ultrasound and we can hopefully find out more.

I get back home after midnight and Mambo and Murphy are both on edge.  I send an email to the office to let them know that I won’t be to work the next day and then fall into bed.  At 5am, I get a text from my friend, Pam, asking me what is wrong with Mocha?  I tell her what I know and she agrees to meet me at 7:30.  Back at the emergency vet, we’re told that Mocha was stable through the night but that she had not tried to stand at all, so they prepare to carry her out to my car.  Suddenly, from the back we hear an exclamation, and here comes Mocha walking through the door!  She had heard our voices and, in typical Mocha fashion, wanted to come out under her own power.  Stubborn old broad!  She got to where I was standing and then collapsed.  No worries, Girl – we got you.  I try to thank the vet, but the tears are too close to the surface and my voice just cuts off to nothing.  She says ‘I hope you’re able to have more time with her’.  Dear God, I hope so too.

Now at Northshore Vet, we talk to Dr. Colleen Coyne.  She tells us that she’ll take Mocha upstairs with her to the surgery area and let her hang out with her for the morning until the 2 other vets can perform an ultrasound.  So now we wait.  Pam and I head off to a local coffee shop and are soon joined by Michele Bodtke.  Together, they try to keep my mind off what my heart is dreading.  After a couple of hours, Pam heads home for a bit and Michele and I head downtown to grab a sandwich.  Just as we are entering the restaurant, my phone rings and it’s the vet.  So, standing on a sidewalk, with both of our heads tilted toward the cell phone, we listen.  The ultrasound suggests carcinoma tumors on her gallbladder, her spleen, her left kidney, plus an enlarged liver and lymph nodes.  It doesn’t take a trained oncologist to see the writing on the wall, though we are given various surgery options if that is a route we wish to pursue if I feel the need to prove what my heart is already telling me.  We thank her and ask if we can have an hour or so to talk things out.  We’re told to take whatever time we need, so we head into the restaurant and our poor server has to deal with 2 crying women.  After a solid hour of talking through all the options and discussing whether waiting for the next day so Neil could also be present was the right thing, we came to the conclusion that what was best for Mocha would be to quietly end things today.  We communicate our plans with Pam and the 3 of us rendezvous at Northshore Vet.  “Mocha’s Posse” has arrived.   We are escorted upstairs and meet once again with Dr. Coyne to let her know that I have made up my mind and am confident that we are doing the right thing at the right time.  She lets me know that she doesn’t have any commitments that evening, so if we wanted to take Mocha home for a bit, she could come by the house after work and take care of things there.  That was the best news I had heard in the past 18 hours, so we loaded Mocha onto a stretcher and I brought her home.  The next couple of hours were wonderful.  She laid down on her favorite pillow in the sun and we all sat around and petted her while she napped.  A little after 5pm, Dr. Coyne and a vet tech arrived and it was all very peaceful.  Mambo and Murphy both got to sniff her and say their respective doggie good-byes, as well as her human family.  I couldn’t help but wonder at the irony of it all… that Mocha passed on the eve of my last chemo treatment.  God gives and God takes – her vigil over me was complete.

I pick Neil up from the airport at midnight and once we’re home I head upstairs to fall into bed.  The day I have long dreaded is done.

Test #3 complete.

The next morning, I am solemn but collected.  Though my heart is heavy, I am at peace that I did the right thing at the right time. 

I spend the morning finishing up the cupcakes for the nurses and then it’s time to head to the anti-coagulation clinic to have my blood numbers checked.  They check out within the range they are hoping for, so from there it is on to the Cancer Center.  There are 2 other women that are also on their last treatment, so it is a party atmosphere when we walk back to the infusion area.  The cupcakes are a huge hit and are quickly devoured by the wonderful staff.  As the pump alarms go off for the other 2 ladies, signaling the end of their final bag of whatever chemical they have had to endure, there are claps and cheers and tears all around.  There aren’t as many folks left at the Center when my final alarm sounds, but the cheers, joy, and elation I feel is not lessened at all.  The nurses hand me a Certificate of Completion, signed by them all and I walk out of the infusion wing for the final time.  This horrible, life-altering part of my cancer journey is done.

Test #4 complete.

What is next only time, fate and the miracle of modern medicine will tell…but I am strong, and in the words of Neil’s boss, Tony, ‘they can’t make it hard enough….’

Bring it!