Reflection

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Kindly delivered news

January 27, 2010 in Moments, Reflection by admin | Comments

My oncologist is straight with me. He tells me the truth. I have made it clear that I want it that way.

I have stage IV colon cancer, and I have been in remission now for over a year.

So during my oncology appt today I asked him, “I know my cancer is a slow grower. It has stayed dormant before and then begun to grow after almost a year.” I already knew the answer to my question. “How likely is it that the cancer is staying dormant right now while I’m in remission, and will begin to grow again in the future?”

He said in his caring voice, “It’s very likely. But I have two colon cancer patients, stage IV, who are now years past their diagnosis. One is seven years out, no sign of disease.”

So once again I am faced with this prognosis: there is hope, but it’s not very likely. But it can happen.

So I can’t sleep.

It sounds to me like I am probably going to die from this cancer…but maybe–although it’s a stretch–maybe not.

Whom do I talk with about this? Cliff is worn out and needs sleep, the kids don’t want to talk about it and they aren’t my counselors anyway, I will wear out my friends if I talk about this stuff over and over. Everybody is too close. And I don’t have a counselor right now. So I am writing about it.

I paint too. Maybe all this sadness about dying a little too soon will find its way into an abstract painting one day. (Well, that will make it all worthwhile….)

It’s weird to think that in a year or two I could be not here with my family, but instead cremated and scattered.

Or I could be one of those oncology patients still walking around, and people are thinking, “What, she’s still here?”

It could happen.

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Sixth colonoscopy

September 26, 2009 in Reflection by admin | Comments

I have an appointment with my colon surgeon tomorrow. I am due for my annual colonoscopy. My first colon cancer spread to my lungs, and the doc says that I can always get new cancers, thus the yearly colonoscopy. Tomorrow he will give me the prescription for the prep and we’ll make an appt for the colonoscopy.

I have had five colonoscopies. One year I messed up the prep instructions, and the colonoscopy actually had to be rescheduled. I would rather not have that happen again; it’s pretty embarrassing not to be able to follow basic instructions.

So my sixth colonoscopy draws near. I’m not ready for this prep, not when I’m still dealing with the effects of my second bout with shingles. I was in the hospital for three days last week, sick, in pain, and throwing up. It would be nice to have a little respite before I have to deal with the nausea of the colonoscopy prep.

I should be valuing the colonoscopy because it means early detection. But I dutifully had a colonoscopy in 2002, and it was clear. Either the doctor (not my current surgeon) didn’t see the cancer or it hadn’t begun yet, because in 2005 I was diagnosed with stage I colon cancer. Then, even with annual colonoscopies and PET/CT scans every three months, I was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer in 2008.

I feel like I should be cancer-free. I have been the poster-child for getting tested and being proactive. But still I got colon cancer, and still it progressed to stage IV.

So although I’m very grateful to have health care that covers colonoscopies, I have mixed feelings about actually having them. I have to deal with this anger and sadness every year. I did what I was supposed to do, and it didn’t matter.

Many of us have this story, whether at home or at work. We feel like we fell through the cracks somehow, and we feel alone. Of course, we are not.

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Our path

August 17, 2009 in Moments, Reflection by admin | Comments

Ann on the path

Ann hiking

 

Isn’t it interesting that each of us has to find our own unique path in the world. Even with the billions of people who have lived on this earth, none of us has had exactly the same course of our life.

 

I guess with all the variables in a lifetime and with the changes from generation to generation, this isn’t all that surprising. Still…

 

…it makes each person’s quest unique — for meaning, for peace, for survival. Sometimes we lead long lives and sometimes short lives. But if we have the time and the ability, we can question and perhaps find the route we would like to go.

 

For me, the answers have become simply being, resting in quietness and enjoying the richness and simplicity of each moment.

 

But I no longer lead a hectic life. My children are grown, my marriage is happy, and I left my hospice chaplain job. Life slowed down after my diagnosis of stage IV cancer, and my life took a different turn.

 

I decided to give a lot more time to creative and outdoor activities. I began sketching, painting, and walking and hiking more.

 

I love the time that I have.

 

 

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What is.

May 28, 2009 in Reflection by admin | Comments

A CT scan is looming next week, and I have been dreading it. I’m not usually afraid of these cancer tests, but it has been five months since chemo ended, and I don’t know what’s going on inside me.

Well, that’s what the scan is for—to find out what’s going on. I still go into the chemo ward every other week for an infusion of Avastin, but that’s the extent of my treatment right now.

There are so many difficulties and tragedies in the world that it seems trivial to worry about a CT scan result. Yet, when something threatens our life, we are usually determined—instinctively—to fight it.

And I am.

Today during a quiet time I remembered this bit of wisdom:  “What is, is.”

And I realized that the scan in itself is nothing in fear. The results are non-emotional; the scanner is just recording what is.

I am making peace with what is. If cancer shows up on the scan, I will have treatment options. If it doesn’t show up, I will be relieved. The scanner is only recording what it sees.

And monitoring “what is” may save my life.

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Windy afternoon

March 4, 2009 in Reflection by admin | Comments

I just finished walking the dog for a mile, with the crazy wind blowing my hair every which way. Then I poured a cup of coffee and sat out on the back patio, listening to the wind and feeling the gusts across my skin.

This is where I want to be in the world – in my neighborhood, in my backyard, in my own home. Maybe Cliff and I will do some traveling in the future if it works out, but if not, it’s okay. I love the beauty of the earth that is within my reach.

As far as my physical condition, the fatigue is lightening up a bit, thank goodness, but the neuropathy in my hands and feet persists. I need to be patient with that, because the docs said the nerve endings have to regrow, and that takes a while. We’ll see how much feeling is returned to my hands and feet.

I have been painting quite a lot. Last week I got frustrated and felt that I would never improve. So I took the powdered charcoal into the backyard on a windy day and threw the charcoal onto some watercolor paper. Then I poured water down it.

The papers kept blowing over, so I ended up with an interesting mixture of gray charcoal and brown dirt. I got most of the dirt off, but the little that remained seemed earthy and appropriate to me, so I let it be.

I created some things I liked and some I didn’t. But at least I have a place to start now, which is better than sitting in my studio and thinking dark thoughts about my art ability. I will post photos soon, but I have to finish the art pieces first.

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Slumber

January 11, 2009 in Reflection by admin | Comments

The day after I completed chemo, I just slept. After my morning appointment, I crashed and slept all afternoon.  I awoke to fix dinner and take a phone call from a dear friend, who thankfully was very kind about my incoherent and sleepy self.  Then I fell asleep again. At 9:30pm, my husband woke me and tucked me in bed and I slept until 6:30am.

I guess the excitement from ending chemo was just too much for me, or else I just have a very worn out body—maybe a little of both. Anyway, sleeping seemed like a very therapeutic thing to do.

Anyway, today I was back at the gym on the elliptical and in the whirlpool, which felt very good to my neuropathy. Warmth is comforting, even if it doesn’t help the neuropathy disappear.

I try to be kind to myself these days. I may have many years ahead of me or I may not. But I am doing my best to spend whatever days I have listening to what is deep within me and abiding in that peace.

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Up & down the scale

November 14, 2008 in Reflection by admin | Comments

A few weeks ago, at the end of my sixth round, my neuropathy (sensitivity to cold) mysteriously lifted for three days. Naturally, I ate everything frozen within a five mile radius of my deprived mouth – ice cream, milk shakes, and 2 ½ satisfyingly rich Dove bars. Mmm. My stomach was in a state of bliss.

So then I see the oncologist the next day, at the beginning of my seventh round. He studies my chart and says, “Mmm, you’ve gained five pounds. I’m going to put a diuretic in your IV today.” 

I knew that water weight had nothing to do with it. It was those Dove bars and all the other cold, ice-creamery concoctions I had cheerily consumed within the past three days. It’s amazing how fast my body can say, “Yum, pack it on, baby. We’re not going to see this kind for food for a while!”

Well, I’m losing the weight again (the neuropathy is back, unfortunately) and am still about five pounds under the weight I began with before my lung surgery, so not to worry. In fact, my attitude is “Forget the diuretic. Step away from the IV, doc, and let me eat!”

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Sanctuary

October 28, 2008 in Reflection by admin | Comments

I have some places around the house I love to be. They are my sanctuaries.

One place is upstairs off our master bedroom. I’ve set up a simple meditation table. I sit on the little couch in front of it and light a candle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Another sanctuary is the patio that my husband and I built in 2005. Well, he did the engineering and brick-setting, and I helped lift 1000 square feet of concrete bricks. It was grueling work. But now this is a lovely spot, especially in the summer when I plant flowers around the perimeter and the fountain is trickling. This is where I worked through the shock of this stage IV cancer diagnosis.

 

A third place I love is on the couch where I curl up sometimes to rest under a cozy blanket. The dog hops up and settles in behind me, and sometimes the cat joins me too. Here they’re both piled on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I also gravitate to my daughter’s old room, which is now my art studio. This is where I let my creativity flow and see what happens. It’s a room of mystery and discovery.

And . . . my most important sanctuary, of course, is the one within. We all have this resource, this internal oasis. Wherever we are, we can settle into a sanctuary of peace and healing love.

This inner sanctuary is my steady communion with the source of life. Sinking into this inner sanctuary, for me, is settling into a beloved space and dwelling in acceptance, wonderment, and gratitude. Any emotion that comes up — or no emotion at all — is okay. Speaking is okay; so is chanting, singing, and silence (my preferred state, being a contemplative). A pet jumping into my lap and curling up for a nap is okay. It’s all okay.

Sanctuary is a safe place, a haven in the midst of the tumult that cancer often brings.

The creative pull

October 3, 2008 in Reflection by admin | Comments

I’ve always loved art but have been overly conscious of producing bad art. My mother was an accomplished artist. My daughter is an accomplished artist and art teacher. I am just a dabbler, especially skilled at producing unmemorable pieces.

But things have changed. No, my art hasn’t improved. But I am faced with a serious diagnosis.

And I no longer care if I produce insipid art or stupid art or never-let-this-picture-see-the-light-of-day art.

I just want to paint.

So I have taken over my daughter’s old bedroom, set up an easel and some tables, and used a birthday check to buy some saturated, lovely acrylic paint.

With my annoying inner art critic silenced at last, I am having the time of my life. And the creative energy is carrying over a bit into the rest of my days, helping combat chemo fatigue.

I have discovered this little outlet of pure joy, and it is feeding my soul.

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Grief (late June 2008)

July 30, 2008 in Reflection, Update by admin | Comments

What do you do when you can’t find hope?  I knew the grim statistics for stage IV colon cancer survival.

I did not want to leave my husband. I didn’t want my children, both in their twenties, to see me die. I did not want to leave this beautiful earth.

I was a former chaplain, and I had helped many others find hope. But I could not find it for myself.

I went into the valley, all the while yearning for some sign of comfort or presence. It was a lonely time. Even with a loving and supportive family, facing my own mortality was a journey I had to make on my own.

I was truly bereft. I had experienced lonely spiritual times before, but this was particularly dreadful because it was going to affect other people – people I loved dearly.

In the dark nights of the soul, we really have no choice but to wait – just to be with ourselves in that place and experience the turmoil and the stillness, and maybe develop some more patience along the way. Dark nights of the soul can last a short time or a lot, lot longer (generally longer for me).

But they don’t last forever.

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