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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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Chemo completed

January 9, 2009 in Moments by admin | Comments

cpmd-cabbage-104Source of my peace
   Spring of my joy
As always, I find your presence
   within myself
      and drink deeply of your hope.

Listening within, waiting, I have regained hope and happiness. Life is different now, to be sure, but again I reach into myself and the tranquility that has been worked within me over the years, and I rest in this sacred dwelling pace for love and peace.

Today—well, yesterday now, as it is 2:40am on Friday—I finished my twelfth and final round of chemo. I am so happy.  No more tubes and pumps, at least for a while. As the fatigue wears off, I will be able to start exercising, in earnest this time. “Listen to your body!”  the oncologists emphasize. I will listen, I promise.

But it’s hiking again, back to the gym and the elliptical, long walks with the dog as weather permits (and it often does), walks interspersed with race-walking (approved by the oncologists), and bicycling (with Cliff, in case of balance mishap).

It will be a couple of weeks—as this weeks’ chemo runs its two-week course—before I do much.  Still, it’s exciting to think about and start working up to day by day.

Thank you ALL for your support!!!!!  And thank you, my heartlings — Joanna’s and Evan’s friends — including Douglas in Paraguay.

Well of joy, spring forth!

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Midway

October 21, 2008 in Moments, Update by admin | Comments

I’m halfway through chemo – six rounds done, six to go. I should be wrapping chemo up around January 2009.

In the meantime, I am prepping today for a colonoscopy tomorrow. The oncologist told me just because we’ve taken care of one malignant site doesn’t mean there might not be more in there. So tomorrow morning my surgeon will take a good look at my insides again.

I am truly grateful for good health care and for alert physicians. But having a colonoscopy during chemo is a little tough. I am feeling the cumulative effects of chemo now – some loss of balance, shakiness, fatigue, and the ever-present neuropathy in hands and mouth. Today I am fasting and will be drinking the vat of liquid this evening for internal cleansing, which will leave me even shakier.

Oh, and a mammogram on Friday. I know these tests all vitally important. That’s why I’m having them done.

Still . . . all I want to do is curl up in bed and rest, so I will do that this afternoon. Weariness and gratitude coexist here.

Outside my window, the temperature is dropping and the wind is up. Leaves are sailing off the trees like snow.

And now thunder is booming. Lovely.

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Third round of chemo completed

September 19, 2008 in Update by admin | Comments

The new nausea meds have helped a great deal. I am keeping food down and gaining some much-needed weight back. I’m still going in for hydration because I can’t keep liquids down yet. I try to get liquids in me through fruit, soup, etc., but it’s not quite enough.

Anyway, I’m grateful for this turn of events. Three rounds of chemo down, nine to go.

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First round of chemo

August 18, 2008 in Update by admin | Comments

I began my first round of FOLFOX and Avastin chemo on August 4th. It is now the 18th, and my second round begins tomorrow.

During my first week, I threw up constantly and couldn’t even keep a sip of liquid down. When I began throwing up in the oncology office, the chemo nurse whisked me back to an easy chair and began an IV infusion. I went in for another infusion the next day.

Two days later, I was in the hospital (on a Sunday morning) for a third infusion, and I was able to take my first food — a bit of mashed potatoes.

Well, this non-stop throwing up and extreme dehydration is definitely not going to work for 24 weeks of chemo. My oncologist plans to reduce one chemo drug a bit and change all of my nausea meds for the second round. We’ll see how it goes.

I have not been able to go near the computer or do anything that requires attention. Mostly I have been curled up on the sofa in fetal position for two weeks. Hope these new meds are effective.

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Backstory: First oncology visit - 11/2005

July 24, 2008 in Update by admin | Comments

The first time I walked into an oncology office, I was petrified. I’d had a sigmoidectomy (12″ of colon removed) a few weeks ago and had learned I had colon cancer, Stage I, T2, which means the tumor had invaded the muscle wall inside the colon but had not exited the outside colon wall. The lab tested the lymph nodes — all clear.

 

So I walked with my husband into the oncology waiting room. But I was in my own muddled world, wishing I were somewhere else. I thought, What am I doing here among all these sick people? I’ve got the “all clear” — no more cancer. I should not be in this waiting room.

 

Ah the grip of fear. Instead of feeling a compassionate connection with the other patients (and yes, I was a patient, whether I wanted to admit it or not), I sought distance and separation. I sat down, crossed my legs, and buried myself in the book I had brought. My husband, sensing my discomfort, patted my leg, providing comforting connection when I could not.

 

When I was called into the exam room, my normally low blood pressure was sky-high — a physical reminder that I was nowhere near the peace I try to live on a daily basis.

 

The oncologist entered, and after some discussion, we set up a schedule of bloodwork and PET/CT scans for the coming year to monitor my condition.

 

I was very glad to leave.

 

My husband drove us home. Being a contemplative person, I began to slow my breathing, sitting with my pain, trying to get insight into my uncharacteristic feelings of separation and isolation.

 

I usually have no trouble connecting with people quickly, caringly, and lovingly. At the time of my diagnosis, I was a hospice chaplain. I spent many hours sitting with patients and their families — during the day and sometimes through the long hours of the night — helping them sort out their fears and the lives they had lived, partly so they could find resolution and peace, partly so they could leave this world without being troubled by unfinished business. If they wanted to explore their lives, their emotions, their faith — I was there for them.

 

I was part of a team of caretakers. I did not want to be taken care of.  I did not want to be a patient.

 

In the oncology office, terror and pride had paralyzed me, contributing to my lack of connection with the others there, who were in their own pain. Once I recognized my fear, I knew I would respond with more openness and grace next time.

 

And there would not just be one next time, but many more visits to the oncologist. Because unknown to anyone, colon cancer cells had left the tumor before the surgery, and they were drifting in my body, doing the devastating work they were programmed to do.

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Backstory: Hearing the words - 10/17/05

July 21, 2008 in Update by admin | Comments

I was on call as a hospice chaplain when my life took an unexpected turn. I’d had a baseline colonoscopy at age 50 and it was clear. Now, at 53, I found myself having another rather hastily-scheduled colonoscopy due to the presence of blood.

After the procedure, the surgeon told me he had biopsied a small but suspicious mass in the sigmoid colon. He scheduled me for surgery in three days.

On the day of surgery, I wasn’t nervous and was in good spirits. Although I had received no medication yet, I was blissfully oblivious and in a nice, self-protective state of denial. When the hour drew near, I was wheeled into a holding area immediately outside the operating room.

The surgeon came in, and my husband moved to the foot of the bed to make room for several medical staff. The surgeon sat down beside me and said gently, “The path labs are back, and I’m very sorry to tell you that you have cancer.”

I was stunned. I had done some chaplain work in a hospital, and I felt for him, having to give me this news.

It’s all right,” I said. “It’s okay.” Then I stopped myself. My first reaction as a caretaker was to take care of the surgeon, but even I knew that I did not need to be comforting the doctor.

I asked the surgeon what stage the cancer was.

He said, “We won’t know until Thursday, when we get the path report after surgery.”

My eyes sought my husband of many years, who is the love of my life. He was too far away to hold my hand, so we could only share a gaze. I realized that I might be leaving him and our children.

The wall behind him began to tilt, the room to spin slowly. It was strange to see it and know that my brain was creating this slow whirlwind to protect me from the impact of the devastating news.

I spoke up to no one in particular, “Now would be a good time for some of that medicine that relaxes you before surgery.”

I didn’t realize that a nurse was standing at the head of my bed, with my IV line in one hand and a syringe in the other. Within seconds, my surroundings seemed to swim and melt together. I was immediately wheeled into the operating room, transferred to a table with an enormous overhead lamp, and put under.

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