When I was a kid, just like every other kid, I dealt with teasing from the other girls. I created inner dialogue in defense. "They are just jealous," I claimed. As I got older and the offenses escalated to egging my house every weekend of my senior year of high school by girls I had once called my best friends, I scrubbed the garage door at mid-night and said, "They are just jealous. I will be going away this fall to school, and I am doing exactly what I need to be doing for me."
I grew up, graduated and became an art teacher at a high school. Girls would troop into my office after school crying. Tears of disbelief that their so called friends had done some unseen damage to their ego. Mean girls, they are just jealous. I would tell these young ladies my own story. I told them how I left for school in the fall and realized that they just must be jealous that it was pretty easy for me to do my work, be successful in grades and art, and then leave them behind to become an adult. I told them, whether it was true or not, that, "They were just jealous."
This is ego. Ego is a funny little thing in our Human lives. Ego is the little voice in our head that tells us that we are better then someone. Ego is the voice that even identifies how sorry you are for the bum on the street corner looking for a hand out, or pity. Ego tells you also that you are doing something wrong, not with the norm. It is the voice when you are beating yourself up for a perceived failure. Your ego is busted when you loose a job or someone breaks your heart by rejecting you. Ego is the voice that keeps you from trying new things in fear you might fail. Ego is the voice when you are on your yoga mat and you stop breathing because your hip just locked up in a shooting pain and it had never done that before. Or maybe it tells you that you are angry at your child for not getting his shoes tied fast enough so you are always late for school.
The New Age spiritual explorers Eckhart Tolle and Wayne Dewyer both discuss ego in depth in their lectures and writings. One or both, have explained ego as E.G.O. or Edging God Out. Ego is our Human of our Being. God is our Being of our Human. Are you following? By listening to our our ego language we are not listening to our soul, or our God inside of us. However, it is having our ego that makes us not God. It makes us Human. In the understanding of the role of ego in your life, you can therefore become closer to a Being, closer to the God in all of us, closer to the peace of enlightenment.
So what is the role that ego plays when one's Human form is failing this world, is dying. How do you deal with your Human versus Being, no Human and your Being, when you have realized that you just may have to leave this Human form sooner then you planned? Well, you find your Being and become okay with that. You find the peace in the present moment and the awe in the sensations that occur just now as I am. I am. I am. That is it. I am here right now writing and that is an amazing thing.
Yet, ego. What role does my ego play that is almost more profoundly an ah ha moment then finding the inner peace of Being in my soul? My ego, if not edging out God in making myself separate from my Being and the collective conscious of souls is what tells me to stay here. To stay here in this Earth just a little longer in my Human form. I jest and joke about how "freakin' awesome I am. I make these claims, I lie using my ego not to edge God out but to cling to my Human form. I am not bringing anyone else down with my ego disclaimers rather I am bringing myself up. I use my ego to drive hard to keep my Human form simply because I am not ready to be just a Being. Not just yet.
So yes, girls, when someone is picking on you and using their egos against you, they are edging out God. It is okay to brush it off and say, "They are just jealous." Because in doing so, you are letting go of the effects an other's ego has placed upon you by using your own Human ego as a defense for your Being. Ego can be a powerful tool if used correctly for yourself as a Human to keep yourself being a freakin' awesome Human Being for a little longer here on on Earth. Namaste. Amen.
PS Thanks for listening to my super awesomeness. Wink. Merry Christmas.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Not Today
I pass John at the elevators. I am going up to the cancer center, he is coming out. Mr. Black Cloud is smiling. He looks tall, proud, confident. Yes, he is tired, pale and his son, once estranged, is apparently helping him walk. He is happy to see me and asks about my new pirate eye patch. I share that I had a brain metasis which is causing pressure to my left nerves on my left eye. "But," I exclaim before I get the look of pity, "we radiated the heck out of it and are confident today." John hugs me.
This man I have known in the armchairs of the chemotherapy room for nearly two years now. I call him the Black Cloud because when I was new to chemo, when I still had hair, he would come sit next to me and talk about how horrible lfe was. He was angry. With some arranging with the nurses to make sure I had distance from the man and only a few short conversations in the passing of the halls, I watched this man grow spiritually in his journey through treatment. He reclaimed many relationships and found a peace.
That peace is what I saw that day as we parted ways. He told me he was off to a holistic healer because there was nothing that they can do to stop his tumors from taking over his body. In all essence, he is off to die with peace and comfort.
Dying. We all die. We are all born. And we are all going to die. There I said it. The reality is that the human body is in flawed. Some bodies are strong and live a hundred years. Those years are filled with suffering. We all suffer in someway. It is when the suffering comes in the form of pain and from the inside that one has to figure it all out. And in truth, so do all those around that person.
I have found my friends looking for answers in me and what I am going through. I will say first that I wish I could just be blindly naive and simply complaining about how over booked I am as a mom or that I can't find the right nail color and had to fire my hairstylist. Yet, that is not so. The reality is I am not going to live to be the old grandma I had dreamed. So my friends, how do I deal with this reality? How do I, and you, not be angry?
Though I grew up Christian and follow the teachings of Jesus that I learned, my views are more broad then a singular umbrella of format of only one teacher. In the essence of it all, we are created with one source, no matter what your religious label and teaching you practice, it is all one source, or God. Our souls are created and collected with this source which makes us human, it makes us whole. Our soul is born to a body. The body is molecules and all that biology stuff all mixed together. Just like making bread, sometimes the yeast just isn't quite right. Some times the body doesn't come out in the oven as in a miscarriage. Some times it just begins to fail and become sick. Sometimes it is way too early.
Many of you are angry and confused. Many are mad at God. Yet, I tell you that I do not believe that God is up there with some puppet strings doing this to me. There is not a scapegoat to blame. The body is just the body doing its thing. What is the God in all of this is the creation of all the souls how are part of my team. That is the miracle, people. The miracle is the soul that came down to an Earthly body, studied medicine, and created these drugs that will change my human form to fight off the infection of cancer cells in my body. That, my friends, is it.
So please, if you are feeling angry, feel it. Embrace it and say, "I feel angry." Look it right in the eye and then shove it into a duffel bag. Zip it up, And throw it out to sea. Do know that the duffel bag will come find you on the tide. So look inside, feel it, and then toss it out again. In time, it will come on the tide less frequently. The role that angry plays in our lives is to spark our souls to make a change. Through our embracing those feelings, we can see through them to the change, the peace.
I took a yoga class this evening. I needed the cleanse. I had to stop several times and recline into child's pose and even fell right on my bum during an inverted twist. Eagle pose didn't even happen because I couldn't get my brain to figure out how to twist what arm here and leg over there and still be standing. But, I made it through to the good part at the end. So I filled with my breath in pigeon, my mind filled with thoughts. I should tell them why I was on my ass half of class? I bet I looked funny squinting and closing one eye.... Just as if she can read my mind, Ms. Yogi calmly speaks, "Stop the drama in your head. Don't think about how you are doing in this pose; whether it is perfect or not. Just lean into the sensation. Breath. No drama, just sensation."
No drama, just sensation. That is to be each day. Just sensation. There is no need to waste it on anger. t There is no need to waste it being all enlightened and spiritual either. I will live my days as long as I can running around being crazy supermomma. Because that, my folks, is what I want. I want to be bothered by the little things and match my nail color to my hat.
My husband asked what it is that I fear most about dying. Well, of course I don't want to be in pain, but they have good drugs for that. What I fear most is those I have to leave. I know everyone will be okay. But heck, I am freakin' awesome, and I don't like the fact that you might just miss me. I don't like the fact that my children may not get to be naive in the ways of life and death. I wish they could be blind to it and live only worried about the little things.
So how do you look an early death in the eye? You smile and say, "I have some pretty powerful souls on my side who are going to give it their all. And, you are not going to take away the human joy of worrying about the little things. Not today anyway, not today."
This man I have known in the armchairs of the chemotherapy room for nearly two years now. I call him the Black Cloud because when I was new to chemo, when I still had hair, he would come sit next to me and talk about how horrible lfe was. He was angry. With some arranging with the nurses to make sure I had distance from the man and only a few short conversations in the passing of the halls, I watched this man grow spiritually in his journey through treatment. He reclaimed many relationships and found a peace.
That peace is what I saw that day as we parted ways. He told me he was off to a holistic healer because there was nothing that they can do to stop his tumors from taking over his body. In all essence, he is off to die with peace and comfort.
Dying. We all die. We are all born. And we are all going to die. There I said it. The reality is that the human body is in flawed. Some bodies are strong and live a hundred years. Those years are filled with suffering. We all suffer in someway. It is when the suffering comes in the form of pain and from the inside that one has to figure it all out. And in truth, so do all those around that person.
I have found my friends looking for answers in me and what I am going through. I will say first that I wish I could just be blindly naive and simply complaining about how over booked I am as a mom or that I can't find the right nail color and had to fire my hairstylist. Yet, that is not so. The reality is I am not going to live to be the old grandma I had dreamed. So my friends, how do I deal with this reality? How do I, and you, not be angry?
Though I grew up Christian and follow the teachings of Jesus that I learned, my views are more broad then a singular umbrella of format of only one teacher. In the essence of it all, we are created with one source, no matter what your religious label and teaching you practice, it is all one source, or God. Our souls are created and collected with this source which makes us human, it makes us whole. Our soul is born to a body. The body is molecules and all that biology stuff all mixed together. Just like making bread, sometimes the yeast just isn't quite right. Some times the body doesn't come out in the oven as in a miscarriage. Some times it just begins to fail and become sick. Sometimes it is way too early.
Many of you are angry and confused. Many are mad at God. Yet, I tell you that I do not believe that God is up there with some puppet strings doing this to me. There is not a scapegoat to blame. The body is just the body doing its thing. What is the God in all of this is the creation of all the souls how are part of my team. That is the miracle, people. The miracle is the soul that came down to an Earthly body, studied medicine, and created these drugs that will change my human form to fight off the infection of cancer cells in my body. That, my friends, is it.
So please, if you are feeling angry, feel it. Embrace it and say, "I feel angry." Look it right in the eye and then shove it into a duffel bag. Zip it up, And throw it out to sea. Do know that the duffel bag will come find you on the tide. So look inside, feel it, and then toss it out again. In time, it will come on the tide less frequently. The role that angry plays in our lives is to spark our souls to make a change. Through our embracing those feelings, we can see through them to the change, the peace.
I took a yoga class this evening. I needed the cleanse. I had to stop several times and recline into child's pose and even fell right on my bum during an inverted twist. Eagle pose didn't even happen because I couldn't get my brain to figure out how to twist what arm here and leg over there and still be standing. But, I made it through to the good part at the end. So I filled with my breath in pigeon, my mind filled with thoughts. I should tell them why I was on my ass half of class? I bet I looked funny squinting and closing one eye.... Just as if she can read my mind, Ms. Yogi calmly speaks, "Stop the drama in your head. Don't think about how you are doing in this pose; whether it is perfect or not. Just lean into the sensation. Breath. No drama, just sensation."
No drama, just sensation. That is to be each day. Just sensation. There is no need to waste it on anger. t There is no need to waste it being all enlightened and spiritual either. I will live my days as long as I can running around being crazy supermomma. Because that, my folks, is what I want. I want to be bothered by the little things and match my nail color to my hat.
My husband asked what it is that I fear most about dying. Well, of course I don't want to be in pain, but they have good drugs for that. What I fear most is those I have to leave. I know everyone will be okay. But heck, I am freakin' awesome, and I don't like the fact that you might just miss me. I don't like the fact that my children may not get to be naive in the ways of life and death. I wish they could be blind to it and live only worried about the little things.
So how do you look an early death in the eye? You smile and say, "I have some pretty powerful souls on my side who are going to give it their all. And, you are not going to take away the human joy of worrying about the little things. Not today anyway, not today."
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Body Scan
Each night, I put on my moisturizer. I smooth the cool cream over my crow's feet forming at the corner of my eyes. They are there because I smile. I smooth it using upward motions on my neck so it will stay as young as my face. I think, for a moment, "Why?" Why do I tend to my skin and save my youth if I am going to die before I form proper wrinkles and white hair to distinguish my wisdom of a full three quarter century?
I scan my body. My toe nail polish is chipping. It needs to be redone. Under the metallic lavender is a yellow nail, brittle, fighting to grow out the chemo frailty. My ankles are thick from the Herceptin treatment two days ago. They ache as I only imagine they should when I am like 60, not 35. My thighs are fine. They have pounded the pavement in a dire need to slip back into my size six jeans. They do, finally. Yet, they may plump out like a chicken on steroids because, heck, I am on a steroid now. I will trade my six jeans in for my eights so I can see better by reducing the swelling in my brain.
Then I move on up to the battle zone. Stretch marks roam free across my abdomen from hip to hip and pelvis to belly button from to pregnancies. It is marked only by two puncture scars. A third scar from the appendectomy slithers atop the stretch marks. Here, my mucous filled, giant appendix left my body to be discarded in a red bio bag. Somewhere in my middle is the memory of a tummy that was once a prized symbol of my youth. There are four purple dots under each arm marking the drains that hung out of my body like octopus arms four times. A red line reaches across my breasts. They aren't mine. These breasts are too round like a bronze sculpture created by a man whole has no knowledge of the sagging history of a woman's breast. The skin folds funny on the left one and there is a purple scare where there was dime size hematoma.
Around on my back is a puncture to my spin. And, on up to my arm pit I find the hollow where six lymph nodes where removed. Each time I stretch into mountain pose and look into the mirror at yoga, I can see the deflated skin and the little hairs that I can not shave in the pit. My right arm looks as if it has track marks of a druggie. It is the only arm to give blood and take in contrast for the MRIs due to the lymphodemma in the left. Each open vein was violated and screams in a blue pool of blood under the skin. My finger nails are ripped and peeling. Once my pride and joy and hard as stones, they now suffer in weak attempts protect my finger tips when they feel numb from the treatments.
My clavicle is highlighted with the bump of my infusion port and callous from the hundreds of needles pushing drugs through my veins. The slit scar that marks its entrance into my body reflects the slash where the appendix left my body, same surgeon. Yet, I move up to my neck that is smooth as it is lathered with moisturizer. My cheeks are mine and this hair is on my head. Hair that I am privileged enough to hate how it looks. With hair, I look like you. Hair, how beautiful.
Why should I be this person who in twenty months gained over 15 scars in 9 surgeries and procedures? Is it fair? No. Maybe I am the perfect candidate for the job of staying a live. Here I am someone who studied meditative breathing since high school. True, I used it to quiet my head enough to fall asleep. And now, I use it each time a needle dangles over my veins. I breath in and out. I can rise from sitting using only my legs when my chest was wrapped in the pain of surgery. And, I find joy in the twist at the end of each yoga class as it pulls the violated pectoral muscle that pulls like a rubber band between my shoulder and fake breast. It burns, and I love it.
Who better to fight cancer then someone who can be scared but knows it is going to be okay. I may die before I am grey, but I have given gifts each day. I see my children shine in the gifts of radiance. I am apart from them now so I can rest in preparation for radiation treatments to my brain. I talk with them on the phone and see what they are becoming. I want to be selfish to say that I am the only one who can bring them up to beautiful human adults. Yet, this is a lie. They are umbrellaed in love of so many others. They have a father and grandparents with great gifts. I have set a foundation that is strong in them. Should I not exist tomorrow, they will continue to shine.
Fay, I do not plan to leave you. No, I plan to rub moisturizer on my face every night in an attempt to keep my skin young. At times, I wonder why bother as a tumor grows in my brain. I shake off that thought because today, today, I have too much more to live. Today, I am going to be selfish and say that my kids need me. I will tell myself that no one else can raise up beautiful humans better then me. That is a lie, but it keeps me alive.
Perhaps I can answer the question. Why me? Why not me who is strong enough to acknowledge the world will continue if I am not in it. I give today how I can. I love all this moment and not wait until tomorrow. I clean my kitchen and worry about my pant size as is the human way. I acknowledge the gifts that yoga and meditation have given me this past year. So why not me? I can be a good liar and fake it until I make it like no other.
I just ask you this, tell me I said that should I find the fire burns low in my body before it should. Tell me it is okay because I gave all I could and loved more then I should. Tell me you will raise up my babies into the beautiful humans they already are. And remind them that each day I will be there to listen if they still themselves long enough to listen. This is only a body. It failing me. Yet, it is stronger then even I know and is full of surprises. I love you.
I scan my body. My toe nail polish is chipping. It needs to be redone. Under the metallic lavender is a yellow nail, brittle, fighting to grow out the chemo frailty. My ankles are thick from the Herceptin treatment two days ago. They ache as I only imagine they should when I am like 60, not 35. My thighs are fine. They have pounded the pavement in a dire need to slip back into my size six jeans. They do, finally. Yet, they may plump out like a chicken on steroids because, heck, I am on a steroid now. I will trade my six jeans in for my eights so I can see better by reducing the swelling in my brain.
Then I move on up to the battle zone. Stretch marks roam free across my abdomen from hip to hip and pelvis to belly button from to pregnancies. It is marked only by two puncture scars. A third scar from the appendectomy slithers atop the stretch marks. Here, my mucous filled, giant appendix left my body to be discarded in a red bio bag. Somewhere in my middle is the memory of a tummy that was once a prized symbol of my youth. There are four purple dots under each arm marking the drains that hung out of my body like octopus arms four times. A red line reaches across my breasts. They aren't mine. These breasts are too round like a bronze sculpture created by a man whole has no knowledge of the sagging history of a woman's breast. The skin folds funny on the left one and there is a purple scare where there was dime size hematoma.
Around on my back is a puncture to my spin. And, on up to my arm pit I find the hollow where six lymph nodes where removed. Each time I stretch into mountain pose and look into the mirror at yoga, I can see the deflated skin and the little hairs that I can not shave in the pit. My right arm looks as if it has track marks of a druggie. It is the only arm to give blood and take in contrast for the MRIs due to the lymphodemma in the left. Each open vein was violated and screams in a blue pool of blood under the skin. My finger nails are ripped and peeling. Once my pride and joy and hard as stones, they now suffer in weak attempts protect my finger tips when they feel numb from the treatments.
My clavicle is highlighted with the bump of my infusion port and callous from the hundreds of needles pushing drugs through my veins. The slit scar that marks its entrance into my body reflects the slash where the appendix left my body, same surgeon. Yet, I move up to my neck that is smooth as it is lathered with moisturizer. My cheeks are mine and this hair is on my head. Hair that I am privileged enough to hate how it looks. With hair, I look like you. Hair, how beautiful.
Why should I be this person who in twenty months gained over 15 scars in 9 surgeries and procedures? Is it fair? No. Maybe I am the perfect candidate for the job of staying a live. Here I am someone who studied meditative breathing since high school. True, I used it to quiet my head enough to fall asleep. And now, I use it each time a needle dangles over my veins. I breath in and out. I can rise from sitting using only my legs when my chest was wrapped in the pain of surgery. And, I find joy in the twist at the end of each yoga class as it pulls the violated pectoral muscle that pulls like a rubber band between my shoulder and fake breast. It burns, and I love it.
Who better to fight cancer then someone who can be scared but knows it is going to be okay. I may die before I am grey, but I have given gifts each day. I see my children shine in the gifts of radiance. I am apart from them now so I can rest in preparation for radiation treatments to my brain. I talk with them on the phone and see what they are becoming. I want to be selfish to say that I am the only one who can bring them up to beautiful human adults. Yet, this is a lie. They are umbrellaed in love of so many others. They have a father and grandparents with great gifts. I have set a foundation that is strong in them. Should I not exist tomorrow, they will continue to shine.
Fay, I do not plan to leave you. No, I plan to rub moisturizer on my face every night in an attempt to keep my skin young. At times, I wonder why bother as a tumor grows in my brain. I shake off that thought because today, today, I have too much more to live. Today, I am going to be selfish and say that my kids need me. I will tell myself that no one else can raise up beautiful humans better then me. That is a lie, but it keeps me alive.
Perhaps I can answer the question. Why me? Why not me who is strong enough to acknowledge the world will continue if I am not in it. I give today how I can. I love all this moment and not wait until tomorrow. I clean my kitchen and worry about my pant size as is the human way. I acknowledge the gifts that yoga and meditation have given me this past year. So why not me? I can be a good liar and fake it until I make it like no other.
I just ask you this, tell me I said that should I find the fire burns low in my body before it should. Tell me it is okay because I gave all I could and loved more then I should. Tell me you will raise up my babies into the beautiful humans they already are. And remind them that each day I will be there to listen if they still themselves long enough to listen. This is only a body. It failing me. Yet, it is stronger then even I know and is full of surprises. I love you.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Prolouge
There are a handful of times in my lfe I thought I might die. At age 15, I slumped down on my bedroom floor against the antique dresser that now lives in my daughters bedroom. I felt a lone even though I had a lot of friends. I even had a boyfriend named Chris. He was Greek. My girlfriends and I had checked out a bunch of books on palm reading and toret cards from the library. In our novice chatter, we read each other's future. My line life was short. About half way, it just stopped. Nobody else's stopped. 35, I decided I would die of some horrible disease at 35. So sitting there in my bedroom, depressed, lonely, I traced the line that stopped with my thumb and thought of how I might kill myself. Not pills, I wouldn't do that right and someone would save me. Then the aftermath of dealing with having had tried to kill oneself would be more torture then the moment I stopped breathing. Gassing? No disgusting. Hanging I not stomach. Diving off a bridge? Maybe. But, would it be the most horrible pain? So, no, not today. I wasn't ready. I wrote a poem, instead, about a bottom drawer whisky jar. Not that I even knew what whisky tasted like. But, I knew on the cop movies that the detective pulled out a jar of whisky every time he saw a brutal murder. That must be what adults do when it is too hard.
I thought I would die a second time my senior year of high school when I had my first asthma attack. I was a lone in the chemistry lab doing a titration lab. I was horribly frustrated and my lab partner had not showed up. All the natural gas from the Brunson burners had been escaping into the room all day and begun to fill me lungs. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see. Mr. Pimentel with his giant grey Einstein-style fro finally walked back into the room and took me out in the cool afternoon air, had me sit with my head between my legs, and breathe. I got a C on the lab and weekly visits to an allergist.
My asthma got me again during my first birth. Julia came five weeks early. Though my water broke, she was so stubborn and wouldn't come out. We had to induce the labor to prevent her getting an infection. I remember holding Scott's hand and trying to listen to Nurse Lisa. Breath, breath, push, gently, push, stop. At some point, my ears stopped hearing. I could see everyone, and I began to not be able to breathe. In panic, I look up at Scott and he said, or someone said, “Push anytime, let's get her out." Okay, I didn't really think I was going to die. I thought my baby might be dead or have something very wrong with her. I had never been so scared.
The fourth time I thought about dying was the moment I sat in the freezing April air on the front steps of the CSU new art gallery in Ft. Collins. I closed my cell phone. Someone on the other side of the steps who was smoking with a friend came over and asked if I was okay. I can't remember if I said anything audible, but probably yes. I was just told I had three cancerous tumors in my left breast. My girlfriends came out to find me, Picked me up, we hugged and then went inside to clean up my red stained face. I brushed it off for the night and continued to socialize. "I can do this," I thought,”This is going to be hard, but I can do this." It wasn't until after the biopsy that I started to think that maybe I couldn't do it. Each week, I had a test. First the biopsy showing that I was ER and PR negative. I remember Dr. Mark's eyes when he walked into the exam room to tell me that my cancer is possibly untreatable. Then there was the PET scan and liver biopsy pushing my odds of survival further down the toilet with a stage IV label. This was days before my 34th birthday. The plan was set, I would have surgery after my birthday and them enter the cancer-land with chemo in June. At this point, though strong as a bull, I thought I might die. Of course, all that changed when we learned from the surgical pathology that I was HER2/neu+ and then showed great response after my third round of therapy. I could do this. I am doing this. I will prevail.
So here I am with a recurrence in my brain just 9 months after my label of NED, no evidence of disease. I am 35 years old.
I thought I would die a second time my senior year of high school when I had my first asthma attack. I was a lone in the chemistry lab doing a titration lab. I was horribly frustrated and my lab partner had not showed up. All the natural gas from the Brunson burners had been escaping into the room all day and begun to fill me lungs. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see. Mr. Pimentel with his giant grey Einstein-style fro finally walked back into the room and took me out in the cool afternoon air, had me sit with my head between my legs, and breathe. I got a C on the lab and weekly visits to an allergist.
My asthma got me again during my first birth. Julia came five weeks early. Though my water broke, she was so stubborn and wouldn't come out. We had to induce the labor to prevent her getting an infection. I remember holding Scott's hand and trying to listen to Nurse Lisa. Breath, breath, push, gently, push, stop. At some point, my ears stopped hearing. I could see everyone, and I began to not be able to breathe. In panic, I look up at Scott and he said, or someone said, “Push anytime, let's get her out." Okay, I didn't really think I was going to die. I thought my baby might be dead or have something very wrong with her. I had never been so scared.
The fourth time I thought about dying was the moment I sat in the freezing April air on the front steps of the CSU new art gallery in Ft. Collins. I closed my cell phone. Someone on the other side of the steps who was smoking with a friend came over and asked if I was okay. I can't remember if I said anything audible, but probably yes. I was just told I had three cancerous tumors in my left breast. My girlfriends came out to find me, Picked me up, we hugged and then went inside to clean up my red stained face. I brushed it off for the night and continued to socialize. "I can do this," I thought,”This is going to be hard, but I can do this." It wasn't until after the biopsy that I started to think that maybe I couldn't do it. Each week, I had a test. First the biopsy showing that I was ER and PR negative. I remember Dr. Mark's eyes when he walked into the exam room to tell me that my cancer is possibly untreatable. Then there was the PET scan and liver biopsy pushing my odds of survival further down the toilet with a stage IV label. This was days before my 34th birthday. The plan was set, I would have surgery after my birthday and them enter the cancer-land with chemo in June. At this point, though strong as a bull, I thought I might die. Of course, all that changed when we learned from the surgical pathology that I was HER2/neu+ and then showed great response after my third round of therapy. I could do this. I am doing this. I will prevail.
So here I am with a recurrence in my brain just 9 months after my label of NED, no evidence of disease. I am 35 years old.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Arg...I am a pirate
So here is the story folks. Me, the one who finds gold earrings in the sand and Lego pieces on the Oriental rug before I step on them. Me, who loves the month of September on the Front Range because the air is just right to make the Flat Irons a certain shade of blue against the gold corn fields and fading green trees. Me, the one who stops her children to look, just look, at the sunset, the moon, or who the mother bird is feeding her babies in her nest. Yes, Me can't see.
That is a bit of an exaggeration, but that is not an exaggeration of how it feels to me to loose control over my eyes. A week ago, during the last performance of the Nutcracker, I sat in the left wing watching the little angels flutter across the stage and thought they looked a little blurry. I went home and chalked up my not-so-awesome vision on ultimate fatigue. I was up late trying to pick up the house and then again on Monday cleaning it. My eyes just felt soar and a bit unclear. I still thought a nice 12 hour sleep (which is not going to happen) would be the cure. But, by Thursday, I found myself closing one eye to see better. I made an appointment with the eye doctor. I don't wear glasses and hadn't been to one in many years. Thursday night I had an awesome time with some girlfriends at a Mexican restaurant. Thankfully, my friend Homa drove me as by the time I was ready to head out for the night, there was two of everything. I put back on authentic margarita and figured, heck, I am already seeing double. I continued on through my weekend closing one eye to see right.
Sidebar: The weekend was awesome. We took the kids to Disney on Ice in Denver. Then we stayed at our favorite hotel, the Westin at the Tabor Center. I love the bedding there, and the kids love sitting in the bay window on the 16th floor room and looking at the city. Julia kept asking why Denver was so fancy. She was pretty fascinated by the architectural details. We walked to the Civic Center across from the Capitol Building to see the lights. It was so beautiful and it plays chimes to Christmas songs on the hour. Then, we went swimming in the heated indoor/outdoor pool. I just wish it was a little warmer! A fun staycation.
So back to my eye issue. By this morning, Monday, I could barely see. Never mind the fact that I feel totally seasick with this double vision. I get everyone to school and my mom takes me to the eye doctor. It is a good thing I went to a full service eye care center as I was passed around the ranks in an attempt to figure out what is wrong.
The good news is I have nearly 20/20 vision in both eyes! Yeah! Finally, I end up with a retinal specialist who explains that I have left 6th nerve palsy. From what I can understand the teeny tiny capillaries the supply blood to the tiny little muscles that control my eye are not getting blood flow to allow them to control the movements. Basically, it is partially paralyzed. I was given three options for this. One is a blood or nerve issue. But, I don't have diabetes or high blood pressure. The second is trauma or an aneurysm. And, the third is a tumor.
Okay, don't freak out just yet. I had an MRI this evening. One thing I love about being in a smaller town is that I get the privilege to have my neighbor be my MRI goddess. I have HER-Fusion tomorrow and will see Dr. Mark, my oncologist. So hopefully we will figure something out tomorrow. I am voting for option A as I am told it should clear up after a couple months and the nerves heal, blood is restored, or whatever. Sorry, it was a lot to absorb so it may not be too accurate. For now, I am trying to decide if it is sexier to be a pirate or go around winking at everyone. Should I bedazzle this beautiful black eye patch? Seriously, doesn't it come in beige or something?
That is a bit of an exaggeration, but that is not an exaggeration of how it feels to me to loose control over my eyes. A week ago, during the last performance of the Nutcracker, I sat in the left wing watching the little angels flutter across the stage and thought they looked a little blurry. I went home and chalked up my not-so-awesome vision on ultimate fatigue. I was up late trying to pick up the house and then again on Monday cleaning it. My eyes just felt soar and a bit unclear. I still thought a nice 12 hour sleep (which is not going to happen) would be the cure. But, by Thursday, I found myself closing one eye to see better. I made an appointment with the eye doctor. I don't wear glasses and hadn't been to one in many years. Thursday night I had an awesome time with some girlfriends at a Mexican restaurant. Thankfully, my friend Homa drove me as by the time I was ready to head out for the night, there was two of everything. I put back on authentic margarita and figured, heck, I am already seeing double. I continued on through my weekend closing one eye to see right.
Sidebar: The weekend was awesome. We took the kids to Disney on Ice in Denver. Then we stayed at our favorite hotel, the Westin at the Tabor Center. I love the bedding there, and the kids love sitting in the bay window on the 16th floor room and looking at the city. Julia kept asking why Denver was so fancy. She was pretty fascinated by the architectural details. We walked to the Civic Center across from the Capitol Building to see the lights. It was so beautiful and it plays chimes to Christmas songs on the hour. Then, we went swimming in the heated indoor/outdoor pool. I just wish it was a little warmer! A fun staycation.
So back to my eye issue. By this morning, Monday, I could barely see. Never mind the fact that I feel totally seasick with this double vision. I get everyone to school and my mom takes me to the eye doctor. It is a good thing I went to a full service eye care center as I was passed around the ranks in an attempt to figure out what is wrong.
The good news is I have nearly 20/20 vision in both eyes! Yeah! Finally, I end up with a retinal specialist who explains that I have left 6th nerve palsy. From what I can understand the teeny tiny capillaries the supply blood to the tiny little muscles that control my eye are not getting blood flow to allow them to control the movements. Basically, it is partially paralyzed. I was given three options for this. One is a blood or nerve issue. But, I don't have diabetes or high blood pressure. The second is trauma or an aneurysm. And, the third is a tumor.
Okay, don't freak out just yet. I had an MRI this evening. One thing I love about being in a smaller town is that I get the privilege to have my neighbor be my MRI goddess. I have HER-Fusion tomorrow and will see Dr. Mark, my oncologist. So hopefully we will figure something out tomorrow. I am voting for option A as I am told it should clear up after a couple months and the nerves heal, blood is restored, or whatever. Sorry, it was a lot to absorb so it may not be too accurate. For now, I am trying to decide if it is sexier to be a pirate or go around winking at everyone. Should I bedazzle this beautiful black eye patch? Seriously, doesn't it come in beige or something?
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
All that stuff.
I had this draft post going about my two days of cleaning a house left to fend for itself for three weeks. Well, can we say...boring. So here is my number one hint for taking on a big job you don't want to do but want to get done as soon as possible: top down. Start on the top in the cleanest corner and move the dust, dirt, junk and other things that just don't belong down like squeezing toothpaste out of the tube. Wait, you squeeze the middle of the tube? Everyone knows that to get the very last little drop of paste one has to squeeze from the bottom and roll as you go. Hum, can the government use this tip?
Not going there.
On another note, I have to say again how awesome it was to be a backstage mom for my prima ballerina during the Nutcracker. The rehearsals and performances for seven nights in a row was pretty hard on me, but worth ever minute of lost sleep. The last words of my little crew was: "Do you really mean it is over?" I can't wait to get the DVD so I can watch the performance with Julia. She was pretty upset to see all the characters backstage but not the entire show. And, what was the funniest moment? When the male Arabian came out in the wings bare chested, the girls all gasped and then giggled. "He's naked!"
And, in the end, I am still trying to recover from the intensity of last week. And, there is no better way to do that then some intense yoga classes. Tuesday night was filled with inversions that found a few muscles I didn't know I had. They were talking to me a bit today. So how do we recover from an intense class? Go to another one. Tonight was pretty gentle and easy flowing. Perfect. On Wednesday it is an hour flow vinyasa and then a 30 minute hip opener. During the hip openers, the room was candle lit and calm. We sat in double pigeon for long intervals. Some where during my second side, my mind fluttered away. That is when I saw my Papa. He'd gone on to heaven in October when Grandma Ann passed away. He helped his wife through. He came here tonight to tell me to tell you that he is still here when you need him, you just have to listen. Everyone has a spirit guide. Some you know and others you may not. But, when things are hard. Be silent. Silent your mind and listen. And, even when you can't, or won't, hear them, know they are listening to you.
Not going there.
On another note, I have to say again how awesome it was to be a backstage mom for my prima ballerina during the Nutcracker. The rehearsals and performances for seven nights in a row was pretty hard on me, but worth ever minute of lost sleep. The last words of my little crew was: "Do you really mean it is over?" I can't wait to get the DVD so I can watch the performance with Julia. She was pretty upset to see all the characters backstage but not the entire show. And, what was the funniest moment? When the male Arabian came out in the wings bare chested, the girls all gasped and then giggled. "He's naked!"
And, in the end, I am still trying to recover from the intensity of last week. And, there is no better way to do that then some intense yoga classes. Tuesday night was filled with inversions that found a few muscles I didn't know I had. They were talking to me a bit today. So how do we recover from an intense class? Go to another one. Tonight was pretty gentle and easy flowing. Perfect. On Wednesday it is an hour flow vinyasa and then a 30 minute hip opener. During the hip openers, the room was candle lit and calm. We sat in double pigeon for long intervals. Some where during my second side, my mind fluttered away. That is when I saw my Papa. He'd gone on to heaven in October when Grandma Ann passed away. He helped his wife through. He came here tonight to tell me to tell you that he is still here when you need him, you just have to listen. Everyone has a spirit guide. Some you know and others you may not. But, when things are hard. Be silent. Silent your mind and listen. And, even when you can't, or won't, hear them, know they are listening to you.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Angelrific
Although exhasted after only three nights, life is angelrific as a backstage mom. Julia is an angel in all three performances of the Nutcracker with Longmont Dance Theater. We completed a two hour practice this evening. I am exhausted. As a backstage mom, three other ladies and myself are in charge of entertaining, calming, taking to the bathroom, fixing hair, taking to the bathroom, dressing, entertaining, lining up, calming, walking, keeping quiet, handing out candles, preparing, focussing, and releasing 12 angels onto stage. I have stage right for the 7 pm show on Saturday. I had no idea how much these little ladies steal the show. Can we say I am pretty proud of all these gals as they pranced out with "slow tippy toe steps" to hit all their marks in the dark with bright spots, costumes, and all the other dancers fumbling around them. I will be attending the first show in the audience with the grandparents. But, the other moms asked if I would please help them backstage as the former preschool teacher. Well, no. But, what I will do is teach you to constantly count heads, set up a routine, make the worst behaved angel (I know they are all perfect angels...not) the leader, and how to play simple word games (they can not sit down, eat, or go potty once the costume is pinned on.) My feet are killing me and I can't believe I am still awake watching The Tonight Show. I told all the little girls to request a nap afterschool tomorrow right before I instructed the parents how to glue their daughter's hair down into a performance bun for four nights in a row startng with dress rehersal tomorrow. I have been told we were brave to take on this role. Another friend asked me why would I do it and shouldn't I be home resting or something. Well, it is all angelrific to see the glimmer in your daughter's eye when the Sugar Plum Fairy spins in front of her and listen to her recount each moment in her third night of rehersal week. I rubbed her legs and feet as I listened. She owes me $50.
PS The toothfairy best get up there and collect some little girls' third tooth.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)