breast cancer, life, Uncategorized

Is it too late?

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Found on Pinterest. No infringement intended.

I’m melancholy today. I fear what tomorrow might bring, what Dr. O may say. People tell me this will eventually become easier, but honestly, I truly doubt it. How can this ever become easier, this precipice on which I stand? These appointments where my blood is taken, shaken, and tested, where my scarred body is examined, where my insides are xrayed, looking for the uninvited interloper, are not easy. I am anxious and scared. I feel no different than I did twelve weeks ago, yet I felt completely healthy as cancer grew insidiously inside me, so am I truly the best judge if whether I’m fine? My track record says no.

As I walked down one of the hallways at work today, thoughts of cancer and fears of reoccurrence swirling in my mind, a singular thought stopped me, stopped me in the middle of the hallway, stopped me cold.

I believe it’s too late for me.

I’ve waited too long to adjust my lifestyle. I’ve waited too long to get my insomnia under control. I’ve waited too long to lose weight. I’ve waited too long to start doing anything which could keep the cancer at bay beyond the medications I take everyday.

I deeply, truly believe I’ve waited too long, it’s too late.

What a horrible, terrible thought.

It’s not only what I think, though, I realized as I stood in the hallway, alone, this afternoon. It’s what I believe, and truthfully, I’ve believed it from the moment I was diagnosed. I knew long before that fateful August afternoon that I needed to lose weight, eat better, stop drinking 4-6 Coca-Colas a day, exercise, and sleep more. I knew, and I did nothing until I was told I had breast cancer. Even then, I did little. I cut Coca Cola. Chemo helped me lose thirty five pounds. I’ve gained back some of that weight. I drink one or two Dr. Peppers most days. I’ve stopped my evening walks because I’m tired after work. I have a million excuses, a million moments of shame.

I look in the mirror, and I am sad by what I see, pieced back together with other pieces of me. I am sad to see the weight I’ve gained. I am sad to see the scars, more noticeable to me right now than usual. I know it’s anxiety because of my appointment tomorrow. I’m in limbo. I seem to live in limbo lately.

As much as I try to stay away from breast cancer sites, I lurk on a breast cancer community’s message boards. Yesterday, I read a post from a woman at Stage 4 who wrote to others newly diagnosed with the same breast cancer I had, that they should not worry about a reoccurrence. If it comes back, it comes back. The worry did nothing. She wrote if she could go back in time to when she was NED (no evidence of disease), she would enjoy every single one of those days instead of spending them worried about a reoccurrence.

I want to make myself stop worrying and to just enjoy whatever time I have, but I haven’t found a way to do it. Today, in the hallway, I think I discovered why I can’t get there. I believe it’s already too late.

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breast cancer, life, Uncategorized

Cancer Care and Politics #4

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My Recent Calls this afternoon

I was healthy until I wasn’t. I didn’t do anything wrong no matter what my scumbag brain tells me. Breast cancer isn’t my fault. I was healthy until I wasn’t.

Why do I have to call my senators and beg them not to vote for something that will allow my insurance company to increase my rates, impose lifetime and annual limits again, or decide I’m too expensive and drop me? Why do I have to call and beg my senators not to kill me?

I need someone to explain to me why the GOP is so heartless. Is it really just money? I’m not worth it because I’m solidly middle class? Because I wasn’t born into a wealthy family? Because I work to serve my community instead of making millions (as if…)? Why am I unworthy? Is it, as some senators have said in interviews, because people like me must have done something wrong to become sick? There but by the grace of God go you if you truly believe it. I was healthy until I wasn’t.

I can’t afford for lifetime and annual limits to return. If they do, my life is worth a whole lot less than security for A, S, and AJ. My children do not deserve to lose their mother, no child does, but more, if my children have to lose me, they do not also deserve to lose their home and financial security because my care would cost so much.

I know what it’s like to grow up with financial instability. My children will not have that experience. I know what it’s like to go through a bankruptcy as a child. My children will not have that experience. The stress, the fear. My children will not have that experience. I will forego treatment because their future means more to me, and let’s face it, if my cancer comes back, that’s the ballgame. I want to live, to see S and AJ become adults. I want to live.

But, I had cancer and have no idea what’s in front of me.

I was healthy on August 1, 2015. Yes, I suspected something wasn’t right, but suspicions can be wrong. I wish mine was. I was healthy until I had cancer on August 27, 2015.

I call my senators’ offices nearly everyday. I tell my story over and over. It falls deaf on my senators’ ears. Yesterday, I asked the young man who answered the phone at Senator Cruz’s why Senator Cruz seems to hate constituents like me. I’ve asked the same question of the young men who have answered the phone at Senator Cornyn’s office. I always get the answer that neither senator hates constituents like me but cannot respond to how else people like me are to view votes for bills that could become our death sentence.

I’m tired of begging Republicans not to vote for something that could become my death certificate. I’m tired of being viewed with both pity and derision by people who are healthy, by Republicans. I was healthy until I wasn’t.

Last night, A sat with me for an hour as I sobbed about how scared I am the cancer is back even though I feel no different than I did 12 weeks ago. I didn’t feel sick on August 26, 2015.

But, I was.

A sat with me, let me cry, offered no platitudes. He listened to me fear the cancer, confess how ugly I feel, relate my shame for gaining weight, and despair for my future. Once I talked myself out, A talked about his day, how much he enjoys his new job, and the minutiae of his day. He soothed. Then, he scolded.

I woke up steadier today. But, I’m still sad, so sad, that so many view my life as less, view me as less.

I hope those who support this deathcare movement, this abomination of a bill never feel the way I feel because of them -less, ashamed, terrified. I hope they never have to face a family member or friend whose life they’ve put in danger. I hope they find the compassion they’re missing. I hope the almighty dollar becomes less important to them. I hope they find their humanity and humility.

The arrogance of those who believe they will never be affected by this healthcare proposal astounds me. This will affect everyone in some way.

Once upon a time, I was arrogant about cancer, especially breast cancer. I truly believed I would never have it, but if I did, it would be when I was much older. I truly believed I wouldn’t fear the pink ribbon, Pinktober, and Pink Outs. I truly believed my life would never revolve around doctor’s appointments, blood works, X-rays, and surgeries. I was 37. I was healthy.

Then, I wasn’t.

breast cancer, life, Uncategorized

Pretending

sometimes all you can do

I’m tired…

of Republicans trying to kill me through healthcare bills that are nothing more than deathcare bills

of feeling like my concerns don’t matter

of cancer

of worrying the cancer is back

of wondering what I did wrong

of wondering if I’ll see my kids grow up

of not being good enough

of being told “it’s going to be ok” when you don’t know that

of not sleeping

of letting myself down every morning by sleeping through my alarm instead of getting up early and going for a walk

of crying from exhaustion

of feeling I don’t matter

of being my own worst enemy

I’m spent.

I’m a wreck wearing a mask, dreading my next check up, terrified of seeing Dr. O because what if the cancer is back even though I don’t feel any different than I did 12 weeks ago? What if the scans show it’s back? What will I do?

I’m tired.

I’m spent.

I’m a wreck.

breast cancer, family, life, Uncategorized

My Spoons Are Running Low

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I’ve never been good at saying no. I’ve never been good at asking for help. I’ve never been good at admitting I’m overwhelmed. I’ve never been good at putting my needs ahead of those I love.

But, I’m running out of spoons.

My dad is not doing as well as we hoped after having surgery almost six weeks ago. He has little to no movement on his left side. He’s wheelchair or bed bound at the rehab hospital. He does hours of physical therapy. He’s remarkably better than he was a few weeks ago, but he’s nowhere near how he was this time last year. I’m worried sick about how my mom will handle him at home in a house that is in no way wheelchair accessible.

My sister is back in the picture. I didn’t survive cancer to be scared of her anymore. I’ve vacillated between being livid and being bitter. Eventually, I’ll hit apathy again with this situation just as I have before.

My mom is one of the strongest women I know. The last five years have been nothing but battle after battle and burden after burden for her. The weight she carries everyday would crush me, squash me, pancake me. She wakes up every morning, settles the weight on her shoulders, and marches on. I’m worried sick about her.

My school year started out at 100 mph and hasn’t slowed. I like the fast pace. I like a sense of urgency. I like what I do. I like my classes. I like a new challenge everyday.

But, I’m running out of spoons.

Cancer took one of my colleagues on Monday, a teacher who’s taught at the school since I was a student there, a seemingly healthy, ate well, exercised, did all the right things, woman, a mother, a daughter. I froze up when the email came with the news of her death. I avoided Facebook all day.

The grim reality of cancer is death, and I’m running out of spoons and couldn’t face the reality of cancer on Monday.

I’m really running very low on spoons.

I see Dr. O in a week and a half for my next check up. I’ve gained some weight, I’m not sleeping, I’m falling back into old habits. It’s a self-defeating cycle, yet here I am. I’m in a constant state of low anxiety, and as my appointment day creeps closer, my anxiety builds. It spikes when someone asks me how A is enjoying his new job (a lot), when someone asks me how my dad is doing (it’s day by day), when someone asks me how I’m doing (we don’t have that kind of time). If Dr. O we’re to measure my spoon count, I’m not sure she’d find many.

My spoons are low, so are my spirit and energy. I’m tired, in all sense of the word. I need more spoons. They’re hard to recover, slow to come back.

I need my spoons.

breast cancer, family, kids, life, teaching, Uncategorized

Deleting and Clearing

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This afternoon, a coworker stopped in my room to ask me a question. I responded and went back to what I was working on, and as my coworker reached the door of my classroom, she stopped and said, “Don’t let the beginning of the year stress you out too much.”

I laughed, a short, sardonic laugh.

I’m not stressed out about school starting.

I’m stressed out because my dad had serious brain surgery two weeks ago to remove a benign brain tumor and needs intensive rehab for cognitive and physical impairments due to the tumor. He’s been in the rehab hospital part of Baylor Dallas for a week. He’ll be there for awhile. Then, he needs to be in a skilled nursing facility. Then…I don’t know. I really don’t. My mom and I are going day-by-day. There’s nothing else we can do.

I’m stressed out because this week has too damned many cancerversaries.

Yesterday, towards the end of the day, I sat at my computer to do some serious email purging. I’m an email hoarder at work. I had close to five thousand emails in my inbox…some read, many unread because they were ads from teaching companies or job postings or emails coworkers sent on top of text messages saying the same thing. Some I read on my iPad, but my desktop email program didn’t recognize those emails were read. As I began my deleting and organizing spree, I came across many emails from friends and coworkers dated days after my diagnosis. Each one was another smoldering reminder of the day almost two years ago that changed my life forever.

I left those emails in my inbox. Some of them are still too hard to read. “You’ll beat this. You’re strong. You got this.”

What if I don’t? Am I a weak loser, then?

I deleted or stored all but 42 emails. The best feeling was deleting an entire year’s worth of emails from several years ago (I’m a terrible email hoarder!) without looking at them. I knew there was nothing from that year I wanted or needed to keep, so I highlighted them all and hit delete. Truly, it felt satisfying, watch one year’s worth of emails disappear, a singularly unsatisfying year of emails. Deleting them felt as though I cleared away some regrets.

It was a great feeling.

This Sunday marks two years since I heard the words, “You have breast cancer.” I’m grateful I listened to my gut two years ago. It screamed at me to do two things: Go back into the classroom as a teacher and do it because it’s what you’re meant to do -you were put in this world to teach, and go see Dr. B because it’s not normal for your left nipple to invert only when you raise your arm -it could be related to that weird place you can feel. (Spoiler alert: It was. Sudden nipple inversion is a sign of breast cancer.)

I went back into a classroom two years ago this Friday, and I have no regrets. I’m happy. I’m fulfilled. I make a difference. I work with awesome people. I love what I do and where I do it.

I saw Dr. B for that weird place two years ago last Friday. Maybe that’s the day I found out I had cancer. I knew it, deep down. I just wanted to be wrong, for her to say it was nothing. I didn’t want her to look at me with deep concern and tell me that most lumps were nothing but she wanted me to get this one checked out as soon as possible.

Tomorrow, I’ll wake up early and go to another high school in my district to give several presentations to other high school English teachers. Tomorrow, I’ll come home for lunch and spend some time with my babies. Tomorrow, I’ll think about breast cancer at some point. I think about it, at some point, every single day. But, tomorrow, I’ll also be grateful -I’m alive to think about it, I’m alive to spend time with S and AJ, I’m alive to give presentations to my peers, I’m alive to delete emails.

I’m alive to help my mom with my dad.

For those thing, I am grateful. For right now, it’s enough.

breast cancer, life, Uncategorized

It all began two years ago

 

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It just hit me…today is a cancerversary.

Two years ago today, I saw my OBGYN during my lunch break of PD week. It was a Tuesday. My appointment was at 11:30.

It was that Tuesday when I found out the lump in my left breast, the lump I’d ignored and worried about, was concerning and my doctor scheduled a mammogram and ultrasound for me. I sat in my car, numb, and sobbed for nearly an hour. I distinctly remember saying over and over “Please don’t let me have breast cancer. Please don’t let me become another statistic. Please don’t let me have breast cancer. Please let me live to see my children grow up. Please don’t let this be cancer. I’ll do anything.” Then, I called A and cried some more. Then, I took a deep breath, drove my car back to work, wiped my eyes, fixed my make up, put a fake smile on my face, and walked into my school for the afternoon in service session. I apologized for being a few minutes late, the new teacher no one knew.

I don’t remember a single thing from the rest of that afternoon or evening.

We all know how this turns out…pleas were not answered. I became a statistic…the 1 in 227 who develop breast cancer in their 30s.

I hate this roller coaster. I hate cancer. I hate it for making me believe I will not see my children become adults. I hate it for convincing me I will not grow old with A. I hate it for whispering to my scumbag brain that everything I put in my mouth is going to make the cancer come back. I hate it for making me believe I can do no right, that I am a pawn who can and will be sacrificed at any moment. I hate it for causing me to cringe when I look in the mirror. I hate it for making me belittle myself every single morning when I step on the scale and see my weight has creeped back up, and don’t you know weight gain makes cancer come back, especially to your bones (Yes, someone actually said this to me.)?

I hate you, cancer. I hate what you took from me, from my husband, from our children, from my parents, from my nephew, from my cousins, from my aunts, from my in-laws. You took me, the me I once was, from them, and more, you might just take me away from them.

I hate you for what you’ve done, for the fears and the tears.

Two years ago today, cancer changed who I am, fundamentally and forever.

And, cancer, I hate you for it. Loathe you. Despise you.

Screw you.

breast cancer, life, teaching, Uncategorized

Leading for a Legacy

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Today was the first official day back for teachers in my school district even though most of us have been back for some time.

My campus is still under fairly heavy construction. Some of the hallways and classroom are off limits. Thankfully, our students don’t start the 2017-2018 school year for another week and a half. By then, the construction in the classroom wings should be completed. *crosses fingers, throws salt over shoulder* The hallway my classroom is in is mostly finished, so I spent several hours yesterday and today arranging and rearranging.

We had a long, but really good, morning meeting with our new head principal. The principal who hired me took an offer to open a new campus within our district, and truthfully, I worried about who would replace her because my campus has a wonderful your family first, your health first “rule,” and the campus has a (mostly) positive culture. We really do care for everyone on our campus. I shouldn’t have worried, though. Our new principal is exactly what we need. He killed in our opening faculty meeting. I’m so excited about this school year and the goals he set for us and the campus.

Something he talked about in our opening meeting was the idea of legacy. What legacy do we leave at our campus? With our students? Their families? The community? What do we want our legacy to be as teachers?

I met with our new principal a couple of weeks ago just to introduce myself and to talk about the vision for our AP program since we are an AP Capstone campus, and as soon as I introduced myself and sat down, he leaned forward towards me and said, “I hear from everyone you are the real deal when it comes to teaching, like the real deal.” I laughed and thanked him, but when I left, I wondered, what does that mean?

Today, I got an idea of what he meant as he described what his idea of legacy is as educators, and I thought about the seventeen years I’ve spent in education and my legacy.

I’m proud to be a public school teacher. I’m a proud public school graduate. I’m a proud public state university graduate -I received my Bachelor of Arts in English and my Master of Educational Leadership from the same public state university. I received an excellent education through the public school system, and I believe I’ve provided thousands of students with an excellent year (or two) of reading and writing instruction through my English classes.

After the meeting, I went back to my classroom to finish going through a filing cabinet. In the first drawer were all the notes I’ve saved from students and their parents and my administrators. I stopped and read each of them. Some are fifteen and sixteen years old. Some are two months old.

As a teacher, the legacy I hope to leave behind is that of a teacher who challenged her students to do what they thought they couldn’t, a teacher who cared deeply about the students she encountered, a teacher who demanded her students respect themselves so they understood why it’s important to respect others, even when the last thing you want to do is be respectful, and of a teacher who helped her students realize they are writers, content creators, who write and create constantly living, little vignettes, of their lives with every sentence, paragraph, paper, text message, blog post, Tweet, Snap, photograph, and video.

But most importantly, I hope my legacy is of a teacher who tried every day to be the kind of teacher to my students that I want for my own children.

The teenagers who sit in my room are someone’s baby, someone’s whole world, just like my S and my AJ. Ultimately, S and AJ are my legacy to this world, but so are the students I teach. I want my legacy for my students to be that of “the real deal,” whatever that means to them.

I don’t know how long I have left on this Earth. I understand the limits of a human life. I’ve stared Death in the face. It came with the words, “You have breast cancer. Find an oncologist immediately.” Death stared back at me with the words, “It’s aggressive, but we can treat it.” I stared Death in the face with every drip of chemo, of Herceptin, of Perjeta into my veins, with every single hellish session of radiation, and in the recovery room after my bilateral mastectomy and after my oophorectomy.

Our nature is to fight death, to fear it, for death is the end if our physical existence on this mortal coil -but it is not our complete end. Our true end is dying without a legacy, whatever that legacy may be -memories, achievements, children, families, journals, pictures, stories.

My new head principal challenged all of us to lead our classrooms with legacy in mind.

Lead looking forward to a legacy. Live knowing you create a legacy.

That’s what lives forever, long after we return to dust.

That’s our forever existence.

 

 

breast cancer, life, teaching, Uncategorized

Passion and Profession

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I love my job. I make a difference with what I do, I give back to my community with what I do, and I do what I’m meant to do. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt I’m meant to be a teacher and teach at the school where I’m employed. Teaching is my passion, even when it sucks because the paperwork piled up, stacks of essays grew, students complained, and I’m out of coffee.

Four years ago today, I sat in my car, preparing for an interview for my first out-of-the-classroom job -an instructional facilitator position where I would work with teachers and students across the district. It was a fabulous opportunity.  I was excited.

I interviewed, they hired me, and I spent two years in that position. I liked what I did. I was good at what I did. I made some amazing friends doing what I did. I met awesome teachers doing what I did, but oh, how much I missed being a teacher. I modeled lessons sometimes, and on those days, it struck me how much I missed teaching day in and day out.

Deciding to go back into the classroom was easy. It’s a choice I do not regret, just like I do not regret working as a facilitator. It took leaving the classroom for me to realize the classroom was where I was meant to be. I always thought I’d teach for awhile and move into administration later, but I know now, four years to the day when I walked out of a classroom, I’m meant to stay in the classroom. I can do other things. I don’t want to do other things. I want to continue giving, facilitating, leading students. It’s my calling, my passion, and I’m very good at what I do.

I’m glad I walked out of the classroom four years ago because those experiences led me right back into it. I’m better for those experiences, those learning opportunities.

The 2017-2018 school year begins next week for me, and I’m ready for it, eager. I have no lesson plans done yet. My classroom is a wreck from the construction at my campus this summer. I’m in no way prepared for the school year, but I will be. It’ll be frustrating and time consuming, but that’s okay.

I’m ready to go back, to do things a little differently, to work hard, to be better. I hate giving up my long days with S and AJ, but truthfully, they’re ready to go back, too.

I want to go into this year celebrating the possibilities. Every new school year is a blank slate, a new chapter (cliches abound!), and I’m ready to start writing. I want to forget that August holds some rough anniversaries, some terrible memories. I want to remind myself Augusts are full of new beginnings, and the best thing I can do for myself is to celebrate the new school year, to look forward to it, to be eager for it because that’s one more way I can say to cancer, “Hey, screw you.”

So, 2017-2018, let’s get going. I’m ready for you.

 

 

breast cancer, family, life, Uncategorized

Straight to the Feels

I fell down the rabbit hole of cancer articles this afternoon -some feel good, some not-so-feel good. I started out reading an article from an invaluable resource I stumbled upon on Twitter months ago, I Had Cancer. From there, the rabbit hole deepened.

As I read the articles, the blog posts, the personal essays, they were like sucker punches. Straight to the feels.

This has been a rough day. I slept horribly.    My son had an argument with one of his friends and was really upset. My daughter sensed the tension in the house today and took refuge in her room. I’ve been a ticking time bomb of emotion since I fell down the rabbit hole this afternoon.

I still believe this is my fault. I did something wrong. I had a 1 in 220 chance of breast cancer at 37. I had a .4 chance. Yet, here I am. What did I do wrong? Nothing, everything. Cells are innumerable, and all it takes is a clump to go nuts. Some of my cells went nuts and grew a tumor. I have breast cancer thanks to those haywire cells. I couldn’t stop it. I know that, but it happened to me. My body betrayed me.

Betrayals linger and sting, burn and hurt.

August is coming, the 2 year anniversary of my diagnosis. Watching the calendar move closer to those days where I had appointments and tests and biopsies is traumatic. Knowing those days await is traumatic. A breast cancer diagnosis is traumatic. Treatment is traumatic -chemo, radiation, targeted therapies, and immune therapies if needed. Surgery is traumatic. Completing treatment is traumatic. Going for checkups is traumatic. Going for scans is traumatic. Cancer is an assault on the body, the mind, the soul. As I wrote last year, a diagnosis of breast cancer is something that never goes away, no matter the stage. It’s always there, and it’s always traumatic, and it’s more traumatic for some than others. It does not make a person weak, the person who struggles with the diagnosis every single day -a person like me, who searches for the way to make this wrong a right knowing intellectually I did nothing wrong, but the human need to make amends is there, strong sometimes, demanding to be felt.

I have not moved on from being asked why I thought I developed cancer, the unspoken blame. I have not moved on from being told I should be happy about getting new breasts, the insinuation if I were happier, cancer would be easier. Nothing about cancer, any cancer, is easy. I wish people internalized that.

The healthcare battle in Congress over these weeks and weeks has been traumatizing, fearing I could be facing lifetime and annual caps on my insurance, discrimination because of breast cancer. I cried when the three GOP senators voted no. I felt a moment of reprieve.

A moment of reprieve. That’s what I get with the shadow of cancer -moments of reprieve.

I vacillate from happiness to despair, joy to anger, shame to apathy. I liken cancer to a roller coaster, and like a roller coaster, the track is rarely just straight. As I coast towards these cancerversaries, the track twists and climbs, drops and frightens. I am frightened. I want so badly to be fearless, to be the person who’s been diagnosed with cancer and becomes better than they were, stronger than they were, happier than they were.

I wish I were, but I’m not. I still put on a mask most days -I’m ok. I’m fine. No, nothing’s wrong. Most fall for the mask. They’re happy to believe I’m ok. They don’t see the sadness, the fear in my eyes.

I’ve yelled at A today, picked fights with him. I’m moody, scared and sad. I’m struggling today. Everyday is a struggle. Some days are harder than others. Today is a harder day. I had nightmares last night, didn’t sleep well, and it would be easy to blame the nightmares and bad sleep on the way I feel right now; however, the truth is simple -today is just a harder day.

“As far as you know, you’re cancer free right now. Stop worrying about it. You’re so dramatic,” I’ve been told by well-meaning friend. Maybe I am dramatic, but I’m doing the best I can. I’ve had cancer, I’ve faced my mortality, and some days are better than others.

I never feel cancer free. I don’t really believe that’s a thing anymore. It’s always there, lurking. Cancer is my Grim Reaper. Death always lurks around us. We’re mortal. Cancer makes me feel it more acutely.

I’ve been told I have to wake up every day with the mindset to win. I hate that. Cancer isn’t win or lose. It just is. Why do we lose to cancer? I hate that saying. I hate that mindset. Isn’t living that battle? We don’t lose to death. My great-grandmother died at 101. No one said she lost to old age. One of my grandfathers died in his eighties after living for years with Alzheimer’s. No one said he lost to Alzheimer’s. So, why do cancer patients lose? That’s demoralizing. No one facing a life-threatening illness is a loser. We all succumb to something. Why is cancer associated with loss? Death is loss. It just is. It exists, we all face it, we all know we are not promised tomorrow, yet when tomorrow doesn’t happen for a person with cancer, society says that person lost. It’s infuriating.

While I hope with all my being I will not succumb to breast cancer, I know it’s a possibility, and if that possibility comes true, don’t ever say I lost to cancer.

breast cancer, family, kids, life, Uncategorized

It’s a Mystery

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I’ve always liked that line from Shakespeare in Love, “I don’t know…it’s a mystery.”

Henslowe: Mr. Fennyman, allow me to explain about the theatre business. The natural condition is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster.
Fennyman: So what do we do?
Henslowe: Nothing. Strangely enough, it all turns out well.
Fennyman: How?
Henslowe: I don’t know. It’s a mystery.

Henslowe could be describing life instead of “the theater business,” as he puts it.

That line, “I don’t know…it’s a mystery,” is one of A’s favorites as well. He believes things work out the way they’re supposed to, and in my moments of fear and frustration, he plays Henslowe to my Fennyman.

This morning was one of those his Henslowe to my Fennyman moments.

I leave with S and AJ tomorrow on our road trip vacation. I panicked this morning over it. Until this morning, it’s been months since I had a true, full on, panic attack, but this morning? Bam! Tears falling, teeth chattering, breath speeding. I felt like I had so much to do. I didn’t know where to start. I’m nervous about being on the road alone with the kids. I’m worried they’re going to be bored and hate the trip I’ve planned. It all just crept up on me. Out of nowhere.

I’m grateful A knows what to do, what to say. Never once did he say, “Calm down!” Instead, it was, “Take a deep breath. Now another one.” Never once did he say, “Stop it! You’re fine!” Instead, it was, “You’ve planned this trip out as much as you can. Would you like for me to go through and put in some other places to for you to stop along the way?” Never once did he say, “If you feel like you’ve got too much to do, just start somewhere.” Instead, it was, “You go to the store with S for snacks to keep in the car. I will take AJ and have your car cleaned. You and S go to the bookstore and get something for you to read on the beach or at stops and something for the kids to read in the car. I will look at what you’ve organized and double check everything is here.”

Fennyman: So what do we do?
Henslowe: Nothing. Strangely enough, it all turns out well.
Fennyman: How?
Henslowe: I don’t know. It’s a mystery.

By 8:00 pm tonight, suitcases were packed, snacks were sorted, don’t-be-bored bag for the kids was stuffed, and all was loaded into the back of my car. We leave in 10 hours. I wish A could come with us, but I know he’s looking forward to starting his new job…and having time alone to decompress with the world conquerer computer game he plays and whatever show he’s binge-watching on Netflix.

One of the things I told A this morning, in the throes of running tears and chattering teeth, was that I’m afraid this is the last vacation I’ll ever take the kids on because of cancer. Thank you, scumbag brain, for that gloriously horrible thought. 

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Found on quickmeme…no infringement intended

 Instead of getting angry, A said, “First of all, no. You don’t get to fixate on something like that. Tell your brain to STFU. Second of all, let’s say, because you like to play what if, let’s say it is. What an amazing amount of memories you all are going to make driving and being silly, singing songs, and watching the scenery pass by, as you all carriage or trolley ride through New Orleans, play on the beach in Destin, and hike in the Smoky Mountains. You think those aren’t memories of a lifetime? Tell me that some of your best memories aren’t of the road trips you went on as a kid with your grandparents, and I’ll call you a liar. I know the stories. I’ve heard them from you. Your grandfather dying of lung cancer and your grandmother dying of melanoma didn’t do anything to those memories.”

Found on GIPHY, and since A is from NYC, a Yankee hitting a homerun seems apropos.

I’m still nervous, but A is right. Things work out. It’s a mystery. We’ll get up in 10 hours, and we’ll begin the first leg of our trip. It’s going to be fun, an adventure.

I hope.