Happenstance

I very much believe that things happen for a reason.

However, if I were to say that there is truth and understanding in this bout of cancer shenanigans, I’d be kidding myself.

I don’t know why it happened.

What am I truly expecting out of my life? I don’t think I have too many preconceived notions about where it will take me. I’ve always been very academically mindful, but I never had this checklist for things I should accomplish. I mean, there have been the “it would nice” and the “I’d like to” moments. However, I knew early on I didn’t need that hanging over my head.

Maybe this has been my saving grace. Honestly, thus far, my life has been exceptional. People I care about, who care back, surround me. I’ve traveled to other countries. I completed a college degree in something that drove my artistic vision and I’m working on another. I was born into the most wonderful family possible.

I doubt I’d recommend other people get cancer, as if it were this free-floating amorphous disease you could just inhale accidentally. Then again, wait until researchers discover the causes behind lymphoma and I could be eating this statement.

I have the desire and drive to move beyond this, despite the marks it has left on me both literally and intellectually. I suppose I’ve finally discovered that as much I look forward, I need to work on my situation now.

Thus begins a new beginning to my spiritual journey. Sitting there in the chemo room, I allowed my body to just rest and sleep. Before, I’d squirmed and just hated being there and feeling awful. I have found a new resolve. Part of it is because I don’t think I have much of a choice. My doctor thinks the mass should be gone by now. I was surprised to hear this news. My initial thought was: why the hell are we doing more treatments?

Apparently, the other 4 treatments are to ensure the cancer doesn’t come back. The bad cells could potentially be floating around my body still. Part of me is encouraged, but also discouraged by this news.

I found a punching bag in my sister’s old closet and I’ve pulled it out to not only work out my upper arm strength, but to get my aggression out. I now take a walk twice a day on my days off and in the evenings on workdays.

I’m determined to keep myself strong as I go forth into the treatments that will make me weak.

I could philosophize all day, but perhaps this is why all this has happened: to get my mind, body, and spirit to become a singular entity.

Or at least to let me hit a punching bag with zeal.

Phantom effect

Anxiety is such a fickle animal and it creeps up on you in the weirdest of ways. I remember in college when I had my first panic attack. I thought I was going to die. My body started tingling and I became completely numb while my heart was racing and I began to see stars. It was closing in fast and I had no idea what was happening.

I’m not feeling that kind of stress-induced anxiety these days, but I have been counting down the days until my next chemo, the one that should be halfway through my treatment cycles. The one where I’ll have a base for subsequent treatments by having another PET scan.

I have pretty much acknowledged that I have cancer and I’m getting treatments. I’m glad to be over the shock of it. Sometimes I forget that I’m in the throes of cancer survivorship, except when I see my port scar as I’m dressing, or having to go to yet another appointment to check my blood or have a follow-up with the doctor.

I haven’t worn a wig yet and prefer to wrap my bare head in scarves, which sometimes garners me odd looks. I must look like either a hippie or someone who has spent many years in tropical climates. With the white polka dot on black scarf I wear often, I look like I could fit in at a Hutterite colony. Ethnic confusion aside, I rather like the look and just appreciate the warmth and protection of the scarves from the air conditioning and sun.

I have known people with amputations that have mentioned the phantom effect of their removed limbs. They say it feels like the limb has never left, which could be the result of the remaining nerves giving that sensation. I have discovered the same with my hair. With the wind moving through, or rather over, my hair, I remember when my hair was long and it would be pushed streaming across my face. The last few days with the storms and the winds, I find myself unconsciously pushing my non-existent hair away from my face. In an odd way, it’s like it never left.

I have been appreciating my return to work more each day, even though I can’t be around many people. It’s a welcome feeling to be part of something bigger than the nuances of my treatments. The fact that I miss working with people and books makes me feel secure about my decision to attend graduate school in library science. I miss working in a library setting and relish when I can return.

Thus far I have a somewhat normal routine. I wake up around 4:30 am to a cat patiently waiting for me to feed him. By patient, I mean, he steps on my chest and bites my nose to make sure I’m fully awake to pay attention to him. I make green juice and go about my morning until I leave for work at 5:30 am. When there are no clouds, I get to see the beginnings of the sunrise.

I surprise people when I tell them I’m a morning person. Really, if I had the option, I’d rather work earlier in the day than later. I’d become habitually confused by the time of day as a retail manager because my shifts would change daily or weekly. One day in the week I could be at work at 6:00 am, another day, I wouldn’t be home until after midnight. My poor body, with its innate biological rituals, would remain confused. I would do the cruel thing of depriving myself of sleep, loading my body with caffeine, and then expect myself to complete schoolwork late at night despite experiencing the two previous things. Naturally, fatigue would set in and I would still push through it. I’m grateful I am now forced to be more in tune with my body. Having a consistent work schedule has helped me get my body into a more natural rhythm.

I’m amazed at all the things within my body and in my environment that are at work all the time. I’ll cut myself accidentally and slowly the cut will heal. It’s reassuring to see my body fixing itself. I take this to heart as I approach my 4th chemo.

Despite all the anxiety about the treatments, I have to remember that my body will heal itself even after the damage has been done.

The cancer phantoms will soon disappear.

The fishbowl

I was suspicious that I had been feeling so great after my third chemo and held my breath for the week following the treatment. Like clockwork, I began to feel awful. I’ve dubbed this the 6th day, 6-day slump. It seems to be around the 6th day post treatment, the chemo rollercoaster has finished its climb and is ready for the drop.

I would like to think this drop could be considered thrilling, but really it could be placed in the “I’d rather face-plant into concrete” category. As an added bonus, it lasts more than a few days.

There is a bright side, thankfully, and it is that the week following this hellish slump gets better. I get to feel less nauseated, with fewer headaches, and my muscles will not have a revolution.

While I wait for this slump to pass and for the brighter days to come into view, I have much time to ponder simple things, such as:

How come I can fall asleep in a warm bath, but am wide-awake within warm blankets?

Or, what will make me less nauseous: corn flakes with milk or toast with butter?

Still, the vague irony is that the nicest days seem to be the ones where I am committed inside.

This North Texas spring has been the mildest I can remember and beckons us to come outdoors. My outdoor excitement these past few days has been getting the mail and absorbing as much Vitamin D as I can, before I regret walking outside in my pajamas in full view of the neighbors.

As of late, my body in full Revolutionary mode, complete with its own Boston Tea Party, and dumping contents into the sea (let me not get more explicit than this).

I am either a glutton for punishment, or there is truly nothing on television, because I watch Food Network even during these times. Trip to the toilet and then: Oh! Cupcake Wars is on! How does someone make 1,000 cupcakes in 2 hours?

I am saddened that my existence has been homogenized by generic questions such as the above. I reflect upon a time when I was working two jobs and going to school. I recall reading school material with zeal. Now, the same zeal has been applied to maintaining hydrated and a preoccupation with blood cell counts and body temperature.

For some reason, I still like to cook when I feel awful, even if I don’t eat the food. For example, today, the war continues and I still found satisfaction in creaming together butter and sugar.

Perhaps all these things are a way to bide my time before the upcoming 4th chemo treatment and the tests that will follow to see my progress.

Part of me is anxious to see how much the mass has reduced at the halfway point and the outlook for the duration of my summer.

Thus, distractions and revolutions ensue.

Orange pound cake, anyone?

Call it a road, call it a journey...

I’m in a bit of denial about my treatments. I am not so much reeling from my third chemo treatment as running away from the idealism of it. I’m already tired of thinking of myself as unhealthy. This obviously has its challenges because I have to consider my surroundings in all my decisions in order to ensure my current and future health. With that said, however, I’m struck by how much not giving into the idea of cancer has helped me lately.

This might not be a method that works for everyone. It occurs to me that we each deal with a strife, whether biological or not, in our daily lives. Perhaps this is my strife. This is not a disease that will inhibit me, it is just part of me. I won’t grow accustomed to it, but I will respect it for what it is.

I’m nauseated at the thought of what is put into my body to dissolve this mass hiding out in my left lung. Talking about it makes a hole in my stomach and leaves me speechless. I dry heave almost unconsciously because the experience of chemo is just awful. There is nothing positive about it, but hope. When I sit in that room with a maximum of 5 other people, we are all waiting for our individual treatments to commence and finish. We all look at each other silently, acknowledging this truly strange quest we have each been given.

When the treatment is over, we sling our proverbial packs over our shoulders, and continue on with our day.

In theory, denial is the beginning to the cycle of grief. I have already experienced different sides of it in what has felt like the longest near 2 months, including anger and depression.

Maybe there is no grief in this scenario.

I question myself, as if perhaps I’m not feeling what I should be feeling. Had I already reached acceptance and now I’m going backwards?

Is there a right way to feel about cancer or any life-threatening illness, disease, or event?

It feels like it has been handed to me unceremoniously. I’m not receiving a scroll or an order with a ribbon around it; I’m receiving a crumpled remnant of scrap paper. What could I possibly glean from this?

In not getting caught up with cancer, I’ve settled into the very cozy feeling of love. Not necessarily romantic love, though, that is there too. Just the cushion of caring people: it’s nourishing and affirming. It’s very encouraging how the idea of love is both simplistic and complex. It’s in actions and in words. It’s in knowing glances and in smiles. Allowing myself to be enveloped in this feeling and sharing it is incredibly rewarding.

I’ve only told a few people, but mortality has been the absolute last thought on my mind since my diagnosis. Even I second guess myself, thinking that should be the first and initial waking thought in my head, but it’s not and nor will it be.

I just keep thinking about the next day and how it will get better, because it has no choice.

I refuse to let it be anything else but a better day.

Little hairs everywhere

Some celebrate Cinco de Mayo by drinking margaritas; I apparently celebrate by shaving my head.

I think at some point in our life, each of us would like to shave our head. Maybe in frustration for a haircut gone bad, with thoughts of starting over. Or perhaps we are inspired by Sinead O’Connor or for a more contemporary example, Britney Spears.

Regardless, in the past, I know I have been curious about what it would feel like to have a bald head and if I had the guts to go through with it.

Little did I realize that my opportunity would be quickly approaching.

It began with my doctor teasing me because I hadn’t lost my hair and that I would perhaps make it on his abbreviated Hall of Fame since he had only one former patient who never lost his hair.

It has been nearly 6 weeks since my first chemo treatment. Generally, it takes 16-30 days post the first chemo treatment for hair to begin falling out. I passed that milestone without so much as natural shedding of my hair, nothing unusual. I’d shrug my shoulders and tell family, friends, and coworkers: “yeah, it’s weird, I still haven’t lost my hair.”

It wasn’t until about over a week ago when my hair began to shed a bit more than usual.

Soon, I was setting a washcloth over the drain after taking a bath for fear that the myriad of lost hairs would create a hairball in the pipes that even Drano couldn’t dissolve.

I’d nervously begin to feel my scalp tingling and run my fingers through my hair to find more than a few hairs caught between my fingertips.

I began to find hairs on the bathroom floor, on my pillowcase, on the seats of my car, and of course, all over myself. There is only so much dignity you can maintain in public when fishing out stray hairs caught in your bra.

There is something oddly cathartic about cutting off all of your own hair. In this scenario, I had my mom help me buzz my hair short. I have some small bald patches, but generally I look like a Tibetan monk or someone going into Boot Camp. I’m lucky that my head isn’t misshapen or has visible craters or birthmarks.

I miss my hair a bit. I miss running my fingers through my hair and rubbing my scalp to release stress. Now my hair feels like Velcro. It makes a weird noise against my pillow as I sleep, like sandpaper to wood.

I’m a bit nervous about going in public with a bald head and a headwrap. Even though I have some wigs, including a pink one on loan from a friend. Before I remained somewhat anonymous because people couldn’t necessarily tell that I was sick. Now, the visual cue of missing hair will no doubt alienate me from strangers.

But no matter, I will rock the bald.

Chlorophyll vs. Cancer

Photo: Mimo trying to steal some cucumber skins during my juicing operation.

The last few weeks have been green. Green thumb and green juice. I’ve entered the forays of green living. And we all know what Kermit says.

Prior to finding out I had cancer, I had picked up Kris Carr’s Crazy Sexy Diet, a book that gives kudos to drinking copious amounts of green juice and having a mostly alkaline diet. It was my initial plan to begin adhering to a stricter diet in order to feel better. Part of me thinks that perhaps I knew something was wrong prior to my diagnosis.

Even though my doctors told me before beginning chemo treatments that I wouldn’t have to change my diet, I knew better.

With large amounts of chemicals entering my body, releasing large amounts of toxins, I understood that a certain amount of detoxification had to occur.

I had already attempted to cut out caffeine beginning last autumn. Coffee was like a spiteful, but charming, ex that kept tempting me back. I would break my ritual of non-coffee drinking with an excuse to keep myself awake, but immediately regret it with a pounding headache and racing heart.

It was like experiencing my week of coffee withdrawal in one guilt-laden sip.

Since my hospital stay, I’ve stuck with herbal tea, and the occasional green tea, if I want a beverage choice outside of juice and water.

The only time I am around coffee now is when I use the grounds (from the local Starbucks) for my new compost pile.

In finding a project that preoccupies my time and attention, I’ve turned to gardening. So far, it’s been nothing overly fancy, as I had limited knowledge on keeping plants alive with previous attempts. However, with research from both online sources and library books, I’ve become a lot more informed on keeping plants happy and healthy. Currently in my container garden there are some flowers, given to me from friends in the hospital. There are 7 herbs: lavender, basil, boxwood basil, cilantro, lemon mint, sweet mint, and parsley. I also found a Roma tomato plant already producing fruit. Days later, I went to a Dallas nursery and picked up a satsuma tree.

I think I have an addiction. A few more plants or trees and I could quite possibly become Crazy Plant Lady.

Since I cook quite a bit with fresh vegetables, the compost bin is filled with cooking scraps. The hope is that the compost will be ready in the late summer or fall when I’m ready to begin planting for the spring. I’ve ordered a catalog from the Seed Savers Exchange to pick out some heirloom varieties to grow this year into the next. I would like to grow some of the things that go into the green juice that I now consume first thing in the morning. It’s a mixture of cucumber, kale, broccoli, apple, and ginger, and frankly tastes green.

Nothing like swirling emerald green juice in a mason jar and taking it with you to work to scare people.

Then again, it’s the ultimate showdown: chlorophyll vs. cancer.

I hedge my bets on the green stuff.