Its official, I’ve lost my mind!
Yes, chemo-brain is a real thing and it’s not something we cancer patients make up. For years cancer survivors have joked about, and been frustrated with the mental cloudiness they sometimes notice before, during, and after chemotherapy. And now research shows that some cancer drugs can cause certain kinds of changes in the brain that make you forget both short term and long term parts of your every day life.
Unfortunately, the chemo brain has finally caught up to me! Hence the reason I haven’t written. This can also be a bad thing, because when you keep a cancer blog and you don’t update it in a month or so, people start to think the worst. So I just wanted to let everyone know that I am not dead. I’m just in a chemo fog state of mind and it makes it hard to concentrate, (not to mention it’s murder on my spelling.)
Although my family will say that I lost my mind years ago, they don’t know the half of it. It’s gotten so bad that I’ve started to put sticky notes on the inside of the closet doors saying, “This is the way out!”
I even find myself using the wrong words.
For example, I’ve said, I think I fried my mind cells, instead of “brain cells,” and when someone asked me what I was eating, I told them I didn’t no, but I thought it was “Orgasmic,” when I really meant, “Organic,” and then to make matters worse, I bought parsley thinking it was cilantro, gave the bank clerk, my social security number not once but three times, and insisted it was my checking account number, and to top it off, I tried to get into someone else’s vehicle thinking it was mine.
Thank God, my nine year old was with me. He told me repeatedly that it wasn’t our truck and then pointed our vehicle out which was two car lengths away. He then helped me find the way home.
Needless to say, it wasn’t until later that my chemo fog lifted momentarily, and I realized I was being given yet another lesson in this roller coaster ride I call, “life.”
I do not say this candidly, because this journey has been filled with many ups and downs these last few weeks, and I would be totally lost without the help of many loved ones. The most recent of these downs, was when I got my genetic test results back showing that I have BRCA 1 (which for those of you who don’t know what that means, it is an inherited mutated gene that can cause breast cancer, as well as all soft tissue cancers.) It also means that my children have a 50/50 chance of inheriting this gene.
I can hear them now saying, “Gee, mom, thanks. Dad gave us beautiful brown eyes and gorgeous looks. You gave us BRCA 1? Well I also gave them my brains, (not that I’m bragging,) hence the reason why I lost my mind years ago. But most importantly, I’m saving one of their lives with this knowledge, as well future generations including and up to my sisters, cousins and nieces and nephews. And to me, this just goes to show that there is a purpose to everything.
So even though it may suck knowing that I have a mutated gene that can carry a death sentence, in the bigger scheme of things, it means I am saving a life!
It has also given me several new ideas for a future book. And though I will have to write many of these ideas down on sticky notes so I don’t forget, it also brings me back to that life lesson my son taught me on this journey with cancer . . . And that is even during the most embarrassing, difficult or even life altering experiences, someone will always be there to help me find my way, whether that is a friend, neighbor, God, or even a sweetly persistent little nine year old boy, it is important for me to remember that life is about helping those along the way and enjoying the journey. So sit down, put your hands in the air, and most importantly, just enjoy the ride!
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
It's Just Hair . . . Right?
I’ve tried just about every hair-style out there, but now I can officially add Sineade O’Connor’s to my portfolio.
After having this last round of my Poisoned cocktail, “the Devil’s Kool-aid,” my hair decided to go! Which was probably a good thing, considering the kids thought I was loosing my mind along with my hair, (probably because I kept asking them if we had a cat that I didn’t know about?)
But then by day 14 after and my first treatment, I was shedding so much that I could literally pull my hair out by the fist full. And though I’ve had my share of “bad hair-cuts, or even a color job gone wrong, I wanted to lose my hair on my terms, and so we had a head shaving party on the 11th.
I was worried that at the last minute I’d have that totally panicked look on my face and freak my kids out. But as it turned out, I shouldn’t have been so concerned, cause my kids couldn’t wait to shave my head!
Can you believe the sadistic little monsters actually enjoyed it?
I thought for certain that my youngest would cry and hold my hand. After all, she did tell me she didn’t want me to be “bald like daddy.” But then she valiantly took up the clippers and had a go at my head as well.
And yes there were tears, but it was not do to the loss of my hair. Instead, I found myself fighting back emotions from the out pouring of love and support from so many wonderful friends and family who came to support me and my family.
Imagine my surprise when family, firefighters, EMS and friends all showed up at the park we we’re using, and then over forty firefighters, EMS, as well as my two little boy’s, shaved their heads in support of what I was going through.
I’m not one who can usually be found speechless, but words can not express how I felt at such an amazing scene. But then perhaps God is the only one who knows how hard it was for me not to break down at the sight of so many wonderful people gathered there that night.
Just a few day’s prior to this, I’d had to have emergency surgery do to an infection in my left breast and was hospitalized for a couple of day’s. Planning my meals was about the only highlight for me to look forward to, and since everything tastes like burnt ashes, you can probably imagine how bored I was beginning to get. At one point, I even considered pushing my IV cart into the elevator and visiting another floor. But it wasn’t until I tried combing through my hair that everything really hit me.
Like a bad scene from the Twilight Zone, I felt like I was in my own horror movie as globs of hair just kept coming out. I knew to expect this, but nothing can quite prepare you for the reality shock of it all.
At that moment, I can honestly say I was very scared and alone . . . but more then anything; I was worried about how my kids were going to react. They’d been through so much already.
Knowing that your mom has cancer is one thing, but physically seeing the results is a whole different ball game.
I didn’t know how they were going to cope with me looking so different? And yes, I was also feeling very vane.
After all, not all of us can look like Sineade O’Connor.
I went to bed that night, depressed, ugly and very uncertain as to how I was going to cope with everything.
As I lay there, I remembered a story of a young mother that was going through a very difficult time in her life. She had six small children waiting for her at home, and had just crossed the street to deliver something to a neighbor.
Feeling overwhelmed and tired, she glanced back at her own house that was all lit up, and began to think of the six hungry faces waiting for her. There was still homework that needed to be done, and a list of many other things that required only a mother’s touch, but on that night, the burden of being a mother was just too much to bear.
Glancing up at the sky, the young mother said, “Father. Can I just come home and stay with you? I just don’t think I can do this for one more day, and it would only be for a little while? Please, Father. Just for a little while?”
The young mother waited, but she heard nothing. Defeated, tired and lonely, she looked back at her home, and then in the stillness of her heart she heard the words, “Child, you can not come home, for if you did, you would not want to leave . . . But I can come to you.”
As I lay there thinking how alone I too was feeling and that I didn’t know if I could be strong enough to cope with one more thing, or even how I was going to help my children get through this, something very special happened . . . I received some unexpected visitors. At first it was in the form of my Nurses Aid. She was the same Aid who’d helped take care of me when I’d had my double mastectomy.
We started to talk and in no time at all I was laughing. About an hour later, (Now almost 11:00 pm) A friend I hadn’t seen in a long time, drove up from the Ogden area and stopped in to see me.
In the day’s that followed, there were so many phone calls, text messages and visitors stopping in to see me, that I found myself thanking God, for all the outpouring of love. Friends have picked up my kids and taken them swimming and to movies, they’ve gone to other people’s homes and felt welcomed and loved. And there has been so much support and help that I think my children are coping with everything a lot better then they would have with out it.
But most importantly, I think the true lesson out of all of this I’ve learned is for me, and that is when it seems too hard to go on, there is always someone who reaches out and helps me get through the darkest of my days. Whether that helping hand is from a loved one, a friend or even God, it helps. It all helps . . . But most importantly, I wouldn’t be able to get through any of these moments without each of you!
I value your words of wisdom and all of the kind gestures, but most importantly, I value your friendship. I know I couldn’t do this without all of you, and though I might have lost my hair, a couple of boobs and two nipples, I’m still me. And with so much love and support from my family and friends, how can I not be thankful to be who I am?
After having this last round of my Poisoned cocktail, “the Devil’s Kool-aid,” my hair decided to go! Which was probably a good thing, considering the kids thought I was loosing my mind along with my hair, (probably because I kept asking them if we had a cat that I didn’t know about?)
But then by day 14 after and my first treatment, I was shedding so much that I could literally pull my hair out by the fist full. And though I’ve had my share of “bad hair-cuts, or even a color job gone wrong, I wanted to lose my hair on my terms, and so we had a head shaving party on the 11th.
I was worried that at the last minute I’d have that totally panicked look on my face and freak my kids out. But as it turned out, I shouldn’t have been so concerned, cause my kids couldn’t wait to shave my head!
Can you believe the sadistic little monsters actually enjoyed it?
I thought for certain that my youngest would cry and hold my hand. After all, she did tell me she didn’t want me to be “bald like daddy.” But then she valiantly took up the clippers and had a go at my head as well.
And yes there were tears, but it was not do to the loss of my hair. Instead, I found myself fighting back emotions from the out pouring of love and support from so many wonderful friends and family who came to support me and my family.
Imagine my surprise when family, firefighters, EMS and friends all showed up at the park we we’re using, and then over forty firefighters, EMS, as well as my two little boy’s, shaved their heads in support of what I was going through.
I’m not one who can usually be found speechless, but words can not express how I felt at such an amazing scene. But then perhaps God is the only one who knows how hard it was for me not to break down at the sight of so many wonderful people gathered there that night.
Just a few day’s prior to this, I’d had to have emergency surgery do to an infection in my left breast and was hospitalized for a couple of day’s. Planning my meals was about the only highlight for me to look forward to, and since everything tastes like burnt ashes, you can probably imagine how bored I was beginning to get. At one point, I even considered pushing my IV cart into the elevator and visiting another floor. But it wasn’t until I tried combing through my hair that everything really hit me.
Like a bad scene from the Twilight Zone, I felt like I was in my own horror movie as globs of hair just kept coming out. I knew to expect this, but nothing can quite prepare you for the reality shock of it all.
At that moment, I can honestly say I was very scared and alone . . . but more then anything; I was worried about how my kids were going to react. They’d been through so much already.
Knowing that your mom has cancer is one thing, but physically seeing the results is a whole different ball game.
I didn’t know how they were going to cope with me looking so different? And yes, I was also feeling very vane.
After all, not all of us can look like Sineade O’Connor.
I went to bed that night, depressed, ugly and very uncertain as to how I was going to cope with everything.
As I lay there, I remembered a story of a young mother that was going through a very difficult time in her life. She had six small children waiting for her at home, and had just crossed the street to deliver something to a neighbor.
Feeling overwhelmed and tired, she glanced back at her own house that was all lit up, and began to think of the six hungry faces waiting for her. There was still homework that needed to be done, and a list of many other things that required only a mother’s touch, but on that night, the burden of being a mother was just too much to bear.
Glancing up at the sky, the young mother said, “Father. Can I just come home and stay with you? I just don’t think I can do this for one more day, and it would only be for a little while? Please, Father. Just for a little while?”
The young mother waited, but she heard nothing. Defeated, tired and lonely, she looked back at her home, and then in the stillness of her heart she heard the words, “Child, you can not come home, for if you did, you would not want to leave . . . But I can come to you.”
As I lay there thinking how alone I too was feeling and that I didn’t know if I could be strong enough to cope with one more thing, or even how I was going to help my children get through this, something very special happened . . . I received some unexpected visitors. At first it was in the form of my Nurses Aid. She was the same Aid who’d helped take care of me when I’d had my double mastectomy.
We started to talk and in no time at all I was laughing. About an hour later, (Now almost 11:00 pm) A friend I hadn’t seen in a long time, drove up from the Ogden area and stopped in to see me.
In the day’s that followed, there were so many phone calls, text messages and visitors stopping in to see me, that I found myself thanking God, for all the outpouring of love. Friends have picked up my kids and taken them swimming and to movies, they’ve gone to other people’s homes and felt welcomed and loved. And there has been so much support and help that I think my children are coping with everything a lot better then they would have with out it.
But most importantly, I think the true lesson out of all of this I’ve learned is for me, and that is when it seems too hard to go on, there is always someone who reaches out and helps me get through the darkest of my days. Whether that helping hand is from a loved one, a friend or even God, it helps. It all helps . . . But most importantly, I wouldn’t be able to get through any of these moments without each of you!
I value your words of wisdom and all of the kind gestures, but most importantly, I value your friendship. I know I couldn’t do this without all of you, and though I might have lost my hair, a couple of boobs and two nipples, I’m still me. And with so much love and support from my family and friends, how can I not be thankful to be who I am?
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
CHEMO OR PREGNANCY . . . ONE OR THE SAME???
Who in the heck ever invented Chemo had a very sadistic personality. I mean, really, it’s bad enough dealing with the pesky baldness, but morning sickness? Are you kidding me?
I’ve quickly learned that since the medication kills off your fastest-growing cells, including ones in your digestive tract, common side effects are either explosive diarrhea, the kind of constipation that requires a Lamaze coach, or, horrifyingly, both. Most people assume nausea is the worst part of chemo - nope, it's actually what goes on at the other end. And as of July 27th I’m becoming an expert on what to avoid on the food chain so I’m not permanently nesting in the bathroom.
This last week the port was surgically put in the right side of my chest, and then I started my poisoned cocktail. And I just have to say that everyday has been filled with one surprise after another!
I can usually be found saying WTH? Partly, because I’ve already lost my mind . . . another side-effect of chemo. The other reason . . . well, crap, I’ve already forgotten. See. It’s hopeless.
It’s at times like this that I’m glad I have a fourteen year old around the house or I’d have to start leaving sticky notes for myself. I tell my son that God has a sense of humor, and that’s why I’m experiencing all of this in his teenage years. (It also helps alive the head butting when he thinks he really does know everything and I won’t have the brains to correct him if he’s wrong.)
At least being forgetful isn’t the worst side-effect. I find it’s the emotional baggage I have the hardest time with. Thankfully my poor family knows I’m dopey anyway and they just accept me. We’ve also been very appreciative to all the meals that family and friends have brought in. (Otherwise my children would be living off of cold cereal and peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches.)
As for myself, I’ve been told to add a lot of bran and fiber to my diet.
Yeah, I know, nothing says open up and say ahh like a good ole’ Metamucil cookie. Well, the good news! I can’t taste it, but then I guess it doesn't matter since I’m now trying to eat to alleviate symptoms, cuz I’m sure as heck not able to eat for enjoyment.
Alas, chocolate has taken on the taste of mud. Which I find to be a cruel and unusual punishment! I mean, didn’t I go through the whole food tasting weird, crap when I was pregnant?
See what I mean about being sadistic. Messing with a woman’s chocolate should be outlawed!
Not only has the whole food changing diet been an eye opener for me, but I’m grudgingly learning my limits as well as to where my speed bumps are. And yes, it is only a speed bump. I tell myself this at least a hundred times a day, and then I look down to make sure that I don’t have a nine month belly sticking out and cankles on top of my ankles.
I’m also staying on top of my pain meds. Yep. No being brave. No saying, "Oh, it's only a little queasiness, I can take it." I’m being a wimp and slamming the drugs when I need to, cause I quickly learned after surgery and all the nausea, that it is a lot harder to control pain or nausea once it starts than to prevent it in the first place. . . . Then again, maybe that would explain all my brain farts lately.
So if I’ve forgotten something, or I’ve left one of my children somewhere please send them home and accept my apology for having lost my brain. This will soon pass . . . I hope.
As for now, it seems that my life and my schedule is in the Dr’s hands, but no matter how exhausting the rounds of chemo are, or the emotional mind games I play with myself, I’ve found there is always a bright side to my many office visits . . . and that is staring at the imprint on the paper from the Dr.’s exam table. (You know the scratchy white stuff you have to sit on.)
It shows that my butt isn’t growing like it did when I was pregnant, which in its self is a miracle! It also tells me that all these pesky, and yet nauseating symptoms are actually from chemo, which means I’m definitely NOT pregnant, and that one day, God willing, this all will be a thing of the past.
I’ve quickly learned that since the medication kills off your fastest-growing cells, including ones in your digestive tract, common side effects are either explosive diarrhea, the kind of constipation that requires a Lamaze coach, or, horrifyingly, both. Most people assume nausea is the worst part of chemo - nope, it's actually what goes on at the other end. And as of July 27th I’m becoming an expert on what to avoid on the food chain so I’m not permanently nesting in the bathroom.
This last week the port was surgically put in the right side of my chest, and then I started my poisoned cocktail. And I just have to say that everyday has been filled with one surprise after another!
I can usually be found saying WTH? Partly, because I’ve already lost my mind . . . another side-effect of chemo. The other reason . . . well, crap, I’ve already forgotten. See. It’s hopeless.
It’s at times like this that I’m glad I have a fourteen year old around the house or I’d have to start leaving sticky notes for myself. I tell my son that God has a sense of humor, and that’s why I’m experiencing all of this in his teenage years. (It also helps alive the head butting when he thinks he really does know everything and I won’t have the brains to correct him if he’s wrong.)
At least being forgetful isn’t the worst side-effect. I find it’s the emotional baggage I have the hardest time with. Thankfully my poor family knows I’m dopey anyway and they just accept me. We’ve also been very appreciative to all the meals that family and friends have brought in. (Otherwise my children would be living off of cold cereal and peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches.)
As for myself, I’ve been told to add a lot of bran and fiber to my diet.
Yeah, I know, nothing says open up and say ahh like a good ole’ Metamucil cookie. Well, the good news! I can’t taste it, but then I guess it doesn't matter since I’m now trying to eat to alleviate symptoms, cuz I’m sure as heck not able to eat for enjoyment.
Alas, chocolate has taken on the taste of mud. Which I find to be a cruel and unusual punishment! I mean, didn’t I go through the whole food tasting weird, crap when I was pregnant?
See what I mean about being sadistic. Messing with a woman’s chocolate should be outlawed!
Not only has the whole food changing diet been an eye opener for me, but I’m grudgingly learning my limits as well as to where my speed bumps are. And yes, it is only a speed bump. I tell myself this at least a hundred times a day, and then I look down to make sure that I don’t have a nine month belly sticking out and cankles on top of my ankles.
I’m also staying on top of my pain meds. Yep. No being brave. No saying, "Oh, it's only a little queasiness, I can take it." I’m being a wimp and slamming the drugs when I need to, cause I quickly learned after surgery and all the nausea, that it is a lot harder to control pain or nausea once it starts than to prevent it in the first place. . . . Then again, maybe that would explain all my brain farts lately.
So if I’ve forgotten something, or I’ve left one of my children somewhere please send them home and accept my apology for having lost my brain. This will soon pass . . . I hope.
As for now, it seems that my life and my schedule is in the Dr’s hands, but no matter how exhausting the rounds of chemo are, or the emotional mind games I play with myself, I’ve found there is always a bright side to my many office visits . . . and that is staring at the imprint on the paper from the Dr.’s exam table. (You know the scratchy white stuff you have to sit on.)
It shows that my butt isn’t growing like it did when I was pregnant, which in its self is a miracle! It also tells me that all these pesky, and yet nauseating symptoms are actually from chemo, which means I’m definitely NOT pregnant, and that one day, God willing, this all will be a thing of the past.
Who in the heck ever invented Chemo had a very sadistic personality. I mean, really, it’s bad enough dealing with the pesky baldness, but morning sickness? Are you kidding me?
I’ve quickly learned that since the medication kills off your fastest-growing cells, including ones in your digestive tract, common side effects are either explosive diarrhea, the kind of constipation that requires a Lamaze coach, or, horrifyingly, both. Most people assume nausea is the worst part of chemo - nope, it's actually what goes on at the other end. And as of July 27th I’m becoming an expert on what to avoid on the food chain so I’m not permanently nesting in the bathroom.
This last week the port was surgically put in the right side of my chest, and then I started my poisoned cocktail. And I just have to say that everyday has been filled with one surprise after another!
I can usually be found saying WTH? Partly, because I’ve already lost my mind . . . another side-effect of chemo. The other reason . . . well, crap, I’ve already forgotten. See. It’s hopeless.
It’s at times like this that I’m glad I have a fourteen year old around the house or I’d have to start leaving sticky notes for myself. I tell my son that God has a sense of humor, and that’s why I’m experiencing all of this in his teenage years. (It also helps alive the head butting when he thinks he really does know everything and I won’t have the brains to correct him if he’s wrong.)
At least being forgetful isn’t the worst side-effect. I find it’s the emotional baggage I have the hardest time with. Thankfully my poor family knows I’m dopey anyway and they just accept me. We’ve also been very appreciative to all the meals that family and friends have brought in. (Otherwise my children would be living off of cold cereal and peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches.)
As for myself, I’ve been told to add a lot of bran and fiber to my diet.
Yeah, I know, nothing says open up and say ahh like a good ole’ Metamucil cookie. Well, the good news! I can’t taste it, but then I guess it doesn't matter since I’m now trying to eat to alleviate symptoms, cuz I’m sure as heck not able to eat for enjoyment.
Alas, chocolate has taken on the taste of mud. Which I find to be a cruel and unusual punishment! I mean, didn’t I go through the whole food tasting weird, crap when I was pregnant?
See what I mean about being sadistic. Messing with a woman’s chocolate should be outlawed!
Not only has the whole food changing diet been an eye opener for me, but I’m grudgingly learning my limits as well as to where my speed bumps are. And yes, it is only a speed bump. I tell myself this at least a hundred times a day, and then I look down to make sure that I don’t have a nine month belly sticking out and cankles on top of my ankles.
I’m also staying on top of my pain meds. Yep. No being brave. No saying, "Oh, it's only a little queasiness, I can take it." I’m being a wimp and slamming the drugs when I need to, cause I quickly learned after surgery and all the nausea, that it is a lot harder to control pain or nausea once it starts than to prevent it in the first place. . . . Then again, maybe that would explain all my brain farts lately.
So if I’ve forgotten something, or I’ve left one of my children somewhere please send them home and accept my apology for having lost my brain. This will soon pass . . . I hope.
As for now, it seems that my life and my schedule is in the Dr’s hands, but no matter how exhausting the rounds of chemo are, or the emotional mind games I play with myself, I’ve found there is always a bright side to my many office visits . . . and that is staring at the imprint on the paper from the Dr.’s exam table. (You know the scratchy white stuff you have to sit on.)
It shows that my butt isn’t growing like it did when I was pregnant, which in its self is a miracle! It also tells me that all these pesky, and yet nauseating symptoms are actually from chemo, which means I’m definitely NOT pregnant, and that one day, God willing, this all will be a thing of the past.
I’ve quickly learned that since the medication kills off your fastest-growing cells, including ones in your digestive tract, common side effects are either explosive diarrhea, the kind of constipation that requires a Lamaze coach, or, horrifyingly, both. Most people assume nausea is the worst part of chemo - nope, it's actually what goes on at the other end. And as of July 27th I’m becoming an expert on what to avoid on the food chain so I’m not permanently nesting in the bathroom.
This last week the port was surgically put in the right side of my chest, and then I started my poisoned cocktail. And I just have to say that everyday has been filled with one surprise after another!
I can usually be found saying WTH? Partly, because I’ve already lost my mind . . . another side-effect of chemo. The other reason . . . well, crap, I’ve already forgotten. See. It’s hopeless.
It’s at times like this that I’m glad I have a fourteen year old around the house or I’d have to start leaving sticky notes for myself. I tell my son that God has a sense of humor, and that’s why I’m experiencing all of this in his teenage years. (It also helps alive the head butting when he thinks he really does know everything and I won’t have the brains to correct him if he’s wrong.)
At least being forgetful isn’t the worst side-effect. I find it’s the emotional baggage I have the hardest time with. Thankfully my poor family knows I’m dopey anyway and they just accept me. We’ve also been very appreciative to all the meals that family and friends have brought in. (Otherwise my children would be living off of cold cereal and peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches.)
As for myself, I’ve been told to add a lot of bran and fiber to my diet.
Yeah, I know, nothing says open up and say ahh like a good ole’ Metamucil cookie. Well, the good news! I can’t taste it, but then I guess it doesn't matter since I’m now trying to eat to alleviate symptoms, cuz I’m sure as heck not able to eat for enjoyment.
Alas, chocolate has taken on the taste of mud. Which I find to be a cruel and unusual punishment! I mean, didn’t I go through the whole food tasting weird, crap when I was pregnant?
See what I mean about being sadistic. Messing with a woman’s chocolate should be outlawed!
Not only has the whole food changing diet been an eye opener for me, but I’m grudgingly learning my limits as well as to where my speed bumps are. And yes, it is only a speed bump. I tell myself this at least a hundred times a day, and then I look down to make sure that I don’t have a nine month belly sticking out and cankles on top of my ankles.
I’m also staying on top of my pain meds. Yep. No being brave. No saying, "Oh, it's only a little queasiness, I can take it." I’m being a wimp and slamming the drugs when I need to, cause I quickly learned after surgery and all the nausea, that it is a lot harder to control pain or nausea once it starts than to prevent it in the first place. . . . Then again, maybe that would explain all my brain farts lately.
So if I’ve forgotten something, or I’ve left one of my children somewhere please send them home and accept my apology for having lost my brain. This will soon pass . . . I hope.
As for now, it seems that my life and my schedule is in the Dr’s hands, but no matter how exhausting the rounds of chemo are, or the emotional mind games I play with myself, I’ve found there is always a bright side to my many office visits . . . and that is staring at the imprint on the paper from the Dr.’s exam table. (You know the scratchy white stuff you have to sit on.)
It shows that my butt isn’t growing like it did when I was pregnant, which in its self is a miracle! It also tells me that all these pesky, and yet nauseating symptoms are actually from chemo, which means I’m definitely NOT pregnant, and that one day, God willing, this all will be a thing of the past.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Well Meaning but Clueless Comments People Say:
Most of you that know me are aware that I was diagnosed with breast cancer in May of 2011.
I have since undergone a double-mastectomy and had five lymph-nodes removed from my left arm-pit. Two out of the five, tested positive for cancer. (This means I will have a port put in my chest next week and will start Chemo-therapy. After that I will undergo Radiation on my left breast and left arm-pit.)
I also had reconstructive surgery at the time of my mastectomy, and though I've got a quirky sense of humor, I've heard some funny and even well meaning but cluelss comments in the last couple of weeks that I'd thought I'd share with you.
The one I’ve heard the most is, “Well at least you get perky new boobs,” Or “What size are you going to get?”
For those of you that think getting re-constructive breasts is as easy as going in and getting double D implants . . . well you’re wrong, and you’ve obviously never seen reconstructive boobs!
My new girl’s are as hard as rocks and are missing their headlights! I also can’t feel the front half my chest, (So if I accidentally rub up against you, I swear I'm not hitting on you!)
Since my mastectomy, I’ve gone in every week to the plastic-surgeon to get my new girl’s pumped up. And yes, it’s like getting a tire pumped up, only with a lot heavier solution. (So when I die at a ripe old age, & I'm laid out in my casket, the only thing perky about me is going to be my boobs.)
As you can probably tell by now I’m missing a filter between my brain and my mouth, so it shouldn't suprise most of you that when I went in to see my plastic surgeon the other day, and he asked me if I looked about the size I was before my surgery? I told him that Thelma and Louise had hung south for so long that I honestly couldn’t remember them being that perky!
This last visit, he topped the girls off and now I feel like an elephant is sitting on my chest. I’m so top heavy I have to take baby-steps so I won’t tip over and knock myself out.
So my comment as far as new boobs goes, is . . . Yes, I'll get a new rack out of this, but honey, it's nothin' like a good ole fashion boob job, & when it's all said and done, my future headlights won't even work & they'll be as fake as Lightning MacQueen's.
Another frequent comment I get: “Well, it could always be worse. You could get hit by a car and be dead tomorrow.”
These people have obviously never seen me drive!
My snarky side wants to say, “Of course I could get hit by a car . . . then again, if I'm the one driving, it's you who should be worried, cause I drive like a bat-out-of-hell.
Instead, the “good me” tells them that when it’s my time to go; God will call me home.
I’ve only had one person ask what it’s like to have cancer?
The answer is it’s scary as hell! Although I didn’t tell him this because it was my nine year old nephew. Instead, I told him that it makes you appreciate life a lot more, and that I look forward to each sunrise I get to spend with the ones I love.
I’ve also heard “You’re so brave!”
This one makes me laugh, cause I’m the biggest scaredy-cat out there. Yes, I’d rather be the one going through this then have to watch one of my sisters or even my daughter go through breast cancer. On the other hand, it has nothing to do with being brave. Another blogger going through breast cancer made the following comment, concerning being "brave" and I found it not only funny, but it's the honest to God truth, and I just had to add it.
She say's, "Wow, how did you know about the child I rescued from the burning building last night? It wasn't even in the papers! Oh, are you referring to the time I went to war and fought for my country and got in the firefight and dragged my injured friend to safety? Or, do you mean the time I single-handedly stopped a bank robber from shooting that elderly lady?
No? You are referring to me showing up on time for doctor's appointments?"
It's nice to be called brave, but we cancer patients all know we aren't. Brave is a word best reserved for people who deliberately put themselves in harm's way. Trust me, if I could get out of this, I would. I'd run so fast I'd leave old people and children behind. And puppies. All the puppies. The truth is, I have no choice but to put one foot in front of the other and do what my doctors say.
What you should say: "I'm sorry you have cancer." If you must add another phrase, you can say, "You are handling this difficulty with grace."
Then order housekeeping service, because I am guessing what is going on in that bathroom isn't that graceful. "
And honestly, I think what she said all about somes it up. Because when it’s all said and done, I’m going to get through this even if I have to laugh, cry, and joke my way through the next year and a half of hell, but I will also try and do it with grace. That doesen't mean I won't have a lot off handed & yes even snarky remarks. But the truth of the matter is, you can say any of those things to me, and I won’t mind. You can also ask me anything, just be prepared to learn more about me then what you probably wanted to hear. The truth is, I’ve probably said these same things to somebody who did have cancer at some point too. Nobody really knows what to do or say, and that’s part of being human. It’s all right to say “I’m sorry that you’re going through this.” Hell, I’m sorry too . . . but I’m not going to go cry in my Root beer.
Life’s just to short for that. And honey, I’ve got a lot of living to do!
I have since undergone a double-mastectomy and had five lymph-nodes removed from my left arm-pit. Two out of the five, tested positive for cancer. (This means I will have a port put in my chest next week and will start Chemo-therapy. After that I will undergo Radiation on my left breast and left arm-pit.)
I also had reconstructive surgery at the time of my mastectomy, and though I've got a quirky sense of humor, I've heard some funny and even well meaning but cluelss comments in the last couple of weeks that I'd thought I'd share with you.
The one I’ve heard the most is, “Well at least you get perky new boobs,” Or “What size are you going to get?”
For those of you that think getting re-constructive breasts is as easy as going in and getting double D implants . . . well you’re wrong, and you’ve obviously never seen reconstructive boobs!
My new girl’s are as hard as rocks and are missing their headlights! I also can’t feel the front half my chest, (So if I accidentally rub up against you, I swear I'm not hitting on you!)
Since my mastectomy, I’ve gone in every week to the plastic-surgeon to get my new girl’s pumped up. And yes, it’s like getting a tire pumped up, only with a lot heavier solution. (So when I die at a ripe old age, & I'm laid out in my casket, the only thing perky about me is going to be my boobs.)
As you can probably tell by now I’m missing a filter between my brain and my mouth, so it shouldn't suprise most of you that when I went in to see my plastic surgeon the other day, and he asked me if I looked about the size I was before my surgery? I told him that Thelma and Louise had hung south for so long that I honestly couldn’t remember them being that perky!
This last visit, he topped the girls off and now I feel like an elephant is sitting on my chest. I’m so top heavy I have to take baby-steps so I won’t tip over and knock myself out.
So my comment as far as new boobs goes, is . . . Yes, I'll get a new rack out of this, but honey, it's nothin' like a good ole fashion boob job, & when it's all said and done, my future headlights won't even work & they'll be as fake as Lightning MacQueen's.
Another frequent comment I get: “Well, it could always be worse. You could get hit by a car and be dead tomorrow.”
These people have obviously never seen me drive!
My snarky side wants to say, “Of course I could get hit by a car . . . then again, if I'm the one driving, it's you who should be worried, cause I drive like a bat-out-of-hell.
Instead, the “good me” tells them that when it’s my time to go; God will call me home.
I’ve only had one person ask what it’s like to have cancer?
The answer is it’s scary as hell! Although I didn’t tell him this because it was my nine year old nephew. Instead, I told him that it makes you appreciate life a lot more, and that I look forward to each sunrise I get to spend with the ones I love.
I’ve also heard “You’re so brave!”
This one makes me laugh, cause I’m the biggest scaredy-cat out there. Yes, I’d rather be the one going through this then have to watch one of my sisters or even my daughter go through breast cancer. On the other hand, it has nothing to do with being brave. Another blogger going through breast cancer made the following comment, concerning being "brave" and I found it not only funny, but it's the honest to God truth, and I just had to add it.
She say's, "Wow, how did you know about the child I rescued from the burning building last night? It wasn't even in the papers! Oh, are you referring to the time I went to war and fought for my country and got in the firefight and dragged my injured friend to safety? Or, do you mean the time I single-handedly stopped a bank robber from shooting that elderly lady?
No? You are referring to me showing up on time for doctor's appointments?"
It's nice to be called brave, but we cancer patients all know we aren't. Brave is a word best reserved for people who deliberately put themselves in harm's way. Trust me, if I could get out of this, I would. I'd run so fast I'd leave old people and children behind. And puppies. All the puppies. The truth is, I have no choice but to put one foot in front of the other and do what my doctors say.
What you should say: "I'm sorry you have cancer." If you must add another phrase, you can say, "You are handling this difficulty with grace."
Then order housekeeping service, because I am guessing what is going on in that bathroom isn't that graceful. "
And honestly, I think what she said all about somes it up. Because when it’s all said and done, I’m going to get through this even if I have to laugh, cry, and joke my way through the next year and a half of hell, but I will also try and do it with grace. That doesen't mean I won't have a lot off handed & yes even snarky remarks. But the truth of the matter is, you can say any of those things to me, and I won’t mind. You can also ask me anything, just be prepared to learn more about me then what you probably wanted to hear. The truth is, I’ve probably said these same things to somebody who did have cancer at some point too. Nobody really knows what to do or say, and that’s part of being human. It’s all right to say “I’m sorry that you’re going through this.” Hell, I’m sorry too . . . but I’m not going to go cry in my Root beer.
Life’s just to short for that. And honey, I’ve got a lot of living to do!
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
My Mission Statement:
I hope to make everyone aware of Breast Cancer and inspire women from all walks of life to go and get a Mammogram. I'm fully aware that instead of naming my blog "So Much More," maybe I should have named it, “Of course their fake, my real ones tried to kill me!" Then again, there is so much more to life then just having Breast Cancer, and if nothing else, this experience has made me reevaluate my life and appreciate the moments that take my breaths away, instead of the moments that have stopped me in my tracks.
I’ve also found that laughter is the key to helping me get through this difficult journey, and without it I would be pathetically lost.
Aside from the fact that my Dr's. are learning there isn't a filter between my mouth and my brain, (and that they will most likely need to seek professional psychological help after having me as a patient.) They are some of the neatest and most compassionate men in their profession. I’ve also met some incredibly brave women of all ages, going through the same experience that I am but all of them on different levels and fazes of their treatment. These women have such amazing courage and zeal that it is both humbling and awe inspiring to say the least, and I hope that I can have half the courage and strength that they've shown as well as maintain my sense of humor while I go through this journey.
So if your interested in my story that is "so much more" then breast cancer, then keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times . . . and for heaven sake go get a Mammogram! You are never to young, and by the time you are forty it might be to late!
I’ve also found that laughter is the key to helping me get through this difficult journey, and without it I would be pathetically lost.
Aside from the fact that my Dr's. are learning there isn't a filter between my mouth and my brain, (and that they will most likely need to seek professional psychological help after having me as a patient.) They are some of the neatest and most compassionate men in their profession. I’ve also met some incredibly brave women of all ages, going through the same experience that I am but all of them on different levels and fazes of their treatment. These women have such amazing courage and zeal that it is both humbling and awe inspiring to say the least, and I hope that I can have half the courage and strength that they've shown as well as maintain my sense of humor while I go through this journey.
So if your interested in my story that is "so much more" then breast cancer, then keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times . . . and for heaven sake go get a Mammogram! You are never to young, and by the time you are forty it might be to late!
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