Living With Cancer...

On a scale of 1 to 10, our life is somewhere around an 8.  It would be a 10, truly, if it weren’t for his cancer battle.  Life together has always been fun: he completes me and I complete him.  We find the joy in every day and find happiness in a simple existence.

People used to comment that we seemed to always be going and doing…. We went to the mountains frequently, since they are almost literally in our backyard. Picnics, hikes, photos, and a view that visitors come from all over the world to see…. Couldn’t ask for much more. 

 

We went out to eat several times a month.   One of our favorite trips is to Fresno, an hour away.  We have a couple of favorite restaurants up there and shops we like to visit.  Podunk no longer has a bookstore, so Barnes&Noble  in Fresno is always a fun destination.

We have travelled, too: Yosemite, Yellowstone, Chicago, Milwaukee, Disneyland, Las Vegas, LA, Monterey, and my favorite: Morro Bay.  Yet we don’t have to leave town to have an adventure. Even going to the grocery store (Tuesday mornings, mostly) is fun just because we are together.

All that changed on January 4, 2014, at ten-thirty at night: the surgeon walked into the ER exam room and told us: he has colon cancer.  We spent the next two hours, alone together, in that darkened room, thinking.  And praying. Each time I started to cry softly, he would squeeze my hand and say “I love you.”

It has now been almost five months since that fateful day.  To us, it seems like a lifetime.  In the beginning, there was numbness, with resolution.  “We will fight this” we would say.  He said he would do whatever was necessary to help himself get well.  I said that, if love could cure his cancer, he would be cured.

The early months were a maze of doctor visits, tests, labs, and trips to the pharmacy.  I started a binder to keep all of the pertinent information together and to record his journey.  At nearly five months, the binder is two inches thick…

As he began chemotherapy, we were hopeful: he had chemo for three days every two weeks.  By the end of chemo week, he was beginning to bounce back.  By the beginning of the week off from chemo, he was nearly himself again…

But chemo is cumulative: each time he has chemo, he bounces back a little less.  Each time he has chemo, his chances of having all the nasty side effects increase.  Now that he has completed nine chemo sessions, bouncing back is minimal…

Now we plan our outings more carefully.  We have to optimize his chances of enjoying what we are planning to do.  And now, we mostly just go to the grocery store on Tuesdays…

It’s all doable, we both agree.  I tell him that we will look back on this time and realize how hard it was, and rejoice that we made it through and he is getting better and stronger.  His lab numbers seem to verify that he IS doing better, so maybe all the suffering now will have a big payoff later.  I hope so.

It doesn’t bother me that his hair is falling out.  Or that he tires easily and has to nap frequently.  I look at him, nearly forty pounds lighter than a year ago, and I have grown used to it… His gaunt face is a reminder, to me, of the battle he is waging.

But sometimes I hate what has happened to him.  Sure, the massive chemo drugs he is being given have improved “his numbers” but they have taken such a toll on him physically.  And when I see that, it is like a fist to my gut….

Last night, as I walked into the kitchen, he was getting some plastic wrap out of the drawer.  My “what are you doing” was met with his explanation: “I fixed myself something to eat but I can’t eat it…..”  Sitting there on the kitchen counter was a lovely salad: lettuce, tomatoes, and sliced chicken, untouched.

I was so angry!  The irony of it all: here is a man who, more than ever, needs nutrition to help his body fight the cancer AND the chemo and he can’t even eat.  Why?  Mouth sores.  Mouth sores that are unabated by “magic mouthwash” and Orajel.  “What can I do to help him?” I asked myself…

The truth is, there is nothing I can do except support him, love him, find some more liquid nutrition for him…..and pray.

And I pray mightily.  Day and night….

Out of the Dark

It’s hard to describe how I feel today.  It’s beyond hopeful, more like joyful.  As I have been saying for almost a year now: I am on my way.

Where?  You ask.  There is no easy answer but, “out of the dark” describes it to me.  Out of the dark that was my life last year.  For a year after I retired, I was in daily pain, spiraling into a deep depression, and full of self-doubt and self-loathing.

During the time that my back injury was treated as a Workers’ Comp issue, I had physical therapy and several spinal injections.  The first two spinal injections provided some relief for a few weeks.  The final injection was terrifying, merciless, and of no use: the pain was greater, not lessened.

And so, I retired.  To what?  A loving husband, a nice home, and a constant state of pain.  I couldn’t take a step off a curb without serious pain in both my knees and one or both hips.  I couldn’t walk very far without becoming winded.  I was eating the same as I did when I was healthy, active and pain free and the pounds were adding up.

I couldn’t look in the mirror.  And I made jokes about my wardrobe: “it’s not hard to find something to wear because very few of my clothes fit!”   Hahahahahahahaha…..

Or not….

My physician sent me to a rheumatologist: he offered suggestions that were immediate and addressed the “now” and not just the future “when you lose all this weight.”  And I was humiliated beyond belief: I hadn’t weighed myself in years and the numbers on the scale were frightening.

I came home resolute: I will get beyond this place and get my life back again.  I signed up for Weight Watchers Online the very same day.  I was overwhelmed by the task at hand and the changes I had to make.  At the same time, I was determined to do something for myself so that I didn’t have to be ashamed of how I looked and felt.

It’s been a slow process: ten months and counting, so far.  But I can see the light at the end of the tunnel and, if it’s not just a freight train, I will keep heading toward it.  One day at a time, one step at a time, one meal at a time, and one pound at a time….

I have lost more than forty pounds.  I am four sizes smaller than last summer, and I have LOTS of clothes to wear.  In fact, there are so many choices that I don’t know where to begin sometimes.  And isn’t that a lovely dilemma?

Out of the dark and into the light.  It’s a glorious feeling.  My depression is mostly gone, my activity level has improved: going to the gym, hiking in the mountains, and walking any chance I get has helped me realize the progress I have made.

There is no magic pill.  No diet.  No sacrifice.  What little I have had to give up (Diet Coke and sweets come to mind) is far outweighed by my sense of well-being and my ability to move and do and be, once again.  

The darkness that was retirement life in pain has given way to the light that is enjoying every day for what it is and smelling the roses along the way.  As Nora Ephron admonished: I am once again the heroine of my life and not the victim…

And it feels good….

Cali

Two Weeks and Counting....

The countdown has started: back to work in a couple of weeks. I hope. I am ready.

I spend such disorganized days. It takes so long to get up and get going, it seems. I can get up early, I know I can. I've been up before the sun for YEARS; I can do it again.

I think I'm hard-wired to help others. I feel as if I am shirking my duty by not doing things for others. And yet, it has been hard, for all these months, just to do the normal, routine things for myself.

I have one more injection to go and then, fingers crossed, I'll be back at work. Taking care of patients, cursing at all the documentation that is necessary, and looking forward to days off. It's the American way, isn't it?

Today I went shopping. I bought new makeup! It has been so long since I wore any makeup that I have to “practice” for a couple of weeks before I start back to work. Otherwise, I might look like a, well, something out of a scary movie!

This break has taught me a lot: I can handle anything that comes along. But some things are easier to handle than others. And something important: I love my work. I love being able to impact the lives of others positively and help them feel better.

Besides, it's only for fifteen months. Then I retire.

Hallelujah!

Cali

God Bless Us....Please!

Today is a tragic day. People are dead, or wounded, because of a deranged young man's actions.

The congresswoman was meeting with her constituents, in front of a grocery store, collecting their thoughts on the country, the government, and things of concern to them. She was trying to take the pulse of those who elected her. Or voted against her.

It didn't matter: in her mind, she represents all of them.

And now, she is fighting for her life. A federal judge is dead. And a nine-year-old child. And three or four others, too, are dead. My prayers go up for those who were injured and for the families of those who died.

This is not how America works....

May God Bless All of Us.

Cali

Pain Free...

Today is a tentative day. In just the last twenty-four hours, I have lost my pain. I keep moving the way I was moving before the procedure, protecting my back.

I am acutely aware of every sensation affecting my back. I think about what I will do if the pain comes back. If the injection wears off.

The simple answer is: I will try it again. Even though it means going to a surgery center, going under anesthesia, and going through the whole process again.

For the sake of being pain-free, I will do it again....and again.

But today, right now, I will be glad that the pain is gone. And start the New Year with a clean slate!

Happy New Year, All!

Cali