This was a blog about my adventures with Joe. Then, along came Nia. Four years later, along came Stage 3 breast cancer, and nothing -- not even the blog -- was ever the same again.
It's 6:30 in the morning. The sun has not yet risen, but the sky is slowly brightening. It's cold out. I pull on my hat and my slippers, and turn on the heater. I have my hot water with lemon. The house is quiet except for the low hum of the laptop.
It's the perfect time to sit down & write.
OK, write! Now! Do it! Go!
....
And yet the words are not coming.
The blank page stares back at me, the cursor blinking...
I find myself typing "Chemobrain" into Google instead.
I learn that this feeling of cognitive "slowness" could go on for years (!). I believe the radiation treatments I'm currently receiving are aggravating the condition. I feel foggy most of the time, but especially right after treatments (did I tell you I put regular gasoline in my diesel car minutes after my first treatment?).
~~~~
My radiation appointments are becoming routine:
Arrive at 11:40a and change into my hospital gown (everyone else has white or pink; I feel pretty cool in this one, even though I have to wear it backwards for easy access).
By 11:43a I'm sitting with a magazine in the little waiting area. (The other day I found myself reading this article, which was a little surreal, especially this part: "Since patients who undergo radiation to the chest have a somewhat higher
risk of later developing breast cancer and other health problems,
avoiding radiation would be a big plus for Christina.") Awesome.
Thanks, Good Housekeeping.
Around 11:45a, the technician calls me back to the treatment room. I begin to untie my gown on the way. By the time I get there, I slip my left arm out of the sleeve of the gown, hoist the fabric up over my jeans and lie down on the metal "bed." I'm a model of efficiency. I lift my arms over my head and hold the plastic handles there for this purpose.
The techs adjust my head so I'm looking slightly right, then using calipers they line up my little tattoo marks with the green laser lines and then tape a layer of "fake skin" to my chest (that's what they really call it; it fools the machine into radiating my body to the correct depth). Once I'm all set up, they leave the room.
For ten minutes the machine buzzes and rotates around me. I close my eyes and work on a to-do list in my head. The time passes quickly.
The techs come back in and un-tape the fake skin and offer me an arm up off the metal bed -- something they do automatically for the older patients. I slip my arm back into the hospital gown and re-tie the side as I'm already walking back down the hall. Back in the dressing room, I slather my skin with calendula lotion. I look in the mirror. My skin is warm and looks somewhat sunburn. It is getting more and more sensitive. I barely have to shave that arm-pit anymore.
By 12:05p I'm exiting the building.
~~~~
You froze your eggs, right?!
This question keeps coming up lately. For the record, no, I didn't freeze my eggs before I began chemo. There was no time: Within two weeks of my diagnosis, I had my first chemo infusion. The cancer was too aggressive to wait.
Now, the months go by and my chemo-induced menopause ("chemopause") persists. Fingers crossed it reverses. I believe the body longs for health, for homeostasis. I imagine all the little healthy cells are trying to find their way back to "normal." To "well."
I know I'm lucky to be alive, to be cancer-free. Ever so lucky for modern, Western medicine. (My oncologist is my homeboy, for realz.)
But the truth is, it is hard having cancer as a young person, in the midst of having children. I don't know what it is like to have cancer at 45, or 55, or 85. I only know what it is like to have it at 35.
This is my cancer story: I had cancer when my daughter was 4, right when we'd decided to go for baby #2.
We thought we had the luxury of time. We thought it was up to us.
~~~~
As my brain continues to stay foggy, my house is getting cleaner and cleaner.
I'm drawn to cleaning these days. Maybe if the toilet was a little cleaner, my brain would be less fuzzy...Maybe if the corners were dust-bunny-free, I could keep a train of thought...
I finally learned how to properly clean & season my cast-iron skillet (3 steps: scrub (hot water, no soap), dry, apply a little veggie oil); I made my own kick-ass soft scrub (baking soda + peppermint Castile soap + tea tree oil + enough water to make a paste) which makes my sinks attractively shiny; and I've been cleaning my toilet with science (baking soda + tea tree oil + vinegar --- oooh, toilet volcano!).
Nia's been helping with all of this. It's fun to clean when you get to follow a recipe -- and get all wet!
Last night we tackled the shower. First I had her get in and spray the whole thing down well with water ("This is more like playing than cleaning!"), then we filled the tub up about 6" with warm water and added 1/8 c. dishwashing soap + baking soda. Then we got to work scrubbing. At the end, we drained the water and she got back in to spray the whole thing off again.
She got to play with water & I got mildew-free grout (and a clean kid).
Win-win-win!
(As I'm typing this, Typepad wants to suggest a link to somewhere in the Interwebs titled "Curing Cancer With Baking Soda." I heart baking soda, and it is doing some wonderful things for me right now mentally, but I don't think I'd trust it to literally cure my cancer. Just sayin'.)
~~~
I don't know much these days, but I can tell you this:
1. The dishwasher door is a great place to do things like kneed bread dough because when you/she is done, you can just close it and all the mess goes inside.
2. Slow down & start your day by reading aloud to your child in the still-warm bed. You'll both be thankful.
Comments
My Oncologist is My Homeboy
It's 6:30 in the morning. The sun has not yet risen, but the sky is slowly brightening. It's cold out. I pull on my hat and my slippers, and turn on the heater. I have my hot water with lemon. The house is quiet except for the low hum of the laptop.
It's the perfect time to sit down & write.
OK, write! Now! Do it! Go!
....
And yet the words are not coming.
The blank page stares back at me, the cursor blinking...
I find myself typing "Chemobrain" into Google instead.
I learn that this feeling of cognitive "slowness" could go on for years (!). I believe the radiation treatments I'm currently receiving are aggravating the condition. I feel foggy most of the time, but especially right after treatments (did I tell you I put regular gasoline in my diesel car minutes after my first treatment?).
~~~~
My radiation appointments are becoming routine:
Arrive at 11:40a and change into my hospital gown (everyone else has white or pink; I feel pretty cool in this one, even though I have to wear it backwards for easy access).
By 11:43a I'm sitting with a magazine in the little waiting area. (The other day I found myself reading this article, which was a little surreal, especially this part: "Since patients who undergo radiation to the chest have a somewhat higher
risk of later developing breast cancer and other health problems,
avoiding radiation would be a big plus for Christina.") Awesome.
Thanks, Good Housekeeping.
Around 11:45a, the technician calls me back to the treatment room. I begin to untie my gown on the way. By the time I get there, I slip my left arm out of the sleeve of the gown, hoist the fabric up over my jeans and lie down on the metal "bed." I'm a model of efficiency. I lift my arms over my head and hold the plastic handles there for this purpose.
The techs adjust my head so I'm looking slightly right, then using calipers they line up my little tattoo marks with the green laser lines and then tape a layer of "fake skin" to my chest (that's what they really call it; it fools the machine into radiating my body to the correct depth). Once I'm all set up, they leave the room.
For ten minutes the machine buzzes and rotates around me. I close my eyes and work on a to-do list in my head. The time passes quickly.
The techs come back in and un-tape the fake skin and offer me an arm up off the metal bed -- something they do automatically for the older patients. I slip my arm back into the hospital gown and re-tie the side as I'm already walking back down the hall. Back in the dressing room, I slather my skin with calendula lotion. I look in the mirror. My skin is warm and looks somewhat sunburn. It is getting more and more sensitive. I barely have to shave that arm-pit anymore.
By 12:05p I'm exiting the building.
~~~~
You froze your eggs, right?!
This question keeps coming up lately. For the record, no, I didn't freeze my eggs before I began chemo. There was no time: Within two weeks of my diagnosis, I had my first chemo infusion. The cancer was too aggressive to wait.
Now, the months go by and my chemo-induced menopause ("chemopause") persists. Fingers crossed it reverses. I believe the body longs for health, for homeostasis. I imagine all the little healthy cells are trying to find their way back to "normal." To "well."
I know I'm lucky to be alive, to be cancer-free. Ever so lucky for modern, Western medicine. (My oncologist is my homeboy, for realz.)
But the truth is, it is hard having cancer as a young person, in the midst of having children. I don't know what it is like to have cancer at 45, or 55, or 85. I only know what it is like to have it at 35.
This is my cancer story: I had cancer when my daughter was 4, right when we'd decided to go for baby #2.
We thought we had the luxury of time. We thought it was up to us.
~~~~
As my brain continues to stay foggy, my house is getting cleaner and cleaner.
I'm drawn to cleaning these days. Maybe if the toilet was a little cleaner, my brain would be less fuzzy...Maybe if the corners were dust-bunny-free, I could keep a train of thought...
I finally learned how to properly clean & season my cast-iron skillet (3 steps: scrub (hot water, no soap), dry, apply a little veggie oil); I made my own kick-ass soft scrub (baking soda + peppermint Castile soap + tea tree oil + enough water to make a paste) which makes my sinks attractively shiny; and I've been cleaning my toilet with science (baking soda + tea tree oil + vinegar --- oooh, toilet volcano!).
Nia's been helping with all of this. It's fun to clean when you get to follow a recipe -- and get all wet!
Last night we tackled the shower. First I had her get in and spray the whole thing down well with water ("This is more like playing than cleaning!"), then we filled the tub up about 6" with warm water and added 1/8 c. dishwashing soap + baking soda. Then we got to work scrubbing. At the end, we drained the water and she got back in to spray the whole thing off again.
She got to play with water & I got mildew-free grout (and a clean kid).
Win-win-win!
(As I'm typing this, Typepad wants to suggest a link to somewhere in the Interwebs titled "Curing Cancer With Baking Soda." I heart baking soda, and it is doing some wonderful things for me right now mentally, but I don't think I'd trust it to literally cure my cancer. Just sayin'.)
~~~
I don't know much these days, but I can tell you this:
1. The dishwasher door is a great place to do things like kneed bread dough because when you/she is done, you can just close it and all the mess goes inside.
2. Slow down & start your day by reading aloud to your child in the still-warm bed. You'll both be thankful.
