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Archive for November, 2013

“Why, why, whhhhhyyyyy???” I woke up whining. And I hate whining. But it’s also very cold and I hate the cold. And while I love that running lets me eat and helps me not get huge, I don’t love running. (Sorry Phil.) And have I mentioned that I am not a morning person? I thought so. Yet here it is, Thanksgiving morning, when really I don’t need to be anywhere before noon, and what am I doing? Getting up. Early. To run. In the cold. Why? Because this year I can.

I never think of the weather when I sign up for these 5ks. I think of the cause (in this case Multiple Sclerosis – it’s the Boston Volvo Village 5k Road Race for MS) or the other people running (some of my Genzyme Running Team peeps) or the great people watching (people dressed up like turkeys, pilgrims, Indians and I’m sure there will be at least a few Santas).

I did, however, start to think about the weather yesterday, when I heard how incredibly cold today was predicted to be. Andrew asked where and when to meet, and I told him I’d be there if it was above 30 and not raining or wicked windy – I can’t afford to get sick with surgery less than two weeks away. Then, last night when I was snuggled warm in bed, and was thinking how crazy it is to be out in the cold period, I texted Tara.

Me: Remind me there’s no excuse not to run in the morning. I won’t get sick and it doesn’t matter that I haven’t run in two weeks or how slow I am.

Tara: Slow and steady! Something is not just better than nothing, it’s an investment in you. I’m running/walking a turkey trot in the morning. You’ll feel better for doing it.

And I know, as usual, she’s right.

So I woke up and rolled over to check the weather, figuring above 30 and I’m good, since the beams of light shining into my room already told me it’s not raining. And what does the weather say? 30 – and then “feels like 19” – ugh! I could’ve texted Andrew, told him I didn’t want to risk getting sick (which is seriously the big fear in the back of my mind, but also an excuse), but I didn’t. Because then I started thinking about last Thanksgiving.

Last Thanksgiving I couldn’t run, regardless of the weather. Thanksgiving week 2012 I finished my 24th week of chemo. It was the last, but my body ached more than ever, I had tons of numbness and tingling in my fingers and feet, and the lymphedema had just started. And I had radiation still ahead of me. Oh, and I was bald. No eyebrows, no eyelashes and no hair on my head. Running was the last thing on my mind – I was just thankful I could get up in the morning!

So today I am running. Because I can. Because God is good and has given me a great life, and a second chance, and I don’t want to waste it. 2013 may not have been the easiest or best year, but it’s been a hell of a lot better than 2012. I am so thankful for all my family, friends, and work buddies who have stuck by me, encouraged me and even pushed me when needed. And I am thankful for the new people in my life, including someone who makes me smile every day, even when he’s not in the same state! I have incredible hope and confidence that as great as things are now, they are going to keep getting better. And for all that I am beyond thankful.

Andrew just texted.

Andrew: Running?

Me: Yup. Will be there shortly.

So I better stop typing and go freeze, I mean run. 😉 Happy Thanksgiving all! Xo

Post run update: Yup. I ran. And froze. But it was worth it!

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With Joncille and Aunt Patsy, October 2011

With Joncille and Aunt Patsy, October 2011

I. Hate. Cancer. I want to scream and cry and hit things. But none of it will bring my cousin back.

I found out this morning that my cousin Joncille – my dad’s cousin, so my second cousin if you want to get technical – passed away. She gave in to stupid cancer. She has been suffering off and on for years, and, according to my uncle, didn’t want to fight any more. I was shocked.

I got to know Joncille when I visited her and her husband in Sugar Land, Texas, on my road trip. (You can read about it here: https://amysamerica.com/2010/11/09/finding-my-roots-on-day-61/) They welcomed me into their home with open arms and I couldn’t have felt more at home. It was like we were long lost friends. It was actually the beginning of a great friendship. Joncille was a wonderful support through my treatment. A constant cheerleader, encouraging me to remain positive, to trust in God and to know that I really would get past it all.

“I would like you to know, though, that this too will pass, and you will move  through this hardship one day at a time and in the bright future it will seem  like a bad dream,” Joncille wrote to me – and she was right. She sent me love, thoughts and prayers for strength, courage and healing. And they gave me strength and will to continue to plow through treatment.

“…grab hold of the positive things. Doing that will absolutely save your life and your sanity,” she wrote to me.

“From one who knows, bald ain’t too bad. One swish with a wet wash cloth and you have washed, dried and styled your hair and are ready for the day. And again,  from one who knows, it grows back.” Yup, right again.

And when I found out I did, in fact, need radiation, Joncille gave me a new way to look at it: “I do want to warn you that when you first see the tattoo that  marks the spot to radiate, you will feel that you have been marked as a CANCER  VICTIM, but YOU ARE NOT!!!! They are marking a survivor. I knew a radiologist many years ago that envisioned the power of the Holy Spirit entering  her patients as she applied the radiation. I held that vision in my mind  when receiving mine. I promise that there is a life after cancer.  It  just seems like a never ending saga right now. Hang in one treatment at a  time and before you know it they will all be over.” I adopted that vision from Joncille, and it was such a comfort…

I feel robbed. It’s not fair. We didn’t get enough time together. I want to hear more of her stories. I want to take her up on her offer to return to Sugar Land with my Aunt Patsy, who was one of her best friends. Joncille and Aunt Patsy remind me of Tara and me, cousins, confidantes, travel buddies and dear friends… and that just makes it all hit home even more.

No, life is not fair. I guess we all know that by now. And life is short. So don’t waste it. Spend time with the people you care about. Tell them that you love them. Be a real friend. Cherish the time you have. You don’t know when it will end.

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One month from yesterday I will be back under the knife (the unbelievably skilled knife of Dr. H) again. This time, rather than shell shocked and scared, I’m eager and excited. Wouldn’t you be, if you lived 24/7 for more than a year and a half with bowling balls (even light-weight ones) on your chest?

I’m so done feeling like a freak every time I hug someone. I do my best to block it out, but it is constantly there, lingering in the back of my mind: “What are they thinking?” “If they don’t know, can they tell?” “Ugh, this just sucks!”

It’s not just the physical feeling that I’m anticipating – to feel somewhat ‘normal’ again – but for that portion of the waiting to be over. I’m not good at waiting. If you know me, you know patience is definitely not one of my virtues, although I try (lots of deep breaths and exhales…). And I feel like so much of this, after the initial rush to surgery, has been a waiting game. Not that anything about cancer is pleasant and how you want it to be, but does so much of it have to take so darn long???

A few people have mentioned how glad I must be that after the surgery it will be over. Oh, how I wish! I’m afraid this is the never-ending gift that just keeps giving. Every day I’m reminded as I take my tamoxifin (for, oh, five or ten years – and don’t you dare get pregnant while you’re on it!). And every time I get a cut, bruise or burn (yes, I’m a klutz) on my right hand or arm and hold my breath, praying it’s not going to swell. And trying to be good and at least wear the sleeve when I run and fly. And worst of all, the voices in the back of my head analyzing my body and pointing out all the symptoms of related cancers – signs of breast cancer recurrence, subsequent cancers or chemo-induced cancers… it’s hard to shut them up sometimes!

So while no, this surgery will not be an end, I do think it’s going to be a great next chapter, giving me a bit more normal in my life, and hopefully quieting some of those voices in my head…

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