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Archive for the ‘chemotherapy’ Category

Not Yet, AKA Be Patient

Posted in Boston, Cancer, chemotherapy, family, prayer, radiation, recovery, tagged , , , , , , , , , on June 4, 2013| 1 Comment »

I felt stupid as silent tears streamed down my face as I walked through the bridge connecting Brigham and Women’s, where I’d just seen Dr.H, my reconstructive surgeon, and Dana-Farber, where I was parked. And I was mad at myself for not making it to my car before crying.

This was the appointment where I was supposed to be cleared to have the implant surgery, so I could start to feel normal again, rather than have these two solid rocks sticking out from my chest. But instead I learned that my body just isn’t ready. I quickly explained that I’m seeing a trainer, and my physical therapist, and that I can ask them for exercises to loosen me up, and Dr. H looked at me sympathetically and said ‘Its not you, dear, there’s nothing you can do. It’s just your body, your tissues just aren’t loosening and ready.” Then he patted my arm, smiled broadly and said ” If you do find a way, let me know – I have 250 other patients who would love it!”

I hate it when there is nothing I can do, when it is completely out of my control. I left feeling totally and utterly disappointed. I really thought the end was somewhat in sight. But now I can’t even think about scheduling the next surgery until I see him again in September. Ugh. This really is the neverending story. Hence the tears. As soon as they started flowing I made a pit stop in Dana-Farber’s Healing Garden, the oasis where I feel a little less stupid crying, and usually can calm myself down.

Why did I feel stupid? Because this is simply a little set back. It’s cosmetic, essentially. And people in these hospitals have so much bigger problems. I am lucky. I am done with all treatment but tamoxifin. My hair is growing back. And I am going to be fine. So really, the tears were unnecessary. I wish my mind could have just convinced my body of that! I guess we can’t control everything. Or, sometimes, anything. And we just have to wait.

When Nick and I both got home tonight I told him my disappointing news. He hugged me and said he’s sorry, but maybe it’s for the best. I looked at him like he’s crazy and he just shrugged and said “Hey, you’re the one who always says everything happens for a reason, so maybe there’s a reason for this.” How can I debate that? I can’t, so I will listen and I will try to be patient. Definitely not one of my virtues…

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Missed Spring

Posted in Boston, Cancer, chemotherapy, Discovery, Fundraising, hair, lymphedema, prayer, recovery, work, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 13, 2013| Leave a Comment »

Friday night I attended the Birds and All That Jazz fundraiser at Tara’s Mass Audubon Sanctuary, Oak Knoll, in Attleboro. It was a relaxing evening of music and mingling (and food and wine), all in the name of charity. (What girl doesn’t love a reason to get dressed up – especially when there’s wine and chocolate involved? See pictures below. ) And luckily, it was a beautiful night, with a warm breeze and what I now know were tree frogs (not birds, as I originally thought), providing a natural soundtrack to the event. I was talking with a few people who commented how much of a better turnout the event had this year, when it occurred to me that I didn’t attend in 2012. I looked quizzically at Kevin and asked “Why wasn’t I here last year?” and he gave me one of those knowing, smiling, “Duh, Amy” looks. Oh yea. Because I got cancer. I looked at the woman next to me, shook my head and simply said “It doesn’t matter. But I certainly would’ve rather been here.”

I missed last spring. Completely. I really don’t remember it. In my mind, it jumped from cold February to warm July. My spring was finding the lump, diagnosis, breast cancer 101, Dana-Farber, surgery at Brigham and Women’s, the start of treatment and my grandfather passing away. It was a gut-wrenching, often medicated, blur.

It makes this spring that much more special. I have always loved spring – it’s the time when things come alive and can begin again. And I am so ready to begin again! I had my first official check-up at Dana-Farber with my oncologist and all seems well. It’s a little anticlimactic, as they don’t really do any tests – it’s just making sure you’re not having any symptoms, and if not, assuming all is fine. (Yes, a big leap of faith – something where you really just need to take deep breaths, remain calm and positive, and pray.)

And all is basically fine. I am having a flair-up of lymphedema, and will call to make an appointment with my physical therapist, but in the meantime have been doing the exercises and wearing the glove and sleeve (even though I can’t stand them) most of the time. Otherwise, all seems ok. The side effects of the Tamoxifin have subsided – not many hot flashes any more – and while the chemo side effects of tingling in my hands and feet continue, I’m now trying a B-complex vitamin to see if it will help. And of course I’m tired – but I can hardly blame the cancer or treatment on that, at least not completely. Nothing is limiting my work or other activities and I am very thankful for that!

My hair is growing, and normal life is resuming. I know that I am blessed. And I am going to cherish this spring and take advantage of beginning again…462395_500062926715477_494659541_o 302907_10201073312822099_616309187_n girls birds

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Guest Blog: What a Difference a Year Makes

Posted in Boston, Cancer, chemotherapy, Dreams, family, Planning, radiation, recovery, work, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 30, 2013| Leave a Comment »

The following is a guest blog written by my dear cousin Tara, because she knew I just couldn’t tonight. Thank you, T…

A year ago, exactly, Amy asked me to guest blog on AmysAmerica.com. She asked me to write for her the day that she had her surgery, knowing she wouldn’t be up to it that night. I felt a wash of things. Honored she would ask me to write here, a place where she shares her own thoughts, advises, and inspires so many people. Terrified, that something would go wrong in surgery, that it would be worse than we feared. Angry, that at 38 and 39, somehow our lives had taken this unbelievably wrong turn and the girls that grew up pretending to be happy, secure (wealthy… famous…fabulous) adults, found ourselves a little off course, a little scared, and facing challenges we wouldn’t have even known to imagine.

Well, we did it. You did it, Amy. You not only survived the year – a LONG year of surgery and treatments – you did it with courage, with style, with grace, and not just a little tenacity and fervor. 

I woke up and texted Amy this morning: That no matter what happened today, it had to be better than last year. And then, finally, a new month, new us, the more organized, more empowered, don’t f*** with us versions. 

And we laughed. 

And tonight when she texted on her way home from a long day at work, to go home to do more work, to get up to get in early for another long day tomorrow (Because that’s what she does. Well. And loves it), I offered to write again. Not, at the time, realizing that it had been exactly a year ago that I did so. And it just felt right. Because that’s what you do for the people you love, right? You step in, you take a little something off their full plate, anything to share the burden. 

A few weeks ago, I ran the marathon (almost). And I had a bunch of amazing family and friends either there in person or in spirit. And in frustration, adrenaline, and maybe some post-run dopamine influence, I signed up to run the NJ marathon this weekend. I just did it. And when I told Amy, she didn’t ask why, she didn’t tell me I was crazy, she simply asked “want me to book the hotel room?” And I cried (because I’m still pretty emotional over the whole marathon disaster) and texted back “really??? you want to come to NJ” and she wrote “(rolling my eyes) do you really think I’d let you finish your first marathon without being there?” (yeah, I’m crying now, too.)

I guess my long-winded, one year out, post surgery anniversary blog point is this. Things happen every day that we couldn’t have imagined a year before, a day before, an hour before, even. Terrible, horrific things, beautiful, mind-blowing, life-affirming things. We just don’t know. And that’s a lot of chaos and uncertainty. But with luck, you find a few people to ride the crazy roller coaster with and make the best of the worst and better of the best times with. I count myself incredibly fortunate to have some of the best. You at the forefront, Amy Lee. 

I am so very, deeply, to the core, thankful that this chapter is ending. That a new one starts now, that every day you remind me to take the lessons from the past and then file it away, plan for the remarkable things we have yet to achieve, but live in the present and be thankful in this moment.  

Here’s to May 1.

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