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Flashback

Posted in Boston, Cancer, chemotherapy, family, Fundraising, prayer, recovery, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on August 18, 2013| 2 Comments »

The other night I was at a family party, laughing and eating and chatting away with everyone, when another guest arrived. She walked slowly, tentatively as if it hurt to move. She wore a heavy coat even though it’s August because she gets chilled so easily. And her face was pale, with sunken eyes. I heard one of her relatives whispering about her having just taken a Compazine to try to calm the nausea. 

A feeling of nausea suddenly rushed over me – it brought me right back to one year ago. Getting poked repeatedly to try to find a decent vein for the IV before we gave up and had the port put in. Feeling sick on the way to the hospital just because I knew what was coming. Sitting in the big comfy infusion chair, wrapped in heated blankets. Trying to smile and laugh as my family and friends tried to distract me and keep my spirits up, as the poison rushed through my veins. Feeling loopy on the ride home – and then sick for days.

I am so lucky. That was a short period in time for me – and every day it gets buried further in my past and becomes a smaller percentage of my overall life. This woman – as so many others – is not so lucky. It’s too late, they explained to me after she left. They’ve done all they can but it’s spread so much there’s nothing else they can do, except try to keep her comfortable. My heart ached for her and her family. And my mind raced, repeatedly thanking God for letting me find that lump when I did, and for being able to stop the cancer in its tracks.

I am scared all the time. I, like many survivors I know, see Tamoxifen as my wonder drug. As long as I’m on it, it will ward off the recurrence. I should be safe. But what then? There is no telling. A lot can happen in a few years – particularly in research and development. Maybe by then they will be able to not only detect earlier, but prevent – and cure. So I have hope.

It all takes money, though. This is why I’m doing the Jimmy Fund Boston Marathon Walk on Sunday, September 8. I want to do everything I can to stop this monster of a disease. Please join our team – Team Inspire Boston – and walk with us, or sponsor me. You can walk 3 miles, 5 miles, 13.1 miles or the full marathon: 26.2 miles. No matter what you decide – to walk or sponsor us (and no amount is too small – every cent counts!) – you will be helping to kick cancer and helping people like me (and maybe you) live a longer, happier life. Thank you.

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(It Should Be) No Big Deal

Posted in Boston, chemotherapy, Decisions, Denial, lymphedema, prayer, recovery, work, tagged , , , , , , , , , on July 30, 2013| Leave a Comment »

Yesterday was a beautiful day – the perfect day to run home from work. Nick dropped me off in the morning and I was looking forward to it all day. I was psyched when I was lacing up my sneakers and heading out the door. I even planned how I could make the two mile route longer by running past the BU Bridge and over the Mass Ave. Bridge instead, then back to my place.

Things always happen in threes, right? The first not so great thing that happened was I realized I forgot my headphones. Ugh! I hate running without music! Oh well, I decided that since I run with my phone in my hand, I could just have the music on low and it shouldn’t bother anyone. I ran across the Western Ave. Bridge and down Memorial Drive.

It was a nice run, I was feeling good – and then (number 2) there was the huge flash of lightning and crash of thunder. Oh crap, I thought, I better run a bit faster, since there’s really no shelter, and I’d rather not get struck by lightning…

So I picked up my pace, praying the storm would hold off, when – yup, here’s number three – I tripped on the sidewalk and (in seemingly slow motion) I went flying across the sidewalk. It was very similar to the Christmas Tree Shoppe fall just over a year ago, only this time my knee was spared and it was my iPhone and right elbow that bore the brunt of it.

Thank goodness I was wearing my compression sleeve and glove. It really saved my right arm quite a bit. Of course, now the $200 sleeve is all ripped up and bloody, but I can only imagine how bad my arm would be had I not been wearing it! (And luckily I do have two others.) (Sleeves – not arms.)

This fall should have been no big deal. But when you’re living with lymphedema, the number one thing they tell you is “Avoid trauma/injury” – I’m not even supposed to have manicures (but I do). So really, having a big gash in my right elbow is not a good thing. Not only do I need to take extra good care of it so that it doesn’t get infected, I need to really watch for swelling, too.

I really thought that when chemo and radiation were over, I could go back to regular life. I hate that life will never be normal again. That there’s always something to worry about. That I should wear my sleeve every day (but I don’t). That I need to do my exercises and massage every day (I do try). That I need to constantly monitor every scrape on my upper right side. It’s just so frustrating!!!

But I am thankful. That I am no longer in chemo (and have hair again). That there are ways I can control the lymphedema. That I don’t have cancer any more. So while I wish falling while running was no big deal, I am thankful that I can run at all.

 

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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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