This week is "Appointment Week"! I have EIGHT appointments, but there's a nice Christmas party tucked into the middle of the schedule which will make it all okay. :-)
Today, Stephen and I met with the surgeon. He gave us some very reassuring and encouraging words. I felt a HUGE sense of relief when he told me that he'll be doing breast exams every 3-4 months for the next few years. Knowing that took a weight off of our shoulders. I could see the relief on Stephen's face as well.
As WONDERFUL as it is for treatment to come to an end, it's also a scary time for a cancer patient. You wonder "Who's going to check on me? What if cancer comes back and I don't detect it early enough?" I am SO thankful for this doctor. He is kind and understanding, and he takes his work seriously. He shows that he values the lives of his patients. I'm also grateful that my niece is under his care.
The doctor told us that as time goes on we'll be able to go about life again without thinking so much about cancer. He said that the day will come when it's not the first thing on our minds. I'm so looking forward to that day.
I sometimes anguish when making reference to the future, because I'm afraid to set myself up --- to look forward to something when fearing cancer will return and take my life. For example, if talking with Kaylee about "When the family grows, we'll do this or that for Christmas ..." Just after feeling happy about the idea, I'll feel a sense of sadness at the idea of maybe NOT being here for that experience. I really need deliverance from this burdened way of thinking, but I believe it will come with time and prayer.
We went for radiation treatment number twelve today. :-) And, this makes me think about something kind of funny. I'm one of those people who LOVES the little things so much that I find as much joy in those as I do something really big. Twelve has been my favorite number since I was about eight years old. Well, every time I go for a treatment and locker #12 is available in the changing area, I get so excited! :-)
The treatment was a bit long, because the technician (?) took weekly images, too. Man, it's hard to lay there for so long---without being able to move. There was an itch on my forehead that I couldn't scratch today. lol Torture! ;-)
I'd made a request at my very first treatment that I NOT have a male technician. (I have to lay there with my chest uncovered.) They told me that the male techs may balk at that and say it's discrimination since the doctors are males, but they said they'd note it in my chart. Well, today, a "new to me" technician set me up and handled the treatment and THAT was uncomfortable enough (having to show my body to yet another stranger), but I felt really "crushed" when leaving the treatment room and seeing that a male had run the computers in the control room. :-( The patient receiving treatment is viewed on a monitor in there during the entire treatment. I was really disheartened to learn that he'd seen me laying on the table. :-( My husband is very sweet---when I told him how that had made me feel he put his arm around me. That meant a lot to me.
The treatments are starting to "burn" my skin (as to be expected) and I'm REALLY feeling fatigued. I tire very easily and feel the need to cut back in any way I can. Stephen and I came home today and fell asleep to a boring movie on TV. :-) He's quite wiped out from working whacky holiday hours and he has a cold.
Well, speaking of fatigue, I'm ready to crash and rest.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Seven down and 26 to go!
I've now received seven radiation treatments and have 26 to go. The final one is scheduled for December 30th. I'm looking forward to welcoming 2011 with chemo and radiation behind me!
We continue to meet nice people at the radiation appointments. It's really hard to describe, but there's a real sense of "connection" between the patients. We all have this awful, disruptive (to life) disease called cancer. Ya' kind of feel like you've fallen off the beaten path and you're laying wounded in the ditch while life goes on for everyone else around you. Yet, there are others in the ditch--- others fighting cancer so they can climb back on the path and continue with their lives, too. We're struggling together, and sometimes even laughing together as we strive to beat this challenge.
Sadly, there are some you meet who will never climb back out of that ditch. I've met one. He's a very nice man who is always smiling at us since we met him last Monday when he was so nervous about having his first treatment. He must be in his 60's, and he and his wife are friendly people. Nearly a week ago, I was encouraging him about radiation--- what to expect, that it will be over before he knows it, etc. By the end of the week, I learned that he is dying. Just three weeks ago he was living a healthy life, or so he thought, and then he suddenly learned that he has a brain tumor and cancer on his lung and liver. They're now just trying to buy him some "quality time" by aiming to shrink his brain tumor. When his wife told me this yesterday, I just wanted to CRY. Cancer is so cruel! This man looks well! Yet, he's dying. I told his wife that they will be at the top of my prayer list. Please, if anyone still reads this blog, I would ask you to pray for them as well. I don't even know their first names--- but God knows.
It's unlikely I'll see this couple again, as my treatment time is changing as of Monday. I'll be going at 12:30 rather than at 2:30. I'll be meeting new people each day, until the following week when the time changes again. More people with cancer. More people hoping to live. More people who will die. It's very HARD to be in this "cancer club". While other folks seem to be going about their busy routines and thinking about "what next", some of us are thinking "Will we be here in a year? Do we dare to make plans for the future?"
Just yesterday when I was putting on my moisture and eye creams (which I've done since the age of 28, hoping to ward off wrinkles... Ha!), I thought "WHY am I bothering? I don't even know if I'm going to beat cancer." I shared this with my husband later in the morning and started crying. He hugged me and told me I'll be okay. This is an example of what the emotional aspect of having cancer is like.
Today, I met my husband at his work because I was there to do some shopping. I spotted some breast cancer awareness slippers and mentioned them to him. He said he'd also been looking at them and wanted to surprise me with a pair, but he didn't know if I want the reminder of my cancer. I told him that for now, it's okay---- if the purchase would benefit the cause, I'd like to have a pair. (Mine had holes in the soles!) The pair I picked out was the same design he'd wanted to buy for me. :-) Pretty, and PINK, of course! :-)
Yesterday, I also told my husband that I cannot remember life before cancer. I can't remember what it feels like to wake up in the morning and go about the day without thinking about my health or fearing this disease. I wish I could remember. And, I hope that the day comes when I can forget for a while--- even for a day. :-)
All of what I'm sharing is from my HUMAN feelings and perspective. Ultimately, I know God is always in control. Every once in a while I need a kick in the pants to bring that back to the forefront of my mind. :-) Like tonight--- home alone with the kids for the first time in a long time---and not feeling 100% well. I've had to pray my way through the evening routine, as it's been exhausting. :-) God is our source of strength, yet we so easily forget to rely on Him sometimes.
Prayer requests:
1. My seemingly unrelenting leg pain--- for healing. We're not sure what's causing it. Three doctor's have examined me.
2. The couple from radiation--- the husband is terminally ill
3. Kaylee as she prepares to go back to Bible school in Jan. (finances, adjustments for all of us, safe travels)
4. My niece Sara who is going to have breast surgery in early December and then go back into chemotherapy for eight weeks.
We continue to meet nice people at the radiation appointments. It's really hard to describe, but there's a real sense of "connection" between the patients. We all have this awful, disruptive (to life) disease called cancer. Ya' kind of feel like you've fallen off the beaten path and you're laying wounded in the ditch while life goes on for everyone else around you. Yet, there are others in the ditch--- others fighting cancer so they can climb back on the path and continue with their lives, too. We're struggling together, and sometimes even laughing together as we strive to beat this challenge.
Sadly, there are some you meet who will never climb back out of that ditch. I've met one. He's a very nice man who is always smiling at us since we met him last Monday when he was so nervous about having his first treatment. He must be in his 60's, and he and his wife are friendly people. Nearly a week ago, I was encouraging him about radiation--- what to expect, that it will be over before he knows it, etc. By the end of the week, I learned that he is dying. Just three weeks ago he was living a healthy life, or so he thought, and then he suddenly learned that he has a brain tumor and cancer on his lung and liver. They're now just trying to buy him some "quality time" by aiming to shrink his brain tumor. When his wife told me this yesterday, I just wanted to CRY. Cancer is so cruel! This man looks well! Yet, he's dying. I told his wife that they will be at the top of my prayer list. Please, if anyone still reads this blog, I would ask you to pray for them as well. I don't even know their first names--- but God knows.
It's unlikely I'll see this couple again, as my treatment time is changing as of Monday. I'll be going at 12:30 rather than at 2:30. I'll be meeting new people each day, until the following week when the time changes again. More people with cancer. More people hoping to live. More people who will die. It's very HARD to be in this "cancer club". While other folks seem to be going about their busy routines and thinking about "what next", some of us are thinking "Will we be here in a year? Do we dare to make plans for the future?"
Just yesterday when I was putting on my moisture and eye creams (which I've done since the age of 28, hoping to ward off wrinkles... Ha!), I thought "WHY am I bothering? I don't even know if I'm going to beat cancer." I shared this with my husband later in the morning and started crying. He hugged me and told me I'll be okay. This is an example of what the emotional aspect of having cancer is like.
Today, I met my husband at his work because I was there to do some shopping. I spotted some breast cancer awareness slippers and mentioned them to him. He said he'd also been looking at them and wanted to surprise me with a pair, but he didn't know if I want the reminder of my cancer. I told him that for now, it's okay---- if the purchase would benefit the cause, I'd like to have a pair. (Mine had holes in the soles!) The pair I picked out was the same design he'd wanted to buy for me. :-) Pretty, and PINK, of course! :-)
Yesterday, I also told my husband that I cannot remember life before cancer. I can't remember what it feels like to wake up in the morning and go about the day without thinking about my health or fearing this disease. I wish I could remember. And, I hope that the day comes when I can forget for a while--- even for a day. :-)
All of what I'm sharing is from my HUMAN feelings and perspective. Ultimately, I know God is always in control. Every once in a while I need a kick in the pants to bring that back to the forefront of my mind. :-) Like tonight--- home alone with the kids for the first time in a long time---and not feeling 100% well. I've had to pray my way through the evening routine, as it's been exhausting. :-) God is our source of strength, yet we so easily forget to rely on Him sometimes.
Prayer requests:
1. My seemingly unrelenting leg pain--- for healing. We're not sure what's causing it. Three doctor's have examined me.
2. The couple from radiation--- the husband is terminally ill
3. Kaylee as she prepares to go back to Bible school in Jan. (finances, adjustments for all of us, safe travels)
4. My niece Sara who is going to have breast surgery in early December and then go back into chemotherapy for eight weeks.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Radiation Treatements 1 and 2
I had my second radiation treatment today. This radiation business is truly a different experience from chemotherapy.
It's been a very emotional thing, and I have been surprised by that. Both days that I've gone for treatment, I've found myself in tears on the way to the cancer care facility. I wasn't prepared for this type of reaction. I had thought all along that radiation would be much easier than chemo.
The first day that I went for radiation had been a bad one from the get-go. Little things kept going wrong, making a day that was to be a rather restful, casual one a stressful time instead. I realize now that I would have tolerated those frustrations much better had I not been subconsciously so worried about starting more treatment.
By the end of the day I was so wiped out that I couldn't watch my grandbaby while his parents worked. Thankfully, Kaylee was willing and able to take care of him, and Stephen helped with our three children so I could get some rest. I'm finding that I'm not up to babysitting him as much nowadays and it's been very hard to break that news to my daughter-in-law. I feel badly about this, but the truth of the matter is that it's just too much right now while in treatment and while still recovering from chemo. I'm really recognizing my limits now.
When Stephen and I arrived at the facility for my first treatment, we were told that I'd be using machine number one and that we should go to waiting room number one after I changed my clothes. We went to the changing room where I nervously changed. I didn't know what to expect and was quite anxious. My husband has been wonderful through this whole thing, by the way. He doesn't even blink an eye about jumping into the car and going with me to every appointment that he possibly can. He stays by my side--- even helps me in the changing room. Having him there offers so much comfort and support.
I've noticed that other people who are there for radiation come with someone--- usually a spouse. Today, I was really touched and saddened at the same time to see a very elderly couple trying to manage following the husband's treatment. The wife was hunched over and slowly moving as she aimed to provide support and care to her husband. She went to his locker and wanted to get his clothes for him. He, looking over her shoulder, offered to help with the key if she had trouble with it. I was so sorry to see folks at that stage of life having to face such a tough challenge such as cancer. They should be relaxing, resting and enjoying their time together---- not fighting this awful battle. :-(
I cannot stress enough how IMPORTANT it is to a cancer patient to have the steady, loving support of someone close to them.
Back to the first treatment--- my husband always sat beside me during chemo, but for radiation, we have to part ways at the waiting room. For obvious reason (radiation!) he cannot be in the treatment room with me. So, going by myself to this "new adventure" was a bit unnerving. The workers were behind schedule by about an hour as there had been a malfunction with the equipment. So, my technicians were moving pretty quickly with things and I felt "in the dark" to a degree with what was taking place.
The first treatment is longer than the rest of them, because angles for the treatment need to be set up, the doctor has to check the angles the technicians establish, images are taken, etc. THEN, the actual treatment. I was confused as to what was going on at different points during the half hour or so that I was laying on that hard table and feeling chilled. I was greatly intimidated by the equipment.
I have to admit, I felt ANGRY to have to be there. I was scared and uncomfortable. I was upset to have to go through another type of treatment (it's been a LONG year), and I hated that I had to expose my body to radiation. When the treatment machine rotated over my upper body I wanted to tell it how much I hated it. :-)
But, I survived that first treatment, and I also managed to get through today's second one.
Something that Stephen and I have very quickly come to look forward to at the treatments is that we are enjoying chatting with some other people in our waiting area. (People tend to go at the same time every day for each of their treatments, so you get to see each other again and again.) We have met some really nice people. Coincidently, one couple is ALMOST related to me. :-) My husband discovered that while chatting with them during my first appointment. The patient's wife is my uncle's neice. They share the same faith as us, and they are two of the NICEST, FUNNIEST people we've ever met. We absolutely MUST keep in touch with them.
Another set of people we've already come to enjoy meeting up with is a woman (probably 50's) and her mom. The dear elderly mom bought a one way ticket from another state to come and be with her daugther during treatment. They live a good distance from the facility and spend the week days in our area. I gather that this is the second time around with cancer for her, and I'm sorry she has to experience this AGAIN. I can tell that she's struggling with what she's going through and my heart hurts for her. She's giving up going home (out of state) for the winter, because this horrible disease and the need for treatment are making it not possible. :-( I hate cancer!
Somehow, we cancer patients get through this thing together--- because we're bonded by this awful disease. As a friend who's also had cancer once told me- "It's an awful club to join, but you make some great friends through it." It's true. Cancer is isolating in that as much as others care and try to understand, it DOES separate one from the rest of society in ways, and only other cancer patients and their close caregivers can REALLY understand what it's like. So, there's something really special about giving and receiving support within the group of cancer patients and survivors. We need each other!
Well, two radiation treatments down and thirty-one to go!
If anyone still reads my ramblings, please continue to keep my niece in prayer as she also battles breast cancer. And, an update on the couple I'd asked prayer for--- they're doing very well! :-) Thank you for praying!
It's been a very emotional thing, and I have been surprised by that. Both days that I've gone for treatment, I've found myself in tears on the way to the cancer care facility. I wasn't prepared for this type of reaction. I had thought all along that radiation would be much easier than chemo.
The first day that I went for radiation had been a bad one from the get-go. Little things kept going wrong, making a day that was to be a rather restful, casual one a stressful time instead. I realize now that I would have tolerated those frustrations much better had I not been subconsciously so worried about starting more treatment.
By the end of the day I was so wiped out that I couldn't watch my grandbaby while his parents worked. Thankfully, Kaylee was willing and able to take care of him, and Stephen helped with our three children so I could get some rest. I'm finding that I'm not up to babysitting him as much nowadays and it's been very hard to break that news to my daughter-in-law. I feel badly about this, but the truth of the matter is that it's just too much right now while in treatment and while still recovering from chemo. I'm really recognizing my limits now.
When Stephen and I arrived at the facility for my first treatment, we were told that I'd be using machine number one and that we should go to waiting room number one after I changed my clothes. We went to the changing room where I nervously changed. I didn't know what to expect and was quite anxious. My husband has been wonderful through this whole thing, by the way. He doesn't even blink an eye about jumping into the car and going with me to every appointment that he possibly can. He stays by my side--- even helps me in the changing room. Having him there offers so much comfort and support.
I've noticed that other people who are there for radiation come with someone--- usually a spouse. Today, I was really touched and saddened at the same time to see a very elderly couple trying to manage following the husband's treatment. The wife was hunched over and slowly moving as she aimed to provide support and care to her husband. She went to his locker and wanted to get his clothes for him. He, looking over her shoulder, offered to help with the key if she had trouble with it. I was so sorry to see folks at that stage of life having to face such a tough challenge such as cancer. They should be relaxing, resting and enjoying their time together---- not fighting this awful battle. :-(
I cannot stress enough how IMPORTANT it is to a cancer patient to have the steady, loving support of someone close to them.
Back to the first treatment--- my husband always sat beside me during chemo, but for radiation, we have to part ways at the waiting room. For obvious reason (radiation!) he cannot be in the treatment room with me. So, going by myself to this "new adventure" was a bit unnerving. The workers were behind schedule by about an hour as there had been a malfunction with the equipment. So, my technicians were moving pretty quickly with things and I felt "in the dark" to a degree with what was taking place.
The first treatment is longer than the rest of them, because angles for the treatment need to be set up, the doctor has to check the angles the technicians establish, images are taken, etc. THEN, the actual treatment. I was confused as to what was going on at different points during the half hour or so that I was laying on that hard table and feeling chilled. I was greatly intimidated by the equipment.
I have to admit, I felt ANGRY to have to be there. I was scared and uncomfortable. I was upset to have to go through another type of treatment (it's been a LONG year), and I hated that I had to expose my body to radiation. When the treatment machine rotated over my upper body I wanted to tell it how much I hated it. :-)
But, I survived that first treatment, and I also managed to get through today's second one.
Something that Stephen and I have very quickly come to look forward to at the treatments is that we are enjoying chatting with some other people in our waiting area. (People tend to go at the same time every day for each of their treatments, so you get to see each other again and again.) We have met some really nice people. Coincidently, one couple is ALMOST related to me. :-) My husband discovered that while chatting with them during my first appointment. The patient's wife is my uncle's neice. They share the same faith as us, and they are two of the NICEST, FUNNIEST people we've ever met. We absolutely MUST keep in touch with them.
Another set of people we've already come to enjoy meeting up with is a woman (probably 50's) and her mom. The dear elderly mom bought a one way ticket from another state to come and be with her daugther during treatment. They live a good distance from the facility and spend the week days in our area. I gather that this is the second time around with cancer for her, and I'm sorry she has to experience this AGAIN. I can tell that she's struggling with what she's going through and my heart hurts for her. She's giving up going home (out of state) for the winter, because this horrible disease and the need for treatment are making it not possible. :-( I hate cancer!
Somehow, we cancer patients get through this thing together--- because we're bonded by this awful disease. As a friend who's also had cancer once told me- "It's an awful club to join, but you make some great friends through it." It's true. Cancer is isolating in that as much as others care and try to understand, it DOES separate one from the rest of society in ways, and only other cancer patients and their close caregivers can REALLY understand what it's like. So, there's something really special about giving and receiving support within the group of cancer patients and survivors. We need each other!
Well, two radiation treatments down and thirty-one to go!
If anyone still reads my ramblings, please continue to keep my niece in prayer as she also battles breast cancer. And, an update on the couple I'd asked prayer for--- they're doing very well! :-) Thank you for praying!
Friday, November 5, 2010
The Hair Process During and After Chemo
I'm posting some pictures of the hair "process" during chemo and afterward. I want to have some "points of reference" if someone after me is diagnosed with breast cancer and will ask when her hair will fall out, when it will grow back, how quickly it will grow, etc. I regret that I didn't take a photo of my actual hair cut (buzz cut) the day that my hair was falling out too much to hang onto it.
I'll start posting pictures now and will continue over the coming months. I'll start with what I looked like before chemo, after my first (transition) cut, my difficult second transition cut (to 2" long), my bald head, the intitial regrowth and three months after the last chemo...
Mother's Day morning (no make-up!) I'd just had my second surgery--- breast tissue excission and lymph nodes (13) dissection---and had been hospitalized for a few days. May 2010 ***Picture Removed By Blogger***
With my childhood best friend Jennifer---following an appointment with the surgeon. This picture shows my first "transition" haircut that would help me gradually get used to short hair and losing my hair all-together. May (?) June (?) 2010
This is just after I had started to lose clumps of hair and had to make the painful decision to go to a 2" haircut--- I made it not even two full days with this cut before having to have my head shaved. This was a very hard time during my cancer experience. (I HATED the haircut!) My hair started to fall out in strands at about the 16th day following the first chemotherapy treatment (one expects it to happen at about two weeks after). Each day, more and more hair fell out--- first strands, then clumps of strands, and finally I was seeing a wide part on top of my head and hair patches missing on the back of my neck. That's when I knew it was time for my hair to be shaved off. It was a devistating process---from the time the first strands fell out until I had it removed all together. I cried every day, and several times per day, and especially when I showered and handfuls of hair would come out. There's a sense of relief once it's overwith---gone. My daughter (age 20 at the time) cut my hair off for me in the privacy of our home.
This was taken in mid-September 2010---about four or five weeks after my final chemotherapy treatment (Aug. 4, 2010). There were fine, fuzzy "sprigs" of hair cropping up.
November 5, 2010
Three months after the final chemotherapy infusion. My hair is very soft and fine. It finally covers my entire scalp. I didn't have significant hair re-growth until about six weeks following that last chemo. At that time, my hair "took off"--- my eyebrows filled in thicker than before I had cancer, my eyelashes came back, and my scalp seemed to revive. :-)
Today, I did something that would push me to accept my "new look" (short, short and slow growing hair). I went out in public "as is". I'd been hiding under scarves, cute hats and, on occasion, a wig-- for months. There had to be a first step, and today was the day.
I'd done the same thing once my hair had been shaved. I put on a scarf and forced myself to go to Walmart with it on. I now remember how I felt everyone was staring at me. Ha! But, making myself go out like that helped sooo much. About a week after going around with scarves and cute hats I became very, very comfortable with that look. MORE so than with wearing my wig. I've worn my wig a handful of times---I could probably count the days on one hand.
*Side note: I ALWAYS washed and conditioned my scalp--even when I didn't have hair. Keeping that routine gave me a sense of hope that my hair would come back, that the baldness was just a season, and it was good for my head. :-)
I'll start posting pictures now and will continue over the coming months. I'll start with what I looked like before chemo, after my first (transition) cut, my difficult second transition cut (to 2" long), my bald head, the intitial regrowth and three months after the last chemo...
Mother's Day morning (no make-up!) I'd just had my second surgery--- breast tissue excission and lymph nodes (13) dissection---and had been hospitalized for a few days. May 2010 ***Picture Removed By Blogger***
With my childhood best friend Jennifer---following an appointment with the surgeon. This picture shows my first "transition" haircut that would help me gradually get used to short hair and losing my hair all-together. May (?) June (?) 2010
This is just after I had started to lose clumps of hair and had to make the painful decision to go to a 2" haircut--- I made it not even two full days with this cut before having to have my head shaved. This was a very hard time during my cancer experience. (I HATED the haircut!) My hair started to fall out in strands at about the 16th day following the first chemotherapy treatment (one expects it to happen at about two weeks after). Each day, more and more hair fell out--- first strands, then clumps of strands, and finally I was seeing a wide part on top of my head and hair patches missing on the back of my neck. That's when I knew it was time for my hair to be shaved off. It was a devistating process---from the time the first strands fell out until I had it removed all together. I cried every day, and several times per day, and especially when I showered and handfuls of hair would come out. There's a sense of relief once it's overwith---gone. My daughter (age 20 at the time) cut my hair off for me in the privacy of our home.
This was taken in mid-September 2010---about four or five weeks after my final chemotherapy treatment (Aug. 4, 2010). There were fine, fuzzy "sprigs" of hair cropping up.
November 5, 2010
Three months after the final chemotherapy infusion. My hair is very soft and fine. It finally covers my entire scalp. I didn't have significant hair re-growth until about six weeks following that last chemo. At that time, my hair "took off"--- my eyebrows filled in thicker than before I had cancer, my eyelashes came back, and my scalp seemed to revive. :-)
Today, I did something that would push me to accept my "new look" (short, short and slow growing hair). I went out in public "as is". I'd been hiding under scarves, cute hats and, on occasion, a wig-- for months. There had to be a first step, and today was the day.
I'd done the same thing once my hair had been shaved. I put on a scarf and forced myself to go to Walmart with it on. I now remember how I felt everyone was staring at me. Ha! But, making myself go out like that helped sooo much. About a week after going around with scarves and cute hats I became very, very comfortable with that look. MORE so than with wearing my wig. I've worn my wig a handful of times---I could probably count the days on one hand.
*Side note: I ALWAYS washed and conditioned my scalp--even when I didn't have hair. Keeping that routine gave me a sense of hope that my hair would come back, that the baldness was just a season, and it was good for my head. :-)
Monday, November 1, 2010
Radiation Simulation
Today I went for my radiation simulation. Stephen and I discovered a wing of the cancer treatment facility that we didn't know existed--- even though we'd been to the building many times before.
The radiation area felt different to me. It was a new territory and I didn't feel all that comfortable with the surroundings. When we were in the changing room, Stephen commented to me that the facility looked neat. He was right, it definitely looks clean, neat and organized, but as nice as it is, I felt like a PATIENT. A sick person. I didn't want to be in that place, no matter how great it appeared to be. I am tired of being a patient. My husband hugged me and offered words of encouragement.
I didn't really know what to expect from this appointment. At check-in, we were directed to the changing rooms and lockers, and then told to report back at the desk. From that point, we were taken to a little waiting area. Within a minute, I was taken to the CAT scan room. I didn't even know why I needed a scan. I asked. The technician told me that it's to help with setting up my treatment.
It was cold in the scan room. I felt really uncomfortable, and humiliated, as I lay on my back, uncovered from the waist up, and gripping handles above my head. The techician worked with the radiation oncologist to mark areas around my breast, first with marker, and then with wires affixed to tape. The technician covered me with a warm blanket, except for the exposed upper body. That was somewhat comforting, but it didn't ease the mixed feelings of dread, discouragement and loneliness. After a while, the technician left the room and my body was sliding forward and backward through the machine. The machine sounded like a wind tunnel. I felt somewhat claustrophobic as the procedure took place. I kept my eyes closed, but I couldn't fight the tears that started to stream through my lids.
I felt like I had surrendered to cancer once again. I didn't have a choice today (at least, not a logical one). I had to go for this simulation. I had to prepare for radiation. I had to be a patient again. I had to face my health condition. I couldn't run from it. It was staring me in the face once again, and I had to deal with it head on. I was a cancer patient again, and I will continue to be one for the next six and a half weeks during which I will have radiation treatments. And, beyond that, I will be a cancer patient as I take hormone cancer treatment pills for the next five years. And, I will be one every time I look in the mirror and see that my hair is as short as a man's. And, this will continue, as it always does, when I go out in public with my husband and see women with beautiful hair. And, this will continue every time I swell with lymphodema. I will be reminded every time I board an airplane and need to wear my compression sleeve and glove. Every time I look in the mirror and see my scarred body. I am no longer a healthy person who has never been seriously ill. I am a patient. I am fighting to be a survivor. I do not feel that I have survived yet. I feel like I am trying to survive--- and hoping to survive.
I am 100% completely dependent on God for my survival. I can't control it. I can't change it. I continue to live like I am going to live. That's how I've dealt with this cancer all the while--- living like I'm going to continue to live...
...but I'm really feeling like I'm starting to wear thin. I'm tired. VERY tired. The stress of running to appointments, trying to keep up my lifestyle in the manner which I did prior to getting sick, having a family to care for, and now a grandbaby to take care of several days per week. I'm really wearing out. I am seeing the need to take the pressure off of myself to keep up like before being sick. I just can't do it.
Christmas is going to have to be different this year. And, we don't even have the financial resources to do much anyway. It's going to be a different experience, but it will maybe be an even better one, because it will be more about family togetherness than material things.
Just thinking aloud... it's been a draining day. The beginning of and end, I guess--- radiation should be the final step (minus the oral medication) in this battle with my cancer.
The radiation area felt different to me. It was a new territory and I didn't feel all that comfortable with the surroundings. When we were in the changing room, Stephen commented to me that the facility looked neat. He was right, it definitely looks clean, neat and organized, but as nice as it is, I felt like a PATIENT. A sick person. I didn't want to be in that place, no matter how great it appeared to be. I am tired of being a patient. My husband hugged me and offered words of encouragement.
I didn't really know what to expect from this appointment. At check-in, we were directed to the changing rooms and lockers, and then told to report back at the desk. From that point, we were taken to a little waiting area. Within a minute, I was taken to the CAT scan room. I didn't even know why I needed a scan. I asked. The technician told me that it's to help with setting up my treatment.
It was cold in the scan room. I felt really uncomfortable, and humiliated, as I lay on my back, uncovered from the waist up, and gripping handles above my head. The techician worked with the radiation oncologist to mark areas around my breast, first with marker, and then with wires affixed to tape. The technician covered me with a warm blanket, except for the exposed upper body. That was somewhat comforting, but it didn't ease the mixed feelings of dread, discouragement and loneliness. After a while, the technician left the room and my body was sliding forward and backward through the machine. The machine sounded like a wind tunnel. I felt somewhat claustrophobic as the procedure took place. I kept my eyes closed, but I couldn't fight the tears that started to stream through my lids.
I felt like I had surrendered to cancer once again. I didn't have a choice today (at least, not a logical one). I had to go for this simulation. I had to prepare for radiation. I had to be a patient again. I had to face my health condition. I couldn't run from it. It was staring me in the face once again, and I had to deal with it head on. I was a cancer patient again, and I will continue to be one for the next six and a half weeks during which I will have radiation treatments. And, beyond that, I will be a cancer patient as I take hormone cancer treatment pills for the next five years. And, I will be one every time I look in the mirror and see that my hair is as short as a man's. And, this will continue, as it always does, when I go out in public with my husband and see women with beautiful hair. And, this will continue every time I swell with lymphodema. I will be reminded every time I board an airplane and need to wear my compression sleeve and glove. Every time I look in the mirror and see my scarred body. I am no longer a healthy person who has never been seriously ill. I am a patient. I am fighting to be a survivor. I do not feel that I have survived yet. I feel like I am trying to survive--- and hoping to survive.
I am 100% completely dependent on God for my survival. I can't control it. I can't change it. I continue to live like I am going to live. That's how I've dealt with this cancer all the while--- living like I'm going to continue to live...
...but I'm really feeling like I'm starting to wear thin. I'm tired. VERY tired. The stress of running to appointments, trying to keep up my lifestyle in the manner which I did prior to getting sick, having a family to care for, and now a grandbaby to take care of several days per week. I'm really wearing out. I am seeing the need to take the pressure off of myself to keep up like before being sick. I just can't do it.
Christmas is going to have to be different this year. And, we don't even have the financial resources to do much anyway. It's going to be a different experience, but it will maybe be an even better one, because it will be more about family togetherness than material things.
Just thinking aloud... it's been a draining day. The beginning of and end, I guess--- radiation should be the final step (minus the oral medication) in this battle with my cancer.
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