Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts

A Cancerversary Post, Because.


“Without the dark there isn’t light. Without the pain there is no relief. And I remind myself that I’m lucky to be able to feel such great sorrow, and also such great happiness. I can grab on to each moment of joy and live in those moments because I have seen the bright contrast from dark to light and back again. I am privileged to be able to recognize that the sound of laughter is a blessing and a song, and to realize that the bright hours spent with my family and friends are extraordinary treasures to be saved, because those same moments are a medicine, a balm. Those moments are a promise that life is worth fighting for, and that promise is what pulls me through when depression distorts reality and tries to convince me otherwise.”  

- Jenny Lawson: author, blogger, mental illness advocate, lovable oddball

***

A year ago today I got probably the least fun phone call ever from my Ob/Gyn.

I knew what was coming, and I thought I was prepared to hear it. But like who’s ok with hearing they have cancer? 

As a rule, I don’t get too caught up in dates or anniversaries (“cancerversary,” some would call it). But when I think about how much my life has changed in the last 365 days, I’m still stunned. I still can’t believe I have (had? Is past tense allowed yet?) CANCER. It doesn’t compute. It can't be real. Until I look down at my chest and I’m like “Oh, right. THAT happened.”

Getting diagnosed with cancer was lousy.

The two weeks following my diagnosis were lousy X A BILLION.

Because everything in my world was a big fat question mark. “What stage am I?” “Did it spread?” “Am I going to go bankrupt?” “What if my skull has a weird shape?”

I remember asking my brand-new surgical oncologist if he could give me something to calm my nerves. “My brain won’t turn off. I sleep for 1 hour at night. GIVE ME DRUGS PLEASE I NEED THEM OR MY BRAIN AND HEART WILL EXPLODE FROM ALL OF THESE WORST-CASE SCENARIOS PLAYING OUT IN MY HEAD.”

The last year has looked something like this: 
  • 16 rounds of chemo. 
  • 1 ER visit, following a freak reaction to my meds (in hindsight, an almost funny story) 
  • 2 mastectomy operations (because one is never enough) 
  • 2 implants in. 1 implant out. 
  • Physical therapy 
  • 36 rounds of radiation 
  • Daily tamoxifen pills 
  • Monthly Zoladex injections. IN MY BELLY.
  • Scars, burns, weight loss, hair loss, fatigue, nausea, anxiety, consolatory hot fudge sundaes. (lots of those)
And that was just me. Add Paul’s stuff to the list and you’ve got a full-blown dissertation on your hands.

People tell me things like I’m a tough little cookie all the time. A lot of cancer patients have issues with compliments like this, and I totally get it. Because anyone in their situation would do the same thing, and are we really that brave for just doing what it takes to stay alive?

Buuuut also: 2017 was a total stinker. And maybe I don’t give myself enough credit for kind of keeping it together and sort of carrying on in less-than-favorable circumstances. Maybe I AM strong, and whatever—I like when people tell me I am. SO SUE ME.

And anyway, if we’re handing out Tough Cookie Awards, Paul is so clearly top contender.

I know in my last post I said he wasn’t optimistic about future treatments. But now he’s considering giving chemo another shot. This time, at a lower and less frequent dose.

In the meantime, we’re enjoying the heck out of life and each other.

Like last week we took Ingrid to Disney on Ice. We voluntarily spent two hours dodging rogue glow sticks and listening to toddlers howl. Because that’s what families do. 

It was the best.

Love and Happiness,Liz
at 2 comments:
Labels: , , , , ,

15 Tweets That Will Make You Laugh If Your Life Is A Trainwreck

Are you on Twitter? I've only been hanging out there since the summer. For months, I felt like a stranger in a strange land. I still feel like the gangly tween at the party, but I don't care because Twitter is where all the hilarious, raucous kids hang out and it makes me feel like maybe I could sit at their lunch table and, I don't know, trade friendship bracelets or something.

Basically, I swing by Twitter when I need a laugh. Take these with a huge grain of salt.


15 Tweets That Will Make You Laugh If Your Life Is A Trainwreck:

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14. 

15.

I'd also like to take a moment to point out how hilarious and fantastic my friend Maureen is (note # 5). I know her in real life, and it's the greatest.


at 1 comment:
Labels: , , ,

What's So Great About Being Busy?

Turns out radiation leaves me wrecked, and I am running on loooow batteries, friends. Anything not required for basic survival is...just not happening. Including writing. And probably mailing out Christmas cards. Which, normally, are two activities that give me quite a lot of pleasure. Now, they just look like work. I am trying to give myself the grace to NOT do things. And to not feel bad about not doing things. (Which ERMAHGERD, is so much harder than it should be!)

 Can We Stop Glorifying Busy, Already?!

Ever feel like being busy is the modern equivalent of “living life to the fullest?” We’re obsessed with being busy. It’s in vogue.

It’s also a drag.

Look at the way we talk—autopilot kicks on when people ask about our weekend—“It was good, just busy.” We don’t even notice ourselves saying it because it’s become such an ingrained dimension of how we interpret our worth. If we say we’re busy, we must be productive. If we’re productive, we must be worthwhile.  

I say it. All the time! Even when I KNOW I haven’t done a bloody thing for five consecutive days. As if declaring my busyness proves, cancer be damned, I am STILL a contributing member of society.

After my morning treatment, one of the techs will often ask about my plans for the rest of the day. I’m weirdly relieved when I have a number of errands I can rattle off. Or a family outing.

Today I had nothing. Literally, nothing. And I was bizarrely embarrassed to admit that.

“So—any plans for today?”

“Nope. Um. Nope. Nothing. Just going home. To. Rest?”

Inside, of course, I was thrilled to finally have a day with nothing I had to do. Thrilled and ashamed.

This time of year, especially, we run around like chickens with our heads cut off, and we’re happy to do it because it makes us feel important and needed and valuable. We wear our busyness like some twisted badge of honor. But—

How exactly does running ourselves ragged contribute to our well-being?

It doesn’t. It makes us stressed and miserable. I don’t want to be stressed and miserable.

And I’m not talking about our jobs or taking care of our kids or any of the things we HAVE to do. You should probably keep doing those things. But that doesn't mean you can't give yourself the space to just do...nothing. (It's really ok!)

Good Things Happen When We Stop Trying To Do It All


Photo by Nine Köpfer on Unsplash

When we’re not distracted by a relentless flurry of activity, something really cool happens: we connect, we reflect, and we grow. Three things I'd wager that are more important (and fun and pleasurable) than an overbooked planner.

When we slow down and eliminate even just a little of our self-imposed busyness—that’s when most of our so-called “a-ha” moments occur. Stepping off the hamster wheel gives us clarity. It lets us enjoy the things we insist are important—leisurely moments with the people we love, watching our children delight in nature, a rich inner life.

I don’t like to credit cancer with enriching my life (cancer didn’t make me grow—I did) but treatments did force me to reevaluate how I spend my time and energy. There were moments in the last year when I felt like I was juggling a dozen swords and flaming torches while balancing on a unicycle. I was exhausted and frazzled.

But I think it's safe to blame a lot of my exhaustion and general frazzledness on activities I didn’t NEED to do. (that and chemo running through my veins. But mindless busyness, mostly.)

Here's the thing. There is value and opportunity for growth in the moments when our busyness comes to a screeching halt. I know that sounds like the advice you’d get from a bearded, blissed-out mountain guru, but I stand by it.

A few years ago, Tim Kreider wrote a hugely popular and insightful article called “The ‘Busy’ Trap” for the New York Times. In it he says:

“Idleness is not just a vacation, an indulgence or a vice; it is as indispensable to the brain as vitamin D is to the body, and deprived of it we suffer a mental affliction as disfiguring as rickets. The space and quiet that idleness provides is a necessary condition for standing back from life and seeing it whole, for making unexpected connections and waiting for the wild summer lightning strikes of inspiration—it is, paradoxically, necessary to getting any work done.”

You are not a loser for taking it easy today. Relaxing doesn't make you a failure. You’re not less ambitious or dull or pathetic if you want to check out for the afternoon. And. Just. Do. Nothing.

Do you ever feel pressure to fill your days with busyness?

Do you feel guilty or lazy when you aren’t busy? Like you should be finding something productive to do with your time?

Or do you consciously try to set aside time for just “being” instead of “doing?”


at 3 comments:
Labels: , ,

Some Good News, Huzzah!

This space could use a jolt of happy, wouldn’t you agree?

I had my first post-op appointment with my surgical oncologist yesterday. Remind me to never schedule things in the afternoon. Waiting around turns me into a strung-out lunatic. By the time we were ready to leave, my stress level had surpassed its breaking point—Paul drove. I cried.

Perched on the examining room chair, I fidget with the ties of my pink cover-up. My doctor pokes his head in the door, smiling. Smiling is a good sign. I like smiling.

We talk about how I’m feeling. He takes a look at my incision. He decides it’s time to remove the sutures.

“I’ll be right back. I’m just going to run and grab a suture removal kit, ok?”

Ok. But um, like—do I still have cancer?

As he’s pulling out my stitches: “So the pathology, it all came back negative. The margins are clear.”

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And you didn't open with that because...?!

But who cares! I am blissed out of my damn mind.



To clarify: when you have a mastectomy, a rim of normal tissue surrounding the tumor is also removed, which is called a "margin." My first mastectomy in July resulted in "dirty" or "positive" margins, which is why I required a second operation.

It turns out there is still one area where the margin is "close," meaning cancer cells were not far from the edge of the removed tissue. This isn't ideal, but my medical team is confident that adjuvant radiation therapy and 10 years of Tamoxifen will be more than enough to make sure this cancer knows it's not welcome and it needs to find another couch to crash on.

I practically skipped down the steps to the parking lot. I was giddy. Like a 50-pound weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

And then we got into the car and headed to our second appointment of the day: Roswell Park's Assessment and Treatment Center.

It's not an untypical day—ping-ponging from a moment of dizzying rapture back to the unhappy reality of Paul’s worsening symptoms: feverish temps, stomach pain, vomiting.

It was the usual succession of tests—bloodwork, a urine sample, x-rays. Most of our time is spent waiting.

I crawl into the small space Paul had made for me in his hospital bed, avoiding the tubing that was pumping sodium chloride into his depleted body. We watched Chopped on the Food Network, and I pressed my face against his bony shoulder. Everything—the flit of nurses in-and-out, the boring cable TV, the rough hospital linens—it’s all so familiar. How many days have we spent like this?

Nothing particularly stood out with any of Paul's test results, so they sent us home with a short-term antibiotic (just in case) and instructions to call in the morning to schedule another blood transfusion.

Which is how we will be spending our day tomorrow.

Highs and lows, man. Highs and lows.
at 1 comment:
Labels: , , , ,

We Need To Be OK with Not Being OK

Ten ordinary tasks that are flat-out impossible after a mastectomy:
  1. getting out of bed 
  2. getting into bed
  3. getting comfortable enough to sleep in said bed 
  4. opening the refrigerator 
  5. opening pill bottles 
  6. opening anything 
  7. staying awake for more than a few hours at a time 
  8. putting on t-shirts 
  9. sitting on the same couch as a squirmy 3-year-old 
  10. updating your blog, apparently
Things went fine on Monday. As fine as these things can go. Zero complications, other than feeling a bit barfy. No skin grafts were necessary for the wound closure. Thrilling news! So pleased.

By Tuesday afternoon, I was home—and I’ve been sleeping ever since. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ingrid equates adulthood with perpetual naps and constant doctors' appointments. Because that is what the adults in her life do: sleep and go to the doctor. She may never want to grow up.

How does this surgery compare to the one I had in July?

Pain level is about the same. Very controllable with meds. This time around, though, it’s like my body is confused about where exactly surgery took place. I have zero pain at my incision site. For the most part, the right half of my torso is entirely numb—scar tissue and all that.

You know where I hurt? My bum. Swear to God. The pain starts at my lower back and radiates down to my derrière and upper thighs. My surgeon anticipated lower back pain because of all the skin-stretching going on, so I’m not concerned. Just sore.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine, I'm...What Were We Talking About?”

How am I doing emotionally? Eh. The first few days after surgery, your brain can only process things on the most basic survivalist level. You just want to rest, to stop hurting, to be able to stomach a bowl of oatmeal, to heal.

Days pass, and you start to feel better physically. Your brain acquires enough fuel to move beyond “let’s just stay alive today.” This is where the emotional distress creeps in, ever so stealthily. Or maybe it kicks in the door full force, robs you blind, and leaves you for dead.

I’d say, on an emotional level, I'm coping less than perfectly. I mean, I’m not locking myself in the bathroom to cry all day or anything. Most of the time, I’m somewhat getting through my day. When I wake up, I brush my teeth and give my kid cereal. 

But there’s a new heaviness with this second surgery. Partly because I’m anxious about the pathology results. Partly because I’m unhappy with the way I look. Partly because I feel guilty about being unhappy with the way I look. (Emotions are ALL over the map. Tamoxifen isn’t doing me any favors, either.)

In our house, there’s this chorus that plays on loop: “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“I’m tired, but I’m fine.”
“It’s painful, but I’ll live.”
“I’m repulsed by my own skin, but haha, can’t complain!”

I will live. And there’s plenty more reason for me to be happy with my life than to complain about it. BUT...am I really fine? Is that seriously the best adjective I can come up with to describe my current emotional state? Am I really 100% OK with having my chest butchered like a slab of meat? No. I would say, um, I'm very not.

Yesterday was the first time I really looked at my body without clothing. Like really looked at it.

I grossed me out.

I have an 8-inch incision that runs diagonally from my right armpit to just past the middle of my chest. It meets with a curvy 5-inch vertical cut running down the right side of my torso.

The scars are unpretty, but I can live with them. What bothers me, really, is my lopsidedness—there’s still an (ugly) implant where my left breast used to be. I’m all for nixing both implants to achieve some balance, but my doctor didn’t want to add more surgery to what was already a major operation. He preferred to minimize even the smallest risk of complication or infection, and rightly so.

I will be okay. When I am. Until that time, I’m going to be a little bit sad about my uni-boob. I’m going to be mildly (and temporarily) unhinged while I’m waiting for test results.

You don’t need to bury your ugly feelings beneath a layer of rainbows and unicorns


And anyway, I’m more than tired of these sparkly images of women jumping back in the saddle after breast surgery. I’m tired of the trite Pinterest memes about “cancer-thriving” and “feeling strong and beautiful in your skin” after a mastectomy. Hogwash. I feel the opposite of strong and beautiful in my skin. I’m self-conscious and uncomfortable with my asymmetry. 

It takes time—and counseling and drugs and mindfulness—to achieve that kind of peace. Let’s not kid ourselves.

Let’s also let ourselves be sad. And angry. And human. Why are we so quick to squash down signs of pain? Why are we obsessed with being okay with NOT okay things? Why do we try to put a positive spin on every last thing that happens to us?

Because we want our sad stories to come with happy endings. We like our challenges in life to come paired with a cute morality nugget. Pain is more digestible when it's wrapped in a tasteful bow. We like it to be tidy and meaningful. 

Plain old suffering is not the stuff of inspirational Instagram posts. It’s icky, and it makes us uncomfortable, and we just don’t like it!

Poking around an online cancer forum, I found a thread where a woman was struggling with her husband’s recent setback in treatment. She was seeking advice on how to remain optimistic in the face of unhopeful circumstances.

I prickled at one response that read something like: “You just push through it! That’s all you can do—never let him see your doubt. You have to stay optimistic for your husband, all the time.”

Nope. No and no! We all work through things differently, but this is just bad advice.

I’m not advocating indulgent sniveling marathons. I’m not suggesting this woman throw in the towel or that she views life through the murky lens of bitterness.

What I’m suggesting is that she ought to be HUMAN. She’s entitled to feel feelings. Even the ugly ones. Especially the ugly ones. It would likely benefit her husband to witness them on occasion.

It’s okay to not be okay


I’ve been both a caregiver and a cancer patient, so I feel like I have the authority to say: It was OKAY to see my husband struggle with my diagnosis. It was OKAY to see him cry on my behalf. It was OKAY for him to lose it for ten seconds when I took my bandages off this week.

I mean, it sucked to see him so distraught. It wasn’t pleasant (remind me—what part of cancer is?) But it made me feel loved in a very raw and personal and honest way.

Truthfully, it would have irked the shit out of me if his response to my distress during chemo was a plucky “You’ll get through it, honey—I believe in you!” It would have been uncool of him to smile with fake optimism while my doctor delivered more bad news.

It is perfectly reasonable and healthy to run the gamut of emotions here. Cancer will do that to you. Life will do that to you.

As the lovely writer Nora McInerny puts it:
“The cure for grief is not ‘be not sad’ and the cure for anger isn’t ‘be unangry!’ It’s feeling all of these things, even the uncomfortable ones, without judging yourself for them.”
Right on!

So feel your feelings. The gross, painful ones too. Stop apologizing for them. Work with them and through them.

That’s how we’ll arrive at being okay. Not by pretending things are brilliant when they aren't. Because, really, that just breeds confusion and shame among people struggling with their own ugly feelings. (ie: every single human)

Instead, let's be helpful by being honest. Let's give ourselves permission to be something other than "fine." Let's be okay when we're ready to be okay. 
at 8 comments:
Labels: , , , ,

Not to Bum You Out on a Friday, But...


It's been a not good week.

I've stalled on this post for a couple of days now. I didn't want to write it. I had to let the thoughts swirl around my head for a bit like glitter suspended in a snow globe before they settled into a more decipherable pattern. Also, I needed to be able to type without tears blurring my vision (oy vey). We've reached that point, so no more dodging the subject.

I got some bad news from my surgical oncologist on Tuesday.

After quickly checking my incisions, he sat with his head down and said "We need to talk." (up there with "I want a divorce" and "we're out of cheese" as one of the most stressful 4-word sentences.)

Dr. P: "I've been dreading this conversation. It's not something I could tell you on the phone."

 "OK."

Dr. P: "We got the pathology back and I'm afraid the edges tested positive for cancer."

"OK."

Dr. P: "I'm going to have to reoperate."

 "Oh Kaaaaaay.....sorry?"

To put it plainly: the pathology shows there is STILL cancer in my body. It's microscopic, at the edges of my mastectomy site. My surgeon has to perform another massive surgery on my right side—removing even more tissue this time around. Reconstruction, at this point, probably won't be an option.

Somewhere in that discussion, I chanced a tearful look at Paul. Can we all just agree that seeing your husband with his head in his hands, racked with sobs, is just the worst? Yes Liz, they all said in unison. It's the absolute worst.

It's a wonder I retained any of that consultation.

And I was doing so well! I was healing nicely. I was mostly pleased with my reconstruction, and I was finally feeling like myself again. I was getting closer to something like confidence.

It's like that mistakenly crowned Miss Universe debacle. A moment of elation—then it's ripped away. Just kidding lmfao we need that tiara back, sweetheart. Psych! 

Before this bloody appointment, I was beginning to feel well enough to resume my primary role as caregiver. An important goal because my family needs me to not be sick. My family needs me to get a job and potty-train Ingrid. I have no room in my life for cancer anymore. It needs to go away.

I won't lie. I sulked for a full 48 hours about this. Still a bit sulky, tbh. It's just the working stuff out in my brain that takes time. It's no easy task, managing these icky feelings. My brain will get there, eventually.

Just not today.
at 2 comments:
Labels: , , ,

A Lily in the Field

4 days until surgery. The Richter scale of madness is steadily rising.

I recall telling people during the early stages of treatment that I was "quite zen" about things. I wasn't being flippant here. Or arrogant. I wasn't trying to downplay the gravity of our family being handed a second cancer diagnosis. I was just telling the truth. I felt peaceful. I don't know why. I'm a freak. I'm a weirdo. I don't belong here.

If you approached me anytime from late February until maybe a few weeks ago and asked me how I was doing that's probably the answer you got: I feel fine. I'm at peace. Life, I love you; all is groovy.

Of course, timing is everything.

My sometimes fragile mental state has been subject to a rather extreme yo-yo effect since diagnosis. The first two weeks? Zen is not the word I'd use to describe...anything. Things were more like a runaway train heading full-speed towards a collapsed bridge—with the exciting movie score replaced by panicked primal screams.

Those first two weeks I was light years away from anything remotely resembling "zen." I was scared. Angry. Anxious, mostly. 

Some of my fears were sensible. Who would take care of Ingrid when we were both too tired to move from the couch? How were we going to make mortgage payments? How would we keep our refrigerator stocked? How were we going to coordinate puking time slots with ONE bathroom???

For two weeks, I was in full-on freak-out mode. Probably only Paul noticed. Because I have gotten expert-level good at hiding crazy.

On Sunday, we heard this fortuitous Gospel: Matthew 6:25-34. It's a personal favorite. You know it—the one with the "birds of the air" and the "lilies of the field" that goes:
"So do not worry and say, 'What are we to eat?' or 'What are we to drink?' or 'What are we to wear?' Your Heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the Kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given you besides. Do not worry about tomorrow; tomorrow will take care of itself."

Don't worry. Easier said than done, yes. But absolutely necessary if I ever planned to make it through the next several months.

I did make it through. Hi. I'm Liz. Still here, still (almost) sane, still making mortgage payments and feeding my family.

I'm slated for surgery in 4 days. My surgeon will remove both of my breasts (one for prophylactic measures) and all of the lymph nodes in my right underarm. He'll also remove my mediport (sayonara sucker). My plastic surgeon will insert expanders, which will slowly stretch the skin. (I know. It freaks me out, too.) It will be several months before they can put in implants because I need to get blasted with radiation first.

My anxiety through all of this has been like bookends, sandwiching a few months of calm. I've come full circle now, back to the nail-biting sour stomaches of my initial diagnosis. Three cheers for Lorazepam! 

And, truth be told, even my transitional period of "zen vibes" was peppered with worry. Perusing my journals, I found an entry in May where I confessed to crying for a full week. Basically over nothing. But then my smart husband reminded me:
"Uh, Liz. This isn't 'nothing.' It's not just some minor bump in the road that every couple encounters. This is big. And it's hard. And you just got your body pumped with drugs. So go REST because this is big, hard, shitty stuff, and your brain can only take so much before it cracks."
It was such a gift, then, when my Godparents offered their beautiful home on Lake Canandaigua for a brief respite before surgery. They are the loveliest people, and being on the water with my favorites was exactly what I (we) needed.




 






I believe those three days made up the longest stretch of time I've gone without dwelling on my upcoming procedure or  Paul's cancer. That's something. We drank beers on the pontoon, laughed hysterically on the jet skis, and reminisced about Breaking Bad in the hot tub under the stars. We collected seashells and memories. It was marvelous. It gave us the distance we needed from our worries to just be with each other and enjoy life. 

At one point, my sister's boyfriend asked a rather oddly phrased question: "Liz, are you excited about your surgery?"

I laughed and replied with quick sarcasm. Um, yeah, very excited to have my body disfigured and go through several weeks of feeling like I have cannonballs strapped to my chest. 

But he was serious (?!) Once I worked through his question, which was probably garbled by a couple of IPAs, I understood what he meant. He was asking me (rather astutely, actually) if I was excited to GET THIS CANCER OUT OF MY BODY ONCE AND FOR ALL. Was I excited to be CANCER-FREE? 

I can get so caught up in the awful things that surgery means to me. (disfigurement, pain, helplessness during recovery, lack of control, etc.) But, really, I should be looking at surgery differently: it's going to fix me. It's going to take my breasts, yeah, and I'm angry about that. But it's also going to give my cancer the boot.

So ok: I guess I am excited about surgery. Or I should be. If I think hard enough about what it really means, I can be happy about it. If it can save my life and keep me around for my daughter, then I say: take whatever body part you must.

Precisely three years after I was admitted to Millard Fillmore Suburban Hospital as a rotund and blissful mom-to-be, I will be admitted there once more. Less rotund, less blissful. But still hopeful. And, dare I say, excited?

at No comments:
Labels: , , , , , ,

Nesting: No I'm not pregnant. I'm starting chemo.


Upon learning that I had to start chemotherapy due to a massive tumor taking up residence in my right breast, I launched into a frenzied nesting craze —the likes of which I’ve never seen before (after killing a solid 3-4 days weeping and watching Downton Abbey, obvi.)

It was like being pregnant all over again. In my mixed-up head, I was convinced that I needed to prepare for a total domestic collapse. For a future where I wouldn’t be able to lift a finger so I’d better scrub the hell outta these Pergo floors while I still have a spring in my step!

A week or so prior to chemo, I went mildly berserk in Target loading my cart with essentials: all-purpose cleaner, laundry soap, a 10-pack of tissues, toothbrushes, hand soap, Febreeze…and an eyebrow kit so I could look less like a freak scrubbing my toilet. Priorities.

Maybe, in part, my nesting craze was in response to the complete lack of preparation I had when my husband first went through chemo. (Yes. We both had cancer. At the same time. Like, really life?)

I had nothing sorted out. I thought (or didn’t think at all) that I’d push out this kid, and we’d go home to start our happily ever after. Not the rom-com version of “happily ever after” (I’m not that delusional.) But certainly not the version that features an entire kitchen cabinet relegated to anti-nausea pills.

That, I did not prepare for.

I didn’t have our kitchen stocked with white rice, saltines, and applesauce. I didn’t have that special mouthwash for receding gums. I wasn’t prepared for the depression, the exhaustion, the chemo farts (those are real!)

I never want to experience that unsettled chaos again. Not if I can help it. So I went into hyper-preparation mode. I organized sock drawers and stocked the pantry with broth and oatmeal. 

I prepped and sorted and scrubbed. I found time to watch YouTube tutorials on how to tie a head scarf. I went to the thrift store to pick up comfy sweats (more essential than cleaning products, in the end.)

I was ready for chemo. My uncluttered closets were ready for chemo.

Thankfully, for my husband’s sake, the more weeks of treatment I put behind me, the weaker my nesting impulse has become. You can find proof of this in a photo I snapped today (look closely, and you may be able to spot a toddler among the rubble.)



I'm almost on the other side now. One more Taxol infusion to go. As I switch gears from getting through chemo to preparing for surgery, I've entered a whole new phase of mania. Pray for Paul.

My surgery date is now officially less than one month away. I don't like that. The idea of a modified radical double mastectomy makes me woozy. Just the word: radical. It's fine when we're talking about political stances or '90s pop bands (New Radicals, anyone?) Not so much when we're talking about slicing into my body. 

So, I've been a bit prickly lately. I feel unsettled. Like there's nothing I can do to stop this terrible something from happening. It's unpleasant. 

And what do we do when things feel like they're spinning out of control? Based on my feverish patterns, we can:

a) Head to Target
b) Bleach our shower curtains 
c) Break out the Gin & Tonics OR,
d) Put our Rosaries to good use

(psst. You're supposed to pick choice D)

It's hard. VERY. But I try to live by this:



It's a toss-up, given my touch-and-go mental state these days. Pray, hope, and don't worry. It doesn't hurt to follow that mantra with a good stiff drink, too. It is G&T season, after all. 
at 1 comment:
Labels: , , , , ,
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)