Things happen to build our character,
to show us we are stronger than we think we are,
to grow us where we weren't growing.
All things work together for good to those who love God and are called according to his purpose. Romans 8
Life is not perfect.
I choose a life of joy and not of fear, of hope and forgiveness and love.
I want to take the path set out by God, but I still have to be the one taking each individual step.
Fairy Tales are more than true;
not because they tell us that dragons exist,
but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten. ~G. K. Chesterson
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Tearing up
Still haven't figured out the drug issue. What will I be taking for the next five years, every day?
The oncologist's staff has called in the wrong prescription four times over the past three days. FOUR TIMES. That doesn't count the frustration of them not calling it in at all the first time I asked them to. Calling the doctor's office several times over the past three days, I finally talked to a person this last time. Before that, only answering machines. They call in the prescription to the pharmacy. I go to pick it up, and its not there. Or it is the wrong drug. Or they called the wrong pharmacy AND the wrong drug. Doesn't give you confidence in Dr. M's practice, does it?
You would think, since Dr. M has gotten over $90,000 for my six chemo treatments (think about that, the five minute office visits were $130), they would treat me like a VIP. Nope. And for you who are interested, the radiologist oncologist was paid over $80,000 for the seven weeks of radiation treatments (their fifteen minute office visits were $500.) The radiologist's office treats everyone like a VIP, so I'm happy with them.
Happiest is that the cancer is gone and won't recur.
I walked one hour and twenty minutes today, three and a quarter miles. I used to do this in forty five minutes. I will get there again.
Do I sound whiney? I am. Went to Dr. C to have him take off the basal cell carcinoma. After over an hour of waiting, I'm escorted into the exam room. Morning appointment, why is he this behind schedule already? Right away I am feeling frustrated. He came in, asked how I was doing? I said nothing, he didn't notice I said nothing, he just marched right on. He washed his hands and looked at my chart, started talking. Interesting. Ah, now he turns and looks my way. Circles the spot on my shoulder with a purple sharpie.
Numbed up with lidocaine by the nurse, he cuts away. Asking me about my past months of chemo, what it was like, what did I have, etc. Then he says, This is bigger than we thought. I think, We thought? He says, It's quite a bit deeper than we thought. Again I think, We thought? Next he says, Funny how all that chemo, what was it, six rounds, doesn't touch this cancer on your skin. Funny, right. I was lying on my side, tears were dripping down my cheek. He went 3.1 cm deep, 3.6 wide. Seven stitches. Oh man.
Compare this to getting the port out, at Dr. R's office two weeks ago. That office is run with compassion as well as efficiency. Always warm greetings. Sometimes I have waited there, but I didn't mind as much. When they shot the lidocaine, another nurse held my free hand and told me to squeeze. She sat by my head the entire procedure (ten minutes), and talked with me.
Driving home I dealt, or tried to deal with, the prescription puzzle. That's why I took a long walk when I got home. It seems like life is continuing as it was pre-cancer, full of frustrations and stresses. Except now I am tired and achy all day long, and my left breast is tender. I wasn't tired and achy before. And my left breast was happy.
I have thoughts of wanting to go away, to a cabin in the woods or to a cottage by the sea. Just be separate from all this stuff and focus on healing. It would follow me, wouldn't it? You can never get away from daily responsibilities, can you? No one does it for you. In fact, I do a lot of it for them.
Walking I started tearing up again. Thought about my kids. They will have days in their future when life isn't going so well. Will they have someone who loves them to comfort them at that moment? Please Lord, may the answer be yes. May I have done my job as a mother in teaching them they need to love and accept love. My heart will always love them and I will do whatever I can for them, but they will live on after me. May they have loving spouses who hold their hearts gently and their hands strongly.
We can't protect our kids from tough times. We know tough times are part of life. May you, Lord, be gentle with them, whisper into their ears that You love them, right when they need it most. And may you, Lord, hold them in your strong loving arms and comfort them when they feel alone.
Oh yes, I think I need to get away. I wanted life to change and it hasn't. So maybe it is me who needs to change?
The oncologist's staff has called in the wrong prescription four times over the past three days. FOUR TIMES. That doesn't count the frustration of them not calling it in at all the first time I asked them to. Calling the doctor's office several times over the past three days, I finally talked to a person this last time. Before that, only answering machines. They call in the prescription to the pharmacy. I go to pick it up, and its not there. Or it is the wrong drug. Or they called the wrong pharmacy AND the wrong drug. Doesn't give you confidence in Dr. M's practice, does it?
You would think, since Dr. M has gotten over $90,000 for my six chemo treatments (think about that, the five minute office visits were $130), they would treat me like a VIP. Nope. And for you who are interested, the radiologist oncologist was paid over $80,000 for the seven weeks of radiation treatments (their fifteen minute office visits were $500.) The radiologist's office treats everyone like a VIP, so I'm happy with them.
Happiest is that the cancer is gone and won't recur.
 |
| photo taken on my walk |
Do I sound whiney? I am. Went to Dr. C to have him take off the basal cell carcinoma. After over an hour of waiting, I'm escorted into the exam room. Morning appointment, why is he this behind schedule already? Right away I am feeling frustrated. He came in, asked how I was doing? I said nothing, he didn't notice I said nothing, he just marched right on. He washed his hands and looked at my chart, started talking. Interesting. Ah, now he turns and looks my way. Circles the spot on my shoulder with a purple sharpie.
Numbed up with lidocaine by the nurse, he cuts away. Asking me about my past months of chemo, what it was like, what did I have, etc. Then he says, This is bigger than we thought. I think, We thought? He says, It's quite a bit deeper than we thought. Again I think, We thought? Next he says, Funny how all that chemo, what was it, six rounds, doesn't touch this cancer on your skin. Funny, right. I was lying on my side, tears were dripping down my cheek. He went 3.1 cm deep, 3.6 wide. Seven stitches. Oh man.
Compare this to getting the port out, at Dr. R's office two weeks ago. That office is run with compassion as well as efficiency. Always warm greetings. Sometimes I have waited there, but I didn't mind as much. When they shot the lidocaine, another nurse held my free hand and told me to squeeze. She sat by my head the entire procedure (ten minutes), and talked with me.
Driving home I dealt, or tried to deal with, the prescription puzzle. That's why I took a long walk when I got home. It seems like life is continuing as it was pre-cancer, full of frustrations and stresses. Except now I am tired and achy all day long, and my left breast is tender. I wasn't tired and achy before. And my left breast was happy.
I have thoughts of wanting to go away, to a cabin in the woods or to a cottage by the sea. Just be separate from all this stuff and focus on healing. It would follow me, wouldn't it? You can never get away from daily responsibilities, can you? No one does it for you. In fact, I do a lot of it for them.
 |
| stork, anhinga, egret all on the branch |
We can't protect our kids from tough times. We know tough times are part of life. May you, Lord, be gentle with them, whisper into their ears that You love them, right when they need it most. And may you, Lord, hold them in your strong loving arms and comfort them when they feel alone.
Oh yes, I think I need to get away. I wanted life to change and it hasn't. So maybe it is me who needs to change?
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Sailboats
After cancer treatment, I think we all must look like a sailboat pushed off from the dock. We need puffs of fresh breezes and some sort of map so we may proceed.
Pushing off from that dock, that is hope. Hope with a capital H. We leave the medically guided treatments behind, knowing we are out there in the boundary-less ocean under our own steam. We steer the boat. We make sure there is wind in our sails.
You do it your way. My way is asking God to be the power of the wind, and at the same time be the gentle whisper of direction. That's how I have hope.
Once in awhile we have to interact with the medical universe. I'm doing that now.
Things have been going pretty good. Tired. If I am up and out of the house for over five hours, I will start getting shivers, and whole body aches. I am walking an hour a day, now going faster each day. Port site still tender, improving every day.
Hair is about an inch long now.
I have expectations that, as it has been four weeks since last radiation, my life and my body would be back to normal. Not yet. I need to manage my expectations. Just relax Sara, you have been through poisoning and burning. The left breast is still swollen and tender, not wearing under wire bra yet. I did one day last week and by the end of the day the under wire was killing me, cutting into my swollen flesh. Flickers of pain in my breast and left underarm area randomly. I am so tired I shiver if I am up and out and exercising too much. So I am out of the house six hours a day, walk one hour a day. Getting there.
Just a little sailboat setting off for who knows where....
Pushing off from that dock, that is hope. Hope with a capital H. We leave the medically guided treatments behind, knowing we are out there in the boundary-less ocean under our own steam. We steer the boat. We make sure there is wind in our sails.
You do it your way. My way is asking God to be the power of the wind, and at the same time be the gentle whisper of direction. That's how I have hope.
Once in awhile we have to interact with the medical universe. I'm doing that now.
Things have been going pretty good. Tired. If I am up and out of the house for over five hours, I will start getting shivers, and whole body aches. I am walking an hour a day, now going faster each day. Port site still tender, improving every day.
Hair is about an inch long now.
I have expectations that, as it has been four weeks since last radiation, my life and my body would be back to normal. Not yet. I need to manage my expectations. Just relax Sara, you have been through poisoning and burning. The left breast is still swollen and tender, not wearing under wire bra yet. I did one day last week and by the end of the day the under wire was killing me, cutting into my swollen flesh. Flickers of pain in my breast and left underarm area randomly. I am so tired I shiver if I am up and out and exercising too much. So I am out of the house six hours a day, walk one hour a day. Getting there.
Just a little sailboat setting off for who knows where....
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
We are beautiful
These scars that we cancers survivors have, well, some might think they are ugly.
please note, this was inspired by a blog post I read months ago. can't recall all the post but I loved the idea. now that my life is including more than just battling and surviving, I see what this meant.
I can tell you, they are beautiful to the child we are holding. That bald head we hate is beautiful to the husband who is listening to us sleep peacefully beside him. The ten pounds we gained during chemo is beautiful to the wife who can hold our hand while we walk together.
Our battle scars command respect and admiration because they are a measurable proof of our tenacity. Every single day and every individual life is beautiful.
Cancer survivors, you all are the most beautiful people I have ever known because you refuse to let the ugliness of this disease rob you of your true beauty.
Look in the mirrors and see beauty.
True breathtaking beauty is what I see when I look into your face.
please note, this was inspired by a blog post I read months ago. can't recall all the post but I loved the idea. now that my life is including more than just battling and surviving, I see what this meant.
I can tell you, they are beautiful to the child we are holding. That bald head we hate is beautiful to the husband who is listening to us sleep peacefully beside him. The ten pounds we gained during chemo is beautiful to the wife who can hold our hand while we walk together.
Our battle scars command respect and admiration because they are a measurable proof of our tenacity. Every single day and every individual life is beautiful.
Cancer survivors, you all are the most beautiful people I have ever known because you refuse to let the ugliness of this disease rob you of your true beauty.
Look in the mirrors and see beauty.
True breathtaking beauty is what I see when I look into your face.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
humble and grateful
A thought came to me, thinking about my fellow cancer fighters.
You fight, you battle, you give it all you can, you win.
But not everyone wins.
I am stopped in my tracks about a young girl and two guys my age, from this town, all died the end of last year. Six months ago they were here, fighting as I was fighting. Now they are gone. Of cancer.
Why them, not me?
They went to doctors, prayed. I am sure they prayed fiercely, and people prayed for them. Good prayers. They did the same things I did.
Here I am, why was I allowed to live?
This is a mystery I will not understand while I am on earth.
My heart aches for their families and friends. They are, all three of them, in heaven now. I am certain of this.
And here I am.
Thinking of them, I get all quiet.
When I was in the middle of chemo, I asked a dear friend, fellow cancer survivor, how did she feel now, ten years after her surgery and chemo. She told me she feels so grateful and humble everyday when she thinks of three women who had breast cancer when she did, and aren't with us today. I thought to myself, I don't feel humble. Or grateful. Nauseous from chemo at that moment, I felt like a boxer in the ring, like a soldier carrying 80 pounds of equipment in 110 degree heat. I was in the middle of the fight. Adrenaline was pumping.
Now, six months later, a 180 degree turn in my heart.
I feel humble that I am allowed more days.
And grateful, thankful, achingly appreciative that I am allowed more days.
The quiet in my soul is a good quiet.
A peaceful quiet.
A still and motionless top of the lake quiet.
I am a serene yet curious little sparrow, not an elegant and powerful raptor but a common backyard sparrow. No one notices me when they pass by, no one takes my photo or texts to their friends that they saw a gray-brown sparrow sitting on a branch this morning.
I am sitting at the foot of the cross, looking up into the face of Jesus.
He looks down at me with love and tenderness.
To Him, I am the reason.
You fight, you battle, you give it all you can, you win.
But not everyone wins.
I am stopped in my tracks about a young girl and two guys my age, from this town, all died the end of last year. Six months ago they were here, fighting as I was fighting. Now they are gone. Of cancer.
Why them, not me?
They went to doctors, prayed. I am sure they prayed fiercely, and people prayed for them. Good prayers. They did the same things I did.
Here I am, why was I allowed to live?
This is a mystery I will not understand while I am on earth.
My heart aches for their families and friends. They are, all three of them, in heaven now. I am certain of this.
And here I am.
Thinking of them, I get all quiet.
When I was in the middle of chemo, I asked a dear friend, fellow cancer survivor, how did she feel now, ten years after her surgery and chemo. She told me she feels so grateful and humble everyday when she thinks of three women who had breast cancer when she did, and aren't with us today. I thought to myself, I don't feel humble. Or grateful. Nauseous from chemo at that moment, I felt like a boxer in the ring, like a soldier carrying 80 pounds of equipment in 110 degree heat. I was in the middle of the fight. Adrenaline was pumping.
Now, six months later, a 180 degree turn in my heart.
I feel humble that I am allowed more days.
And grateful, thankful, achingly appreciative that I am allowed more days.
The quiet in my soul is a good quiet.
A peaceful quiet.
A still and motionless top of the lake quiet.
I am a serene yet curious little sparrow, not an elegant and powerful raptor but a common backyard sparrow. No one notices me when they pass by, no one takes my photo or texts to their friends that they saw a gray-brown sparrow sitting on a branch this morning.
I am sitting at the foot of the cross, looking up into the face of Jesus.
He looks down at me with love and tenderness.
To Him, I am the reason.
Monday, January 17, 2011
The biopsy is....
Ran to the phone, it's on the other side of the house.
Missed the call, listened to the voice mail.
Dermatologist's office asking for a call back.
Called back.
The biopsy is cancer, she says.
I want to shout to her, Hey I've been down this road before so tell me what kind specifically is it melanoma and so what do we do? Give it to me straight sister. I've reached at least the high school level of cancer education, don't talk to me like I am a kindergartener.
But I don't. I politely ask, what kind?
Basal cell carcinoma. Come in next week have it cut out.
WHOO - WHOO! Only basal cell, yes this is good.
I hang up the phone.Walk back to my office.
Wait a second. Are you kidding me? I just finished nine months of surgeries, chemo, radiation for breast cancer.
Just finished, like in five days ago.
Oh man.
Now, all I know about basal cell carcinoma is that you don't have to worry. You just cut it out and it doesn't come back. That sounds pretty pretty easy to me. Living in Florida, being a tennis player and golfer and someone who loves to be outside, well, the skin gets a lot of sunshine even though I am single handedly paying the salary of at least one employee at Coppertone with all the suntan lotion our family goes through in a year.
But everyone down here gets this it seems. No big deal.
Okay, deep breath. Change the thought process. Turn away from the negative.
Been trying on different lifestyle changes to focus on WELLNESS for this coming year, for the coming years of life. This little blip will cement in my mind that they are important. I don't want this being a biopsy of the breast that she was talking about, and I get the same news... those words have such power... it's cancer.
This would have happened even if I didn't have breast cancer. Just a blip in the road. A pit stop on the road of life. A pimple on Miss America's face.
Dexa scan Friday showed good strong bones (ordered because I am on anastrozole which can weaken bones), they are less dense than a year ago's dexa scan. So my goal in the coming year, one of them, is to strengthen the bones. Calcium and Vitamin D and exercise are my friends!
I am cooking healthier, adding Meatless Mondays to our vocabulary. Soup Monday and Wednesday because we have yoga after dinner. Colorful vegetables, lots of them, and fruit. Exploring. Served Rainbow Swiss Chard sauted with shittake mushrooms and garlic for dinner last night. Corey asked, is it "charred" as in the way you cook it? Also Roasted Red Bell Pepper with Parmesean, olive oil and basil pasta, fresh pineapple on the side.
I am walking an hour a day. Bought this month's booklunch book as an audio file, so I have to walk 26 hours this month. Works out well. I need accountability. Trying to increase my endurance. Still tired, but not actually falling asleep every afternoon, just resting. Love to see these hurdles crossed.
I will go to the doctor next Wednesday, have them take out this basal cell, and be grateful it is so simple. And I will have a dermatology skin check every year, for the rest of my life. My long, long, long, healthy life...
Missed the call, listened to the voice mail.
Dermatologist's office asking for a call back.
Called back.
The biopsy is cancer, she says.
I want to shout to her, Hey I've been down this road before so tell me what kind specifically is it melanoma and so what do we do? Give it to me straight sister. I've reached at least the high school level of cancer education, don't talk to me like I am a kindergartener.
But I don't. I politely ask, what kind?
Basal cell carcinoma. Come in next week have it cut out.
WHOO - WHOO! Only basal cell, yes this is good.
I hang up the phone.Walk back to my office.
Wait a second. Are you kidding me? I just finished nine months of surgeries, chemo, radiation for breast cancer.
Just finished, like in five days ago.
Oh man.
Now, all I know about basal cell carcinoma is that you don't have to worry. You just cut it out and it doesn't come back. That sounds pretty pretty easy to me. Living in Florida, being a tennis player and golfer and someone who loves to be outside, well, the skin gets a lot of sunshine even though I am single handedly paying the salary of at least one employee at Coppertone with all the suntan lotion our family goes through in a year.
But everyone down here gets this it seems. No big deal.
Okay, deep breath. Change the thought process. Turn away from the negative.
Been trying on different lifestyle changes to focus on WELLNESS for this coming year, for the coming years of life. This little blip will cement in my mind that they are important. I don't want this being a biopsy of the breast that she was talking about, and I get the same news... those words have such power... it's cancer.
This would have happened even if I didn't have breast cancer. Just a blip in the road. A pit stop on the road of life. A pimple on Miss America's face.
Dexa scan Friday showed good strong bones (ordered because I am on anastrozole which can weaken bones), they are less dense than a year ago's dexa scan. So my goal in the coming year, one of them, is to strengthen the bones. Calcium and Vitamin D and exercise are my friends!
I am cooking healthier, adding Meatless Mondays to our vocabulary. Soup Monday and Wednesday because we have yoga after dinner. Colorful vegetables, lots of them, and fruit. Exploring. Served Rainbow Swiss Chard sauted with shittake mushrooms and garlic for dinner last night. Corey asked, is it "charred" as in the way you cook it? Also Roasted Red Bell Pepper with Parmesean, olive oil and basil pasta, fresh pineapple on the side.
I am walking an hour a day. Bought this month's booklunch book as an audio file, so I have to walk 26 hours this month. Works out well. I need accountability. Trying to increase my endurance. Still tired, but not actually falling asleep every afternoon, just resting. Love to see these hurdles crossed.
I will go to the doctor next Wednesday, have them take out this basal cell, and be grateful it is so simple. And I will have a dermatology skin check every year, for the rest of my life. My long, long, long, healthy life...
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