April 17, 2010
I’ve just returned home from lunch at San Francisco’s Cliff House with a wonderful friend. Her treat, to help me celebrate my new life without cancer. The Cliff House restaurant is on the ocean and is a scant few blocks from where my friend grew up. She reminisced about playing in the surf at Ocean Beach with her brothers. Their legs would get so cold they would run home and sit on a bath chair under the hot water of their shower until the feeling in their legs returned.
We walked through the little windmill park across from the beach. The tulips were still beautiful, though nearing the end of their bloom. My friend talked lovingly of visiting the park with her mother when they were both much younger. Her mother has since passed away. My heart aches for her being without her mom. They were so close.
My friend asked a lot of questions about my experience with breast cancer--about feelings and treatments. I was happy to answer them. It helps to talk about it now, to get everything out before I suppress it, lock it away forever.
My friend has a sister-in-law with whom I feel some kinship of late. The sister-in-law had a double mastectomy last year. I’ve heard so much about her, though we’ve never met. I hope we do get to meet up one day.
I know my husband thinks I’m a frenzied bundle of activity these days. I say yes to every outing and am making many plans. I’m sure I will slow down in a while. Right now I want to create as many happy memories as I am able, as fast as I am able. I want to get healthy, grow stronger, be beautiful. I want to see old friends and make new ones. I want to shove the horror of the last six months far below the surf of Ocean Beach. Let the waves carry every bit of sadness far out to sea.
Yes, today was a wonderful treat. I loved letting the fresh air, the waves, and the love of a friend wash over me. And I let the waves carry my tears out to sea.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
Mother brought me roses the other day. And so my six-month bout with breast cancer ends as it began, with pink roses from my mother. The color is her favorite.
I used to love the color pink. It reminded me of satin ballet slippers, a baby’s cheeks, plum blossoms in springtime. And, of course, Mom.
Last October, “Breast Cancer Awareness Month,” the color was everywhere--from supermarket displays to T-shirts on marchers in San Francisco. Professional football players wore pink ribbons on their helmets. Their gloves were pink. So were their shoes. I liked it for a while, even after my diagnosis. Then, I couldn’t see pink ribbons without bursting into tears.
Well, there are no tears this Good Friday. Break out the bubbly. It’s my last day of radiation and then I am sprung. There is one more serious decision to be made--whether or not to take an estrogen-suppressing drug for five years. I don’t want to think about that today. I will think about it tomorrow.
Those who know me have wondered aloud how such a private person could put something so personal as her battle with breast cancer on the Internet. The first day, I published a blog to let my far-flung circle of friends know what was happening. And I needed the moral support. The second day, I wanted to thank everyone who had so warmly come to my side. I was going to stop there when my surgeon said, “I think you could be helping a lot of people.” So I persevered, not only with the blog but in my not-so-private war against cancer.
There is much more to be said, of course. I’ve learned about ways to navigate through surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation, which I will share. There is much to be said about thwarting cancer to begin with and preventing its recurrence. There’s more to be written about the emotional side of the disease, the friendships that have deepened, life after cancer, and regaining one’s health and equilibrium.
I do believe anyone who has been diagnosed with cancer, gone through its surgeries and treatments, has seen the bowels of hell. I will not be looking for that yellow bus. Nothing can scare me now.*
*This blog will soon be transformed into a manuscript titled Nothing Can Scare Me Now: A Survivor’s Unvarnished Look at the Emotional Side of Breast Cancer. With hard work and good health, it should be finished this summer. Wish me luck.
I used to love the color pink. It reminded me of satin ballet slippers, a baby’s cheeks, plum blossoms in springtime. And, of course, Mom.
Last October, “Breast Cancer Awareness Month,” the color was everywhere--from supermarket displays to T-shirts on marchers in San Francisco. Professional football players wore pink ribbons on their helmets. Their gloves were pink. So were their shoes. I liked it for a while, even after my diagnosis. Then, I couldn’t see pink ribbons without bursting into tears.
Well, there are no tears this Good Friday. Break out the bubbly. It’s my last day of radiation and then I am sprung. There is one more serious decision to be made--whether or not to take an estrogen-suppressing drug for five years. I don’t want to think about that today. I will think about it tomorrow.
Those who know me have wondered aloud how such a private person could put something so personal as her battle with breast cancer on the Internet. The first day, I published a blog to let my far-flung circle of friends know what was happening. And I needed the moral support. The second day, I wanted to thank everyone who had so warmly come to my side. I was going to stop there when my surgeon said, “I think you could be helping a lot of people.” So I persevered, not only with the blog but in my not-so-private war against cancer.
There is much more to be said, of course. I’ve learned about ways to navigate through surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation, which I will share. There is much to be said about thwarting cancer to begin with and preventing its recurrence. There’s more to be written about the emotional side of the disease, the friendships that have deepened, life after cancer, and regaining one’s health and equilibrium.
I do believe anyone who has been diagnosed with cancer, gone through its surgeries and treatments, has seen the bowels of hell. I will not be looking for that yellow bus. Nothing can scare me now.*
*This blog will soon be transformed into a manuscript titled Nothing Can Scare Me Now: A Survivor’s Unvarnished Look at the Emotional Side of Breast Cancer. With hard work and good health, it should be finished this summer. Wish me luck.
Monday, March 29, 2010
The radiation center in the San Francisco Bay Area, where I go for treatments, is giving out a pinup calendar. This one is pretty cute. It’s called Pinups for Purpose and features local breast cancer survivors as models.*
Like most people, I choose a calendar based on the photos used at the holidays and on my birth month. Imagine my surprise when I flipped to the month of August and saw a male model! His name is Burt. He’s standing in a stream holding a fishing rod. And he’s just snagged a silver-polka-dotted pink bra.
The photos are the work of Jeanette Vonier, a photographer whose mother is a two-time breast cancer survivor. Ms. Vonier has posed her subjects in 1950s vintage settings because, “The women in vintage pinups seem to retain some innocence. They find themselves in common situations that everyone can relate to with humor.” Money raised from the calendar’s sale is given to many charities. Two of these are: “To Celebrate Life Breast Cancer Foundation” and the “Sutter North Bay Women’s Health Center.”**
There is a short biography of each of the models at the beginning of the calendar. What strikes me is the common thread running through their stories. One woman sees cancer as the “biggest gift” of her life, forcing her to slow down and take stock. Another talks about it being a “gift of time, awareness and empathy.” Still another views it as a “positive and life changing experience.”
I keep thinking of something I just read in the book Breast Cancer - The Complete Guide. The authors, doctors Yashar Hirshaut and Peter I. Pressman, write, “No sane person would choose to have breast cancer or, having had it, would say it was an ennobling experience.” I’m mystified. How can one look back on breast cancer as a “gift.”
I suppose we all want things to happen for a reason. What if getting cancer is just bad luck? Some might say it happened “to make one a finer person.” Well, what if one was a pretty fine person to begin with? Or, perhaps it happened so one would learn to “stop and smell the roses.” Hey, I’ve stopped for plenty of roses over the years. Nope, at the moment there seems to be no rhyme or reason for having been stricken with breast cancer. Maybe, when time has softened the experience, I will see the why of it. I suppose that I, too, would like to think it happened for a reason.
*Pinups for Purpose: http://www.pinupsforpurpose.com/
**To Celebrate Life Breast Cancer Foundation: http://www.tocelebratelife.org/
**Sutter North Bay Women’s Health Center: http://www.ucomparehealthcare.com/
Like most people, I choose a calendar based on the photos used at the holidays and on my birth month. Imagine my surprise when I flipped to the month of August and saw a male model! His name is Burt. He’s standing in a stream holding a fishing rod. And he’s just snagged a silver-polka-dotted pink bra.
The photos are the work of Jeanette Vonier, a photographer whose mother is a two-time breast cancer survivor. Ms. Vonier has posed her subjects in 1950s vintage settings because, “The women in vintage pinups seem to retain some innocence. They find themselves in common situations that everyone can relate to with humor.” Money raised from the calendar’s sale is given to many charities. Two of these are: “To Celebrate Life Breast Cancer Foundation” and the “Sutter North Bay Women’s Health Center.”**
There is a short biography of each of the models at the beginning of the calendar. What strikes me is the common thread running through their stories. One woman sees cancer as the “biggest gift” of her life, forcing her to slow down and take stock. Another talks about it being a “gift of time, awareness and empathy.” Still another views it as a “positive and life changing experience.”
I keep thinking of something I just read in the book Breast Cancer - The Complete Guide. The authors, doctors Yashar Hirshaut and Peter I. Pressman, write, “No sane person would choose to have breast cancer or, having had it, would say it was an ennobling experience.” I’m mystified. How can one look back on breast cancer as a “gift.”
I suppose we all want things to happen for a reason. What if getting cancer is just bad luck? Some might say it happened “to make one a finer person.” Well, what if one was a pretty fine person to begin with? Or, perhaps it happened so one would learn to “stop and smell the roses.” Hey, I’ve stopped for plenty of roses over the years. Nope, at the moment there seems to be no rhyme or reason for having been stricken with breast cancer. Maybe, when time has softened the experience, I will see the why of it. I suppose that I, too, would like to think it happened for a reason.
*Pinups for Purpose: http://www.pinupsforpurpose.com/
**To Celebrate Life Breast Cancer Foundation: http://www.tocelebratelife.org/
**Sutter North Bay Women’s Health Center: http://www.ucomparehealthcare.com/
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
A few days ago my husband and I were surprised by a generous gift. The owner of his company had two tickets for a winemaker dinner, which he could not attend. So he gave the tickets to us.
The evening was hosted by the founders of Williamson Wines in Healdsburg, Calif.* The winemakers chose the Solbar, a Michelin Star restaurant in Calistoga, as the site for their dinner.** I cannot speak for the wine, as alcohol does not agree with me, but the meal was nothing short of fantastic. My husband can speak for the wine. He says it was very good indeed.
We arrived home from the Solbar at one o’clock the next morning. The company was that enjoyable, the evening that memorable. When I asked my husband what his favorite memory was, he told me what he’d told his boss. “The best part was seeing my wife laughing and having a blast. I haven’t seen her do that in six months.”
Sometimes my husband, a man who is not so expressive, amazes me. As a foodie, I definitely thought he’d mention the stinging nettle soup or the foie gras confit with poached apricots. As a lover of good wine, I thought he’d talk about the Sovereign, which Bill Williamson poured toward the end of the evening. Bill has bottled only one hundred magnums of this wine, for public sale, at $1,000 per bottle.
Upon reflection, I have to admit I have not been on the happier side of the emotional scale in quite a while. There is a range of feelings that accompanies breast cancer. Laughing with abandon is not one of them.
In their book Breast Cancer - The Complete Guide, doctors Yashar Hirshaut and Peter I. Pressman talk about there being no “particular program” for coping with the emotions of breast cancer. “No sane person,” they write, “would choose to have (the disease) or, having had it, would say it was an ennobling experience. Nobody who has had a grave illness, or who has lived through the experience of surgery, or who has worried about the effects of powerful treatments, would mouth such a platitude.”
Hirshaut and Pressman note that most women experience their highest levels of depression and anxiety right after surgery. How right they are. Until that point, they say, “There has been an enormous amount to get through from the time they first realized something was wrong, through the period of evaluating their choices and making decisions, through the surgery itself. Now they must face picking up their lives again and also coping with whatever further treatment has been decided upon.”
Of course, then come the fears that must be faced before each treatment begins. And the worry about their immediate and long-term effects. And knowing that family members nearby and time zones away are worrying as well.
“Everyone reacts differently to trouble,” write doctors Hirshaut and Pressman. “There is no ‘correct’ way to cope with or get over an experience as trying as breast cancer.” But, according to the doctors, “women are in fact coming through it with intelligence, sensitivity, and a very moving gallantry.”
Why is that not surprising?
*http://www.williamsonwines.com/
**http://www.solagecalistoga.com/
The evening was hosted by the founders of Williamson Wines in Healdsburg, Calif.* The winemakers chose the Solbar, a Michelin Star restaurant in Calistoga, as the site for their dinner.** I cannot speak for the wine, as alcohol does not agree with me, but the meal was nothing short of fantastic. My husband can speak for the wine. He says it was very good indeed.
We arrived home from the Solbar at one o’clock the next morning. The company was that enjoyable, the evening that memorable. When I asked my husband what his favorite memory was, he told me what he’d told his boss. “The best part was seeing my wife laughing and having a blast. I haven’t seen her do that in six months.”
Sometimes my husband, a man who is not so expressive, amazes me. As a foodie, I definitely thought he’d mention the stinging nettle soup or the foie gras confit with poached apricots. As a lover of good wine, I thought he’d talk about the Sovereign, which Bill Williamson poured toward the end of the evening. Bill has bottled only one hundred magnums of this wine, for public sale, at $1,000 per bottle.
Upon reflection, I have to admit I have not been on the happier side of the emotional scale in quite a while. There is a range of feelings that accompanies breast cancer. Laughing with abandon is not one of them.
In their book Breast Cancer - The Complete Guide, doctors Yashar Hirshaut and Peter I. Pressman talk about there being no “particular program” for coping with the emotions of breast cancer. “No sane person,” they write, “would choose to have (the disease) or, having had it, would say it was an ennobling experience. Nobody who has had a grave illness, or who has lived through the experience of surgery, or who has worried about the effects of powerful treatments, would mouth such a platitude.”
Hirshaut and Pressman note that most women experience their highest levels of depression and anxiety right after surgery. How right they are. Until that point, they say, “There has been an enormous amount to get through from the time they first realized something was wrong, through the period of evaluating their choices and making decisions, through the surgery itself. Now they must face picking up their lives again and also coping with whatever further treatment has been decided upon.”
Of course, then come the fears that must be faced before each treatment begins. And the worry about their immediate and long-term effects. And knowing that family members nearby and time zones away are worrying as well.
“Everyone reacts differently to trouble,” write doctors Hirshaut and Pressman. “There is no ‘correct’ way to cope with or get over an experience as trying as breast cancer.” But, according to the doctors, “women are in fact coming through it with intelligence, sensitivity, and a very moving gallantry.”
Why is that not surprising?
*http://www.williamsonwines.com/
**http://www.solagecalistoga.com/
Thursday, March 18, 2010
The gamut of emotions I’ve experienced since being diagnosed with breast cancer is very typical, from what I’ve been able to discern. One thing I’ve done that, apparently, is not typical is that I’ve not joined a support group.
I use the word “apparently” because my women friends always seem surprised when I tell them I haven’t joined up. “Why not?” they ask in almost startled fashion.
The answer isn’t so easily summed up. In the beginning, I suppose, I didn’t want to feel any weaker than I already did. And going to a group of strangers for support not only felt weak to me, it seemed cold.
There was a time, during the worst of the chemotherapy treatments, when I thought about finding such a group. But I didn’t have the strength to go. When I did feel better, I wanted to surround myself with healthy, upbeat people who could take my mind to a happier place.
Had the chemotherapy gone longer than three months, I think I would have sought out a group with like experiences. It had become wearying, explaining to family and friends what was happening with me before I could get a hug in return. That was all I wanted most of the time. No advice. No sympathy really. Just a hug.
In Dr. Susan Love’s Breast Book, she writes: “Sometimes, when you’re having chemotherapy, the people who were supportive in the beginning start to dribble off.” She hit that right on the nose. People who were there when I was diagnosed, and through two surgeries, began to fade away when chemotherapy began. Who could blame them? As the patient, I longed to get on with life, get back to “normal.” According to Dr. Love, when the interest from others fades, that’s a perfect time to find a support group.
Dr. Love talks about a “peculiar sort of funk” that sets in when surgeries and treatment end. She notes that support groups can even be sought out then. I hadn’t considered that. With the end of my treatment scant two weeks away, I find myself with a litany of questions that are, apparently, very typical:
--Am I cured?
--When there is no more chemotherapy or radiation going into my body, are the cancer cells waiting to coalesce and strike?
--My body betrayed me once, will it again?
--Will there be after effects from the treatments that will cause trouble in the future?
--What can I do with diet and exercise to reduce the likelihood of recurrence?
--The oncologists at my HMO are sure to want to push me into taking a hormone suppressant. What of the side effects and after effects from these?
I have talked with women who are in touch, seventeen years later, with friends made in their support groups. There is much, I hear, to be said in their favor. Once the preoccupation with treatment is behind me, I may yet join one. It’s been a traumatic whirlwind and it might be good to discuss it with people who have been there.
The American Cancer Society has a nice online article that goes through the things to consider when searching for a group. According to the article, “Some needs are best addressed in a support group. Examples are the need for information, such as how children typically react to a parent’s diagnosis, how to explain your diagnosis at work, or how to communicate better with your doctor. The intensity of your feelings about a situation will also help you to decide about attending a group. You may feel so upset about your situation that the idea of discussing it with others makes it worse.”
Here are a few links to support groups for those who might need one:
--American Cancer Society
http://www.cancer.org/docroot/ESN/esn_3.asp?sitearea=ESN
--National Cancer Institute
http://www.cancer.gov/cancertopics/wyntk/breast/page13. Information specialists at 1-800-422-6237 and at LiveHelp (http://www.cancer.gov/help) can help locate programs, services, and publications.
--Susan G. Komen
http://ww5.komen.org/breastcancer/support.html. Breast care helpline at 1-877-465-6636 for more information. The breast care helpline provides free, professional support services to anyone with breast health or breast cancer questions or concerns.
I use the word “apparently” because my women friends always seem surprised when I tell them I haven’t joined up. “Why not?” they ask in almost startled fashion.
The answer isn’t so easily summed up. In the beginning, I suppose, I didn’t want to feel any weaker than I already did. And going to a group of strangers for support not only felt weak to me, it seemed cold.
There was a time, during the worst of the chemotherapy treatments, when I thought about finding such a group. But I didn’t have the strength to go. When I did feel better, I wanted to surround myself with healthy, upbeat people who could take my mind to a happier place.
Had the chemotherapy gone longer than three months, I think I would have sought out a group with like experiences. It had become wearying, explaining to family and friends what was happening with me before I could get a hug in return. That was all I wanted most of the time. No advice. No sympathy really. Just a hug.
In Dr. Susan Love’s Breast Book, she writes: “Sometimes, when you’re having chemotherapy, the people who were supportive in the beginning start to dribble off.” She hit that right on the nose. People who were there when I was diagnosed, and through two surgeries, began to fade away when chemotherapy began. Who could blame them? As the patient, I longed to get on with life, get back to “normal.” According to Dr. Love, when the interest from others fades, that’s a perfect time to find a support group.
Dr. Love talks about a “peculiar sort of funk” that sets in when surgeries and treatment end. She notes that support groups can even be sought out then. I hadn’t considered that. With the end of my treatment scant two weeks away, I find myself with a litany of questions that are, apparently, very typical:
--Am I cured?
--When there is no more chemotherapy or radiation going into my body, are the cancer cells waiting to coalesce and strike?
--My body betrayed me once, will it again?
--Will there be after effects from the treatments that will cause trouble in the future?
--What can I do with diet and exercise to reduce the likelihood of recurrence?
--The oncologists at my HMO are sure to want to push me into taking a hormone suppressant. What of the side effects and after effects from these?
I have talked with women who are in touch, seventeen years later, with friends made in their support groups. There is much, I hear, to be said in their favor. Once the preoccupation with treatment is behind me, I may yet join one. It’s been a traumatic whirlwind and it might be good to discuss it with people who have been there.
The American Cancer Society has a nice online article that goes through the things to consider when searching for a group. According to the article, “Some needs are best addressed in a support group. Examples are the need for information, such as how children typically react to a parent’s diagnosis, how to explain your diagnosis at work, or how to communicate better with your doctor. The intensity of your feelings about a situation will also help you to decide about attending a group. You may feel so upset about your situation that the idea of discussing it with others makes it worse.”
Here are a few links to support groups for those who might need one:
--American Cancer Society
http://www.cancer.org/docroot/ESN/esn_3.asp?sitearea=ESN
--National Cancer Institute
http://www.cancer.gov/cancertopics/wyntk/breast/page13. Information specialists at 1-800-422-6237 and at LiveHelp (http://www.cancer.gov/help) can help locate programs, services, and publications.
--Susan G. Komen
http://ww5.komen.org/breastcancer/support.html. Breast care helpline at 1-877-465-6636 for more information. The breast care helpline provides free, professional support services to anyone with breast health or breast cancer questions or concerns.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Over dinner a few nights ago, a friend in my book club asked me how my radiation treatments were going. I told her, “So far, so good.” She volunteered that, one day, what is currently the standard of care for cancers of all types will seem arcane.
As my friend is a microbiologist running her own firm, I asked what she thought future therapies for cancer might be like. “Maybe a regimen of pills and shots,” she volunteered.
We both agreed that a vaccine would be nice. However, as the causes of cancer--especially breast cancer--still seem a mystery, a vaccine will be difficult to develop. One can dream.
In Dr. Susan Love’s Breast Book I found this tantalizing mention of vaccination: “We have always dreamed of finding something distinctive about the cancer cell and developing a therapy specific to it. We would then give the antibody, kill or control all of the cancer cells, and do little or no harm to the rest of the body.”*
In a section of the book called, What Is Coming, Dr. Love describes ongoing research. She says promising new findings are “already in the pipeline. It’s not fantasy; it’s a question of how soon we’ll know what to do with our knowledge.”
What she wrote next really surprised me: “In the future breast cancer may be as treatable as high blood pressure and diabetes are today. These diseases can be effectively treated by controlling the symptoms with medication without totally eliminating the underlying disease. The rehabilitation of the cancer cell may be an effective treatment so that the patient, while still having cancer, will be alive and well.”
“Even better,” Dr. Love goes on, “we will be able to stop breast cancer at its source--destroy the cells lining the milk ducts where all breast cancer starts. In this way, we will be able to prevent it all together.”
As Dr. Love notes in the dedication of her book, “We are working hard toward the day when our daughters and nieces will never have to hear the words ‘you have breast cancer.’”
Wouldn’t that be just fantastic?
*Dr. Susan Love's internet site: http://www.dslrf.org/breastcancer/
As my friend is a microbiologist running her own firm, I asked what she thought future therapies for cancer might be like. “Maybe a regimen of pills and shots,” she volunteered.
We both agreed that a vaccine would be nice. However, as the causes of cancer--especially breast cancer--still seem a mystery, a vaccine will be difficult to develop. One can dream.
In Dr. Susan Love’s Breast Book I found this tantalizing mention of vaccination: “We have always dreamed of finding something distinctive about the cancer cell and developing a therapy specific to it. We would then give the antibody, kill or control all of the cancer cells, and do little or no harm to the rest of the body.”*
In a section of the book called, What Is Coming, Dr. Love describes ongoing research. She says promising new findings are “already in the pipeline. It’s not fantasy; it’s a question of how soon we’ll know what to do with our knowledge.”
What she wrote next really surprised me: “In the future breast cancer may be as treatable as high blood pressure and diabetes are today. These diseases can be effectively treated by controlling the symptoms with medication without totally eliminating the underlying disease. The rehabilitation of the cancer cell may be an effective treatment so that the patient, while still having cancer, will be alive and well.”
“Even better,” Dr. Love goes on, “we will be able to stop breast cancer at its source--destroy the cells lining the milk ducts where all breast cancer starts. In this way, we will be able to prevent it all together.”
As Dr. Love notes in the dedication of her book, “We are working hard toward the day when our daughters and nieces will never have to hear the words ‘you have breast cancer.’”
Wouldn’t that be just fantastic?
*Dr. Susan Love's internet site: http://www.dslrf.org/breastcancer/
Saturday, March 13, 2010
I have now been zapped by a linear accelerator for five days running. One week of radiation therapy down, three more to go. So far, this breast cancer treatment has been much easier to withstand than chemotherapy, for which I’m glad.
Sometimes I think about the story a friend of mine told me. She’d planned a dream vacation to Alaska with her sister. When treatment for an aggressive cancer weakened her sister, there was some debate over going forward with the plans. But the sister wasn’t sure about her chances for survival, so the trip was on. My friend ended up making the arrangements, driving their rented motor home, and handling all the details during their vacation. Her sister, so independent in the past, seemed incapable of doing anything.
I know how easy it is to feel like an invalid, a victim. Friends and family can be very kind after learning that a loved one has been diagnosed with serious illness. People offer to bring meals, drive the patient wherever she needs to go, and take care of the house. When one is recovering from surgery, or felled by chemotherapy, it is easy to accept.
The time does come when the patient feels better. And yet, the invalid mindset persists. “I’m still weak, how far can I drive? How much exercise can my body safely do? Should I push myself or should I rest? Should I make my plans or take a pass for now?”
I had the invalid mindset for about two weeks. Now my mind has flipped in the opposite direction. Oncologists say the effect of radiation is cumulative. Fatigue can set in fairly soon. So I want to get everything on my list accomplished at once. All I missed out on during the surgeries and chemotherapy must be handled now. Plans for my own dream vacation must be fast tracked. The outline for the non-fiction manuscript I am writing must be done yesterday.
What lesson from my illness have I forgotten? It went like this: Family and friends first. All the rest in good time. How quickly one forgets.
Sometimes I think about the story a friend of mine told me. She’d planned a dream vacation to Alaska with her sister. When treatment for an aggressive cancer weakened her sister, there was some debate over going forward with the plans. But the sister wasn’t sure about her chances for survival, so the trip was on. My friend ended up making the arrangements, driving their rented motor home, and handling all the details during their vacation. Her sister, so independent in the past, seemed incapable of doing anything.
I know how easy it is to feel like an invalid, a victim. Friends and family can be very kind after learning that a loved one has been diagnosed with serious illness. People offer to bring meals, drive the patient wherever she needs to go, and take care of the house. When one is recovering from surgery, or felled by chemotherapy, it is easy to accept.
The time does come when the patient feels better. And yet, the invalid mindset persists. “I’m still weak, how far can I drive? How much exercise can my body safely do? Should I push myself or should I rest? Should I make my plans or take a pass for now?”
I had the invalid mindset for about two weeks. Now my mind has flipped in the opposite direction. Oncologists say the effect of radiation is cumulative. Fatigue can set in fairly soon. So I want to get everything on my list accomplished at once. All I missed out on during the surgeries and chemotherapy must be handled now. Plans for my own dream vacation must be fast tracked. The outline for the non-fiction manuscript I am writing must be done yesterday.
What lesson from my illness have I forgotten? It went like this: Family and friends first. All the rest in good time. How quickly one forgets.
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