This Day ... and The Next Day

2:21pm, November 1, 2011.

That's the moment.

That's the moment I answered the phone and my doctor said the three words that changed the me forever, "It is cancer."

I have spent the last year, the last 366 days looking forward to today. I have thought of this day as I met with my surgical team, as I was wheeled into the operating room, as Mr. Awesome cleaned and dressed my wounds after surgery. I have thought of this day as I had my port installed, as I saw the red medicine course through my IV for the first time and as I watched my hair blow away in the wind.

 I have thought of this day as I lay in my bed, too sick and tired to move. I have thought of this day as I prayed for the strength to make it through one more treatment. I have thought of this day as I thanked God for all the people who loved me and were praying for me. I thought of this day as I stretched out on the radiation table, exposing my already scarred, damaged and raw breast to yet another blast of the beams.

I thought of this day.

The day that I am whole, healed and strong again. The day that the fear is gone and nothing but joy remains. The day that I can look into my future and know that it is mine, know that I made it, know that I survived. This is the day I have been waiting for! This day ... and the next day and all of the next days to come.

Recently someone made the comment to me that they wished that they could take back this past year for me, they wished that they could erase this whole horrible year. And while I appreciated the sentiment I told them that I wouldn't trade this past year for anything. They were shocked but I was serious. Am serious.

Although I could have done without the life threatening scare, I wouldn't trade the lessons, the personal growth and the relationships I have gained for anything. I wouldn't wish away one single encounter with other patients, one single note of encouragement, one single firm, strengthening hug. I wouldn't.

This year and all 31,622,400 seconds between this moment and that moment on November 1, 2011 has been a gift. I have grown as a wife, mother and friend this year. I have learned the power of letting people in and the strength of friendship. I have discovered that people are good and kind and compassionate and they want to help. I have realized that this is the one and only life I get and I better live it well.

I am a very different person than I was a year ago. My body is different; it is scarred, altered and frankensteined together but it is strong, it is powerful, it is beautiful. My heart also is different; it is whole, huge and full and it's capacity is endless.

This week a friend said the nicest thing to me. He said, "There is fire in your eyes." And he is right. There is. I have a passion for this one life, this one chance I get to make a difference, to leave a legacy ... so watch out, 'cause here I come!

When the Japanese mend broken objects, they aggrandize the damage by filling the cracks with gold.  They believe that when something's suffered damage and has a history it becomes more beautiful.  ~Barbara Bloom

Understanding the Pink

Check Yourself.

Check Yourself.

Check Yourself.

Have you been?

I've been delinquent with the reminders. Sorry. But I hope you've been taking care of yourself anyway. I hope you've been giving your girls a little attention and making sure that they (and you) stay healthy. I hope. I hope. I hope.

This weekend I was invited to attend a football game. The invite came from my cousin's 16 year old son, Caleb, it was his football game and the theme was pink.

Caleb is a fantastic guy and he was an adorable kid. He has morphed from a pudgy cheeked infant and a wee blond charmer into a magnificent young man. He is full of humour, kindness and warmth and I love that I get to call him family.

Caleb's entire family is kind of fantastic. His dad is a pastor and writer who often gives me encouragement (or a kick in the pants) to keep writing, keep living the life I was created to live. His mom is one of my closest friends and has walked this past year with me; supporting me, laughing with me and loving me. Caleb also has three unique and wonderful siblings who make me laugh and melt my heart. 

Like I said, this is a fantastic family and I have come to expect compassion and respect from Caleb but what I saw on Saturday blew me away. And it wasn't just Caleb, it was his whole team!

Once a season these boys go pink. They dedicate one game to cancer awareness and they go all out, raising funds and more than a few eyebrows. The funds go to CancerCare Manitoba and the eyebrows are in reaction to the pink tape they cover their helmets, shoes, socks and arms in. Last year Caleb wrapped himself in pink with the rest of his teammates but this year the pink went deeper.

I haven't spoken to Caleb about this too much but his mom and I have had a few chats. I know that hearing that I was diagnosed with breast cancer just a few weeks after the pink game last year had an impact on Caleb. I know that he has been worried about me during treatments and that he was relieved to see me getting stronger. I know that he now understands the pink a little bit better. And I know that it was really important to him that I was in the bleachers this year.

As I sat and watched the game my mind was flooded with random thoughts about Caleb, his team, his coaches, the other team and the fans. I couldn't help but reminisce about the boy Caleb once was and wonder about the man he is maturing into . I was impressed by the respect, discipline and sportsmanship his team exhibited and the dedication and care the coaches had for not just the kind of players the boys are but the kind of people they are, too. I was conversely baffled by the lack of sportsmanship and restraint the opposing team had and what a poor example of self control their coach was, but that's a rant for another day.

I watched this pink zebraed boys and felt as though they were playing just for me. For me and the more than 200,000 women in North America who will be told this year that they have breast cancer. These teenage boys played for strength, for health, for life. For Hope.

They played their hearts out that game but the score wasn't in their favour. After the game I gave Caleb a hug and told him I was proud of him. Hours later his mom texted me to thank me for attending the game and to say that Caleb was sorry that they didn't win. I told her he did.

His team may not have won the game but they raised money, awareness and hope. They stormed the field in a sea of pink. They played a clean game, a respectful game. They finished well. They may not get it now but in some games there is no winning; in some games just making it through with your head held high and the ability to live, to breath, to stand is winning enough.

Here's to the Transcona Nationals. Here's to a game well played. Here's to Hope.

Here's to Caleb!


Once you choose hope, anything's possible.  ~Christopher Reeve

Cardboard Victories

Yesterday I had the privilege of attending a church service with about 25 members of my extended family. We gathered to hear about a mission trip to Costa Rica that four of them just returned from. We sang songs in Spanish, watched video and looked at pictures from their trip and heard personal accounts of their experience there. They testified.

Testimony tends to be a really churchy sounding word and therefore it can freak people out. There have been many Saturday Night Live style skits mocking testifying in church that has left the whole practice seeming strange and laughable to many folks who weren't raised attending church. But to me testimonies are amazing, inspirational and life giving.

By definition a testamony is evidence of a fact; it's proof. Proof of something good, proof of a hard won victory, proof that none of us has to be alone in life. Proof that someone has our back and knows our path. Proof that life is meant to be good. Proof.


Near the end of the service the fourteen mission team members gave proof of the goodness in life. They stood on the stage, each holding a piece of cardboard.  On that cardboard each team member had written one thing they struggled with, things like fear, anger, doubt, themptatin and feelings of inadequacy. On the flip side of the cardboard they wrote their victory. Words like strong, protected, peace and free filled the stage. It was amazing to see a snap shot view of the 'wins' each team member had had.

As I watched them and celebrated their success with them I thought about what my piece of cardboard would say; what my proof of victory would be. What would I proclaim to give hope to others?  That's the point of testimonies, to give hope, to light a path and inspire perseverance.  So, what would I declare so that others may find hope in their lives?

Result of an unplanned pregnancy ... Sense of purpose and destiny.
Dorky and awkward growing up, friendless ... Loved by My People.
Worthless, inadequate, quitter,  fraud ... Worthy, whole, healed and inspired.
Diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer at 35 ... Cancer free and ALIVE at 36.
Imprisoned by my own mental garbage ... FREE!

I could go on but you get the point. For every struggle I have had, every heartbreak I have endured and every set back I have experienced I have also lived a victory. I have survived. I have become stronger. I have trusted more, learned more and basked in peace more. I have way more wins than loses.

I haven't done this on my own, though. I have My People and I have an incredibly faithful God. That's my cardboard testimony ... What's yours? What have you overcome? What is that one thing you can declare so that others may have hope?

I invite you to write your testimony in the comments or on the wall of our League of Extraordinary Women ... Let's build a cyber monument to the fighter in all of us. Let's proclaim 'we are stronger than'!

The world is full of suffering but it is also full of overcoming it.
~Helen Keller

Emerging from the Fog

The haze is lifting and I'm back at my keyboard, coffeejuice in hand, and all is right with the world.

Its been a month since my last post and nearly a month since my last chemo treatment. I was gifted a very snazzy ipad ages ago, with the intent that I could keep up my writing from bed while I recovered from my treatments, but there was one glitch in that plan, one thing no one took into account; Chemo Brain. I developed a severe case of chemo brain or The Fog as its known in the treatment room.

I couldn't think clearly let alone string words together to express a thought and don't get me started on my grammar and spelling! I was in over my head, befuddled and nearing a permanent oatmeal brain state. My memory was like a sieve, words were disappearing from my vocabulary and simple math may as well have been calculus.

It was rough going there for a while but the fog is lifting. I can think now. I can spell. My words are returning. I can add AND subtract and even do a little multiplication when there's a need. I can read books, not just flyers. I remember things and I have an attention span longer than that of a toddler's so things are looking up.

I couldn't wait to be clear enough to be here; I've missed it. I've missed sharing my thoughts and hearing from all of you. I've missed being A Normal Mom. Dare I say, I have missed the regular routine of driving the kids around, making dinner and helping with homework. I have missed being Mr. Awesome's partner and not only a patient. I have missed my life.

I knew that things were returning to normal, that my kids saw me as A Normal Mom again, yesterday. I had declared it a sleep-in day and had threatened all kinds of groundings, chores and torture for anyone who disturbed my slumber before 9:30 (remember when 'sleeping in' meant noon?). I felt secure that they were sufficiently scared and ready to comply when I tucked the little beggars in on Sunday night but I couldn't have been more wrong!

8:40 on Monday morning I was jolted awake by a lengthy drum solo followed by a recorder/piano duet that could have used a lot more practice. When I stumbled down the basement stairs to beg my offspring to cease and desist they all started talking to me at once. I felt like I was trapped in a beehive, it seemed like everyone and everything was buzzing and humming.

I finally got them to settle down and stop asking me questions and returned to my bed. Not thirty seconds later there was a knock at my bedroom door. It was Mischief. He crawled into bed beside me, put his cold feet on my legs and mashed his sticky face up against my neck and whispered, "I'm so glad you're a normal mom again. I've missed you!"

Sigh.

The fog is lifting, I am with my kids ... all is right with the world.

Healing does not mean going back to the way things were before, but rather allowing what is now to move us closer to God.



~Ram Dass

Just Passing By

I've been sitting here, staring at this blank page for at least half an hour, trying to muster up something funny, light-hearted and inspirational but I got nothing. I am tired. I am frustrated and I wish I could just throw in the towel with this whole chemo thing.

I am halfway through my treatments, which should be a good thing but I have had a really hard time with my port. Each time I've gone for treatment we've spent more time trying to unblock my port than actually pushing the drugs. I have to bend, twist, stretch and get pumped full of what Mr. Awesome calls 'medicinal draino'.

Oh, and to top off this lovely adventure my white blood cell count is low so after spending all day at the hospital yesterday, trying to open things up for chemo, I may not actually get chemo this week! All of this has left me exhausted and exceptionally grumpy today. So grumpy, in fact that I wasn't going to blog at all; then I looked at the calendar.

May 1.

The first of the month. The one day every month where I have pledged to blog with the sole purpose of reminding you, My People, to check yourself so that, hopefully, you will never have to walk this road. So here I am, writing this stinking blog.

I try to write things that are uplifting, that leave you feeling a little happier, a little more hopeful than you were before you gave me a few minutes out of your busy day. I also try to be real, honest and open about my journey as a wife, mother, woman and now Cancer-Kicking Ninja. So, I'm writing because this is real. It ain't pretty, eloquent or inspirational but it's honest and that has to count for something.

May 1 also marks six months since I found out that my non-cyst was actually cancer. I have been fighting this battle for six months. Six months plus one day ago I never would have imagined that this is where life was taking me but here I am, half a year in and still alive, still fighting and still winning.

I have learned a lot about myself, my family and my friends in the past six months. I have learned that I am a heck of a lot stronger than I thought, that my family loves me more than I could have ever imagined and that I have more friends that I ever dreamed of. I have also learned that days like today have come to pass. They have come to pass not come to stay but they have come and just as quickly they will go again. Thank God!

Thanks for hanging with me today, for loving me through my whining and for being here when this has passed. You (yes you!) are an inspiration and constant source of strength for me. Thanks for being My People!

Now, go have a coffeejuice and we'll meet up again tomorrow ... when this has passed!

If you're going through hell, keep going. ~Winston Churchill

I Fight Like a Girl, So There!

It's that time of the month again ... time to Check Yourself!

The last couple of weeks have been kind of hectic; I had treatment, the kids had a curling bonspiel which the grandparents came to town for (and Dude and Mischief's team won second place!) and then we packed up the van to spend the better part of Spring Break week at my parents' place.

My treatment week turned out to be a pretty frustrating week. My port was blocked and after spending five hours at the hospital clearing it I went home with the plan to return to CancerCare the next day for my treatment. When I arrived the next morning, my port was blocked again. I had a mini melt down while the medical staff discussed the options (reinserting the port - meaning another surgery -  or installing a pic line - ewww! ). Sometimes going through Chemo really bites.

They finally got my port flowing, after another round of what Mr. Awesome called 'medical draino', and I had chemo. By the time my treatment was done and I got home I was physically and emotionally spent so I put on my favourite post-chemo DVD and crawled in to bed. My doctor and I had decided to decrease my anti-nausea meds so I wouldn't be as stoned but that evening I ended up taking a hefty dose anyway because I was feeling rough. I made it through the night and by the next morning I was feeling much better.

 That evening my family showed up and then curling and Sunday school and play dates and drum practice and BBQ shopping and meal making and, and, and ... The weekend was fun but busy and in the midst of all the regular life mom stuff I have been trying to cope with the side effects from chemo.

On Sunday night, when I crawled into bed, happy but exhausted, I thought about my life; the family, the friends, the Autism, the volunteering, the writing, the mothering, the wifing, the writing, the cancer. I thought about all of it and how lucky I am to have so many people of my side, pitching in and helping out. I would be hooped without the support and encouragement from My People.

That being said, I still feel alone sometimes. Sometimes when I am having a hot flash followed by an intense wave of nausea, sometimes when I am in the shower and my hair is running down my face, sometimes when I am desperately tying to cover up the taste of metal in my mouth, sometimes when I look in the mirror and see how this cancer has changed me forever; sometimes I feel like this is my fight alone.

In those moments, I close my eyes, square my shoulders and picture myself literally kicking cancer's ass and then I hear it. Coming from all around me and inside me, I hear it. It is in the distance at first but the more I fight the louder it gets. Its shouting, yelling, cheering. Its the roar of applause. It's My People, in my corner, right there with me, every punch of the way.

Most mornings, as I do my make up and tie on my scarf, I think of My People. I think of myself, preparing for battle and My Legions doing the same. I think of all of the other Warrior Women who have fought this battle and I glean strength from them. I fill my heart with all the good wishes and healing prayers and I know that I am not alone.

About a month ago I stumbled across I website that I now visit often. Anytime I need I pick-me-up, a reminder or an inspiration I click on over to I Fight Like a Girl and read about my fellow warriors and the triumphs they've had. I look at their pictures and see hope, strength and determination in their faces. I learn from their experiences and am inspired by their take-no-prisoners approach to beating cancer and living life. They are My People, also.

This month, as you Check Yourself, think of Your People. Who in your world gives you strength, inspiration and hope? Think of them and thank them.

Thank you!

We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival. ~Winston Churchill

Who Loves You, Baby?

"Who loves you, Baby?"

I grew up hearing that phrase over and over. Even now as I type it I can hear my Uncle D saying it and chuckling. I was a bald, bald, bald baby and my nickname was Kojack. I didn't stay bald forever; by the time I was three I had a goodly amount of hair but the Kojack taunts haunted me through my adolescence and adult years.

Now 36 years later Kojack has returned.

Last Tuesday I was standing outside when I noticed my hair blowing in the wind. The thing was, it was no longer attached to my head! My hair, which had been falling out strand by strand for a couple of days, was launching a full scale evacuation, right there in the parking lot. That evening when we got home, and before I went out with a couple of girlfriends, Mr. Awesome shaved my head.

I was unsure of how I was going to feel when the moment came, when reality hit. I thought that I was going to be okay with losing my hair but I was also prepared to not be okay. The idea of being bald was not bothering me but the process of getting bald had me a little freaked out. I was worried that I was going to look like some kind of ogre, that I would be less feminine, that I would be embarrassed or humiliated by my hairlessness.

Mr. Awesome saw the uncertainty in my eyes as I nervously joked about my hair taking flight. He took my by the hand and instead of leading me to the bathroom to shave my head like I expected he walked me over to our bed and sat me down. Then he crawled in to bed beside me and just held me.

We spent an hour talking about our journey thus far. He listened to my worries and reassured me that this, like everything else we'd dealt with, was only temporary; we weren't going to be stuck in this moment of hairless uncertainty forever. Then he started joking about how much easier it would be to get ready to go out, how much money we were going to save on hair products and how I am guaranteed to have at least 6 months of no bad hair days.

Then he shaved my head.

As the razor skimmed over my head and the hair fell to the floor I began to feel stronger. I felt free and battle ready. With each tuft of hair that floated from the razor I felt the burden, uncertainty and powerlessness of cancer float away, too. I was suddenly in control, with no more distractions. I was morphing into a warrior ninja, a full fledged cancer killing machine.

When all my hair was gone, Mr. Awesome rubbed my head, kissed my forehead and turned me to face the mirror. The sickly looking, chemo patient I had dreaded to see in the mirror wasn't there. Instead there was just me; my eyes, my smile, my freckles. Me. Just more aerodynamic. As I stood there, staring at the new me I had another realization. I started my life bald and ended it with a full head of hair and cancer in my boob but right there, in my bathroom, as bald as the day I was born, I felt reborn.

The surgery had removed the cancer and the chemo was cleansing my body of anything the surgery may have missed. I was starting over. This cancer journey had already changed me, my perspective on life and my attitude on dealing with challenges. I am a different person than I was six months ago and its all good. I am a new person; I get to start over.

That night I posted a picture of me in a head scarf on Facebook and headed out for my girls night. I was a little nervous for the response my new look was going to generate but I was also determined to pull this off; I was going to rock this bald chick look.

When I got home that night and checked my Facebook I was overwhelmed. Who loves me, Baby? Everyone! I had dozens of notes, comments and private messages and every one of them was encouraging and reaffirming. My People, my team, my fellow warriors, once again had my back and were lifting me up!

Thank you! Thank you for being with me, for encouraging me and for being on my side. Thanks for being My People!

We're all born bald, baby.

~Telly Savalas

Loved Through

While the last minutes of March first slip by I am frantically writing this post. I had pledged to give all my peeps a monthly reminder to check themselves and I didn't want to let this month pass by despite all that's going on here. I started chemo yesterday and had an early morning CT today followed by a little volunteering and a lot of napping. I feel good, with very few side effects. I feel lucky, blessed, in so many ways.

Last weekend I was honoured by spending a day shopping and laughing with my sister and one of my cousins. That evening we met up with twenty or so of my pals for dinner and coffejuice and a movie. All of my pals showed up wearing hats and ready for a good time. I was overwhelmed by the number of people who showed up and how much love flowed my way.

At the end of the meal I stood up and shared a few words with my pals. I wanted then to know that the reason why I can be brave, strong and an 'inspiration' is because they are my people. They are brave for me, strong for me and inspire me. They encourage me, take care of me and love me through this journey ... every step of the way. And as I looked around the room, seeing childhood friends mix with church pals mix with high school buddies mix with family I knew that as long as all these people are on my side I can continue to kick cancer's ass!

A friend posted this video on my facebook wall and I wanted to share it with you ...

This month, as you remember to check yourself ... be sure to look around and count the blessings in your life ... see your pals and know that they are their to love you through whatever you're going through!

Friendship isn't a big thing - it's a million little things. ~Author Unknown

The Post that Probably Shouldn't Be

So, yesterday didn't turn out how I had planned. It was supposed to be port installed by 1pm and chemo right after but I was bumped from the OR because of a baby in distress that needed to be released from the womb. The baby was born via C-section around 2:30 and I was on the gurney and being sung to by 3 (it was my birthday yesterday so the OR nurses sang 'Happy Birthday' to me as they prepped me for surgery). By the time I was released from the Day Surgery section the cancer section was closed up tight for the night so no chemo for me yesterday.

By the way, my port is a little gadget that they installed under my skin. Its about the same size as a loonie around and about 3/4 of an inch deep. There is a catheter that is threaded into my vein near my heart and that's how the chemo drugs are pumped in to me. I've been calling it my Star Trek communicator ... the only problem is that Scotty's voice in muffled because the whole thing is under my skin.

Anyway, this morning Mr. Awesome and I reported to the cancer treatment room bright and early, fascinator on (me) and coffeejuice in hand. I thought I would be more emotional or something about today but I wasn't. It was actually a nice way to spend the day, if it didn't included injecting poison into my veins. A couple of friends stopped by to visit and one of my nurses is a pal from church. I met some other patients and their families. It was kind of a mellow day.

Then I came home.

Still mellow but trippy too.

I hardly ever take medicine for anything; not for headaches, upset stomachs or anything. I am kind of a light weight when it comes to these kind of things so it didn't take much to get me stoned. I am taking a pile of anti-nausea meds and the main side affect has been kaleidoscope vision, mildly slurred speech and an overwhelming sense of mellowness.

When I texted my pal about these side affects (affects or effects, affects or effects, potato/potato ... you know, when that is typed you lose the affect/effect of the different pronunciation. anyway...) she told me to post a blog. I told her I thought that would be a bad idea but I ate a cinnamon bun that my lovely neighbor baked for me and I realised that blogging is always an excellent idea. So here it is. The post that probably shouldn't be.

I know I will regret this in the morning. Well, maybe not tomorrow morning because I'll be on the same meds for a couple of days but some morning, eventually I may regret this but hey ... why be loopy if you can't do a couple of things you may regret.

Now, to decide on what tattoo I want to get this evening! ;-)

Humor is the great thing, the saving thing. The minute it crops up, all our irritation and resentments slip away, and a sunny spirit takes their place. ~Mark Twain

Extreme Make-Over: Random Edition

WARNING: This post may stray to the side of TMI for some readers. Read with caution!

So, in the weeks since my surgery I have been asked a lot of questions about about the surgery and my upcoming treatment. Some questions have come from friends bold enough to ask the intrusive questions that everyone is wondering about, others have come from acquaintances who are dying to know details but feel awkward about asking and still others have come from readers who know someone who was recently diagnosed and need to know that everything will be okay ... eventually.

 I have written about the funny side of dealing with incisions, drains and wound care but not much about the details of the surgery itself. I wasn't sure how much to share and how I would feel about everyone knowing everything about this journey but Mr. Awesome and I have always said that "shame is the enemy of success." So with that in mind, here we go.

I have a surgery called DIEP flap, which is the way they reconstruct the breast after a mastectomy. Just to back track a little, the decision to have a mastectomy was made because of the size and rate of growth of the tumor. A few people have commented that a mastectomy seemed extreme and barbaric but the mastectomy saved my life and the reconstruction saved my dignity.

So .... here's the graphic part.

The biopsy I had in October showed that I had a invasive mammary carcinoma (meaning breast cancer that has spread past the point of origin). In fact, I had two types of breast cancer; one in my milk glands and the other in my milk ducts. At the time of the biopsy the tumor was 2.5 centimeters and my lymph nodes were unaffected. Six weeks later, at the time of my surgery, the tumor was just over 5cm and 16 of my 26 lymph nodes on the affected side were cancerous.

The surgery took about 4 hours. During the surgery one doctor removed my nipple and about two centimeters of skin and tissue around it. She then removed all of my breast tissue through that opening. She also made 6 inch incision under my arm and removed my lymph nodes. All of that tissue was sent to pathology to confirm the type and grade of cancer (turns out the type was consistent with the biopsy results but the cancer was at stage IIIA, which means that there was in fact a tumor and my lymph nodes were affected).

Once the first surgeon was done a plastics oncologist stepped in and did the reconstruction. The first step was what is essentially a tummy tuck. I have an incision that goes from hip to hip along my abdomen where the doctor removed about 10lbs of stomach fat and tissue. He then pulled the remaining skin (that used to reside above my belly button) down to meet the remaining skin along the bikini line and stapled them together. He also made an incision to pop my belly button through my new, flatter stomach.

The surgeon then took the 'flap' that he had removed and scouted out a section with good veins and arteries and, thankfully, minimal stretch marks. He chipped the cartilage away from my breast bone, hooked up the vein and artery (to keep the new flap viable) and then stuffed the  flap into the cavity that had previously been my right breast. So, in essence, my right boob used to be my lower abdomen.

This surgery is a miracle and I am so thankful that we have doctors here, in our province, who are skilled in this technique. It is less traumatic physically and psychologically that the types of surgery they used to do for women with my diagnosis. And although I no longer have a nipple (they can reconstruct one complete with natural looking tattoo colouring) I do have a breast and I do have my life.

The next step in chemotherapy, which starts tomorrow, and with that hair loss and the possibility of premature menopause. I get a lot of questions about how I am doing, mentally and emotionally, with all of these changes and honestly, for the most part, I'm doing really good.

My life is more than my breast, my hair or my physical appearance. My scars, whether they are stretch marks, from childhood mishaps or from surgery, tell the story of my life. They are battle scars, each one hard earned and in their own way, precious to me. The stretch marks are gifts from my children, an outward sign of the mark they have left on my heart. The childhood scars tell of days full of adventure, tree climbing, crazy spinning, bike riding adventures. And my surgery scars are a map of my fight and victory over breast cancer.

This is my body, scars and all. This is my life, full of laughter, joy, loss, heart ache and healing. And the transformation that is happening with my body is no different than the make-over that is constantly happening in my heart and soul, as I daily strive to grow, learn, be more and do better.

Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it. ~Helen Keller


**This post was meant only to educate my readers and friends to my journey, not to promote a specific course of treatment nor to open a debate on treatment options. Each individual walking the cancer road must make their own, informed, decisions about treatment ... and be respected for the choices they make for themselves.
 
If you have any questions, don't be shy ... ask away!

Experience Someone

Yesterday we made our 17th unscheduled trip in to the city. This one was to get my pre-Chemo blood work done. Since this cancer journey has begun I have been to three different CancerCare centers, a breast clinic, a plastics emergency clinic and a lymphodema clinic. I have had a mammogram, an ultrasound, a biopsy, three scans, a surgery and countless blood tests and I have learned one important thing; unless you purposefully look up and notice the people around you, you will drown in your own nasty circumstances.

When you are in the middle of an illness or medical emergency, your thoughts can easily be consumed with your own stuff; your worries, your fears, your future or lack of future. You can get tunnel vision and begin to think that you are the only person who is in the middle of a crisis, the only person with stress, anxiety and a heavy heart. You can get so wrapped up in your own situation that you become self centered, inconsiderate and hurtful to others, even others in similar situations.

I see this almost every time we head to a hospital or clinic. I can't count how many times we see people rudely plow past others, cut in front of others in line, steal parking spots and try to interrupt medical professionals while they are caring for someone else. The people with the 'Me First' mentality are locked and lost inside their own trauma, they can't see the others.

I often joke that Mr. Awesome would talk to a lamp post if he thought he could make a friend and its true. He talks to people EVERYWHERE we go, so I'm never surprised to finding him chatting away to a perfect stranger whenever I leave him alone anywhere. Such was the case when I went for one of my early scans; I came out of the procedure room after an hour or so and found him talking and laughing with a woman who was waiting for her scan.

When he saw me he stood, helped me with my coat and said good bye to his new friend. She thanked him for the conversation and said that it helped to pass the time and made her feel less anxious. As we walked to the car Mr. Awesome told me all about his new pal, her cancer journey, treatments and difficulties. She had been fighting a rare cancer for years and her battle had left her unable to work, financially strapped and all but alone, her friends had burned out long ago. Despite all this she was still optimistic and upbeat for her recovery and future.

Months have passed since that afternoon and I still think about Mr. Awesome's pal, Sheila. We've never seen her again but the lesson we learned from her is never far from our thoughts. Its vital to look up, look around and engage with the people around you because the truth is there is always someone who is sicker, sadder, more fearful, more alone. There is always an opportunity to bring a little hope and even a little humour into someone else's day.

Yesterday, someone cut us off in line for the parking lot. Then we saw an older gentleman push passed a young , tattooed and pierced guy who had recently been badly beaten. Then a young woman elbowed in front of an elderly woman at the reception counter at CancerCare and middle age man impatiently thumped on the counter at the lab when he thought it was taking too long to get to his number.

We also saw a young couple with new born twins let an pair of elderly ladies go in line ahead of them. We saw a young mom give another young mom change to use the payphone. We saw a nurse gently comfort an elderly woman as she leaned over her husband's stretcher, a young man hold a door open for a lady in a wheelchair and a man randomly walk up to a hospital volunteer and thank her for the work she was doing.

We've spent a lot of time in hospitals, clinics and waiting rooms and there is no better place to be overwhelmed with worry but there is also no better place to practice kindness, to talk to people who need a little pick me up and to experience someone else's perspective.

We all go through stuff and we all have emotions about the stuff we're going through ... but ... we all go through stuff and we all have emotions about the stuff we're going through. Look up, look around and take a minute to see someone, really see them.

If you do not raise your eyes you will think that you are the highest point.  ~Antonio Porchia

A Healthy Boob is a Happy Boob

Welcome to our first ever #CheckYourself!

Today we will cover the basics because a healthy boob is a happy boob! The only way you'll know if your girls are healthy (and happy) is if you know your girls. Its important for you to know what is normal for your girls because no two girls are alike ... including your two! This is why Breast Self Exams (BSE) are important, they are a tool by which you will get to know your girls.

In recent years there has been some controversy about the effectiveness of BSE as a screening tool. I've read that there are studies that show that BSE don't necessarily increase early detection or survival rates and can be blamed for unnecessary invasive medical procedures. I have also read that BSE can cause unnecessary worry in women. Despite these studies I do feel that when you have all the facts, BSE are a woman's first line of knowledge and defense.

Breasts are naturally lumpy, bumpy, texturally diverse things. They change as we age and they change as our hormones do their monthly cycle. BreastCancer.org has some really great info on their site about BSE. They liken your girls to neighborhoods.

"Breasts tend to have different “neighborhoods.” The upper, outer area — near your armpit — tends to have the most prominent lumps and bumps. The lower half of your breast can feel like a sandy or pebbly beach. The area under the nipple can feel like a collection of large grains. Another part might feel like a lumpy bowl of oatmeal."

Once you get to know your 'neighborhood' its important to keep perspective. The percentage of lumps found that are actually biopsied and are actually cancerous is relatively small, so if you come across something during your BSE don't automatically jump to worse case scenario. Make notes on what you found, when you found it and where it is. Make an appointment with your doctor and then LISTEN to what they have to say.

 
A good doctor will take your concerns seriously an educate you about breast health. The more you know the better prepared you are to take care of yourself. BTW - being prepared does not include googling breast cancer and reading every horror story on the Internet. Hope and common sense thrive in a mind that is protected, balanced and responsibly informed; don't feed your worries with whatever junk you come across.
 
When you actually get down to checking yourself its important to be thorough and consistent. BreastCancer.org  gives a comprehensive five step method of checking the girls, including pictures. I know this might be uncomfortable for some of you because it was for me, especially step 1, but I am going to tell you in all seriousness that step 4 was the first step to saving my life.
 
The point is, I want you to take responsibility for your own health. Modern medicine is full of miracles. Doctors and scientists have been clever enough to figure out all kinds of ways to screen people for all kinds of deadly illness. Check your boobs, your cervix, your colon, your heart. Check yourself, take care of yourself. You have an amazing life to lead and it would be a tragedy if you missed it because you were too embarrassed to be informed about your own body, your own health.
 
#CheckYourself
 
To fear is one thing. To let fear grab you by the tail and swing you around is another. ~Katherine Paterson

Not from This. Not Now.

What if I die?

I'm not going to die.

Seriously?

Not going to happen.

No, really, what if I die?

I. Am. Not. Dying.

Ever?

Nope. Not ever.

That's ridiculous, of course I am going to die.

Okay, eventually I'll die.

So I what if I die, from This.

This won't kill me.

But what if it does?

Ugh! Okay fine. If This kills me that would really suck.

Can't I be serious? This might kill me. People die from This everyday.

But not this people. This people is planning on living long enough to become a burden on my great grandchildren.

An estimated 14 women die from This every day in Canada.

I read that about 40 people die every day because of accidental falls.

In Canada?

I don't know where.

That seems like a lot.

It is ... I am almost three times more likely to die from tripping over my own feet than from This.

Is that supposed to make me feel better?

I'm not the one that started talking death stats, all I know is that I am not dying. Not from This. Not now.

How can I be so sure that This isn't it for me?

I'm sure because I'm not done yet.

Done what?

Done anything, everything. I have three partially grown kids who need me. I have Mr. Awesome who, clearly, can't be left to his own devices. I have commitments, people who love me, people I love. I have dreams and goals that I have yet to fulfill. I have scads of notes for books I haven't written yet, I have piles of books I have yet to read and endless places to see, explore and experience. I have things to do. I'm not done yet.

I seem pretty sure.

I am. This is not going to be the end of me.

So I said.

So its true.

So its true?

Yep.

Well, I guess that's settled then. I'm not going to die.

Not from This. Not now.

Not from This. Not now.

For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the LORD, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.
~Jeremiah 29:11

Check Yourself

There will be no cute stories, anecdotes or jokes today; today is all business. Today, I am passing on some vital information and asking for some help from you fine folks. Starting on February 1, I will be reminding all you gals to check yourself, meaning I will remind you to do a breast self exam on the first of each month. I want you to take a little time on the first to put yourself first.

Each month I plan to pass along some medical information, inspirational links and personal stories of Cancer Kickers ... this is where you come in. If you have a story to tell or a message to share please email me at somerandommother@gmail.com. I would love to interview you. Cancer has affected all of us in one way or another; I am not the only person to ever get this news, go through this treatment and decide to win.

Hearing stories of hope, triumph and determination builds me up, strengthens me and reminds me to fight on, especially when I'm having a rough day and I know I'm not unique in this either. Hope is contagious. Its the thing that keeps us moving forward, its the thing that binds us together. Hope is the thing.

So on the first of each month we will focus on hope, health and positivity. And we will focus on you. So stay tuned, stay connected and don't be shy ... share your stories.

Hope is knowing that people, like kites, are made to be lifted up.
~Unknown

How 'bout that?

WARNING: This blog post may turn into the rantings of a crazy woman ... ack, who am I kidding ... that's all this thing is on a good day, anyway!

So, yesterday I made the trek into the city to have a follow up appointment with the doctor who did the relocation/rebuild portion of my surgery. It was his first day back after his holidays so I was warned that his day was jammed and that he would, more than likely, be running behind schedule. And he was ... more than an hour behind schedule.

Mr. Awesome and I settled in to watch ELLEN with the other half dozen or so people in the waiting room. It didn't take long before Ellen's monologue was overshadowed by murmuring and grumbling. One by one the other patients were losing their patience.

The complaining started out pretty benign but quickly crossed over to snarky and kept on going right to the point of rudeness. People complained about how long they were waiting, that The Doctor must be having a coffee break or that he's taking his time because he doesn't want to wrinkle his suit. Most of these comments were greeted by chuckles and grunts of agreement from the other patients.

After about an hour there was only two other patients in the waiting room with us and the complaining seemed to have run its course until a patient re-entered the waiting room. He had already seen the doctor but he felt the need to return to complain some more.

He spent 15 minutes complaining about the wait time, the lack of care the staff gave to him and how his sister got much better medical attention from a different doctor. Then he began bragging about how he told The Doctor off for the shoddy care he received. Of the two other patients in the room, one woman really got in to the Whine Fest. She chimed in with her tale of woe, recounting all the ways that the hospital staff and Doctor failed to meet her expectations.

I was so irritated that I could hardly sit still and I wanted nothing more than to tell These Two Whiners to "Shut up and be thankful that this 'sub-standard' doctor was able to save your whiny-assed lives" ... but I didn't. I found my Zen and reminded myself that everyone, especially those facing serious injury or illness, is entitled to their own experience and emotions. Pretty grown-up, eh? I thought so.

The thing is, I have discovered that this whole journey is less scary, traumatic and exhausting if I look at it from the perspective of thankfulness. I seriously didn't want to spend two hours waiting in a stuffy hospital waiting room but the truth is, without this doctor and his skill I wouldn't have lived a year. He (and his team) took the first step in saving my life.

And if you can't wrap your head around that, how about realising that doctors and nurses are people; people with families and lives and plans outside of the hospital. I'm sure they'd love to work 9 to 5 so they could be home for supper every night, attend all of their kids' events and have a social life (I'm sure their spouses and kids would love that even more!) but that's not the nature of The Job; especially with This Doctor and his team.

They arrive early, stay late, continually study to improve their skills and techniques. They are in awe of science and medicine and the miracle of the human body. They strive for perfection and connection. They give their all and care about the patient as an individual, as a human being. They respect life and work hard to not only repair the body but to keep hope and dignity in tact. And for all their skill, God given abilities and fancy degrees they are still caring, compassionate human beings.

And don't even get me started about how blessed we are to be Canadians, to have access to all of this medical treatment without having to pay a dime for it!

That's my rant. People are people and instead of complaining about the faults and focusing on the short comings how about celebrating the goodness, compassion and generosity of others.

How 'bout that?

The Good News

Today I had my fist surgical follow up appointment. I went there with high hopes of having some of the extra bits left over from my surgery removed but that didn't happen. I have to keep my 'Christmas ornaments' in until next week and the staples will be with me for a couple more weeks.

I was disappointed and a little annoyed until I got the good news; news that brought hope, peace and joy to my soul. I can return to my Precious next Monday! Since everything is healing so well I can go back on the caffeine a week earlier than expected. Yay!

I am trying to celebrate this because I`ve been a little bit of a miserable patient these last couple of days. I am restless and tired. I hate not being able to move properly and having foreign objects hanging out of me is gross and gives me the heebeegeebees. I am bored of being a patient ... I want desperately to return to my ninja ways.

In the meantime, I am trying to remind myself that its only been two weeks since my surgery and if taking these two weeks to heal gives me the next 50 years to live well its worth it. I am trying to be grateful for how little pain I am in and how well the surgery went. I am reminding myself to celebrate the fact that the tumor has been removed and all the things to come are to ensure my continued good health.

I am trying to live in the Good News and let everything else `come to pass.` I am trying and hoping ... and dreaming of The Precious.

No one can understand the truth until he drinks of coffee's frothy goodness. ~Sheik Abd-al-Kadir

Life ... It Goes On

Before my surgery I was really worried about what life after the surgery was going to be like. I was concerned that the pain and discomfort would make it difficult for me to be me. I was afraid that everything would become about The Surgery and I would lose the magic of Christmas because of the reality of my life right now.

I am happy to report that life goes on.

Although I have little to no memory of the hours after my surgery Mr. Awesome reports that I was cracking jokes and teasing him as usual. What I do remember is visits with friends and family, sharing laughter, stories and a little good natured teasing. I remember the wonderful staff at the hospital (GH5 staff is stellar!) and the respect and compassion they had while caring for me. I remember the reassuring smiles of my doctors as they checked on my progress several times a day. I remember feeling peace.

Since breaking out of the hospital my days have been filled with everything Christmasy and my nights have been spent curled up my dad's recliner in front of the Christmas Tree, with Mr. Awesome asleep on the couch beside me, feeling thankful for this life, this love and this family.

I have been feeling so good that the day after I was released from the hospital, Christmas Eve, I went to church with my family. It was quite the production getting me ready to go out and loading me in to the van but we did it. On the way to church I started to laugh uncontrollably. I'm sure Mr. Awesome thought I had lost my mind so I explained what was going in my Random mind,

"I have a two foot incision across my stomach that is being held together with 70 plus staples, my lower abdomen is now my right boob, I have four feet of silicon tubes hanging out of my body and my arm feels like there's a dead fish inside of it ... all this is going on and I am worried about the zit on my chin!"

Life ... it does go on ... just as crazy and random as ever!

Life is what we make it, always has been, always will be. ~Grandma Moses

Living on Gratitude

I have a lot to be thankful for. I am here. Alive. In this moment. I am sitting in a comfortable chair, in my parents house surrounded by my Random family. I no longer have a cancerous tumor growing in my breast. I am very thankful.

I have three strong and healthy kids. I have a handsome, inquisitive, brilliant boy. He has a kind and compassionate heart, a brain hungry for information and a smile that will melt your heart. A have beautiful, witty daughter. She is full of grace, laughter and light and her creativity is endless. A have another amazing, sensitive and brave boy. He is all action and love and humor and his laugh is contagious.

I have a husband who loves me more than I can bear. He is funny, sensitive, compassionate and the definition of a servant-leader. He has gone to the edge of the world and back for me this week and every day of our life together. He is everything that is good and fine and wonderful in my world.

I have a family that is huge and generous and loving. They have stepped up and filled in in ways I never could have imagined. They are meeting needs that have never been spoken and offering help before its asked for. They have covered me in encouragement, love and joy.

I have friends who have redefined the meaning of friendship. They have blessed us in more ways than I can count with their generosity and affection. They have made us laugh til we cry, wiped away our tears and wrapped us in boundless support and hope.

This Christmas, more than eve, I am sustained by friendship and kindness and living on overflowing gratitude for this life I get to lead and for those who are right there with me ... every step of the way!

Wishing you the Merriest of Christmases!

Gratitude is the memory of the heart.  ~Jean Baptiste Massieu

Normal?

The other night, while I was knee deep in Mod Podge, fabric strips and scrapbooking paper Mr. Awesome walked into my craft room (the storage room under our basement stairs) and asked me this,

"Are you worried that this is our last week of normal for a long time?"

I looked up to see if he was joking. Normal?

We have a kid who literally climbs the wall, another one from the Planet Vulcan and living with the third is like riding an emotional roller coaster at break neck speeds, even our dog is slightly mental. I say that I'm a writer but the truth is I am a cook, housekeeper, chauffeur, event planner, errand runner and volunteer who gets to write occasionally. Our house is in a constant state of chaos and I am always on guard for the next emergency because just when I think I have everything under control someone wigs out and we are back, living in Crazyland.

So, normal?

"Yeah, kind of," I reply because I know what he means.

This craziness is our normal. Managing the kids schedules, my aspirations, Asperger's, PDD-NOS, ADHD, a chronic thumb-sucker while juggling family responsibilities and expectations is normal ... for us. We thrive on the busyness that Our Five has created and knowing that in less than a week a lot of that has to change is a little sad.

I've been slowly adjusting to a reduced schedule, less projects and volunteer hours, no school meetings and minimal extracurricular comments, but knowing that it all has to stop, full stop in just a few days is irritating. I love being busy, helping out and being involved; I don't like to be a spectator for anything. I'm a hands-on kind of gal. Not anymore. Not for now.

The surgical nurse called the other day to go over a few pre-op things and to see how I was coping with everything. I told her that the surgery doesn't scare me but I am really annoyed by the limitations of the recovery. She laughed a little and said,

"I knew you were going to be trouble! You need to wrap your head around a New Normal. This, the cancer and the surgery, is tough and no one chooses to go through this, but you have to understand that by being a good patient now you will return to your Regular Normal sooner. This New Normal is only for a short time; you won't be able to do everything and be everywhere for now and that's Normal. Just be patient and you'll get your life back."

What does she know, she's just a nurse! And then my pastor said the same thing. And so did his wife. And so did my friends. And then my mom chimed in. As did my aunt, my sister and my cousin. Then the principal and Dude's teachers and finally, daily, Mr. Awesome reminds me to take it easy.

So its a New Normal ... still with the same old wall-climbing-alien-emotional children and mental dog ... the new part is going to be, has to be, me; my contentment to live from the sidelines ... just for a little while. I will be a chaise lounge chair quarterback (no recliners here!).

Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional. ~M. Kathleen Casey

Moments of Clarity from Inside the Doughnut

In preparation for my upcoming surgery I have had a lot of doctor's appointments and tests lately. I have been poked, scanned and measured in more ways than I ever thought possible. All of these scans require me to be still, immobile for long periods of time.

When I went to the first scan the technician asked me if I was claustrophobic and I answered 'no' but I didn't realize until a couple of minutes into the 45 minute scan that I have a different kind of phobia. I am Immobilephobic. Seriously. As soon as she told me not to move, I panicked; not a all out melt down just a slight mental struggle to hold on to my sanity.

Anyway, I survived that scan and later in the week when I had another, similar scan, I was better prepared. As I laid on the bed, injected with two types of radio active dye and with electrodes stuck all over my chest I began to think about life. And there, inside the doughnut, the CT machine whirring and humming, I had a moment of clarity about my life.

I'm not going to get into all the nitty gritty details of the epiphany I had but I will tell you these two things; when you are forced to be still and choose to see yourself you may be surprised by the truth and you don't need to be anything other than who you really, truly are.

This past year, living away from everything and everyone familiar to me, has been an incredible year of personal growth. I am still becoming the person I want to be and I am giving myself permission to keep growing, changing and being that person. For a long time I let other people's opinions, expectations and limitations frame who I was. Not any more. Not for a while now. I am me and there's something kind of fantastic about that.

Here's the deal ... you are spectacular ... just the way you are. Celebrate that. And if you are really brave, find a quite space, be perfectly still and think about you, who you are, the life you are leading. See yourself. Become the person you have always dreamed of being.

People often say that this or that person has not yet found himself.  But the self is not something one finds, it is something one creates.  ~Thomas Szasz