Hello followers!
I'm back and I want you all to follow me on my new blog:
http://wakingupondeathrow.blogspot.com
Hope to see you all there!!
Suzanne
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Monday, November 14, 2011
The End
I woke up this morning with sweaty palms and a racing heart. It was 7:15 AM, and I needed to get my boys up and ready for school.
Six and a half more hours.
At 1:45 PM, I'd be walking into Memorial Sloan-Kettering to learn what would be in store for at least the next three months of my life. Will I be able to start putting the pieces back together, or will my body need to be poisoned and beat up again?
For the next hour and a half, I kept myself busy dishing out waffles and milk, wiping faces, packing lunch money and driving my babies to school.
Now what?
It was only 8:45, and my mind was already on overdrive. The what ifs were taking over the positive thoughts, and I felt the panic attack starting in my chest. I didn't want to deal with my feelings until I had to, so I forced myself up the stairs and went back to sleep for a few hours.
At 1:00, Jimmi and I were in the car and on our way. We drove in silence for most of the trip, mainly because I was busy answering "good luck" and "thinking of you" texts. My friends and family have been so caring and supportive over the last few months. I hated the thought of cutting myself off from them, once again, if I were to receive bad news. As horrible as it is, that's been my way of handling the cancer experience. The more difficult things would get for me, the more I would withdraw and hide from the world. Not the best coping mechanism, I know, but it was the only one that would keep me from biting peoples' heads off out of sheer anger and pain.
We walked into the cancer center and greeted the familiar receptionist with a smile. "Results day," I reminded her as Jimmi and I headed toward the elevator. "Good luck!" she called after us. The doors opened, and we stepped inside. Jimmi pushed the button for the third floor and the doors closed. We didn't move. A few seconds later, the doors opened again, but no one got into the elevator. "That's weird," I said to Jimmi. He looked at me and joked, "Wonder who's in here with us." Without even thinking, I said, "Maybe it's my grandma."
I was referring to my mom's mom, who died of cancer when I was 10 years old. After seven grandsons, she was thrilled when she finally got me. Her only granddaughter. I know I was very young when she passed, but I remember her so well, and I think about her all the time. I know she's been with me through this journey, and it made sense that she'd want to be with me today. For a brief moment, I was comforted by the thought of her presence. Then the elevator doors opened on the third floor, and the familiar, yet indescribable smell of the waiting area hit my nose and brought on the psychosomatic nausea.
I announced myself to the receptionist, and he handed me a clipboard with a checklist to assess how I was feeling. Stress level? Hmmm...how about a nine? Ten seemed a bit too dramatic, even for me.
Jimmi and I found my mom sitting on a couch in the corner. She looked as uneasy as I felt.
"Suzanne?" called nurse Nikki. Here we go. Jimmi and my mom went down the hall to waiting room number two as Nikki took me in to get my weight, blood pressure, heart rate and two vials of blood. "Relax!" she commanded as she watched the heart monitor hit 103 beats per minute.
I joined my support team when Nikki was done, and shorty after, we were all called into an exam room to wait for Dr. Gorsky. Jimmi, my mom and I were laughing and making jokes as we waited, and then we heard the sound of high-heeled shoes clomping closer and closer to our door. The handle started to turn, and the three of us became instantly silent. Dr. Gorsky was only halfway through the door when she announced, "It's all good news!" "Really?" I asked, hardly believing her words. "Yes. Your scan was clear." It took a few seconds to really process what she was telling me, but once I had, all I could do was say, "Thank you for not making me wait too long to tell me that. Am I allowed to cry?" I looked at my mom, who didn't bother to ask permission. "I'm already doing that," she said as the tears welled up in her eyes.
Dr. Gorsky had said the words "Your scan was clear." But it meant so much more. With those four words, she managed to say, "Happy Thanksgiving, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year" all in one.
"So I need to come back in three months for another scan?" I asked. The doctor looked me in the eye, smiled, and said, "You need to live your life. Then, sometime in February, when you get a chance, you'll have another scan."
Live my life. I can live my life again.
Another question. "My 8 year-old keeps asking if he can kiss me on the lips. I've been telling him no because I don't know about my immune system and germs. But he asks me every time I tuck him in at bedtime." Dr. Gorsky laughed and jokingly scolded me, "Kiss your son! Do whatever you want to do!" I couldn't wait to tell Justin. He'd be so happy!
My mom asked a few more questions until Dr. Gorsky finally said, "Let's not worry about that now. You had a bigger monster to fry; and you fried it. For now, consider it fried."
We thanked her, wished her a Happy Thanksgiving, and headed out. "Wait!" I said to my mom and Jimmi, "Do you mind if I go into the chemo suite and say hello to Mary? I want to tell her about the scan."
I opened the door to the area of the building that, for the last few months, I dreaded the most. But I had to see my favorite nurse. During my last day of treatments in September, I promised I'd visit and give her the news. As I walked into the suite, I pretended I was wearing blinders. I didn't want to see the IVs delivering poison into helpless veins. I didn't want to see the patients whose skin looked pale and grey. I didn't want to see the shiny, bald heads or smell the combination of latex gloves and alcohol prep pads. Finally, Mary made her way to where I was standing. She was holding an IV bag of saline with her left arm, but that didn't stop her from giving me a tight hug. "You look great!" she exclaimed. "Is everything ok?" I gave her my good news and she wrapped her arms - or arm - around me again. "I'm so happy for you."
As we were leaving the building, my mom asked me to call my dad and give him the news. I dialed the number and waited to hear his voice. "Daddy? I got a clear scan!" I figured he'd be happy. I figured he'd say, "That's great!" But I never would've guessed that my big, strong, manly father would literally burst into tears that would render him unable to get any words out at all. "Daddy?" I heard the sobbing on the other end of the phone. He managed to squeak out, "I'm so happy, Sweetheart. I'm so happy."
I proceeded to text everyone I knew as Jimmi drove us home. But I had one more call I needed to make. I dialed my ex-husband's number. "Can I please speak to Justin?" I asked when he answered the phone. "Sure," he agreed as he called our 8 year-old to the phone. "Mommy!" That voice melts my heart. "Hi Monkey! I have good news for you!" No, my kids didn't know I had a scan. They didn't know I was waiting for results today. Honestly, I don't think there's a need to give them a reason to think their mommy might get sick again. The news I needed to give Justin was special, just for him. "What is it, Mom?" "Well, I talked to the doctor today, and she said you can kiss me on the lips!" My little boy screamed with excitement so loudly, I had to take the phone away from my ear. "Really? I can?" "Yes, baby, really." "Hooraaaaaaaaaaaaaay!"
I felt so loved.
Today was a turning point for me. I know my battle is far from over. Every three months, I'll go through the same agony of scanning and waiting. As long as all stays well, every three months will turn to every six months until five cancer-free years have passed. That's the goal.
Right now, I have good news. Right now, I'm cancer free. Right now, I'm making a fresh start.
That's why I'm choosing to end my blog now.
Today not only marked the end of seven months of Hell, but also the beginning of the rest of my life. I need to close the book on the negative and open a new door to what will come. I need to focus on living one day at a time and stop obsessing over this disease that has taken away too much of happiness already.
I will sign off now with the hope that the words I've written will give at least one other person the courage and strength to fight this evil monster...
and win.
Six and a half more hours.
At 1:45 PM, I'd be walking into Memorial Sloan-Kettering to learn what would be in store for at least the next three months of my life. Will I be able to start putting the pieces back together, or will my body need to be poisoned and beat up again?
For the next hour and a half, I kept myself busy dishing out waffles and milk, wiping faces, packing lunch money and driving my babies to school.
Now what?
It was only 8:45, and my mind was already on overdrive. The what ifs were taking over the positive thoughts, and I felt the panic attack starting in my chest. I didn't want to deal with my feelings until I had to, so I forced myself up the stairs and went back to sleep for a few hours.
At 1:00, Jimmi and I were in the car and on our way. We drove in silence for most of the trip, mainly because I was busy answering "good luck" and "thinking of you" texts. My friends and family have been so caring and supportive over the last few months. I hated the thought of cutting myself off from them, once again, if I were to receive bad news. As horrible as it is, that's been my way of handling the cancer experience. The more difficult things would get for me, the more I would withdraw and hide from the world. Not the best coping mechanism, I know, but it was the only one that would keep me from biting peoples' heads off out of sheer anger and pain.
We walked into the cancer center and greeted the familiar receptionist with a smile. "Results day," I reminded her as Jimmi and I headed toward the elevator. "Good luck!" she called after us. The doors opened, and we stepped inside. Jimmi pushed the button for the third floor and the doors closed. We didn't move. A few seconds later, the doors opened again, but no one got into the elevator. "That's weird," I said to Jimmi. He looked at me and joked, "Wonder who's in here with us." Without even thinking, I said, "Maybe it's my grandma."
I was referring to my mom's mom, who died of cancer when I was 10 years old. After seven grandsons, she was thrilled when she finally got me. Her only granddaughter. I know I was very young when she passed, but I remember her so well, and I think about her all the time. I know she's been with me through this journey, and it made sense that she'd want to be with me today. For a brief moment, I was comforted by the thought of her presence. Then the elevator doors opened on the third floor, and the familiar, yet indescribable smell of the waiting area hit my nose and brought on the psychosomatic nausea.
I announced myself to the receptionist, and he handed me a clipboard with a checklist to assess how I was feeling. Stress level? Hmmm...how about a nine? Ten seemed a bit too dramatic, even for me.
Jimmi and I found my mom sitting on a couch in the corner. She looked as uneasy as I felt.
"Suzanne?" called nurse Nikki. Here we go. Jimmi and my mom went down the hall to waiting room number two as Nikki took me in to get my weight, blood pressure, heart rate and two vials of blood. "Relax!" she commanded as she watched the heart monitor hit 103 beats per minute.
I joined my support team when Nikki was done, and shorty after, we were all called into an exam room to wait for Dr. Gorsky. Jimmi, my mom and I were laughing and making jokes as we waited, and then we heard the sound of high-heeled shoes clomping closer and closer to our door. The handle started to turn, and the three of us became instantly silent. Dr. Gorsky was only halfway through the door when she announced, "It's all good news!" "Really?" I asked, hardly believing her words. "Yes. Your scan was clear." It took a few seconds to really process what she was telling me, but once I had, all I could do was say, "Thank you for not making me wait too long to tell me that. Am I allowed to cry?" I looked at my mom, who didn't bother to ask permission. "I'm already doing that," she said as the tears welled up in her eyes.
Dr. Gorsky had said the words "Your scan was clear." But it meant so much more. With those four words, she managed to say, "Happy Thanksgiving, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year" all in one.
"So I need to come back in three months for another scan?" I asked. The doctor looked me in the eye, smiled, and said, "You need to live your life. Then, sometime in February, when you get a chance, you'll have another scan."
Live my life. I can live my life again.
Another question. "My 8 year-old keeps asking if he can kiss me on the lips. I've been telling him no because I don't know about my immune system and germs. But he asks me every time I tuck him in at bedtime." Dr. Gorsky laughed and jokingly scolded me, "Kiss your son! Do whatever you want to do!" I couldn't wait to tell Justin. He'd be so happy!
My mom asked a few more questions until Dr. Gorsky finally said, "Let's not worry about that now. You had a bigger monster to fry; and you fried it. For now, consider it fried."
We thanked her, wished her a Happy Thanksgiving, and headed out. "Wait!" I said to my mom and Jimmi, "Do you mind if I go into the chemo suite and say hello to Mary? I want to tell her about the scan."
I opened the door to the area of the building that, for the last few months, I dreaded the most. But I had to see my favorite nurse. During my last day of treatments in September, I promised I'd visit and give her the news. As I walked into the suite, I pretended I was wearing blinders. I didn't want to see the IVs delivering poison into helpless veins. I didn't want to see the patients whose skin looked pale and grey. I didn't want to see the shiny, bald heads or smell the combination of latex gloves and alcohol prep pads. Finally, Mary made her way to where I was standing. She was holding an IV bag of saline with her left arm, but that didn't stop her from giving me a tight hug. "You look great!" she exclaimed. "Is everything ok?" I gave her my good news and she wrapped her arms - or arm - around me again. "I'm so happy for you."
As we were leaving the building, my mom asked me to call my dad and give him the news. I dialed the number and waited to hear his voice. "Daddy? I got a clear scan!" I figured he'd be happy. I figured he'd say, "That's great!" But I never would've guessed that my big, strong, manly father would literally burst into tears that would render him unable to get any words out at all. "Daddy?" I heard the sobbing on the other end of the phone. He managed to squeak out, "I'm so happy, Sweetheart. I'm so happy."
I proceeded to text everyone I knew as Jimmi drove us home. But I had one more call I needed to make. I dialed my ex-husband's number. "Can I please speak to Justin?" I asked when he answered the phone. "Sure," he agreed as he called our 8 year-old to the phone. "Mommy!" That voice melts my heart. "Hi Monkey! I have good news for you!" No, my kids didn't know I had a scan. They didn't know I was waiting for results today. Honestly, I don't think there's a need to give them a reason to think their mommy might get sick again. The news I needed to give Justin was special, just for him. "What is it, Mom?" "Well, I talked to the doctor today, and she said you can kiss me on the lips!" My little boy screamed with excitement so loudly, I had to take the phone away from my ear. "Really? I can?" "Yes, baby, really." "Hooraaaaaaaaaaaaaay!"
I felt so loved.
Today was a turning point for me. I know my battle is far from over. Every three months, I'll go through the same agony of scanning and waiting. As long as all stays well, every three months will turn to every six months until five cancer-free years have passed. That's the goal.
Right now, I have good news. Right now, I'm cancer free. Right now, I'm making a fresh start.
That's why I'm choosing to end my blog now.
Today not only marked the end of seven months of Hell, but also the beginning of the rest of my life. I need to close the book on the negative and open a new door to what will come. I need to focus on living one day at a time and stop obsessing over this disease that has taken away too much of happiness already.
I will sign off now with the hope that the words I've written will give at least one other person the courage and strength to fight this evil monster...
and win.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Scan Day
Tomorrow is scan day. My first CT scan since treatments ended.
I'm scared.
Well, I'm not actually scared about the scan itself. I'm scared to hear the results on Monday. Monday will decide whether or not I'll be thankful on Thanksgiving. Monday will decide whether or not I'll have a merry Christmas. Monday will decide whether or not I can hope to have a happy New Year.
The odds of Small Cell Neuroendocrine Carcinoma coming back and/or spreading are higher than I'd like to admit to myself. It's not your average type of cervical cancer. The treatment for Small Cell is very aggressive to combat the level of aggression of the disease itself, but the problem lies in the lack of research and test cases. You see, Small Cell is so rare that the doctors really don't know how to treat it. What I have is basically like a lung cancer in my cervix. The doctors don't know if it's best to treat it like lung cancer or cervical cancer, so they shoot it with both guns and hope for the best. But they don't know what treatment has the highest success rate because there really haven't been enough of us out there to test. Even my surgeon said he'd only ever seen three cases of Small Cell at Sloan Kettering.
I'm a guinea pig.
So, my scan tomorrow will cover everything from my pelvis to my abdomen to my lungs. If the news on Monday is "all clear", I'll be free to live my life for another three months until I'm scanned again. But, if Monday shows return or spread of the cancer, discussions of my options will begin.
Honestly, I don't think I'd be able to handle going through chemo again. I haven't had a treatment since September 30th, and I still don't feel like myself yet. The good news is that my hair is starting to grow back. I almost look like I have really short hair on purpose, instead of having really short hair because it's growing back from nothing. I even noticed some new growth under my armpits, which were the first places to lose it. I'll admit, it was very nice not having to shave for a few months, but I'm not going to complain about starting up that habit again!
Yes, the hair growth is great; and feeling a bit better is wonderful. But the best part about being off of chemo is having my kids back. I don't think it's possible to explain how hard it was to know that I wasn't capable of taking care of my babies. I could barely take care of myself. I saw them when I was feeling up to it, and they even slept over a few times, but it wasn't the same. Now I'm back in their daily lives. I'm cooking for them, helping them with homework, taking them to the doctor, cleaning up after them and doing their laundry.
It's amazing how the things I used to complain about doing have become the things I'm learning to cherish.
I don't want my life to change again. I need to get back to being me. Jimmi and I still have to go on our Honeymoon. We still have 12 frozen embryos sitting in a lab, just waiting for us to be their parents. I'm only 36! There's too much I still need to do! Dealing with the possibility of recurrences, spread, more chemo or dying young are not on my list.
Oh, please, let this scan be clean. I'll be asking again in three months, but for now, I'll take it one scan at a time.
Let it be clean.
Let it be clean.
Let it be clean.
I'm scared.
Well, I'm not actually scared about the scan itself. I'm scared to hear the results on Monday. Monday will decide whether or not I'll be thankful on Thanksgiving. Monday will decide whether or not I'll have a merry Christmas. Monday will decide whether or not I can hope to have a happy New Year.
The odds of Small Cell Neuroendocrine Carcinoma coming back and/or spreading are higher than I'd like to admit to myself. It's not your average type of cervical cancer. The treatment for Small Cell is very aggressive to combat the level of aggression of the disease itself, but the problem lies in the lack of research and test cases. You see, Small Cell is so rare that the doctors really don't know how to treat it. What I have is basically like a lung cancer in my cervix. The doctors don't know if it's best to treat it like lung cancer or cervical cancer, so they shoot it with both guns and hope for the best. But they don't know what treatment has the highest success rate because there really haven't been enough of us out there to test. Even my surgeon said he'd only ever seen three cases of Small Cell at Sloan Kettering.
I'm a guinea pig.
So, my scan tomorrow will cover everything from my pelvis to my abdomen to my lungs. If the news on Monday is "all clear", I'll be free to live my life for another three months until I'm scanned again. But, if Monday shows return or spread of the cancer, discussions of my options will begin.
Honestly, I don't think I'd be able to handle going through chemo again. I haven't had a treatment since September 30th, and I still don't feel like myself yet. The good news is that my hair is starting to grow back. I almost look like I have really short hair on purpose, instead of having really short hair because it's growing back from nothing. I even noticed some new growth under my armpits, which were the first places to lose it. I'll admit, it was very nice not having to shave for a few months, but I'm not going to complain about starting up that habit again!
Yes, the hair growth is great; and feeling a bit better is wonderful. But the best part about being off of chemo is having my kids back. I don't think it's possible to explain how hard it was to know that I wasn't capable of taking care of my babies. I could barely take care of myself. I saw them when I was feeling up to it, and they even slept over a few times, but it wasn't the same. Now I'm back in their daily lives. I'm cooking for them, helping them with homework, taking them to the doctor, cleaning up after them and doing their laundry.
It's amazing how the things I used to complain about doing have become the things I'm learning to cherish.
I don't want my life to change again. I need to get back to being me. Jimmi and I still have to go on our Honeymoon. We still have 12 frozen embryos sitting in a lab, just waiting for us to be their parents. I'm only 36! There's too much I still need to do! Dealing with the possibility of recurrences, spread, more chemo or dying young are not on my list.
Oh, please, let this scan be clean. I'll be asking again in three months, but for now, I'll take it one scan at a time.
Let it be clean.
Let it be clean.
Let it be clean.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
It's The Little Things
Jimmi and I were in Tennessee for my brother's wedding this weekend. I wasn't sure how I'd be feeling, so we chose to drive down on Wednesday, rather than risk hours in an airport and a bumpy flight that might make me more nauseous than I've been feeling already.
The drive wasn't bad. It was about 15 hours over the course of two days. Jimmi likes to drive, so he banged out 11 hours in one shot, stopping only to eat and pee. That brought us to Pigeon Forge, TN, home of the famous DollyWood, where we decided to stop for the night. It was bitterly cold when we got out of the car, and I was immediately reminded of the last few months of Hell as the icy wind blew through my wig and caused goosebumps to rise all over my bare scalp.
It's little things like this that don't allow me to forget what I'm going through.
After a short night's sleep at The Ramada, Jimmi and I explored the nearby town of Gatlinburg, TN. As we walked around the streets full of quaint, little shops, I noticed I was getting winded very easily, but I trudged on. Soon, we found ourselves standing in front of a creepy looking haunted house. "Let's go in!" I said excitedly. After paying for our entrance, I was told we would be going on a self-guided tour of the "Mysterious Mansion", which included seven flights of stairs. Six months ago, I wouldn't have thought twice about it. But now, I found myself wondering if I'd be able to get through the amusement without stopping to rest or feeling faint.
It's little things like this that don't allow me to forget what I'm going through.
Luckily, we made it through the house unscathed, and headed for the huge aquarium down the road. Jimmi and I entered the building, and the overwhelming smell of fish hit me right in the face. Instantly, I felt nauseous and had to talk myself out of vomiting. "Do you want to leave?" Jimmi asked with concern. "I'll be ok," I convinced myself. "Just give me a minute." While the odor didn't disappear, I was able to tolerate it enough to continue our day of touring.
We decided to sign up for a "Penguin Encounter" that would allow us to go with a small group and touch and take a photo with a live penguin. It sounded so cute! As we sat in the small room with 12 others, the aquarium employee told us a little bit about "Jimmy", our penguin friend. She explained how to touch him and that he may try to bite at sleeves or jewelry. Then she added, "And for any of you men wearing baseball caps, you might want to take them off because Jimmi doesn't like the brims and he may try to attack you." A thought instantly went through my mind that made me cringe. Thank God I was wearing my wig and not my baseball hat with the hair attached to it. How could I have taken that off? I couldn't have. Then I would've had to explain to everyone why I wasn't able to touch the penguin. I would've been so ashamed.
It's little things like this that don't allow me to forget what I'm going through.
Jimmi and I left the aquarium after our penguin experience and headed for DollyWood. But, as if we were living a scene right out of National Lampoon's Vacation, the theme park was unexpectedly closed for the day, so we got back on the road and headed for Nashville. We arrived at dinnertime on Thursday, and the hotel was swimming with family members who had just flown in for the wedding on Saturday. But it wasn't just my family. The bride's family was there too. Meghan, my new sister-in-law, introduced me to her friends and relatives, and by the greetings I was given, I knew they had all heard my story. I got the sympathetic head tilt, the grab of the hand, and the "How are you feeling?" more times than I wanted to count. Seriously, people, I appreciate the concern, but can we talk about something else? By the time my own cousin asked the same question, I rudely snapped back, "I really don't want to talk about it." I felt terrible for biting his head off like that, but I don't want to feel like the poor little sick girl anymore.
It's little things like this that don't allow me to forget what I'm going through.
Friday was a busy day. My mom and I headed out to a Bridesmaids' Luncheon with Meghan's closest female friends and relatives, then made a quick stop back at the hotel to change, grab my dad and Jimmi, and run to the rehearsal dinner. I dealt with more head tilts and questions about my health much better than I had the day before, but I refused to walk around and mingle too much, and stayed close to my table, where I felt safe from cancer discussions.
As the dinner came to an end, goodbyes were exchanged, and my cousins started talking about hitting the strip in Nashville later on. I was tired and cranky, but I faked an excited, "Ok!" and the plans were set in motion. We all shot back to the hotel to change, and off we went. I was nervous because I wasn't sure if smoking was allowed in bars in TN. I couldn't be around smoke. Not only because I can't stand cigarettes; not only because I have asthma. The main reason I couldn't be around a smokey bar, was because I didn't want my wig to suck in the fumes. You see, after a night out, most people can just wash the smell out of their hair and go on with their lives. Not me. Washing my wig is an involved process that requires a styrofoam head, about 25 straight pins, a spray bottle with a shampoo and water mixture, a spray bottle with rubbing alcohol, and a deep conditioner - none of which I had brought with me. I had to avoid smokers because I refused to let myself smell like an ashtray for the rest of the weekend.
It's little things like this that don't allow me to forget what I'm going through.
As we walked around looking for some good live music, I realized there was no way around the tobacco sticks. Everyone on the street was smoking, and the backdraft was impossible to avoid. As I sniffed the tendrils of my wig, I became increasingly more depressed. But my night was about to get much worse. We crossed the street and saw a young man with dreadlocks and traditional hippie attire holding a sign that said, "Need $1 for weed". I shook my head at his joke, and was jolted back to reality when I heard a woman's voice ask, "Hey, can anyone give me cancer?" I stopped in my tracks and looked into the eyes of the weed man's female counterpart. "Excuse me?" I said not quite understanding what she was talking about. She made herself clear when she asked, "Can anyone give me a cigarette?" I felt myself start to shake. My hands clenched into fists and I had to hold myself back from popping her right in the jaw. Was that supposed to be funny? Did she think asking for cancer as a clever synonym for a cigarette was a joke? I kept walking, but every part of me was dying to run back to her and say, "You want cancer? Take it! I don't want it!" And that was it. My night was over. I left Jimmi with the rest of the group, and my cousin and I headed back to the hotel.
It's little things like this that don't allow me to forget what I'm going through.
Once I was alone in my room, I decided to get ready for bed. The wedding was the next day, and I really wanted to get some sleep. I pulled back my wig, and realized the tape was starting to come off. Jimmi would have to help me reapply it in the morning. I continued my routine of washing my face and brushing my teeth, then I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Oh no! I looked more closely. Oh shit! They're gone! I pushed my face right up against the mirror and confirmed my fear. My lower eyelashes were gone. All gone. I couldn't hold the tears back any longer and they started to fall down my cheeks like rain on a windshield.
It's little things like this that don't allow me to forget what I'm going through.
In the morning, Jimmi helped me tape my wig back on, then we went downstairs for some breakfast. I had to eat quickly because Meghan's sister, Cathy, was picking another bridesmaid, Alexis, and I up so we could get our hair and makeup done. Another situation I was dreading. When I got married, my hair - wig - and makeup were done by my stylist, who is a very close friend. He's known me for years, and he knows my situation. This time, I had to go to an unknown salon, and see an unknown stylist and explain that I'm wearing a wig. I felt so embarrassed.
Cathy arrived at 11 am, and Alexis and I hopped into the car. I tried to act happy and excited, when inside I just wanted to scream, "Let me off at the closest Starbucks. I don't want to go with you!" But I couldn't do that. We walked into the salon and my heart started pounding. We checked in and went to wait on the couch. Within minutes, a very young, blonde girl approached me. "Suzanne? I'm Molly. I'll be doing your hair today." I followed her to a styling chair and plopped myself down. I had to tell her before she touched me. Should I just blurt it out? Her hands started to reach for my head and I lunged forward. "Um, I don't know if Meghan told you when she booked my appointment, but I recently went through chemo and I'm wearing a wig." I was mortified. "Yeah, she told me. It's ok. So what do you want to do with it?" She seemed fine about it, but I wasn't. I used to love having my hair done. I loved the feeling of the brush running through my long, shiny locks. I loved how it would massage my scalp and make me feel so relaxed. This was just the opposite. I didn't want this girl to touch me. I wanted to leap out of the chair and run away. But I couldn't. I answered her question. "Well, I really can't wear it up because you'll see the edges of the wig. Just do whatever you can with it as long as it's down and everything is covered." I wanted to cry.
It's little things like this that don't allow me to forget what I'm going through.
When Molly finished with me, she brought me over to Sun, who was scheduled to do my makeup. Oh, how I wish it had been just one person doing both my hair and my makeup. Now I have to explain it again in case she needs to move my hair off my face. "Um, I'm not sure if Molly told you, but I recently went through chemo and I'm wearing a wig." She didn't seem to be phased by my announcement. "Yeah, Molly told me. She said not to pull it or anything. I was like, what do you think I'm gonna do? Rip it off?" Ok, can I please crawl into a hole and die now? Oh, wait, there's more. "Oh, one more thing. I noticed last night that my lower lashes are gone. Can you give me fake ones?" She got right up into my face, "Oh, yeah, you're right. Hmmmm, well, we only do fake upper lashes here." Of course they do. Ugh! "Ok, well, can you just hide the fact that they're gone with some eyeliner or something?" She nodded and started the process of attempting to make me look normal.
It's little things like this that don't allow me to forget what I'm going through.
Cathy, Alexis and I left the salon photo ready. Though, the last thing I wanted to do was smile for the camera. I know it's not true, but I feel like everyone is looking at me and whispering, "She's wearing a wig. It looks so fake!" I used to be outgoing and vibrant, and now I just want to hide from the world. But I couldn't. We picked up our dresses and met Meghan at the wedding venue. I did my job as a bridesmaid and acted happy and did as I was told. But as soon as the reception started, I made my way to my table and I never left. I didn't want to be seen. I didn't want to be noticed. I didn't want to be Fred's little sister with cancer.
I just want to be me again. Will I ever be me again?
The drive wasn't bad. It was about 15 hours over the course of two days. Jimmi likes to drive, so he banged out 11 hours in one shot, stopping only to eat and pee. That brought us to Pigeon Forge, TN, home of the famous DollyWood, where we decided to stop for the night. It was bitterly cold when we got out of the car, and I was immediately reminded of the last few months of Hell as the icy wind blew through my wig and caused goosebumps to rise all over my bare scalp.
It's little things like this that don't allow me to forget what I'm going through.
After a short night's sleep at The Ramada, Jimmi and I explored the nearby town of Gatlinburg, TN. As we walked around the streets full of quaint, little shops, I noticed I was getting winded very easily, but I trudged on. Soon, we found ourselves standing in front of a creepy looking haunted house. "Let's go in!" I said excitedly. After paying for our entrance, I was told we would be going on a self-guided tour of the "Mysterious Mansion", which included seven flights of stairs. Six months ago, I wouldn't have thought twice about it. But now, I found myself wondering if I'd be able to get through the amusement without stopping to rest or feeling faint.
It's little things like this that don't allow me to forget what I'm going through.
Luckily, we made it through the house unscathed, and headed for the huge aquarium down the road. Jimmi and I entered the building, and the overwhelming smell of fish hit me right in the face. Instantly, I felt nauseous and had to talk myself out of vomiting. "Do you want to leave?" Jimmi asked with concern. "I'll be ok," I convinced myself. "Just give me a minute." While the odor didn't disappear, I was able to tolerate it enough to continue our day of touring.
We decided to sign up for a "Penguin Encounter" that would allow us to go with a small group and touch and take a photo with a live penguin. It sounded so cute! As we sat in the small room with 12 others, the aquarium employee told us a little bit about "Jimmy", our penguin friend. She explained how to touch him and that he may try to bite at sleeves or jewelry. Then she added, "And for any of you men wearing baseball caps, you might want to take them off because Jimmi doesn't like the brims and he may try to attack you." A thought instantly went through my mind that made me cringe. Thank God I was wearing my wig and not my baseball hat with the hair attached to it. How could I have taken that off? I couldn't have. Then I would've had to explain to everyone why I wasn't able to touch the penguin. I would've been so ashamed.
It's little things like this that don't allow me to forget what I'm going through.
Jimmi and I left the aquarium after our penguin experience and headed for DollyWood. But, as if we were living a scene right out of National Lampoon's Vacation, the theme park was unexpectedly closed for the day, so we got back on the road and headed for Nashville. We arrived at dinnertime on Thursday, and the hotel was swimming with family members who had just flown in for the wedding on Saturday. But it wasn't just my family. The bride's family was there too. Meghan, my new sister-in-law, introduced me to her friends and relatives, and by the greetings I was given, I knew they had all heard my story. I got the sympathetic head tilt, the grab of the hand, and the "How are you feeling?" more times than I wanted to count. Seriously, people, I appreciate the concern, but can we talk about something else? By the time my own cousin asked the same question, I rudely snapped back, "I really don't want to talk about it." I felt terrible for biting his head off like that, but I don't want to feel like the poor little sick girl anymore.
It's little things like this that don't allow me to forget what I'm going through.
Friday was a busy day. My mom and I headed out to a Bridesmaids' Luncheon with Meghan's closest female friends and relatives, then made a quick stop back at the hotel to change, grab my dad and Jimmi, and run to the rehearsal dinner. I dealt with more head tilts and questions about my health much better than I had the day before, but I refused to walk around and mingle too much, and stayed close to my table, where I felt safe from cancer discussions.
As the dinner came to an end, goodbyes were exchanged, and my cousins started talking about hitting the strip in Nashville later on. I was tired and cranky, but I faked an excited, "Ok!" and the plans were set in motion. We all shot back to the hotel to change, and off we went. I was nervous because I wasn't sure if smoking was allowed in bars in TN. I couldn't be around smoke. Not only because I can't stand cigarettes; not only because I have asthma. The main reason I couldn't be around a smokey bar, was because I didn't want my wig to suck in the fumes. You see, after a night out, most people can just wash the smell out of their hair and go on with their lives. Not me. Washing my wig is an involved process that requires a styrofoam head, about 25 straight pins, a spray bottle with a shampoo and water mixture, a spray bottle with rubbing alcohol, and a deep conditioner - none of which I had brought with me. I had to avoid smokers because I refused to let myself smell like an ashtray for the rest of the weekend.
It's little things like this that don't allow me to forget what I'm going through.
As we walked around looking for some good live music, I realized there was no way around the tobacco sticks. Everyone on the street was smoking, and the backdraft was impossible to avoid. As I sniffed the tendrils of my wig, I became increasingly more depressed. But my night was about to get much worse. We crossed the street and saw a young man with dreadlocks and traditional hippie attire holding a sign that said, "Need $1 for weed". I shook my head at his joke, and was jolted back to reality when I heard a woman's voice ask, "Hey, can anyone give me cancer?" I stopped in my tracks and looked into the eyes of the weed man's female counterpart. "Excuse me?" I said not quite understanding what she was talking about. She made herself clear when she asked, "Can anyone give me a cigarette?" I felt myself start to shake. My hands clenched into fists and I had to hold myself back from popping her right in the jaw. Was that supposed to be funny? Did she think asking for cancer as a clever synonym for a cigarette was a joke? I kept walking, but every part of me was dying to run back to her and say, "You want cancer? Take it! I don't want it!" And that was it. My night was over. I left Jimmi with the rest of the group, and my cousin and I headed back to the hotel.
It's little things like this that don't allow me to forget what I'm going through.
Once I was alone in my room, I decided to get ready for bed. The wedding was the next day, and I really wanted to get some sleep. I pulled back my wig, and realized the tape was starting to come off. Jimmi would have to help me reapply it in the morning. I continued my routine of washing my face and brushing my teeth, then I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Oh no! I looked more closely. Oh shit! They're gone! I pushed my face right up against the mirror and confirmed my fear. My lower eyelashes were gone. All gone. I couldn't hold the tears back any longer and they started to fall down my cheeks like rain on a windshield.
It's little things like this that don't allow me to forget what I'm going through.
In the morning, Jimmi helped me tape my wig back on, then we went downstairs for some breakfast. I had to eat quickly because Meghan's sister, Cathy, was picking another bridesmaid, Alexis, and I up so we could get our hair and makeup done. Another situation I was dreading. When I got married, my hair - wig - and makeup were done by my stylist, who is a very close friend. He's known me for years, and he knows my situation. This time, I had to go to an unknown salon, and see an unknown stylist and explain that I'm wearing a wig. I felt so embarrassed.
Cathy arrived at 11 am, and Alexis and I hopped into the car. I tried to act happy and excited, when inside I just wanted to scream, "Let me off at the closest Starbucks. I don't want to go with you!" But I couldn't do that. We walked into the salon and my heart started pounding. We checked in and went to wait on the couch. Within minutes, a very young, blonde girl approached me. "Suzanne? I'm Molly. I'll be doing your hair today." I followed her to a styling chair and plopped myself down. I had to tell her before she touched me. Should I just blurt it out? Her hands started to reach for my head and I lunged forward. "Um, I don't know if Meghan told you when she booked my appointment, but I recently went through chemo and I'm wearing a wig." I was mortified. "Yeah, she told me. It's ok. So what do you want to do with it?" She seemed fine about it, but I wasn't. I used to love having my hair done. I loved the feeling of the brush running through my long, shiny locks. I loved how it would massage my scalp and make me feel so relaxed. This was just the opposite. I didn't want this girl to touch me. I wanted to leap out of the chair and run away. But I couldn't. I answered her question. "Well, I really can't wear it up because you'll see the edges of the wig. Just do whatever you can with it as long as it's down and everything is covered." I wanted to cry.
It's little things like this that don't allow me to forget what I'm going through.
When Molly finished with me, she brought me over to Sun, who was scheduled to do my makeup. Oh, how I wish it had been just one person doing both my hair and my makeup. Now I have to explain it again in case she needs to move my hair off my face. "Um, I'm not sure if Molly told you, but I recently went through chemo and I'm wearing a wig." She didn't seem to be phased by my announcement. "Yeah, Molly told me. She said not to pull it or anything. I was like, what do you think I'm gonna do? Rip it off?" Ok, can I please crawl into a hole and die now? Oh, wait, there's more. "Oh, one more thing. I noticed last night that my lower lashes are gone. Can you give me fake ones?" She got right up into my face, "Oh, yeah, you're right. Hmmmm, well, we only do fake upper lashes here." Of course they do. Ugh! "Ok, well, can you just hide the fact that they're gone with some eyeliner or something?" She nodded and started the process of attempting to make me look normal.
It's little things like this that don't allow me to forget what I'm going through.
Cathy, Alexis and I left the salon photo ready. Though, the last thing I wanted to do was smile for the camera. I know it's not true, but I feel like everyone is looking at me and whispering, "She's wearing a wig. It looks so fake!" I used to be outgoing and vibrant, and now I just want to hide from the world. But I couldn't. We picked up our dresses and met Meghan at the wedding venue. I did my job as a bridesmaid and acted happy and did as I was told. But as soon as the reception started, I made my way to my table and I never left. I didn't want to be seen. I didn't want to be noticed. I didn't want to be Fred's little sister with cancer.
I just want to be me again. Will I ever be me again?
Saturday, October 8, 2011
My Mommy
I should be ashamed of myself.
Since starting this blog, I've written from the heart without holding back. But I just realized I've never written about one of the main reasons I'm fighting as hard as I am.
My mom.
Yes, I know she's been a main character of just about every one of my entries, but I've never taken the time to talk about how truly amazing my mom really is.
Now is the time to correct that oversight.
I never expected anyone to give up anything for me. But my mom has given up everything. Before cancer, I used to joke that my mom had more of a social life than anyone I knew. From meetings to movies to Broadway shows, she really knew how to pack in her days. Her schedule was full from the moment she'd get up in the morning until the moment she'd close her eyes at night. And to top it off, she and my dad had recently purchased a house in Florida, and hoped to spend a lot of time there enjoying the relaxation and time with their friends.
But all of that changed last April.
My parents were supposed to leave for Florida the week I was diagnosed, but for some reason, something told my mom not to go. They postponed their trip for just a few days, so I asked my mom to join me at the gynecologist's office for the results of my LEEP, which I expected to be totally normal.
Obviously not the case.
"They did find some cancer there..." Dr. Ferrante explained, as I stared at him in disbelief. My mom was there to hold me as I cried. I'm sure she was holding back her own tears, but she never showed them to me. She was strong and positive and kept me from losing my mind.
They never did go to Florida. From that moment on, my mom cleared her schedule and put me first. She accompanied me to every single appointment with the countless specialists I needed to see. She never said, "I'm busy" or "I have something to do that day." I was her only concern. If she had a prior engagement, she'd cancel it without a thought to be there for me.
My mom slept at the hospital with me when I had my surgery. She dropped everything and ran into the city at midnight (twice) when I had to go back in for infections. She was tireless. She never showed weakness and she never complained. If there was something I needed, she was there. No questions asked.
Over the last six months, that never changed. Not only did my mom keep up on all of my medical needs, she went far beyond that. I can't even count the times she's cooked for me or cleaned my house. She's been here to manage the mountains of paperwork and bills that have collected on my kitchen counter. She's organized my kitchen, made the home office workable for Jimmi, put away laundry, taken the kids on outings and tended to my pets.
But the one thing my mom can do that no one else can, is talk me off a ledge. I must call her 15 times a day just for reassurance. "Mommy, I hate how I look." "Mommy, I hate how I feel." "Mommy, when will this stop?" "Mommy, my kids must think I abandoned them." "Mommy, I can't do this anymore." "Mommy, it hurts." "Mommy, I don't want to die."
She always knows what to say, and she will always talk to me. She never tells me to stop complaining. She never tells me to just deal with it. She never tells me she doesn't want to hear it anymore. She says, "I know it's hard. You just have to keep fighting." "I wish I could make it better." "Your kids know you love them." "Think positive."
I don't know how I got so lucky. I've heard the expression, "You can't choose your family." But, quite honestly, if I could, I would absolutely choose to have my mom.
I love you, Mommy.
Since starting this blog, I've written from the heart without holding back. But I just realized I've never written about one of the main reasons I'm fighting as hard as I am.
My mom.
Yes, I know she's been a main character of just about every one of my entries, but I've never taken the time to talk about how truly amazing my mom really is.
Now is the time to correct that oversight.
I never expected anyone to give up anything for me. But my mom has given up everything. Before cancer, I used to joke that my mom had more of a social life than anyone I knew. From meetings to movies to Broadway shows, she really knew how to pack in her days. Her schedule was full from the moment she'd get up in the morning until the moment she'd close her eyes at night. And to top it off, she and my dad had recently purchased a house in Florida, and hoped to spend a lot of time there enjoying the relaxation and time with their friends.
But all of that changed last April.
My parents were supposed to leave for Florida the week I was diagnosed, but for some reason, something told my mom not to go. They postponed their trip for just a few days, so I asked my mom to join me at the gynecologist's office for the results of my LEEP, which I expected to be totally normal.
Obviously not the case.
"They did find some cancer there..." Dr. Ferrante explained, as I stared at him in disbelief. My mom was there to hold me as I cried. I'm sure she was holding back her own tears, but she never showed them to me. She was strong and positive and kept me from losing my mind.
They never did go to Florida. From that moment on, my mom cleared her schedule and put me first. She accompanied me to every single appointment with the countless specialists I needed to see. She never said, "I'm busy" or "I have something to do that day." I was her only concern. If she had a prior engagement, she'd cancel it without a thought to be there for me.
My mom slept at the hospital with me when I had my surgery. She dropped everything and ran into the city at midnight (twice) when I had to go back in for infections. She was tireless. She never showed weakness and she never complained. If there was something I needed, she was there. No questions asked.
Over the last six months, that never changed. Not only did my mom keep up on all of my medical needs, she went far beyond that. I can't even count the times she's cooked for me or cleaned my house. She's been here to manage the mountains of paperwork and bills that have collected on my kitchen counter. She's organized my kitchen, made the home office workable for Jimmi, put away laundry, taken the kids on outings and tended to my pets.
But the one thing my mom can do that no one else can, is talk me off a ledge. I must call her 15 times a day just for reassurance. "Mommy, I hate how I look." "Mommy, I hate how I feel." "Mommy, when will this stop?" "Mommy, my kids must think I abandoned them." "Mommy, I can't do this anymore." "Mommy, it hurts." "Mommy, I don't want to die."
She always knows what to say, and she will always talk to me. She never tells me to stop complaining. She never tells me to just deal with it. She never tells me she doesn't want to hear it anymore. She says, "I know it's hard. You just have to keep fighting." "I wish I could make it better." "Your kids know you love them." "Think positive."
I don't know how I got so lucky. I've heard the expression, "You can't choose your family." But, quite honestly, if I could, I would absolutely choose to have my mom.
I love you, Mommy.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Hitting Hard
After such a positive, upbeat last post, I've been avoiding writing again for fear of bringing down the mood. Actually, that's not entirely true. I haven't really been able to write anything at all since this last round of chemo has knocked me right on my ass!
I forgot they told me the effects would be cumulative. I had an extra week off before my third cycle because of the wedding, so I was feeling pretty good for about a week. And for some reason, cycle three - while not a picnic in the park - wasn't quite as bad as the ones before. But cycle four, on the other hand...Wow.
I shouldn't complain. So many others are going through worse experiences in their lives right now. I should be able to deal with a little poison in my veins. But, quite honestly, I'm just sick of being sick. I hadn't really recovered from the last cycle before this one started, so it's really throwing me for a loop. I know I should be celebrating because this was supposed to have been my last cycle, but I'm just not in a partying place.
What if it didn't work? What if I have to go through this again? What if it's not over?
I'm scared.
I should be thinking positive thoughts. "Your attitude through all of this is very important," my mom keeps reminding me. But as hard as I try, it's not always easy to think happy thoughts when your head is in the toilet.
I'm really scared.
I have my follow-up CT scan scheduled for November 10th, with the results on the 14th. Hopefully, by then, I'll be back into a routine with my kids again. I miss them so much. But what if the results aren't good? What if this Hell has to start all over again? What will I tell my boys?
I can't think that way! My mom keeps reminding me, "Look at all you've been through in such a short time." Do I even remember it all?
Since April, I've had a LEEP, numerous PET scans and CT scans and MRIs, I've given myself shots to stimulate my eggs, I've had my eggs retrieved, fertilized and frozen, I've had a hysterectomy and my ovaries were removed, I was sent back to the hospital for an infection, I've had 28 days of radiation and four, three-day rounds of chemotherapy, I've lost my hair, I was sent back to the hospital for low white cells and I've gotten married.
Have I missed anything??
Oh yeah. My honeymoon. I missed that. And my kids. Haven't seen them very much. I really miss my old life, actually. I miss feeling healthy. I miss going to the gym. I miss hanging out with my friends. I miss waking my kids up for school. I miss helping them with their homework. I miss feeling like a person.
I feel like a walking science experiment. No ones knows exactly what to do, so they'll just keep trying different potions until something works. I hope.
I really hate that I'm being such a downer. In the middle of writing this entry, I called my kids just to hear their voices. Their dad called out, "It's Mommy!" and I heard a rush of excitement, then a joyful game of "Rock, Paper, Scissors" to see who'd get to speak to me first. Justin emerged victorious, and his bubbly little, "Hi Mommy!" almost brought me to tears. I listened as he told me all about the macaroni skeleton he'd made at school, and how he had memorized the Cub Scout Promise. Then Dylan took the phone and let me know the he, once again, was chosen for Gifted and Talented reading. He shared some ideas for his birthday celebration in November, then I let them both go back to dinner and homework. I hung up the phone after repeating "I love you" and "I miss you" over and over again. I don't understand how any parent can willingly decide not to see his or her children. It breaks my heart.
And here I am again. Alone in front of my computer. Jimmi is out picking up some dinner that I probably won't be able to eat, and I'm typing away while I'm well enough to sit up straight. I just want this part to be over.
I need prayers. Please pray that this will be over. Pray that my scans in November will be clean. Pray that they will stay clean. Pray that I'll be able to watch my kids grow up and graduate from high school, and college. Pray that I'll be there to congratulate them on their first job and dance with them at their weddings. Pray that I'll be able to hold my grandchildren in my arms and kiss them on their soft, sweet heads.
Please, pray for me.
I forgot they told me the effects would be cumulative. I had an extra week off before my third cycle because of the wedding, so I was feeling pretty good for about a week. And for some reason, cycle three - while not a picnic in the park - wasn't quite as bad as the ones before. But cycle four, on the other hand...Wow.
I shouldn't complain. So many others are going through worse experiences in their lives right now. I should be able to deal with a little poison in my veins. But, quite honestly, I'm just sick of being sick. I hadn't really recovered from the last cycle before this one started, so it's really throwing me for a loop. I know I should be celebrating because this was supposed to have been my last cycle, but I'm just not in a partying place.
What if it didn't work? What if I have to go through this again? What if it's not over?
I'm scared.
I should be thinking positive thoughts. "Your attitude through all of this is very important," my mom keeps reminding me. But as hard as I try, it's not always easy to think happy thoughts when your head is in the toilet.
I'm really scared.
I have my follow-up CT scan scheduled for November 10th, with the results on the 14th. Hopefully, by then, I'll be back into a routine with my kids again. I miss them so much. But what if the results aren't good? What if this Hell has to start all over again? What will I tell my boys?
I can't think that way! My mom keeps reminding me, "Look at all you've been through in such a short time." Do I even remember it all?
Since April, I've had a LEEP, numerous PET scans and CT scans and MRIs, I've given myself shots to stimulate my eggs, I've had my eggs retrieved, fertilized and frozen, I've had a hysterectomy and my ovaries were removed, I was sent back to the hospital for an infection, I've had 28 days of radiation and four, three-day rounds of chemotherapy, I've lost my hair, I was sent back to the hospital for low white cells and I've gotten married.
Have I missed anything??
Oh yeah. My honeymoon. I missed that. And my kids. Haven't seen them very much. I really miss my old life, actually. I miss feeling healthy. I miss going to the gym. I miss hanging out with my friends. I miss waking my kids up for school. I miss helping them with their homework. I miss feeling like a person.
I feel like a walking science experiment. No ones knows exactly what to do, so they'll just keep trying different potions until something works. I hope.
I really hate that I'm being such a downer. In the middle of writing this entry, I called my kids just to hear their voices. Their dad called out, "It's Mommy!" and I heard a rush of excitement, then a joyful game of "Rock, Paper, Scissors" to see who'd get to speak to me first. Justin emerged victorious, and his bubbly little, "Hi Mommy!" almost brought me to tears. I listened as he told me all about the macaroni skeleton he'd made at school, and how he had memorized the Cub Scout Promise. Then Dylan took the phone and let me know the he, once again, was chosen for Gifted and Talented reading. He shared some ideas for his birthday celebration in November, then I let them both go back to dinner and homework. I hung up the phone after repeating "I love you" and "I miss you" over and over again. I don't understand how any parent can willingly decide not to see his or her children. It breaks my heart.
And here I am again. Alone in front of my computer. Jimmi is out picking up some dinner that I probably won't be able to eat, and I'm typing away while I'm well enough to sit up straight. I just want this part to be over.
I need prayers. Please pray that this will be over. Pray that my scans in November will be clean. Pray that they will stay clean. Pray that I'll be able to watch my kids grow up and graduate from high school, and college. Pray that I'll be there to congratulate them on their first job and dance with them at their weddings. Pray that I'll be able to hold my grandchildren in my arms and kiss them on their soft, sweet heads.
Please, pray for me.
Monday, September 26, 2011
I'm Not Broken!
When I started this blog, I promised myself I'd be completely open and honest about all of my experiences no matter what. Well, now is one of those times where some of you might think, "Whoa! Too much information!" But I know that most of you are curious and want to know every detail of my life after radiation - especially the juicy parts!
So here it goes.
With Dr. Sidebotham's words, "You have no restrictions" ringing in my ears, I got to work using my dilator every other day. I started with the smallest one, which measures a whopping 2 1/2 inches in length and is probably the width of my index finger. While the first entry was a bit uncomfortable, I realized after two sessions that I could probably move up to the next size, which is just a little bit longer and probably a little wider than a roll of LifeSavers.
The routine is pretty boring. Snap the plastic cylinder into the plastic handle. Get comfortable. Lube up. Insert. Move in and out and side to side. Tighten muscles. Relax muscles. Repeat. Since it's pretty much a one-handed job, I can even keep myself entertained by Facebooking on my phone during the exercise. After five or ten minutes, the vaginal stretching is completed, and I can get on with the rest of my day.
During my dilator lesson with the nurse last week, she suggested that Jimmi help me with my work out to keep things interesting. But, unfortunately, Jimmi was away at a car show all weekend and I was left to handle things on my own.
But Jimmi came back today!
I really missed him. It was the first time we'd spent that long apart in almost a year, and it made my heart happy to finally see him pull into the driveway. I wrapped my arms around my husband and kissed him hello. "You wanna have a date night?" I asked. Since I'm starting what will hopefully be my last round of chemo on Wednesday, there isn't much time before I'll start feeling really shitty again. I wanted to take advantage of my last few days of feeling close to normal, and a romantic dinner seemed like a good way to do that.
We went out to a restaurant we'd never been to before. We shared some appetizers, ate our meals and shared a dessert. I smiled as I stared into my love's aquamarine eyes, and we talked and laughed throughout the meal. Every now and then, I'd notice the white gold and diamond ring sparkling on Jimmi's left hand and I'd think to myself, "I can't believe we're actually married." But then I'd remember the one part that's missing from our marriage, and a wave of sadness would crash over me. I know I just need to continue working with the dilators and that part will happen in time. But when?
We got home and Jimmi went into his office to catch up on e-mail. After a few minutes, I decided to barge in on his solitude and shower him with all the kisses he'd missed while he was away. But then, one thing led to another, and the next thing I knew, we were upstairs in the bedroom!
What do I do? Should I stop this before it starts? Can I do this? I've only been using the dilators for a week. Will it hurt too much? Will it even work?
Screw it! I need to try!
I'll spare you the intimate details. But let me put it this way. My marriage is consummated and I was pleasantly surprised by the end result!
I'm not broken! Everything works!
Yes, it's going to take some time before I'm completely comfortable with that activity. No, it wasn't perfect. But at least I know that part of my relationship isn't gone forever. It's only the beginning and the beginning wasn't bad! It gave me something I haven't had in a long time.
Hope.
I have hope.
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