I love being a mother. I knew I would,
but I am continuously amazed at how much I love it. Every day, Violet
gives me a reason to smile, to laugh, to keep working past the
obstacles that life has thrown my way. I sometimes wonder what people
must think, when they see a new mother who obviously has cancer. Do
they feel pity, sadness, or something else? Maybe it's a mixture of
things. I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me, but I am sure there
are those who do, as I'm sure I would to see another in this
situation. It's alright...I think the situation is tougher for people
to watch than it is to live through.
My beloved baby is eight months old,
already! She can sit up, she chatters away in her baby-talk, and she
loves Sesame Street. Yesterday, we discovered her first tooth, and
she's getting ready to crawl. It won't be long before she's running
around, getting into things, and finding new and amazing ways to melt
my heart. This is incredible.
Sure the cancer is there, but it pales
in comparison to the powerful force I feel for my child. Today, as I
watched her sit peacefully in the grass on a friend's front lawn, in
the early part of evening, when the light was golden, I lost myself
in her wonder as she played with the clover. The traffic hummed, and
the breeze blew her soft wisps of hair about like dandelion seeds. It
was a blissful magic that I know I will cherish forever.
Now as she sleeps, curled up in her
crib, a part of me misses her while she's away. The time is
approaching for me to flee to the realm of dreams, myself. Maybe I
can play with her there, too.
Well,
so much for sleep...at least where last night is concerned. It's a
strange thing to have insomnia at a time when I should be exhausted.
But then, as I recall, this happened to me once or twice when I did
chemotherapy fifteen years ago. I was warned that one of the drugs
could "wire" me, but I assumed that would have already come
and gone, since it's three days later. Perhaps it is something else
keeping me up.
I
tossed and turned for as long as I could bear it. I spent part of my
evening making jewelry and my mind has been brimming with ideas I
want to try, with a backdrop of recordings my mind has made of the
past few days. Violet woke up about fifteen minutes ago, crying in
her crib. She is now nestled in our bed next to her daddy, as she
finishes all of her mornings, these days. I should be with them, but
sometimes the flow of this "in-between" world takes me
elsewhere.
"In-between":
the place in which I seem to reside frequently in my life. Always in a state
of change, of seeking, of reaching for the next phase. There have
been points of stagnation, but perhaps those were just really times
of movement too slow to catch the naked eye, or consciousness. Even
as my life is once again "on hold" for cancer treatment, it
does not feel like I'm stopping, but traveling, walking "that
world", cloaked in a chrysalis, barefoot and bare-headed, taking
in the scenery, and making it all part of my being. If only I could
accurately describe the view...
As
Klaus Thomas, my “Nomi Cat” curls up in a purring ball in my lap,
I am reminded of how cats are often said to dwell within those same
in-between places. Perhaps that's why I have such an affinity for
them. They understand my existence, and I marvel and delight at
theirs. Perhaps these are just the sleep deprived ramblings of a
first-time mother with second-time cancer. Either way, I don't think
that's the important part. I think the important part is that I catch
and savor these moments, even the mildly annoying ones. There is
something more to learn, here. There are places within that I need to
reach outward to.
My
computer has just informed me that it's 6am. Maybe I'll have some
coffee and get back to that jewelry for a bit.
We're in the wee hours of Sunday. Bed
is not far off. Friday, I finally started chemotherapy. It wasn't so
bad, really...all things considered. I've been given a good supply of
anti-nausea meds. I also had to go in yesterday morning for an immune
system boosting-shot. Mainly I've been tired and spacy, with brief
bouts of nausea. No puking, thankfully.
Chemotherapy is cumulative, so I know
I'll be feeling like hell soon enough. I was disappointed to learn
that after my chemo has been completed, I'll have to undergo six
weeks of radiation, five days a week. As it turns out, the breast
tumor is twice the size previously thought, and it has attached
itself to my chest wall. It's still a good prognosis, but we have to
be aggressive with it.
The chemo room has windows lining the
east wall, with easy chairs facing the view of Vancouver Clinic and
some trees. It took a while to get my treatment started, so I had
extra time to look around and play with Violet in my lap. She, of
course, was an instant star, gaining attention from the entire staff.
We went in as a family, with pink scarves on our heads. Violet's came
off quickly, but it was still adorable.
It took a few tries to get a good IV
started. Consequently, I have a bruise in my right inner-arm. We
ended up using my left wrist. It aches a tiny bit, once in a while.
We started with a saline drip, then added to it some anti-nausea
bags. When those were done, the chemo was started. As it turns out,
I'm part of that lucky 10% that gets congestion and headaches from
that particular set of drugs. A benadryl drip with a shot of morphine
(in the IV tube, not my skin, thankfully) took care of it.
By the time we got home, I was feeling
pretty out of it, but not too bad. Even with the added radiation to
come in three months, I'm still okay with this. I'm still ready. This
is a good thing. This is a time to learn, reflect, explore, dream,
and love my little family as much as I can before the mundane world
comes to reclaim me. And of course, this is also a time of rest.
Speaking of rest, it's time I crawled into bed.
Well, I went in for my chemotherapy
appointment on Tuesday only to discover that due to some hiccups with
test results and pending insurance approval, that it had to be moved
to Friday. At first, I was irritated, especially since I'd already
shaved my head for the occasion. I wanted to get this moving. I want
to beat this monster. As my impatience cools, I have had a couple of
extra days to think on all of this. Being bald really isn't so bad.
It's not that I don't miss my hair. I definitely do. This extra wait
has just confirmed to me how ready I am. I am almost surprised at my
level of calm in all this. Is it because I've had cancer before and I
know what to expect? Is it because I've watched my brother die, my
daughter be born and through those things, I've simply learned to
ride the waves, as it were? I'm not deluding myself. I know this
isn't going to be easy. They're going to poison me for a few months
and then take my breasts. Sure, I'll be getting new ones, and my hair
will grow back...but it's still a pretty big deal. Cancer is always a
big deal. I guess I'm just that ready. There are and have been many
chaotic points in my life, but in this, I seem to be finding my place
of zen. As my body is being ravaged by the illness and the cure, I
feel at peace with it. I have been assured by my oncologist that
tomorrow we will proceed. Is it odd that I almost look forward to it?
I suppose that there are a lot of
people who would ask the “why me?” questions. I think when I was
twenty and doing this, I did. Today, my response is “Why not me?”
Why not George? Why not anyone? It's not a nice thing. It's a painful
and difficult thing, but it is what it is and it happens to people. I
am no more or no less deserving than anyone. It happens. I'm okay
with that.
Well, the hour is late. I think I'll
finish my decaf latte, tend to my teething baby, and call it a night.
The battle begins early tomorrow, and I am ready.
I am surprised at the amount of calm I feel at the moment. I didn't expect to be terrified or anything, but not this serene, either. I had my friend Bri shave my head so I wouldn't have to pull it out of the shower later. I didn't cry and I don't feel bad about being bald. I guess I really am ready for this. Let's go...
I went in for my MRI, today. It was a
surreal experience. The wait was long, as was the procedure. I got to
wear comfy scrubs and lie on a gurney with an IV needle in my right
arm while the room was being prepared. It was nice, really...I got to
chat with an older nurse about her breast cancer experience. I shared
a little about my previous cancer treatment, so we had a lot to talk
about.
I remember the CT scans I had, fifteen
years ago, and I thought this would be the same. Not quite. The
machine was smaller, more closed in. Because it was a bilateral
breast MRI, I had to lay on my stomach. Getting on the table was a
bit tricky, especially since the IV was making my arm sore and a
little stiff. The techs offered to redo it, but it wasn't that bad,
so I kept it as it was. Facing down, looking into a little window, I
was able to see the wall ahead of me. Very clever of them to place
mirrors to allow for this. I was facing down, but looking ahead. I
saw the machine surround me as I was moved through it.
Suddenly, I felt as if I was out in
space, being prepared to be transported somewhere in some sort of
futuristic capsule. On the wall ahead, there was a picture of a
tropical beach that appeared to be from a calendar. I couldn't tell
whether it was a photograph or painting, but as I watched it, it went
from one to the other, reminding me of how being in a beautiful place
can sometimes look like standing inside a painting...art and reality
intermingling...the surreality of beauty.
The machine was loud, even with
earplugs and headphones. At times, I would close my eyes, listening
to its changing rhythm, wondering if this is where industrial music
came from. When the combination of noise and closed eyes became too
much, I would open them and watch the picture for a while, then go
back to the darkness of my eyelids, letting my mind travel. I thought
about a lot of things. I thought about where this was taking me. I
thought about George, wondering what this had been like for him,
wondering if he was paying attention from his place on the other
side. I thought about what Tuesday means...my first round of
chemotherapy to come. I wondered if I will be strong enough to have
my head shaved preemptively, so I won't have to pull my hair out in
the shower, like I did last time.
The MRI itself took about a half hour.
When I was pulled from the machine, I groggily sat up, had my IV
removed, and made my way to the dressing room where my own clothes
waited. The car ride home was as surreal as the experience I had just
come from. As I watched the sun on the leaves of passing trees, my
favorite Rasputina song played in the stereo. It's achingly beautiful
with a soul-filling sadness. “Do you believe in the signs of the
zodiac? Haven't you heard that the systems for planning always
fail....” And it dawned on me. My body had remained on earth, but
in a way, the machine had still transported me to another place.
Here I am, in that world between worlds. Not dead, and not dying, but
not fully in the world of the living. I walked this dream-scape
before, the last time I had cancer. I did not expect to begin the
journey in an MRI machine, but that's what happened. Now, as I take
this trip, I know to watch the scenery. I know to glean all I can
from it. School has ended for the quarter. Last time I was in this
place, it was in the winter. This time, I'm taking a summer trip, and
I know that the world will be a different place when I return.
This evening, it hit me like
stage-fright. Yes...that's exactly what it feels like at times,
stage-fright. As of today, I am still waiting for a full prognosis.
All I've received so far is the knowledge that it's stage 2 breast
cancer on the left, and they want to take my breast...nipple and all.
It's a different kind of fear, that
rarely makes its presence known. After all, I've had cancer before. I
have an idea of what to expect. The weeks that have passed since the
initial diagnosis have gone by almost like normal, except I've been
beading more necklaces, and taking longer play and snuggle sessions
with my daughter, all while bracing myself for the major life-event
that will inevitably change me again...but for the better.
It was as I was putting dishes away
this evening, when I felt that odd sort of heavy dread hit my
stomach, and it felt JUST like it does before I have to do something
in front of a crowd. I pictured myself barely able to stand, sort of
wanting to cry or throw up, as I often do before I have to recite
basic information at a business meeting, tell a story in a classroom,
act on a stage, or sing “Blaze of Glory” in a dimly-lit bar with
a bunch of drunk people staring at me (the latter was an attempt to
cure this dreaded condition). This stage is different. I've been on
it before. The view is not of strange faces or judging classmates.
It's more like being able to see the whole scope of my life and
mortality. It's an incredible thing to look at, really, but it leaves
me feeling so exposed. It's like the universe is watching me, and
it's my job to pass with flying colors, but only after a lot of pain
and humiliation.
So here I stand, much like I did on the
auditorium stage in seventh grade, nervously reciting a poem as the
popular girls made fun of my shiny forehead (the event that lead to
makeup), only I've brought with me something I didn't have before.
Hunger. Hunger is stronger than fear. I may be shaking, but instead
of wanting to hide, I want to get through it. I want to look this
beast in the eye, know exactly what its plans are, and I want to cut
off its head. I'm almost bloodthirsty with this desire to do battle
and there's even a little thrill in the fear. I have my moments of
terror, but terror doesn't own me and neither does cancer. I have a
baby and husband who need me. I have an education to complete and a
future to start. There was nothing I could do to avoid this down-time
to come, but there is nothing it can do to keep me from planning,
from striving, from continuing.
