Part Fifty: I Did It

            On Tuesday, I did it:  I drove to Tulsa by myself to get my BiPAP for sleep apnea.

            On Wednesday, I did it:  after spending a fun morning in downtown Pawhuska at the Pioneer Mercantile and a few smaller shops with friend Mona, I ate at Murphy’s for the first time, though I did not try their specialty, a hot hamburger.  For all my non-Bartian friends out there, a hot hamburger is a hamburger covered with fries and smothered with gravy.  (And a Bartian is a person who lives in Bartlesville.)

On Thursday, I did it:  I picked up my flute for the first time since last spring.  I played for less than five minutes and sounded awful, but it is a beginning.

These, perhaps, are not world-class exciting events, but they were important to me.  I needed to prove to myself that I can drive to big city Tulsa by myself since I may be doing precisely that five days a week for radiation therapy.  Plus, getting my BiPAP is exciting.  In case you don’t know, a BiPAP is like a CPAP, except that it delivers two different air pressures: one for inhalation and one for exhalation.  What that means for me is that now I breathe all night, which is way better for my health than stopping breathing 26 times in a single hour without even knowing it.

Going to the Pioneer Mercantile was a big deal because the Pioneer Mercantile is a new business established by Pawhuska’s own famous cookbook author, Ree Drummond.  I love looking at all kinds of pretty stuff I will never buy; plus, the cheese Danish I had upstairs in the bakery was awfully good.  And the other big deal about the day was that this was the first time Mona and I did something just for fun that was not tied to a medical appointment.

And playing my flute even for a few minutes reassured me that I will gradually get back to playing my flute again.  I’ve been so wrung out physically and emotionally through this long siege of cancer treatment that it was not an option.

I need a little bit of fun and lots of reminders that God will see me through radiation therapy.  It was easy once I was through with chemotherapy and surgery to “forget” about radiation.  I find that I am very tired of being a cancer patient—I guess I’m a patient with diminishing patience.  I want to be done, but I am realizing that when it comes to cancer, you are never completely done.  But I want to get to the place where cancer does not dominate my life.

Then I can say “I did it!” and be mostly done.

Part Forty-Nine: The Facts

            It was not what I wanted to hear. 

            I met my radiation oncologist Tuesday and suddenly things got real.  Too real.  How could I have forgotten those key details from my MRI last June?

            Besides the tumor itself, the MRI showed a few suspicious axillary lymph nodes plus a malignant internal mammary lymph node.  Dr. Nguyen reminded me of those details today and explained what they meant. 

            Axillary lymph nodes are in the armpit area.  Internal mammary lymph nodes are located underneath the ribs along the sternum.  The “complete pathological response,” i.e., “the cancer is gone” refers only to what was removed in surgery: the tumor area and single sentinel lymph node.  Radiation will not, as I supposed, only be directed to the surgical areas.  It will include the upper right quadrant of my chest to cover the axillary and internal mammary lymph nodes.  We surely do not want any stray cancer cells to be hanging out or spreading from there.

            Naturally, this more extensive radiation area means additional possible long-term effects such as an increased risk of lymphedema and the possibility of a small area of lung damage. 

            There are a few steps before radiation therapy begins.  I’ll have a CT scan and get tiny dot-sized tattoos that will serve as markers for my treatments.  Then Dr. Nguyen will plan the radiation therapy based on her analysis of the CT scan and my previous MRIs.  I will have 33 treatments:  at five times a week, that comes out to 6 ½ weeks. 

            About the time I finish radiation, it will be only a few weeks before I start quarterly visits to OCSRI-Tulsa to have bloodwork done and an appointment with my medical oncologist, Dr. Moussa.  (My port stays in for at least two years because 90% of triple negative breast cancer recurrences happen within two years of the initial diagnosis.)  There are bound to be follow-up appointments with my radiation oncologist as well. 

            Add to those appointments the ones for my other medical issues—high blood pressure, diabetes, degenerative disc disease, sleep apnea, and fibromyalgia.  My hope is that as the months and years roll by, there will be more news I want to hear than not. 

Part Forty-Eight: While I'm Waiting

            It has been two glorious months since my last chemotherapy treatment, and I’m ready to write about hair.

            My granddaughter Joelle likes to sniff my hair.  She says it smells good.  She also tells me it is soft.  And that it is growing.  She’s right, at least about the growing part.  The bald spots on the back have mostly grown in, and though my hair is somewhere between half an inch and an inch long, it stands up straight on the top of my head.  At first I had hopes that it would grow in white, but it keeps getting a darker gray. 

            My eyelashes are sparse and short, but my eyebrows have grown back in.  Though I never lost them completely, they were such a light gray that I couldn’t see them well.  Now they are thick, but it’s so nice to see ‘em that I can’t yet bear to tweeze ‘em.  However, I am the tiniest bit dismayed by my hairy face.  I don’t remember this much facial hair before, a soft, white down that graces my chin and cheeks and upper lip. 

            Though I certainly hope I will not become a bearded lady, I have looked forward to going gray for quite a while.  Kinda strange, I know, but that’s just how it is.  While everyone else was adding color to their hair, I was hoping to lose color.  Admittedly, though, I never anticipated having white facial hair.

            The other day I googled “facial hair after chemotherapy” and, sure enough, it is a common occurrence, often showing up a couple months after chemo and going away in another couple months.  In the meantime, I’m hoping Joelle does not start sniffing my chin.

           

           

            

Part Forty-Seven: Reminders

            Scrolling through my Facebook news feed, I saw a quotation posted by a Whidbey Island friend, Nancy, from Jesus Calling by Sarah Young.  If you’ve read any of Young’s devotional books, you know that she writes in first person—from Jesus’ perspective.  In her post, Nancy quoted the last three sentences of the December 5 reading: “Whenever you feel distant from Me, say, ‘Surely the Lord is in this place!’ Then ask Me to give you awareness of My Presence.  This is a prayer that I delight to answer.”

            I needed no further nudge.  Most of the time lately I have been spiritually numb.  Somehow, I’ve let go of prayer time again, and Bible reading has become duty rather than joy.  I’ve been slogging along, depressed by fatigue, neuropathy, back pain, brain fog, and the prospect of radiation. It’s embarrassing to admit because shouldn’t I be rejoicing continually that treatment was successful and the cancer is gone?

            So I put aside Facebook and asked Jesus to make me aware of his presence.  I wondered how he would do it and quieted my mind to listen and wait.  At once, the furnace came on, and with that noisy blast of air came the sense of the holy.  (No, I am not saying that God lives in my furnace vents!)  I heard the overhead sea shell chimes sing softly.  I thought about how Jesus is the sustainer of all things: “He is before all things, and in him all things hold together” (Colossians 1:17).  I marveled that he inhabits and surrounds his creation every second of every day.  His presence was sweet and strong, and my heart buoyed up with joy.

            By the next day, I had already let pain and discomfort sink me back into discouragement.  Late in the afternoon, though, God intervened.  A conversation with my daughter tugged at my heart, and back at home as I sat at the dining room table about to open my Chromebook again, I felt God’s presence.  He spoke conviction to my heart: a wordless sense that I should look for ways to love and bless other people instead of wallowing in my physical ills.  There was no accusation, rather, an all-encompassing sense of love and encouragement. 

            Both experiences reminded me of God’s generous grace.  When I experience his presence, it is pure blessing.  Many times in my life he has showered me with unconditional love:  love I could never earn; love that affirms, cherishes, and encourages; love that gives all lives meaning.  I keep sliding back into discouragement over pain and discomfort and limitations, but he blesses me anyway.  I want to live in his love and share it with others every day.

Part Forty-Six: More and Less

            Having successfully made the forty-mile drive from Bartlesville to Owasso, my first stop was at Sprouts, the grocery store I love.  My cart held only two items when a lightning bolt of pain struck my lower back.  Suddenly I could barely walk.  Excruciating jabs and stabs accompanied every step.  I was determined to pick up the items on my list; after all, I had 45 minutes until my doctor’s appointment.

            I took mincing steps and frequent stops in the attempt to dampen the pain.  I adapted and shortened the shopping process accordingly:  no stooping for bottom shelves and no random browsing.  Fortunately, somewhere between the bakery (I never even try to resist buying those yummy flax muffins) and the check-out, the pain dimmed down.

            It’s a good thing it did because I got to Bailey Medical Center a little late and had a hard time finding the sleep clinic.  Twenty minutes before I had been barely limping along, and now I was walking at full pace.  But arrive there I did, and as it turned out, filling out the last bit of paperwork took longer than it did the doctor to decide he would refer me for a sleep study.  From there I drove home, my lower back complaining about the gas pedal and brakes--and relaxing when the cruise control was on. 

            It is true that I over-exerted myself that morning:  I sorted out and straightened up my shoes, bagging up the ones I have not worn for a year or more.  That involved a lot of bending, which I guess was not such a good idea.  But I am supposed to be exercising more, and cleaning up the closet floor felt like exercising.  Diet and exercise, my primary care physician said at my check-up last week when the finger prick blood test revealed I am borderline diabetic.   

It’s looking like self-care and medical appointments will continue to keep me busy now that the end of cancer treatment is within view:  Eat less (count those carbs), walk more, see a specialist regarding my spine, do a sleep study, and start radiation therapy sometime soon.  In addition, make appointments for what got delayed during cancer treatment:  dental check-up, eye exam, and colonoscopy.  See my oncologist and radiologist next week, my surgeon in six weeks, and my primary care physician in three months. 

And in the meantime, no more bending, lots of walking, and less muffin-eating.

           

            

Part Forty-Five: Cancer in Three Tenses

            The other day I found myself talking about cancer in past tense.  It surprised me.

            Yes, cancer is past tense in a significant way:  a squeaky clean pathology report showing no evidence of cancer.  None in my breast and none in my lymph nodes.  The chemotherapy did its job.  It may be more accurate to say that the chemotherapy was so successful because of many people’s prayers.  God heard and answered those prayers.  I am grateful.

            Yet, cancer is still present tense in a significant way because radiation is the next step in the cancer treatment protocol.  About six weeks of radiation, five days a week is the standard.  The blessing is that I will receive those treatments right here in Bartlesville.

            In some ways, cancer will continue to be both past tense and present tense in the future.  I have some scars to prove it, though I don’t plan to show them off!   There are also lingering effects from the chemotherapy, such as my increased memory glitches and occasional peripheral neuropathy.  My hair is growing in gray:  believe it or not, I’m excited about that!  However, the white chin hairs I discovered looking in the bathroom mirror last night are not nearly as exciting, and I wonder if my eyebrows will ever look the same.  The sole lymph node removed in surgery gives me a slight chance of developing lymphedema (persistent swelling) in my right arm.  And the radiation . . . well, I hope it will leave nothing but a memory.

            There are larger, more important impacts that I hope never dissipate.  A deeper experience of “the peace that passes understanding.”  A new understanding of what people with cancer go through, a new compassion for their suffering, and a new appreciation of their courage.  More gratitude and joy in things that can easily be taken for granted, such as getting out of the house, taking a short walk, driving my car.  I don’t ever want to forget that all of life, even the insignificant moments, is precious.  I want to be thankful always for what I have and never begrudge what I do not have.

            What I am most grateful for is that God knows what the future holds.  In the last six months I’ve learned, more than ever before, that I can put my trust in Him.  No matter what.