An Actual Year of Weather

It has been a year. A year since a doctor looked me in the eyes and said, “I have bad news.”

There is so much to say, and nothing to say. I’ve been writing and writing. There are a thousand moments, a billion thoughts, a zillion reflections.

Cancer leaves one with a multitude of things to adjust to.

Just this morning I was at the hospital for a routine test. It was nothing, just a follow-up, and I am sure I am fine. But my anxiety was high because being in the hospital hurts my throat and makes it hard to breathe.

I walked past the cancer clinic and felt this strange empty feeling, like I missed the place. The truth is that as much as I hope I never end up back there getting more treatments, it was a safe and hopeful place for me for a long time. Saying good-bye at the cancer center was a transitional moment and isn’t that just what life is full of?

Driving home I did some fire breathing to try to relax the vise in my throat. This is where you inhale deep and then drive the air up the back of your throat as you stick out your tongue and make a low “ahhhh” noise. It helps. Oddly.

I may have gotten some weird looks at the lights.

Oh, I’ve missed you, dear reader. I’ve been so stuck between wanting to say everything and needing to say nothing.

I wanted to tell you that my hands and feet feel like they’ve been stuck into a hive of bees, and that my joints and muscles hurt all the time. Chemotherapy damaged my nerves and addled my brain and made my ovaries fail. I didn’t lose my hair, though, so there’s that. Also, my tastebuds did rebound and I can taste my food again. I stop numerous times everyday while eating and think, “oh, this is soooo good!”

Sometimes I am struck by an immense feeling of gratitude to be finished with chemo and to be healed up from surgery and radiation. Being sore and numb and buzzy and fatigued is to be expected, and with time I will get better.

I am alive.

A year ago I missed my daughter’s performances in the Kiwanis Music Festival because I was in St. John’s getting radiation treatments. A year ago she played the part of “Fern” in Charlotte’s Web and I was not there because I was in the hospital.

This year I will be in the front row, for every single thing.

A year ago I prepared February birthday suppers for both my boys not knowing if I would be around to see their next birthday. I wrote in my journal, “Please, please let me be here next year for my kids. Just give me ten years, so I can help them grow up.”

And now I have the luxury of thinking I could live to be old.

It has been a year and I have learned to be careful about what I expose myself to. I have spent too many nights worrying because I made the mistake of consulting a website about recurrence statistics or because I have a new pain and I don’t know what it is.

My mom always says, “We will worry about it when there is really something to worry about, and not before.” And that is my mantra now.

It has been a year and I beat back the rushes each day, the nettles reaching up to sting me. The fog is lifting. The clean, blue lake of my life beckons. I will emerge from this gnarled foliage.

Cast your worries carelessly like garments on the shore, my friends. We will swim and swim.

Photo by Robin Dalton, Badger Lake, October 2019

Ringing the Bell – Endings and New Beginnings…

I had my last chemotherapy treatment this week. I am getting disconnected today, just in time to pass out treats for Hallowe’en. Tuesday was the first time my kids have been to the cancer center with us, and I think it was helpful for them to see what exactly has been going on all these months.

While I was in the hospital getting the first part of my infusion, Krista texted me and said, “Three years ago today we were running the East Coast Trail Ultra-Marathon, and now you are finishing your marathon of treatments! Wow!”

My amazing chemo nurses and pharmacist – Lesley, Janine, Vanessa, Yours Truly, Kerri-Lynn and Natasha. I cannot begin to explain how important their support has been.

As a matter of fact, the timeline of this whole experience has been pretty interesting. Diagnosis – my son’s birthday. First radiation treatment – my Grandfather Taylor’s birthday (also, April Fool’s Day). Surgery and hospital stay – Easter time. Commencement of chemotherapy – shortly after Victoria Day Weekend and just in time for my birthday. Now I am finished my 12 rounds of chemotherapy (with no delays due to illness or infection, I might add!) on Hallowe’en, and the results of my December scan will be handed to me, hopefully, right before the Christmas break.

We’ve had a lovely fall in every way. My herbs are still flourishing on the back deck even though tomorrow is the first of November. Asher’s parents came to visit and we had a wonderful Thanksgiving with all four of my kids’ grandparents in fine form. How fortunate we are! My old friend, Robin, was in the area for three weeks and we had some quality time together. Even though I’ve often been sick, uncomfortable and fatigued, I’ve enjoyed these moments.

Melanie and I celebrating my disconnect. She is one of the wonderful nurses who did my post-surgery care and bi-weekly chemo disconnects.

When I look at the simple jack o’ lanterns my kids carved after our celebratory dinner this week my heart fills with joy. They carved these pumpkins happily together at the kitchen table like they do every year, but we had a new lightness of spirit. They had just watched their mom ring the bell at the cancer center, and what could be better than that?

My oldest son began volunteering at the hospital this week and went off to school this morning dressed in costume as a doctor. I think we are all quite enamored with doctors, nurses, and pharmacists these days.

I have some healing to do now to get my body, spirit and mind back in working order. I’m not going to sugarcoat the cognitive effects of chemo – I don’t go out much because I am avoiding germs and don’t always feel well enough, but I ventured to my book club meeting last night where I had trouble understanding two-part questions. I also described Cleo as a “dog who started out as a puppy,” a comment which garnered some laughs! All joking aside; however, according to my nurses and many people I’ve spoken to who have been through this, it takes quite some time for your body and brain to rebound from these treatments.

This healing is a labour of love, and I have a fine team around me. I cannot thank everyone enough for the support, the food, the hugs, the cards, the visits, the chats, and the calls and messages.

I also have a new perspective. The day before my chemo this week, during a long, slow woods walk, I discovered upon returning to the ski trail parking lot that I had lost the keys to the van. I started to get panicky, because I was already quite tired. But then I thought, “Hey, it could be a lot worse. You could be back in hospital. You could be facing many more treatments. This is minor.”

So Cleo and I slowly retraced our steps, me scanning frantically with my blurry steroid-laden chemo vision, kicking leaves all the way. Of course the proverbial saying “this is like finding a needle in a haystack” came to mind.

I thought, “What would mom do?” and, of course, I said a prayer to Saint Anthony.

Dear Saint Anthony, Please come ’round. My keys are lost and can’t be found.

All Newfoundland Catholics know this one.

On we lumbered, me scanning and Cleo sniffing and then, there the keys were. Cleo stood next to them triumphantly and I whooped. It reminded me of the whoop I let out months before when Cleo and I were snowshoeing and I received a call on my cellphone from one of my doctors telling me the spots on my liver were just common cysts. But this week my whoop was about a set of keys, and that earlier whoop was about living versus dying. The difference could not be more stark.

As I collected my keys, smiling, I couldn’t help but murmur a certain phrase …… You know the phrase, dear reader!!!! SOME LUCKY!!

I’m not sure who spotted the keys first but Cleo is definitely taking all the credit.