Today is exactly six months from the day that I woke up with unusual discomfort in my lower abdomen, the first hint of this crazy time of cancer and chemo and healing. So I guess it's appropriate that this should be my last regular post, though I do have more compelling reasons for bowing out of the blogosphere. Besides successfully getting rid of Grazelda, my demonic muse, starting this coming week I'll be far too busy taking pre-requisite courses for nursing school.
"Margaret," you ask (and I know you will, because everyone does), "Has this whole Cancer Experience influenced you choice to make this career move?"
Why yes, like pretty much everything else in my life, my future plans have been influenced by cancer. I'd been thinking about going into medicine in some capacity before I got sick, but I have definitely gotten a closer look at the field and its challenges and rewards and possibilities.
Medical technology of the past fifty years saved my life and has given me back a life of the same (or greater) quality with a similar life expectancy than before Grazelda. Even Margaret the Luddite can get behind those results.
I had some fantastic care from doctors and nurses who had a vast amount of knowledge that I needed them to have, the communication ability to share it with me, and the technical skills to coax my body back to health. Especially Shirley, my chemotherapy nurse (have I mentioned how cool she is?).
I want to help people, I want to work with my hands, and I'm going to study my tail off to become the best nurse I can. I'll still be working at Community Home Repair full time, so it's going to be a very, very full year. But I don't have cancer anymore, so I have to do something with my time!
That is also to say, Thank You, dear reader, for coming along with me on this journey, being the statistics that boost my spirits, the comments that make me smile, and people who are informed about my life without me having to recount the gory details over and over again. I have never felt alone.
I'll post medical results as they come, but we're hoping for really mundane and no more than monthly. So for now, I bid you good health, good friends, and as much hair as your heart desires.
In the course of having cancer, I've spent a little bit of time thinking about death. And I do mean a very little bit, but probably more than your average, Practically Immortal Twenty-Something In Outstanding Health that I used to be/am again. I haven't spent hours pondering death, and I've taken almost no time to think about the afterlife. It's never kept me up at night. In fact, I distinctly remember my first night in the hospital being much more bothered by the prospect of being stuck in bed with greasy hair for several days than thinking about eternity or the possibility of my life being truncated. Not a fact I'm proud of but it's the truth (and my hair was already really greasy).
I guess I had been thinking about death some this past spring and summer, usually on long rides down the bike path. I haven't actually run the statistics, but my guess is I have a much higher chance of being killed in a bike accident than by some weird abdominal tumor aka my right ovary.
Death: It's a difficult subject to approach. What kinds of questions do you even ask? What happens when you die? Do you just stop existing? If I died tomorrow, would I have lived a full enough life? rich enough? good enough? Are there relationships that need mending or more attention before I bow out?
And the all-important: What hymns do I want sung at my funeral?
I don't have answers to any of these, and like I said, I haven't given them a whole lot of thought. No one else has been asking these questions either. Maybe this is as it should be. I wasn't on my deathbed and my prognosis was/is really, really good. On the other hand, cancer has a (rightfully deserved) reputation of being this super serious disease, so even though my kind of cancer is generally curable, there's this unspoken hint of a possibility hanging over the situation "Is Margaret going to die from this?" And still no one talks about it.
In our culture, bringing up death is impolite. It probably would have fallen under insensitive for someone else to bring it up, and it felt like an imposition for me to do so, as if speaking the D-word aloud might give it more of a hold in my life or indicate depression that needed to be worried about. (Recall that our culture rewards relentless optimism over realism when it comes to cancer.) But when death becomes part of reality - and ultimately, it is part of everyone's life - talking is important. Even beyond issues of having a living will or advanced directives, sharing thoughts and emotions among trusted friends seems to be comforting and even vital. If we don't talk about this big Thing, the most irreversible event of a lifetime, we leave it to be dealt with alone inside one's head. Now there's a recipe for depression!
And then, when someone becomes terminally ill or dies, we are expected to be cool with it. Yes, we can experience grief and sadness, but there seems to be an expectation to suddenly be okay talking about death, like it's the most natural, if still really weighty, thing in the world. Which it is, but that doesn't mean the conversations come easily without thought and practice.
So I have an assignment for you this week. Talk to someone you love about death. Their death and yours. And this is especially if you're a Practically Immortal Twenty-Something In Outstanding Health. Now I'll step down off my culturally critiquing soap box and give you some medical updates.
Medical Update: The short of it: Good news. My AFP tumor marker count was 7, which is in normal range (yay!). My CT scan was clear (yay!). And Dr. Hallum couldn't feel any abdominal abnormalities (yay!). I'll likely be on blood thinner through May (ugggh).
The long of it: I went to see my oncologist today, for the first time in almost 2 months. It was the first time I went by myself, ever. Walking in with so very much energy in my body and the knowledge that I'd dive right back into my busy life tomorrow felt weird. But as a healthy person, seeing the doctors and nurses and staff who took such good care of me when I was ill was a joyful experience.
Medically, the news is as good as can be reasonably expected. That is, it's unilaterally positive except I can't eat greens until long after the good greens season is done in Tucson.
I had to go to the infusion room for a port flush (to keep my port-a-cath happy it has to be accessed and flushed with saline and blood thinner once every month or so), and of course I would have gone there anyway to visit my nurse Shirley. Walking into the chemo room was a wave of emotion for me, but soon enough I was sitting in a recliner, swapping stories about female parts gone awry, and demonstrating my favorite headscarf tying method to the first-timer next to me. While I didn't see them, I learned that my favorite chemo buddies are doing well.
And I go back next month. And the month after that. And the month after that. Grazelda is one fast-growing cookie, so we're keeping close tabs on her ashes for the first while, but for now she does seem to be thoroughly gone.
I've been trying to make a list of Top 10 Regrets from cancer. Beyond very particular instances with very particular people (for instance, I would have liked to have gone hiking with my mother), there's not all that much that I regret. So, instead it's a Top 3 list.
3. I wish I would have kept on top of correspondence better. Hmm. I suppose this is true for my non-cancerous life as well - it's a constant (joyful) struggle. In any case, I am still blessed with many people to write to, and I will continue to work on that project.
2. I wish I would have given myself permission to cry a little more. Despite my Bartel disposition to weeping, I worked hard to keep the tears in check when there were other people around (obviously, there were some exceptions when I was totally and utterly overwhelmed at the beginning). When I look back, I think some more crying would have been in order. Like in the doctor's office when I was first told I needed chemo. Logically, the oncologist's is a perfectly normal place to experience and express some emotion. Yes, I could have cried more.
1. I wish I would have gotten a blue wig. Heck, my insurance covers one "cranial prosthesis" per year. While I knew I didn't want to pretend I had hair while really I was bald, a bright blue wig would not be pretending - it would be awesome. I'd be looked at as "Wow, that woman has blue hair!" instead of "Oh, that poor girl has cancer." Not getting a blue (or maybe pink or purple or green) wig is definitely my number one regret.
P.S. With clever use of a headscarf, I fooled several more people in church on Sunday into thinking I had orange, sparkly hair. Yes, it was from afar, and yes, it was only for a few seconds, but these are people who have known me with hair. (Un)fortunately it's growing back in its typically mundane and beautiful shade of brown: No evidence of orange and sparkly, or even curly for that matter!
You should listen to this while reading this post:
I received a number of CDs during my convalescence, both mix CDs and full albums. I have enjoyed each one in their own way, but here are the top 10 songs that have become the soundtrack to my stint with cancer and chemotherapy.
1. The Re-Arranger by Mates of State
"I know it's impossible. / But you should try to shake it off."
2. Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing by Brothers Frantzich
"Seal it for thy quarts above . . ."
3. When It Don't Come Easy by Patty Griffin
"But if you break down / I'll drive out and find you"
4. Missed the Boat by Modest Mouse
"And we carried it all so well"
5. Hard Times by eastmountainsouth
"'. . . tis a song, a sigh of the weary . . ."
6. So Strong by Freedom School Soundtrack
"Something inside so strong . . ."
7. Summerstone by House of Doc
"And we got this song"
8. How You Survived the War by The Weepies
"I think you can choose to love and what is more / That is how you survived the war"
9. Innocent by Our Lady Peace
"While she wishes she was a dancer / and that she'd never heard of cancer"
10. Rain Before the Fall by House of Doc
"the patches that remain are the memories I made / and all the good we've done"
Special mention goes to my friend Hannah. Half of these songs are off the mix she made, including my hands-down favorite cancer song of the season, Innocent by Our Lady Peace, which is what you've been listening to if you followed directions. That CD still makes me cry often enough that I have deemed it dangerous to listen to while driving and have removed it from my car.
There's an old proverb called the Hedgehog Theorem stating that every head of hair must have at least one whorl. So while I theoretically knew that the very short little vectors on my head would be mathematically non-differentiable at some point, the evidence on my head of burgeoning hair is currently much more obvious. The Importance of Sideburns
I still wear a headscarf most of the time to retain heat, but I feel like my slowly-returning sideburns throw people off the chemo scent. Or maybe I have stopped radiating the "I just had cancer and am still a little fragile" vibe. In any case, it's been a while since a stranger, usually a client at work, has asked.
Going Pooless
Not only is this crop of keratin special for reasons of feminine vanity and survival symbolism, it's also an experiment. I have become aware of a movement within the blogosphere (and so-called real world) towards going "poo-free." The idea is that, given the chance and proper care, my scalp can produce the proper amount of oil to keep my hair beautiful without the aid/impedence of shampoo. The problem is the transition period when hair/scalp that is accustomed to shampoo suddenly finds itself without that daily/bi-weekly detergent and has not yet adjusted. But if you start with no hair, there's no hair to be greasy and gross for weeks on end. Well, that's my theory. Strangely, I haven't read about anyone who started the method by shaving it all off. At any rate, sometime in late October when I was still essentially bald, I quit using shampoo on my scalp, which I had been doing for the fruity fragrence and fun of it. We'll see what happens.
[More info on the method here, although what lack of shampoo has to do with being a faithful young Christian woman I have yet to discern!]
Medical Update:
I biked to and from work on Monday and Thursday - spectacular sunrises and raging endorphins make it a pleasure. I haven't had a noticeable hot flash in over a week - it gets a little cold without them! And I don't have a nasty taste in my mouth - that's been gone a month, but it's still really nice. Friends have told me I'm back to myself again, but I think it's mostly the return of the eyebrows.
I have a blood test this coming Monday and see my oncologist on Wednesday about the results from that and from the CT scan. While it may seem odd, I'm really looking forward to seeing them again.
I'm looking forward to 2010, but like everyone else today I am also looking back at 2009.
A number of people have expressed their wish that my new year will be "better" than the one past. Yes, I would prefer not to have to take any more chemotherapy next year (or ever). Yes, I don't want to need any more major surgery, abdominal CT scans, or 3am hospital runs. Yes, I would like some better luck. Those are not things I would ever choose.
But 2009 was amazing; the year was intense, surprising, emotional, and revelatory. And now at the end of it, I find I love my life even more than before. I love my self, my body, my family, my friends, and the community here in Tucson and across the world more wholly than I did this time last year. For me, 2009 was full of the goodness of people. Memories of the physical agony fade quickly, but those of kindness - simple, creative, big, and small remain vivid. Perhaps I should get a job at Hallmark because these sanguine cliches are how I've been feeling lately.
So, Happy New Year to you and to yours. May it be full of good health, interesting people, and compassion in word and deed.
Medical Update: I feel great. I had a scheduled CT scan on Monday (routine post-chemo baseline) and will get the results later this month. The barium I had to drink before the scan tasted like water. It was delicious. Why did I have to drink the nasty baby lotion the first time?!
Also. While my hair is not yeat thick and luscious, I no longer qualify as bald. A picture is forthcoming.
And I biked to work yesterday. [insert your favorite Victorious Noise Of Strength here]
Grazelda was the accursed (and utterly doomed) ovarian cancer, a yolk sac tumor that I was diagnosed with in August 2009 - I was only 24! This is my chronicle of surgeries, chemo, and other fun cancer-y stuff, so people knew how I was doing and so I didn't go nutso.
