Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Tuesday evening

I'm home and back into the routine of work-life. I saw Dr. M today and he pronounced me "doing fine." My next appointment with him is November 30th! He seems to have very strong belief that I am (truly) "well" and, seeing that belief etched in his expression and tone of voice, gives me confidence. September should be a doctor-free month. Then in October (the 1 year anniversary of my surgery and cancer diagnosis), Dr. R and ... de dum ... first "real" CT scan (real in the sense of not immediately following 4 months of chemo/radiation/chemo).

My vacation was good. The Lofting class was a challenge but good. The instructor was really excellent. I learned a lot. I was able to go sailing one afternoon in a very small little boat - a lot of fun. Camping was good. The weather was warmer than either of the past 2 summers, and had been dry, which kept the swarms of mosquitoes to a minimum. I saw a toad, a bat. I heard about porpoises in the cove where the sailing class sailed daily, and seals, but did not see them with my own eyes. It was particularly good to disconnect from almost all "connections" - no TV, no radio (except NPR for literally 3 min four times a day when I drove from the camp site to the place where breakfast and dinner was served), no internet. I brought my work mobile phone and talked to David very briefly every day; that was the totality of my "contact" with the non-Wooden Boat School, non-Maine world. One cool morning with silvery dew still thick on the long grass of the meadows around the camp site, I wandered down near the water of the cove and did T'ai Chi in the wet cool long grass. It was a good vacation (and I stopped at LL Bean and found a pair of blue jeans that fit! Another important accomplishment as any middle aged woman who has tried to find jeans that fit will attest.)

I will try to post a few photos. One of the "shop" where my class took place (we were in the "loft" upstairs). A couple of the actual "lofting" - the 4-1/2 foot by 16 foot whitewashed plywood board on which we drew the full-size lines of the 3 dimensions of the boat we "lofted" - a Whitehall pulling (rowing) boat. And one of me sailing that someone in my class took. Let's see if I can get the pictures here




The shop. The "loft" is up the stairs seen in the foreground.







Now, evidence of actual "lofting" (I drew some of these lines!): the "profile" view of the Whitehall (e.g., looking from the side), showing a detail of the "stem" (part of boat running down the bow/front at the center):


One more of actual "lofting" (these are pencil lines on white background; not sure if they will show up here at all):












Finally, me sailing the Nutshell Pram on a sunny warm Maine afternoon just before sunset. Mmmm. Good.





Vacation is good. Everyone should have vacation. I suppose first everyone should have a job. A job that pays a living wage. And then - everyone should have vacation.

Peace. Peace. To far and near.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Saturday afternoon

I'm on vacation. Well, it's Saturday and "vacation" doesn't start until Monday, but no more work for 9 days! Hurrah!


First things first. Today I actually saw the heron and got a couple of photos of her. Don't know how they'll show up on this blog but won't know until we try. So here goes:


As soon as I had taken these photos, my camera crashed - well, just that awful message that says WARNING YOUR BATTERY IS KAPUT. Or whatever. Anyway, the heron exists!

I'm getting ready to leave early tomorrow morning to drive to Maine to Wooden Boat School to attend a boat building class, "Lofting." I'm nervous. Naturally. Part of my nervousness is just anticipation, actually pleasurable. This will be my third year at WBS. First year, a sailing class. Last year, the "build your own daysailer" class. Now Lofting. Partly I'm anxious because Lofting is esoteric and notoriously difficult. But I'm not taking the class to "do" anything with it, so I can't really fail at it. Still I remember last year, as the only woman in the class (which likely will be true again this year) that I felt intimidated by the background knowledge that all the men had - how to use this tool and that tool, maybe not for the specific purpose of that class, but in general - where I hadn't even seen many of the tools before, let alone used them. This year the tools are less intimdating - pencil compass, dividers, straight edge, measuring tape, combination square, framing square, hammer, pencils, colored pencils, notebook.

As the days have passed and the time to drive up to Maine has neared I found some level of anxiety increasing that doesn't seem to have to do with the foregoing. And I think it is tied to the fact that last year, when I went to WBS for the class, I was experiencing the "problem" that ultimately led to the discovery of my cancer, surgery, chemo, radiation, etc. Oddly I had had the problem occasionally before I went to Maine last year, and during the entire week I was up there - nothing - I was fine. And then when I came back, the condition worsened, almost suddenly, and that's what sent me to the doctor for the first tests, and other procedures that led to ... well .. we all know what. And so somehow I think there is some association in my thinking, emotions, memories - of going to Maine and coming back and getting cancer.

Of course I know, intellectually, there is no association except temporally and circumstantially. But the brain is in charge of the emotions like a cowboy rides a bucking bronco - occasionally, for short times and with difficulty. So maybe it helps to identify what might be the source of this low-level background anxiety I've been feeling about the trip this year. Because on top of it is great pleasurable anticipation. I love it at WBS. I loved camping last year. I like meeting the people, being challenged in the class.

Another thing that perhaps lies below the surface is the fact that 2 days after I get back I have another "check up," this time with Dr. M. Should be not a big deal. But I have not reached - do we ever truly reach - the point where I can be nonchalant about "surviving" cancer.

I don't know if I'll be able to post from Maine. I don't plan to take my computer, but I think there is a computer available to check email and so on. I will take photos and write notes and post when I get back.

In the meantime, may all the world know the joy and peace of "vacation" - in health and in peace.

Peace. Now. Please.

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Saturday morning

Okay, that's the way it goes. For the last several weeks I've been taking my little digital camera to the park on the weekends and snapping a few photos, always hoping, waiting, hoping to see the heron and get a picture (in fact, it was Crazy L down in N'ville who suggested I try to get a photo of her). So this morning, when the weather up here finally breaks through the hazy heat and cools to the point of having a soupcon of autumn's crispness, I think to myself "Why drag out that little camera again? I haven't seen the heron and then I spend my walk thinking about having the camera ready in case I do see her, or one of the foxes. No, this morning I will just walk."

So first thing, we arrive, get out of the car and walk over to the pond. And there she is, on our near side of the pond, on the shore, our heron standing tall and green/grey/blue among the squatty ducklings. And there we are. No camera. And that's the way it goes.

No foxes this morning. Last weekend one fox ran across the road that circles the park, about 15 yards in front of us. Later a jogger called out as she ran past us, "Be careful! There are 3 foxes out there!" Three? I've only seen two Be careful? Does she think they will attack us? Perhaps she thought that Jessie might go after them, and she is very interested in them and if she were off leash, indeed, she might give chase. But in a fight between my Labrador Recliner and a wild-but-suburban fox, I would actually give the fox the edge. Ergo, she's right - be careful.

A couple of months ago, I think I pooh-poohed Dr. R's statement that I would "notice a difference" in "about 4 months." It has been 4 months since my last chemo treatment and I do really now notice a difference. My fatigue seems almost back to normal, meaning as usual for a 60 year old not in great shape woman. But basically I feel good. I get so many compliments on my "haircut" - ha, no "cut" this - from so many quarters. And I do like having my hair so short. Still haven't used a comb or brush - not since November of last year! (To think a year ago I was considering getting my hair cut "short" (which ended up being about 3 times as long as it is now) and was all anxious about it. At any rate, now the only question for me is finding someone to cut it periodically to keep it short). The main lingering and annoying side effect of the chemo is the neuropathy in my feet - still feel like the balls and pads of toes on both feet are wearing cotton padding, half-numb, semi-swollen feeling, weird. Worse in the heat. For a while it seemed to be improving (affected more of each foot after the final chemo and gradually improved until only affecting the balls and toes--but it's stayed that way for a while).

Last week I finally was able to get together with a friend with whom I've wanted to have lunch for many many months. Now only to learn she has been recently diagnosed with breast cancer herself, has had surgery and now faces chemo and radiation, We talked and I hope sharing my experiences was helpful, but afterwards I realized even from 4 months out, I look at my journey through cancer diagnosis, surgery, chemo, radiation and more chemo - from hindsight already. After we had lunch I gave her the address for this blog. Later I read some of the early posts here again for the first time. I was struck by what now seemed like a bright red cord of fear/anxiety woven through the overall fabric of my emotions - humor, bravery (or a good imitation), compassion, and always that undercurrent But I made it through, in large part I know (and knew then, too, I hope) because of family and friends who were just outstanding. Anyway, don't they say that bravery isn't not being afraid, it's going on when you are afraid. Somehow I managed. I think my friend R will manage, too. She is strong. There are people who care about her, I among them.

You know, it's a lesson from cancer for life, I guess, we don't have to figure it all out now, face every fear, deal with every problem today. Today, just today. One step. If it's too much, slow down even more. Share with someone. If there's no one, write it down, get it out. Find a park. A pond. A heron.

Peace.

Monday, August 9, 2010

What I've Learned (So Far) From Cancer

I started keeping this list of things I was learning from cancer months ago, during the first rounds of chemotherapy late last year. I added to the list as the months and treatments went by. One note: this is written as if I am addressing another person but in fact, this was and is addressed to me. Still, maybe family and friends may learn something from reading it - about me.

Peace.


1. Listen to your body. This is not a suggestion that you become a hypochondriac, but when your body talks to you, don’t stick your fingers in your ears and ignore it. That’s just stupid. it seems obvious that dealing with things sooner rather than later leads to happier results in the world of cancer. You probably think this means you have to be brave. Don’t go there. You don’t have to face everything today. Just listen to your body and take the first next step. There will be time to be scared later. Nevertheless, if/when you find yourself with your fingers in your ears, don’t beat yourself up. Just remove your fingers and try to take that first step. If your fingers seem permanently stuck in your ears, find someone who loves you to help pry them out. Take that person with you when you take that first hard step.

2. You are not alone. Despite your fears and insecurities and sometimes appearances to the contrary, you are not alone in your walk with and through cancer. Perhaps without knowing it, and certainly without requesting it, you have been given citizenship in the country of cancer. (When you receive a cancer diagnosis, ipso facto, you become a cancer survivor because now you are living with cancer.) If you are caring for someone with cancer, you were given a permanent resident’s visa – cancer’s green card. You already know people who have had cancer. Talk to them; they will be glad to talk to you. You will soon find out other people you know have also had cancer, you just didn’t know it. They will seek you out. You are not alone.

3. People can be kind. You may be surprised at the kindness of people who learn you are traveling with and through cancer. Your own friends may surprise you, family, too. Of course you know they care about you, even love you. But are you prepared for their compassion and loyalty? As you negotiate through the corridors of cancer, you may soon find kindness wherever you look – among the medical professionals who don’t treat you as their “job,” among the family members of other cancer patients you meet, among your colleagues and co-workers, even among strangers. You may even find yourself determined to become a kinder person yourself. If someone fails to be kind, they may be afraid. You might try out your new determination to become a kinder person yourself - by giving them the benefit of the doubt.

4. You need nature. Your oncology/radiation team will prescribe all kinds of protocols, treatments, medicines, vitamins, supplements and diet changes. They know what they are talking about. But you still need nature to heal you. As often as possible go to a place in which plants – trees, bushes, flowers, grass, even weeds -- and creatures -- birds, squirrels and other wild things -- are the citizens. Where rocks lay still and water stirs and runs. Listen to wind's song and stay as long as you can. Walk, but also be still. Open your ears and your eyes. Depending on the season, try to actually see the leaves changing color, the ice hardening on a pond’s surface, the flower buds opening, the grass springing up. Try to learn the rhythms of nature to carry with you back to the halls of cancer. It will help you there.

5. Cancer isn’t a competition. Cancer is hard, it’s stressful and it will test you. But it isn’t a contest and you won’t win points for heroism. There will be bad days, and really bad days in the country of cancer. You will feel sad and you will feel mad as hell. You are allowed to cry, to yell, to scream. You will feel sick and tired of being sick and tired. You need to find your own path through your dark hours; someone else’s candle may not light your way. When it is really hard, you may want to pull in, withdraw and close down for a while. Do it. Do it without apology or wasting the time it takes to put on a brave face. But listen to and know your own heart. Know when it becomes too hard for you, too much for you to handle. When it does, and likely it will at some point, reach out for help.

6. Don’t become your cancer. Just because you have cancer, you don’t have to become cancer. Whoever you were the day before - the moment before - you received your cancer diagnosis, you still are. If you were smart, funny, hardworking and passionate, you still are. If you had habits that annoyed other people before you had cancer, you have them still, and they are still annoying. Having cancer doesn’t turn you into a saint. It might help you become a better person, but only in the same way that having to face any adversity might do. And if, before you had cancer, you had dreams, those dreams still belong to you. Your name is on them, no one else’s. Claim your dreams. Live for them. Be your dreams, not your diagnosis.

7. Cancer offers more than one "What If". When your cancer treatment finishes, the first thing you are likely to think is, "What if my cancer comes back?" It's true; it might come back. But that's not the only "what if" you are offered. What if your cancer doesn't come back? What then? Of course, it would be better if we could all dispense with "What If?" entirely and live each day of our lives just in that day, in that moment, letting the future take care of itself. We all know this. Many of us strive for this with more or less success. But to ask What if? is human. Still, a year before your cancer diagnosis, did you lay awake at night, tossing, turning and wondering "What if I get cancer?" It's true, some do. But most do not - we are busy living, dealing with the myriad "what ifs" of daily life, when cancer arrives unannounced and most unwelcome. Now, when your cancer treatment is finally finished, what if your cancer goes back to where it came from and never returns? Could you handle that? Are you ready to keep on living?

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Sunday morning




Today is picture day. I've taken my little digital camera to the park a few times recently and taken photos. I'm going to try to upload a few here. Let's see if I can figure it out. To the left is a photo of the northerly portion of the larger side of the pond, looking south.


Next is a photo of the gaggle of Canada geese now calling the pond home.




The group includes the juveniles who are now almost as large as their parents.




To the right is the rock garden where I often sit on a bench and sometimes practice T'ai Chi (and where Jessie "hunts" for chipmunks who tunnel in the red clay and frolic in the crannies of the rock walls.)




Finally, Jessie and I saw the fox again today - actually I think we saw both foxes, out hunting in separate parts of the park. I think we happened on the second one when it was stalking Mallards grazing in the grass by the pond (I think there are a pair and they have hungry kits in a den somewhere, waiting to be fed.) Because we disturbed the Mallards, they jumped in the water and that caused the fox to turn tail and run. When it ran, I saw it and snapped its picture. I only had a second to take the photo, so it's blurry, the fox's eyes have that weird eye-glow thing that some times happens. But what makes me most sad is that the frame cut off the fox's tail, so you don't see its snow white tip. Well, now that I know the pair is there, I'll try to be better prepared next time.





Peace.