An update and a higher calling

The most profound thing happened to me this morning.

For one of my sons Eagle Scout project, he chose to raise money to make personal hygiene kits for people in area shelters.  This morning, I helped out by conducting a quality control assessment of the kits, making sure each kit had the proper items.  I personally opened and checked the contents of each and every one of the kits he made.

At first, this was just an item to check off my to-do list today, but as I opened each kit, I found myself thinking about each person that would receive it.  I couldn’t help but contemplate the horrible circumstances that would bring the recipient to a place where the gift of a small bag of toiletries would make a difference in their life, the sort of stuff we mindlessly throw into our suitcases when visiting a hotel.

I’ve never been without anything I needed.  I’ve always had a roof above my head and plenty of food to eat.  I go on vacations, and Christmas morning is always filled with presents galore. I’ve never walked a day in that recipient’s shoes.

My son (and, de facto, my family) has spent so much time managing the mechanics of meeting the Boy Scout requirements for an Eagle Scout project that we hadn’t paused a moment to think about the impact of what we were trying to accomplish.

I took a break from my morning task to have a cup of coffee in my warm, professionally decorated house.  I quietly sat, drinking my coffee, and tears started to fill my eyes.  How many people out there are in want?  How many need help?  An unmistakable voice came to me from deep within.  Don’t ignore these feelings, Beth.  Act on them.

I don’t know yet where these feelings are taking me, but they are so overwhelming that I know I’ve got to do something.  Something that connects me to the greater world around me.  Something that feeds my soul and helps warm other people’s hearts.  Ignoring these feelings just isn’t an option.

In this cancer journey, I’ve learned not to take my health for granted.  I think now I’m learning not to ignore my ability to help those who don’t have it as easy as me.

Yesterday, I had my follow up appointment with my radiation oncologist, hopefully for the last time.  By clinical examination, it’s good news.  There appears to be no evidence of the tumor any longer.  I’ll have an MRI in late December to confirm, but my doctor was especially encouraging.  Soon, I’ll be transferred back to the care of my gynecological oncologist for maintenance monitoring, and I’ll be finding my new normal...again.

I’m thankful for this process because it’s brought me to where I am today...and where I’ll be tomorrow.  I’ll keep you posted as developments occur.

I wish all of you the happiest, healthiest of holiday seasons...and be on the lookout for an opportunity to help somebody.  The simplest act of kindness can make a huge difference in someone’s life.

Thankful

Yesterday, I gratefully celebrated my 54th birthday.  I remember those scary times a little over 6 years ago when I wasn’t sure I’d make it to my 48th.  But, miracles abounded, and I’m still here...and, plan to be for quite some time.

Thanksgiving approaches in a few days, followed by the hustle and bustle of the coming Christmas season, and I’m particularly thankful that I’ll be fully involved in all that the holidays bring.  It’s going to be a busy one in the Moore household.  One son is having his wisdom teeth removed tomorrow, hopefully regaining his ability to eat by Thanksgiving day.  Then there are Eagle Scout projects, 18th birthdays to celebrate, college applications due at the first of the year, a follow up PET scan to check on my progress fighting this most recent occurrence of cancer, and the usual festivities associated with the season.

I’m feeling much myself these days, mostly recovered from my radiation treatments in September and October.  I’m sleeping much better...none of those 3 a.m. angst-filled awakenings.  It’s  a lesson I’ve learned following this journey.  There are challenging days, but if I keep the faith, they do pass, I find my new normal, and I march on.  The further I get from my challenges, the less I think about my cancer, and the more appreciative I am that modern medicine is what it is and that I’ve got plenty of loving arms to help me through the rough times and rejoice with me through the good ones.

Thanks to all of YOU who have followed my story and send me well wishes.  I love getting responses to my blog posts and find them most uplifting.  Also, the cards, flowers, gifts of dinner on nights when cooking is too exhausting, and just plain old thoughts and prayers for me are a wonderful  reminder that “No one fights alone,” the inscription in the teal bracelets that my friends and family wear in solidarity of my situation.  Cancer certainly is not a path for sissies, and I gain great strength from the support of others.

I have a follow up appointment with my radiation oncologist the week after Thanksgiving, where she’ll probably order my next PET scan.  Luckily, I have lots of activities and responsibilities to keep me busy while I wait for those sentinel events.  I’ll keep everybody posted on my progress...and remain grateful that you’re all out there cheering me on.

Back from the hospital

It’s been three days since I’ve returned home from the hospital for my Syed radiation treatments.  I had intended to write more before now, but best laid schemes o’mice an’ bed-ridden women aft run a-gley.

Yes, the treatments, and even the OR time putting the catheters into place, were quite easy.  And the promised time lying in bed for three days, flat on my back, was the most difficult, but in ways I could never have imagined.  

Naively, I packed a bag full of goodies to occupy my time: Netflix on my iPad, podcasts on my iPhone ready for playing, magazines, my Kindle, even this really cool device my friend Julie lent me that would hold an iPad in place in almost any position for watching things till your heart’s content.  But I didn’t use the first item I brought with me...not really even my iPhone for texting.  

First, when one’s lying on one’s back, you’re majorly disoriented...and disorientation is exhausting.  Then, there’s pain management. I slept most of the time that I wasn’t feeling disoriented.  The remainder of my time was spent either trying to eat with my head barely elevated off the pillow, trying not to aspirate my food...or more glamorously....vomiting it back up (thanks disorientation) or wishing my lower back pain would go away.   

Yes, I’m complaining.  It was miserable.  What I thought was going to be merely a challenge of boredom turned into a mixed bag of niggling little medical issues.  For that I was in no way prepared.

But, it’s over now, and I’m back home, still tired and napping, relatively comfortable, ready for life to get moving again.  I’ll have a follow up appointment with my radiation oncologist in four weeks and a PET scan some time again before the end of the year.  Doing the scan now would give false readings from all the inlfammation from the radiation.  So, I wait.  Again.

One bright and shining star throughout all this was a wonderful weekend in the northeast Georgia mountains with some girlfriends.  Four memorable days of hiking, window shopping, wine drinking, hot tubbing, eating whatever claimed our fancy.  It was heaven and the perfect tonic before checking into the hospital for those wretched three days.

So, on I trudge, looking forward to the experiences of the coming holidays, trying to live life as it was meant to be lived:  one day at a time, whatever it brings.

Hope for the future

Well, last night my son Allen and I made it back from our brief California trip to check out two colleges.  It was a crazy two-city, three-night coast-to-coast quick trip, and I am so grateful I had the energy to keep up with my fleet footed 17 year-old.

We were surprisingly disappointed with CalTech, but both of us LOVED Stanford.  It’s a crazy, stressful, yet also wonderful time to be a parent.  You want so earnestly for your child to be happy and find the right college for him.  You envision him as an adult, engaged in a life he adores.  I regularly read the website Grown and Flown, and I know there will be disappointments and pitfalls along the way, but right now it’s about endless potential.  My son is unsure if he’s got what it takes for Stanford, but his hopes are high, as are mine.

We need to have these special moments in our lives when we reach for the stars and hope for the best.    I embrace this time.  And I hope both my sons do too.   Yes, there are the rigors of college applications ahead of them and Eagle Scout projects to complete, and the inevitable attack of senioritis, but right now it’s all about hope:  hope for my future and hope for theirs.

So, spread your wings and fly, my not-so-little ones.  Soar to heights you never thought possible. I’ll be right here beneath you, cheering you on.

I broke the bell

Today was my last day of external beam radiation treatment.  Three long weeks of driving into the city and home again are over!

The clinic has a tradition for patients who finish their treatment.  They have a little saying on a plaque that reflects on ending one stage and starting another, and there’s a bell attached to it.  When you’re done with treatment, you read the saying and then ring the bell three times, while all the nurses, technicians, and doctors cheer for you.

Well, today was my day to ring the bell.  I read the little saying, grateful that I was done, and I rang the bell three times...but on the third time, I rang it so hard I jerked the whole plaque and bell off the wall.  No, I wasn’t excited in the least.  I dare say, they’ll be remembering me around there for quite a while.

So, this chapter ends, and I get a few weeks break before entering the next one.  In the meantime, I’ll be able to go with one of my sons to California to visit CalTech and Stanford, two of the schools he’s considering.  I feel so blessed to feel well enough to do this with him.

Then, in another week or so, I’m going on an annual girlfriends’ weekend getaway.  Three glorious  nights with just the girls at a cabin in the mountains with views, wine, and a hot tub.  Again, I’m feeling so blessed to be able to do this.

Then, the day after I get back from the mountains, I go into the hospital for three days for the Syed radiation procedures.  Three days flat on my back, able to raise my head no more than 15 degrees.  I’m not particularly looking forward to it, but it’s the next stage in this journey.  I begrudgingly embrace the opportunity for more high tech healing.  I will gladly accept visitors to help me pass the time...as well as any suggestions for things I can do to occupy myself as I stare at the ceiling of my hospital room.  (I will have Netflix on my iPad.)

One day at a time...while still giggling about that broken bell.

Like a bridge over troubled water

Paul and I have been married for 25 years, and even though we’ve been through some rough times, his love and support of me has never faltered.  As I’ve negotiated my way through health and emotionally trying times, he’s always been my bridge over troubled water.

Through this cancer journey, I’ve thanked friends and family for all their support, which I dearly needed, but I don’t think I’ve ever singled out my husband for proper recognition.  He’s left work to be with me during surgeries and treatments and doctor appointments, never once indicating his mind was anywhere but with me.  He’s held my hand when I cried, held my body when I was weak.  Understood when I was discouraged and anxious, and celebrated with me when I got good news.

This entry is merely to thank you, Paul.  You’re my rock, my best friend, and no matter what life throws at us, together, we win.  I’m the luckiest girl in the world.

We’re going to annihilate this thing

“We’re going to annihilate this thing.”

No sweeter words could ever be heard from an oncologist, and that’s just what my doctor told me today.  She also told me that my type of cancer, endometrial adenocarcinoma, historically responds very well to the type of radiation treatments I’m getting.

Just what this girl needed to hear.

Nine external treatments down.  Six to go.  Then, the Syed procedure in October.

Breathe, Beth.  Breathe.