Empathy

Some of you may have seen this from my Facebook news feed, but I thought it so moving I wanted to include this video on my blog.  (Thanks, Helen Joyce, for originally sharing it with me.)

My first job out of college was in administration at Emory University Hospital.  I didn't have much contact with patients, but one morning while walking down the main corridor of the hospital, I saw my surroundings in a new light.  Most of the patients who came to Emory were really sick and needed extra expertise that their primary care doctors couldn't provide.  Many of the patients and patient families that I passed in the corridor that day were having the worst day of their lives.

This realization was sobering for my 23 year-old self.  I was simply headed to the snack bar for a Diet Coke before getting back to the next stack of papers on my desk.

Of course, now I can relate to this video as a patient, but it still gives me added valuable perspective.  

As the quote that begins the video says:  

Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other's eyes for an instant?               -- Henry David Thoreau 

P.S.  Don't mean to be an advocate for the Cleveland Clinic necessarily.  They just happened to produce the video.

 

Also, it looks like the video might not download on mobile devices...at least not my iPad.  Sorry.

Just make the cowlicks go away

Tomorrow, I go for my first post-chemo hair cut...trim...shave?  It's been three months today since I had my last chemo treatment.  It's time to see what a professional can do.

I've got a half curl, probably more of a cowlick (do you Brits use that word in this context?), poking out from behind each ear.  And I've mentioned previously the sideburns that must go.  (Why are they called "burns"?)

I kinda hope she recommends shaving it all down to the same length to promote faster, even regrowth...or some such Glamour magazine-like urban legend.  I have to admit that I've enjoyed just washing my head with Dove soap and simply rubbing a towel over it for the styling portion of my beauty routine.

I've even Googled "post chemo hair styles" just to see what others have done.  Not much help, but interesting.

Wish me well.  Maybe you'll get a picture tomorrow of the new, new, new, new me.  I guess that's the  great thing about hair.  You can always reinvent yourself.

This cancer stuff is just full of life lessons

"Magnolia?"

"Nope, definitely gardenia," I pointed to the neighbor's bloom-laden bushes.

Paul and I are padding along our street for our nearly nighly walk.  We're both just wearing our Crocs, because I'm still far from needing a shoe to support much distance or impact.  At the Croc outlet store a couple of weeks ago, I found a pair of teal colored ones in the bargain bin.  Now, even my comfy, clown-like shoes support the cause.

I'm up to a half-mile, still breathless during most of the time.  But, I can now carry on a conversation limited to a few words at a go.  I'd expected to be further along by now, but the process is what it is.  Patience.  I've not really exercised in a year's time, and I've never had my chest cavity cut open and chunks of my lung removed.

I used to be worried when I'd get so easily breathless, like it was the sign of another pleural effusion and trip to the ER.  But now I know it's just part of the process.  I'm pushing my pulmonary limits, and it's the only way to get better.  The anxiousness is gone, a good thing...panic only makes the breathing more labored.  Slightly labored breathing is what you want.  You runners out there know what I mean.

"Tiger lilies?"

"Day lilies."

I'm not entirely sure Paul is really that interested in the horticulture of the neighborhood.  I suspect he's trying to engage my mind with something else other than the task at hand.  But, perhaps I'm not giving him enough credit.  Rather endearing either way.

My hair has grown out about three-quarters of an inch in the front...perhaps more in the back, where it's coming in very curly.  I'm getting brave enough now to go out without some fashion of head cover.  (The summer heat's a motivator too.)  Every now and then a neighbor will drive by and stop to chat for a few minutes.  "It's good to see you out and about!"  "Like your new summer 'do!"  It feels good to be social again.

Unfortunately, with the regrowth of my hair, comes other hairy changes.  Since my estrogen is practically gone, the normal amount of testerone that all women have circulating in their bodies is free to work its magic.  I'm developing nice sideburns.  Lovely.  And the chin hairs are becoming beard-like.  Waxing is my solution for now...but I see some laser work in my future.  TMI?  Sorry.  Just part of the journey.

As hard as it is sometimes to motivate myself to round Paul up for our walk, I always feel good while I'm out and when I get back.  When we first started, I'd have to hold on to his arm for stability, and we perhaps might only make it 50 yards before needing to head home.  I need to remember those days.

I look forward to celebrating my first one-mile stint.  I did make it two-thirds of a mile once, thinking that one-mile goal wouldn't be far away, but the next week my stamina dropped back to my half-mile jaunts.  Two steps forward, one step back.  This cancer stuff is just full of life lessons.

So, if you're local and you fancy a slow, short walk some morning, come on by.  My limits may far from equal your exercise routine, but I promise you a nice cup of coffee or tea afterwards...and some breathy conversation.

Just the facts, ma'am

Well, it's been a while.  I'm going to share just a few facts in this entry, but I'm working on a more reflective piece I'll share soon.

I had another PET scan last week that came out perfectly clear.  I'm still having trouble relaxing about it, but I'm getting there.

I'm nearly healed entirely from my thoracotomy.  The incision is now only a little sore, though I've still got to work on getting my full pulmonary function back, and that just comes from walking and time on the elliptical...and patience.

I did decide to change gynecological oncologists.  I've already had several pleasant experiences with her and her staff.  They actually return phone calls...and the oncologist herself called to give me my PET results.

No more chemo for now.  Since I've had two clear PET scans in a row and since my body could stand to heal more from surgery, we're giving it a rest.

So, we get to settle into a fairly normal summer.  There's something very comforting about that.

Hit or miss

Today, I'm doing pretty well. Yesterday...not so much. 

But, isn't that just life?  Yesterday, so-so. Today, mostly good. 

There's something about having a chronic illness that makes you become quite the hypochondriac, over examining each little blip on the radar like it's going to be the direct hit that sinks your battleship rather than just a drop in the bucket that causes a harmless ripple in the otherwise calm seas. 

This last year has been fraught with some rough seas, but I'm still sticking my toes in the surf every day. Shouldn't we all?

And even if my battleship gets a direct hit, there's often a lifeboat to make my way into. 

I've been waiting for your call

It's a quiet rainy Sunday morning. So far, I'm the only one up.  Just my coffee and my iPad and my recliner.

Today is going to be odd because yesterday marked the end of a month-long stay of my dear friend Patsy, who trekked all the way from Austin, Texas to be here with my family while I recuperated from surgery.  The house isn't going to quite feel complete.

You might remember that the planning for this surgery happened rather quickly.  I didn't even have it confirmed until the family was on vacation in Puerto Rico early last month.  The first phone call I made after hanging up with the surgical coordinator was to Patsy.  Could she come to Atlanta in ten days to help out...for a month?

Of course, she responded.  I've been waiting for your call.

Patsy and I met about 25 years ago while we were both working at the Emory school of medicine.  She was a medical illustrator and I was a wet-behind-the-ears medical writer/editor. She and I got to know each other while I was helping a faculty member put together a second edition of a surgery textbook for which Patsy had originally done many of the illustrations by hand.  

Patsy and I were drawn together as friends not just because we shared a similar sense of humor but also because we were similarly entertained by the political intrigue of working in the administration of a medical school.  We'd quietly observe during the work day and then have a giggle fit over lunch.  We both had an odd mix of respect and irreverence for our employer.  It made for interesting ways to get through our days.

Years passed, work and lives changed.  I quit Emory. Babies were born...she was there for a week with me when Allen and Boyce were newborns.  

Patsy retired from Emory and moved to Austin to be near family while we were living in France, though she still found a two-month period to come live with us over there.  

To call her friend is an inaccuracy.  She's family.  My boys have always called her Aunt Patsy, and she knows if she ever is wanting for a table to sit around for Thanksgiving or Christmas, ours always has an extra place with her name on it.  

I'll be depressed today.  Right now it's about the time she'd come downstairs to join me for our morning chat. 

We have a kitchen full of goodies she made and left for us, so there are some vestiges of her being here with which to console ourselves.

But the cheese straws and banana bread will run out much too quickly before I'll be longing for her to be here again.  I know, though...when I need her all it takes is a phone call, and she'll be here.

So, put up your feet today, Patsy.  You've earned some down time.  And you never know when that phone is going to ring again...

One year of sharing the ride

The National Cancer Institute's current published five-year survival rate for stage IV endometrial adenocarcinoma is an abissmal 15%.  I'm one year in, hoping to be the enigma, because it was one year ago today, during my hysterectomy, that my cancer diagnosis was confirmed.

Oh, I moan and complain about fatigue and pain and doctors and itchy wigs and disappearing eyebrows...but I'm still very much here, thumbing my nose at that 15%.

I've still got a ways to go...at least this one more round of chemo I'll be starting soon.

In the meantime, I celebrate the easy days and the hard ones, lunch out with a friend, being able to attend my sons' spring band concert.  I'm thankful for all the family and friends that have brought a dinner or run an errand or entertained my kids for a weekend. I'm grateful for those of you who have sent notes of support and encouragement and jokes and stories that made me laugh out loud.

I might be living a life with cancer...but I do so knowing I'm so lucky to be sharing the ride with all you wonderful people.