Still vibrant old clunkers

Most days I'm always thinking of my cancer.  Why am I so tired?  Must be the cancer.  Why was I so short with that person?  Must be the cancer.  Why do I have diabetes?  Cancer drugs.  Why must I map out the location of all the restrooms in the public places I frequent?  Pelvic radiation damage while treating cancer.  Why can't I remember how to use the key pad to open the garage door?  Chemo brain.

But then, there are days like the last few I've had when cancer has taken a back seat.  I've been away on a girlfriend trip with Anne, an old college friend of 30+ years.  Unfortunately, she's had her own up close and personal experience with cancer too.  Perhaps this is why it's been such a relief to be with her.  Yes, we've talked about our cancers, but it's been in a way that's allowed us to find comfort in the common experience.

Our focus has not been on the anger and guilt and frustration, but rather on the triumph, the joy of still being here with our friends and family, and the realization that our bodies might not be what they used to be, but in each of our own ways, these old clunkers of ours are still vibrant.  Heck, Anne runs and plays tennis.

And, just this morning, I woke up at 6:00 and went for a swim in the solitary dark, quiet morning at the pool belonging to our vacation condo.  I stroked far less than the mile I used to be able to swim, but my mere 6 laps felt glorious!

I'm done with those hateful meds

The waiting room was packed today.  By 10:45 a.m., my oncologist was already running about 45 minutes behind.

One woman in a turban slept on her husband's shoulder.  Another husband with an eastern European accent was speaking to the receptionist about the long wait for his wife.  Another ten minutes, she assures him, and she'll be back in an exam room.

The daughter of a patient was wearing a Culebra t-shirt, which intrigued me.  Culebra is a very small island off the coast of the main island of Puerto Rico, a sister island to Vieques, my family's favorite.  I managed to maneuver myself into a conversation with her about Culebra.  She asked if I spoke Spanish because she thought I pronounced the name of the island with a Hispanic flair.  No, I told her, I guess I just have an ear for accents.

Anything but talk about why we're all there.

At nearly an hour past my appointment time, the medical assistant calls me back.  Undress from the bottom down and sit on the exam table, she instructs me.  I put my feet in the stirrups and wonder if my gynecological oncologist will notice the polka dot nail polish that I just this morning added to my pedicure.

At last my doctor walks through the door.  After a thankfully quick pelvic exam with her thankfully small, gentle hands she asks me if I'd like to stop taking my cancer maintenance medications.  Excuse me...really?  You've been on them for over a year, she assures me, and you've got several clear scans behind you.  I think you can safely stop them.

Wow.  These are the drugs that are giving me drenching night sweats, boiling daytime hot flashes, Sahara-like dry skin, fatigue, irritability...and very likely could be causing my type II diabetes.  It didn't take me long to agree with her recommendation.  OK, see you in another three months, and she left the exam room.

So, no more Tamoxifen, Megace, or Coumadin.  This is almost as much of a watershed moment as getting the last clear PET scan results.

As we excitedly exited the building I saw the woman I'd been speaking to about Puerto Rico and wished her well.  Strangely, she was no longer wearing the Culebra t-shirt, replacing it with a simple white polo shirt.  A waiting room conversation for another day.

Another clear scan!

I heard from my oncologist's office this afternoon, and my PET/CT is totally clear.  I've officially been in remission for 17 months.  So, here's what 17 months (minus a few trims) of hair growth looks like:

The boys are spending the night at a friend's house, and Paul is due home any minute.  I think a little celebration is in order.

Sincerest thanks for all the prayers, kind thoughts, and well wishes.  I felt each and every one of them coming my way.

It's getting to be that time again

Another six months have nearly passed.  Almost time for my next PET scan.  I'm scheduled for July 29th, but my oncologist will be on vacation so who knows when I'll get the results.  Breathe deeply, Beth.

I'm getting better at just taking each day as it comes, but my first thoughts every morning when I wake up still drift toward my cancer.

But, there's life to be lived.  There are my boys to be cared for.  Vacations to be planned.  Birthdays to be celebrated (including my 50th! later this year).  Sometimes, I have to dig deep to put those omnipresent thoughts of doom into the background and find the good stuff about life to focus on.  It's always worth the effort.

I'll be in touch when there's news to share.

Women of a certain age

Lately, it seems I've been inundated with self-help articles about things a woman my age should no longer do.  Well, since I'm certainly too young to have uterine cancer, I've decided I've earned some extension on these supposed no-no's for women of a certain age.  For example:

Marie Claire magazine tells me women over 40 should not wear dark lipstick.  I'm wearing bright red today.

I just bought a pair of white Converse tennis shoes...for the first time since middle school.

With the right top, it's still okay for me to wear leggings.

I kinda like Bruno Mars.

As soon as I am able, I'm growing my hair long again.

But, I still don't do bows or graphic t-shirts, and no amount of bucking convention will ever change that.

I have bangs again!

About six weeks ago, I tried to blow out the hair that should be my bangs (fringe, for you Brits), and it looked a bit too Audrey Hepburn pixie-ish for my liking.

But, yesterday, I tried again and was able to achieve wispy, long bangs at last.  Yeah, me!

Last year, I finished chemo on February 19.  So, for those of you keeping score at home, it takes about a year to grow bangs from scratch. 

By the way, the first picture isn't of me.

There's just no off-ramp to an easy detour

I've been awake since 4:00 a.m. for no particularly good reason.  In recent weeks, normal sleep has been a fickle lover.

Oh, I can attribute my frustrations to any number of annoying pharmaceutical side effects, mood disorders, or just plain old challenges that any mid-lifer with middle school boys could have.  But, I'm not going to list those...except, I do wonder how long before young teen boys will eventually take an interest in their personal hygiene.  I'm tired of inspecting teeth for signs of at least minimal brushing and sniffing armpits before I let them exit the house in the morning for the bus stop.

However, the main thing is, I'm tired of waking up mad.

I've never particularly been a morning person.  I remember an old boss (a terrible old boss...don't worry...it's none of you that might be reading this) who bragged that every morning when her alarm went off at 5:00 a.m., she jumped up out of bed, excited to be facing the day!  She couldn't wait to put a load of laundry in the washer, go for a run, and report to work for yet another day full of people complaining to her about how nothing worked correctly.  She was one of those who didn't have 'weakends'.  She had 'strongends'.  Even in my naive 20's, I realized she'd drunk the Koolaid.

But, there must be a reasonable medium...somewhere between seething and Zig Ziglar mania.

I read something recently about grief that really stuck with me.  Even though the article was about grieving over the death of a loved one, I realized the principles applied to me.  My life has irrevocable changed ever since that day back in May of 2012 when my surgeon confirmed our suspicions: I have cancer.  I am grieving the loss of that pre-cancerous life.

Yes, I've had amazing successes with my treatment, and I'm so grateful for the support of so many around me who've helped in so many ways.  But, the fact of the matter is, my body has changed in ways I never realized it could, and I'm very, very sad about that.

The thing that article brought home to me is, you can't rush grief.  You have to slog through it.  There's just no off-ramp to an easy detour.  But, one day, you realize you've come a little further down the road to discovering that new life on the other side.

But, I'm impatient.  I want to be there now.