Life moves pretty fast

Funny things happen when one drinks an iced mocha after 7 p.m. In addition to an immediate caffeine buzz, it can cause an impromptu trip down memory lane. In my case, the laptop came out and the StompThis! blog site launched after a seven-month absence. Interesting reading at 1 a.m., to say the least.

It has been what seems like a lifetime since the endless posts about medical procedures, test results and chemo updates; many of which made me cringe to re-read. Living a life consumed by fear and uncertainty for nine months seems overwhelming at this point. These days, my thoughts are focused on work deadlines, summer camps and dinner prep. While thoughts of cancer are never far from my mind, they no longer dominate.

It's remarkable how quickly regular life returns. I never imagined that I would eventually go a day without thinking of cancer. The thought of it almost always there, but I no longer find myself following up an introduction to to a stranger with, "...and I was diagnosed with breast cancer." Now with a full head of hair, eyelashes and energy, no one would ever know I ever had cancer! I've met dozens of people in recent months who have no idea what I went through. I no longer feel like I "am" cancer, and do not feel the need to explain my ordeal to everyone anymore. I guess this is what happens when the memories fade and life starts to get back to normal.

"New normal," I should say. This is a term we cancer folks like to toss around, probably because it feels funny for us to say things are back to "normal." While I am back to doing "normal" things like filling up the inflatable swimming pool, making grocery lists, fuming about my interview subjects who don't promptly return my phone calls and scheduling haircuts, I'm constantly aware of the fact that life now is completely different than the way it used to be. I never used to think about how old I might be when I die. Now I wonder if I'll make it to 50. Not because I've received any bad news from my doctor, but when you beat cancer at age 38, you wonder how long your luck's going to hold. Sounds morbid, but thoughts like this are pretty common these days.

And while they may seem defeating, they actually bring about a sense of purpose. This may sound trite, but this experience has really made me appreciate life. I've actually felt happier in the past six months than I have in a long time. I'm sure much of this has to do with my happy marriage, great family, caring friends and financial security, but I also attribute it to the realization that life can be short. I doubt I would have every realized this before facing cancer. When I look in the rear view mirror and see Oliver gazing out the window, absently singing along with the radio, I feel a surge of joy. I reach out to friends, schedule lunch dates, send emails, maintain contact. Comfortable shoes bring great happiness. So does a good meal. Sometimes when I'm sitting in the kitchen or walking down the street, I just close my eyes and listen to the sounds of life around me. Life! As Ferris Bueller said, "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."

I'm not planning on missing a single moment.

Life after cancer

Since treatment wrapped up Oct. 13, life has slowly returned to normal - a new normal, that is. I am told often that life will never be "normal" again. I'm not sure what that really means. I don't feel like I have changed that much. I do think about the cancer coming back pretty much all the time. Maybe that's what people mean: that you'll always have that fear hanging over you. I can easily say that I think about the cancer at least five times a day, but it doesn't bother me anymore when the thoughts arise. I think I'm just so used to them now.

I had a routine check-up with my oncologist a couple weeks ago. At these appointments, blood is drawn and checked for "tumor markers," which, if elevated, could indicate the growth of a tumor. I asked my doctor not to tell me if my markers were elevated until after we get back from Hawaii in February. I refuse to have another trip derailed by my health!

Jason, Oliver and I are heading to Kona on the Big Island of Hawaii on January 28. There, we'll be celebrating out first wedding anniversary on January 30. We're having a small ceremony - what we should have been doing one year ago instead of recovering from a mastectomy. My parents, Jason's parents, and a small handful of fantastic friends will be joining us for a ceremony on the beach, followed by dinner at a restaurant. We couldn't be more excited for this trip! The constant rain and gray skies of wintertime in Seattle have begun to take their toll. It's time to lie on the beach and relax for awhile!

My energy has fully returned and I am again working out regularly at the gym. Only recently have I realized how much the treatment had zapped me of my energy. It's nice to be energized by a run or spin class instead of feeling completely drained and tired. I have also started working more, and surprisingly - despite the down economy - have been keeping fairly busy. I'm wrapping up a couple big projects before we leave, and I have two on the books that I'll start as soon as we return.

Oliver is doing well. He's been a real trooper all this, and only had some intermittent sleep issues to show for it. He really enjoys attending Small Talk at Gilda's Club - an art therapy group for kids whose loved ones have or have had cancer. He loves the group leader, Michelle, and looks forward to the sessions every other Wednesday. I've continued to attend the Young Survival Coalition meetings once or twice a month, and found myself saying "yes" when asked if I wanted to share the duties as co-chair of communications for the YSC Seattle Leadership Committee. I'll be attending the YSC National conference in Atlanta at the end of February, traveling with about a dozen other young women from our chapter. We'll spend three days attending conferences aimed toward young women affected by breast cancer. I'm looking forward to learning some new things and spending time with some incredibly strong, smart and engaging women from my group.

Not a day goes by that I am not thankful to be done with my treatment. It was such an interruption to all our lives. Just knowing that I don't have to go to the hospital for treatment makes me appreciate my days so much more!

Next up: another Zometa infusion on April 5. Until then, just keeping busy and enjoying life!

The fun never ends!

November 6, 2009

Chemo and radiation are over, but the visits to Swedish Cancer Institute keep on coming. Not for anything serious – just routine follow up stuff.

As my treatment was winding down, I discussed a preventative medication with my oncologist and decided to go ahead and take it. If you recall, the nature of my tumor – triple negative – meant there is no adjuvant therapy that I can take to decrease the chance of recurrence. Some drugs like Tamoxifen or Herceptin block certain hormones that could fuel a tumor, but your tumor needs to be receptive to those hormones, and mine was not. However, the drug Zometa – which has been used to treat osteoporosis for years and is often used by patients whose cancer has spread to their bones – can also be given to post-treatment patients to help ward off bone metastases. I decided to take this, and had my first infusion last week. I’ll just go once every six months for three years. I was warned of achy bones, but I didn’t expect it to be as uncomfortable as it was. I was fine until the day after the infusion; then felt as if I had the flu – chills, body aches, and a headache that lasted for several days. Glad this is over for now!

I had my first follow-up mammogram this week, and it came back all clear. I am a bit cynical when it comes to mammograms. I’ll feel better on Tuesday after I have a chest MRI.

I’ll continue to have mammograms and/or MRIs every six months to check for any new tumors for the next several years.

OH! And I get the much disliked port-a-cath removed on Nov. 16!! It’s a minor day surgery. I’ll have a mild sedative while it’s being performed. I’m really looking forward to this!

As for reconstruction, the jury is still out. The thought of a pretty- hard-core medical procedure right now does not appeal to me, and I’m also not interested in having foreign material in my body. There are also several different types of surgeries that use tissue from your own stomach or back to create a breast. Those are pretty invasive and don’t appeal to me either. Some people wait years before considering reconstruction. That may be me.

So that’s pretty much it! I have been busy with work these past several weeks, and just finished up a big project. We’re looking forward to a week in Colorado over Thanksgiving.

Up in smoke

October 18, 2009

The night after my final radiation treatment I was feeling as if I needed to somehow commemorate the event. Jason suggested burning something. It sounded good to me, so I sifted through my cancer “notebook” – a large binder that has held my path reports, scan results, weekly blood counts and a pile of associated paperwork. While I kept most of it (who knows when I’ll need to look back and find out what my white cell counts were the second week of June), I pulled out a handful of cancer-related documentation that I could do without.

Jason headed out to the garage armed with a headlamp and dusted off an old rusty hibachi. We fired it up in the pouring rain out on the front walkway. Among the documents that went up in smoke:

* An article written by a Seattle woman about how to talk to your kids about cancer. The article was informative, but her big smiley face on the front was way too cheery for the subject matter.
* A list of Seattle-area wig shops.
* Scribbled notes from one of a zillion doctor’s visits.
* Information on a cancer support group at Swedish.
* An incomplete spreadsheet documenting doctor visits, procedures and blood draws that we gave up on filling out after a few weeks.
* A brochure for Mary Catherine’s – a shop near the hospital that specializes in post-mastectomy bras and camisoles.
* A catalog of wigs and hair coverings that Jason found stashed under the seat of his car. One particular photo – “before” and “after” pictures of a woman with no hair – had sent me into hysterics shortly after I was diagnosed. I was all too pleased to torch this.

Here we are bidding farewell to cancer!

TWO MORE DAYS!

October 12, 2009

Just two more days of radiation until I can kiss the daily slog up to Swedish Medical Center GOODBYE! Despite the fact that I have made the trip no fewer than 30 times in the past six weeks, I still find myself bolting out of here at 2:05 p.m., having realized only moments before that my appointment time is looming. Luckily I've never been late, and my machine -- the "Precision" (not to be confused with the "Synergy" down the hall) -- seems to be running on time most days.

Here are a few things I'm going to miss:

• Angela, the receptionist at the main entrance to the Swedish Cancer Center building; and T0ny, the security guard. They are possibly two of the friendliest people I have ever met.
  Bria and Sharon – my two favorite radiation therapists (even though I vowed not to get attached to any “cancer people.)
  
• The free parking spaces set aside especially for radiation patients. I feel so privileged when I pull in, toss my parking pass on my dashboard and breeze past all the other unfortunate folks driving around the block looking for street parking.
  
• A forced break in the middle of the day.

And here are some things I am NOT going to miss:

• The seemingly never-ending construction work going on at Virginia Mason just around the corner from Swedish. This hospital was under renovation seven years ago when I was going up to Swedish on a bi-weekly basis for pregnancy complications. I have to believe it’s been going on ever since. Every day is a new traffic configuration around the site.
  
• The annoying panhandler at the Denny/Dexter exit off Highway 99. He won’t let you off the hook until you make eye contact. There’s only so much fiddling with the radio one can do.
  
• The McDonalds on Madison Street that I drive by on my way home every day. Just because I don’t eat there anymore doesn’t mean I don’t WANT TO. ALL. THE. TIME!
  
• Mr. Grumpy, Mr. Nosy and Mr. Know-It-All. These three not-so fine fellows are usually in the waiting room about the same time I am. It’s pretty unusual for anyone in the quiet waiting room to be talking to each other (probably because we’re all in some sort of goofy medical gown), so their conversations/outbursts tend to offend like a fart in church. Mr. Grumpy can barely stand it that his machine is “always” late. Calming words from the receptionist and various medical personnel who are unlucky enough to pass by during one of his tirades can say nothing to appease him. His machine is “always broken,” he always has to sit around “for hours,” and “these people should do something about it.” Mr. Nosy is that overly-friendly guy you try to avoid in social settings, except in the waiting room there’s nowhere to hide. I have seen him assault other patients with the full run-down of his medical condition (prostate cancer) and subsequent treatment (radioactive seed implants), and last Wednesday my luck ran out. He plops down next to me with a “So how you doing, young lady?” and without waiting for an answer, plunges into a detailed description of how his doctor planted “little GPS trackers” in his prostate. TMI, dude. Mr. Know-It-All is actually not a patient but the husband of a woman who comes in for daily radiation treatment. I’ve been able to avoid him so far, but I’ve been privileged to listen in on his enlightening conversations with other patients. As I was coming out of the changing room the other day, I caught the tail end of one: “Yep! And the waiting room upstairs is full of young women going through treatment! And I know exactly what put them there!” Well, what a genius! Care to share? Apparently not, as he switched gears and started yapping about his yacht when he saw me.
  
• Getting home five minutes too late to pick Oliver up at the walking bus stop.

Cancer, it’s been an interesting nine months to say the least, but I’m moving on.

And as usually, I’m running late for my appointment. Gotta go!

Super Friends and Radiation Update

October 8, 2009

Check out Jason’s amazing friends! (Actually, I’m claiming them as my own, now.) These guys participated in the Komen Denver Race for the Cure on Sunday, Oct. 4. Their shirts say it all!!

Back row, from left: Brownell, Damian, Dom, Ian, Brian, Josh and Dave. Front row, from left: Lynna, Mia, Marti and Shevaun

My mind-numbing daily radiation appointments have been moving along without much fanfare. The only exciting thing that’s happened is one of the transformers at Swedish blew up last week, knocking down the servers that run the radiation department computers. Oliver had an early dismissal from school that day, so he came with me to the appointment. We found out the whole department was down when we got there, but we were able to get a personal tour of the radiation room, thanks to my nice radiation therapist Bria and the intern, Trisha. Oliver was quite impressed with the equipment. He’s becoming a regular there – he was a little under the weather yesterday and stayed home from school. He was feeling better by the afternoon, so he came again to the appointment. He got to watch me on the TV screen while I got my treatment, and of course he asked a million questions. One of the therapists called him a “budding radiation oncologist.”

The chest wall where the radiation beam is directed is showing some reaction. A couple weeks ago it started to turn a little red, like a sunburn. Now it is bright red, extremely itchy and starting to blister. The area under my arm is especially chaffed. My radiation oncologist seems disturbingly upbeat about this. Apparently my skin is reacting just as it should! He checked it out this past Tuesday and declared Tuesday, Oct. 13 as my LAST DAY! Apparently, he is known for tacking extra days on to the end of your treatment if your skin isn’t angry-looking enough. Mine seems to be reacting as it should, and he’s promised not to add any days (barring another transformer explosion!)

So that’s that! This whole thing that started with a really crummy day at the doctor’s office January 9 (Katie W. – you were with me – you remember it well!) will be DONE. At some point I’ll have my port-a-cath out (a day surgery) and I’ll have regular check-ups and scans, but the treatment part is over. It’s hard to believe – I thought this day would never come.

I guess there’s one more thing – I am going to get infusions of a drug called Zomeda once every six months for three years (first one is October 27). This drug is supposed to minimize the chance of the cancer coming back in my bones. I’ll have it done in the same place as I had my chemo infusions, although it should only take about 30 minutes.

Enjoying the sun and warm afternoons!

Life after the 3-Day

September 23, 2009

Sheila here…

Walking for nine hours a day for three days in a row gives one lots of time to think, even when one if surrounded by 2,300 other walkers (not to mention supporters cheering, drivers honking and merchants handing out goodies ranging from fruit shish-ka-bobs to breast-shaped sugar cookies).

I completed the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer 3-Day walk Sept. 11-13 in Seattle with my two fantastic and energetic teammates, Carol LaMotte and Katherine Meenk – both friends from Oliver’s preschool. The experience was one I will likely never forget.



Seeing all these women (and a few men!) dressed in pink and ready to pound the pavement made me think about what they had all been through to be there. We gathered at Shoreline Community College for opening ceremonies before the sun came up. Large, pink paper lanterns with words like, “Courage” and “Hope” shone in the pre-dawn darkness.



At the very least, each and every one of these participants had put in considerable time and energy raising money for the event (we each had to earn at least $2,300 to participate) and had likely trained for months beforehand to be able to walk the 20 miles each day the course would require. I wondered what else the event meant to each participant. Why was each person was walking? Did their mother have breast cancer? A friend? A co-worker? A partner? Themselves?
After a moving opening ceremony, we left the grounds and began our walk. As we filed nearly single file down a trail, I realized just how many people were walking. The line of women seemed to go on forever. And every one of them was sacrificing a precious weekend to walk and walk and walk for one reason. To draw attention to breast cancer and hopefully find a cure.

In front of us was a woman who was carrying an extra pair of shoes. Carol, Katherine and I noticed and wondered to each other why she would be carrying her spare pair with her – we had planned to change our shoes the following day, but they were in our overnight bags, which were being delivered to our campsite. Later I realized: this woman was carrying these shoes all 60 miles for someone who couldn’t – rather, didn’t – make it.

Over the next several hours it began to dawn on me the impact of this walk. The 2,200 participants had raised millions of dollars. That’s big stuff. But every car that drove by and saw the steady stream of pink suddenly thought about breast cancer. And maybe they told their wife or husband when they got home what they saw. And the neighbors along the route who handed out candy, made signs or simply stood and cheered thought about breast cancer too. And hopefully they told their kids why they were cheering and wearing pink and crying a little bit and saying “thank you” over and over and over. And maybe THAT’S what’s going to make the difference.

Some of my favorite moments along the 60 mile route weren’t the elaborate balloon arches, free cookies or cheerleaders with their customized cheers (“Shake your boobies! Shake, shake your boobies!”). While those certainly brought a smile to my face (and my tummy!) some of the most touching examples of generosity were very small and subtle. In Edmonds, we passed by a schoolyard filled with children who had run to the fence and poked their tiny arms through to give us all high fives.

Elsewhere, people who probably didn’t have much money to spend on cookies, red vines or stickers instead pulled their hoses to the curb and sprayed down the hot and appreciative walkers.

Sometimes the neighbors weren’t out cheering, but they were supporting us all the same. Just knowing that people took the time to make signs gave me energy to keep on walking.

But what meant the most was the amazing support of all my family members and friends who donated money, sent cards, came out and cheered, or just kept me in their thoughts over the weekend. Here are a few of those who helped Team StompThis raise more than $15,000 to kick breast cancer!

Mom and Dad

Aunt Bev and Uncle Tony

Kendra

Carrie and Katie

Jason, Mia and Brian

Melissa and Katherine

Chris

Jason and Oliver

Elham and Sarah

Brenda

Pam

Leslie, Isaac and Maddie

Rebecca and August

...and Val, who came to the closing ceremonies but we didn't get a photo!

Oh yeah – and a little bit about radiation. I’m halfway through the six weeks and my last day is expected to be October 12. My skin is getting a little red and I am becoming tired, but it’s a piece of cake compared to chemo. I have also been working with my naturopath to create a healthy diet plan, and we have decided that I will avoid sugar for a month. It’s been almost two weeks and I have to say this is a lot harder than radiation by a long shot!