I Am Glow-In-The-Dark Radiant

Almost exactly to the minute two weeks ago I heard the results of the Onco-type pathology which tests the genetic make-up of the tumor. I didn't know tumors had their own genetic make-up, but apparently they do.
The results of that test determined that I will not need chemotherapy. I won't even try to describe to you how relieved I was to hear that.
I started radiation treatments the next day. As of this morning, I have now completed 10 treatments, with 25 more to go. Mike says that I glow in the dark.
Now let me back up a little.
3 weeks ago my children did the most wonderful thing possible. They all came home. All as in our son, both daughters and our son-in-law. They did yard work, and house work. They even cleaned their rooms.
I would have been thrilled with just a visit.
Every time I went out and picked up a tool, my son-in-law scolded me to put it down. My daughters made me sit and sort through things. Then they hauled loads to the dump, and to Goodwill. And it was great having all 4 of them with us at the dinner table. That has never happened since the wedding or before, and who knows when it will happen again, so I enjoyed every moment.
Mike had to go on a quick business trip, so I asked the kids to go with me to the radiation mapping session. That is when you lie down on a skinny metal slab while they take all kinds of x-rays and measure the exact area that will get radiation. Then they tattoo several dots on you so they will always be able to line you up for each treatment. Even though the kids couldn't be in the room for that, I wanted them to see the place where I was being treated, and all the ways the building and the people work to promote healing.
The girls were able to come in with me for the exam, meet my doctor and ask questions. He took all the time they needed to answer concerns, give advice, and tell them about my case. I appreciate his efforts to point us all in a positive direction. During the 40 minute mapping session, after he and the nurse got me set up on the slab, he said, "Okay, close your eyes and go to your happy place while we do the work."
Uh huh, sure.
It was a nice thought, but even with the nice pictures of trees and sky on the ceiling, it was hard to forget that I was having to lie still on a metal slab while a radiation machine moved around me.
After that, I showed the kids the beautiful waiting room for radiation patients, and the connecting enclosed serenity garden, and they met some of the people there who want to do all that can be done to make this turn out the best way possible.
I think it was good for them to see this place, and helpful to have a better idea as to how things will go, and where it will happen. But I remember how I felt when I would help care for Dad when he was being treated, so I can only imagine what was going through their minds. I guess they were probably thinking that no matter how nice it looks, and how great the people are, this is where my mother is coming because she has cancer, and cancer means that things might never be the same.
It was great to have them here. I needed at least one more week, but I'll take what I can get. Anna said she had to pull the C card to be able to come. One of her professors wanted her working on a project during her Fall break, but she told him she was going to help her mom who had cancer. I told her she could pull the C card any time she wanted, as long as it would make it so she could come and see me.
Now I go to radiation treatment every morning, Monday through Friday. Here is an extremely over simplified version of how radiation works. The waves are directed to the area surrounding the tumor location. They cause all of the cells to lose the ability to regenerate. Normal cells recover from that fairly quickly, but cancer cells explode. Then the dead cells are carried out by white blood cells. That explains the exhaustion. My good cells are working overtime to regenerate, or to carry away the dead cancer cell garbage.
I apply special cream 4 times a day to prevent burns. I deal with being tired all the time, and go on long walks to get my heart going for physical reasons and not just for emotional ones. I don't panic when I can't retrieve thoughts (Mike calls it "radiation brain"). I let so many people around me bear me up.
When I am on that slab I think about the waves going through me zapping the cancer cells. I think about how insidious this cancer is. It is not as straight forward as having surgery that cuts it out, and pathology that shows the margins and lymph nodes are clean. There could be cells out there beyond that, and who knows where they are. Because even with all that can be done, there is still the possibility of recurrence. I am shooting for zero with that.
I am grateful for the example of my friend (see the last blog entry below). I have learned from her to do all that can be done, learn all that can be learned, surround myself with people who do the same, then hope, pray and have faith for the rest.
And through it all, enjoy the miracle of being surrounded by love.

This Amazing Not Fair Life

You know when you have a friend that makes you feel like you won the lottery every time you are around her? And even if you are only able to see her for a few hours, a few times a year, and even if you have only known her for 3 years, you feel joy each time you think of her.
And you are so amazed at the joy and courage that radiates from her, even as she battles ovarian cancer. And you love the idea that she is a part of your life so much, that her name is in every personal prayer you offer, and you write it every time you go to the temple.
And when you find out you have cancer, she and her wonderful husband send you messages of hope, sharing their experiences of the miracles they have experienced, and the love that has grown as she battled this cancer over the last 4 years, without letting you know that her cancer has returned and invaded her whole body.
Yes, I have a friend like that. It would not surprise me if thousands of people could say the same thing about her.
She died this morning.
Life is not fair.
I only became aware yesterday that her children and grandchildren were there with her and her husband to have every moment with her before she had to let go of them and move on.
It was 10 years ago when I was there with my siblings and Mom in the last months, then days, then moments of Dad's life.
Nothing can make it fair when a wonderful parent and partner is gone from family far too soon.
Life really is not fair.
10 years ago, after Dad died, I lived that thought for a while. About 6 months. I didn't sleep. I felt crummy. I was quick to get upset at anyone around.
Yeah, life with me was a real joy.
Then, in what I consider a moment of divine grace, I was able to see how blessed I was to have had such a person as my dad.
Life is really amazing.
Not a day goes by where I do not miss Dad, often so much that it hurts. And when I think of the amazing life I have because he was my dad, then all that is great about him comes to me.
So I am grateful for this life where I get to have such a father as my dad, and I get to have such a friend as Robyn.
So my thoughts and prayers are with her family. I hope and believe they also embrace the blessing of their wife and mother.
In that gratitude, love is stronger than death.
And cancer will never win.

I'm Blue...And Tickled Pink

There are phrases I do not want to hear used in the same sentence, especially when said by certain people. For instance... I would never want to hear a police officer use the phrases "Your child" and "missing for a week" in the same sentence.
So when one of my doctors used the phrases "nuclear lab", "radioactive fluid" and "injected to trace your lymph nodes" all in one sentence, that went to the top of my Do Not Want To Hear list. But I'm sure something else will come along to knock it off the #1 spot.
Just to let you know, the next paragraph or two might be too much information. Feel free to skip it. Wish I could.
So, a couple of days ago, a few hours before surgery they wheeled me from pre-op to the nuclear lab. For some silly reason they did not let Mike come in there with me. They explained the whole procedure again. The fluid would be injected and given time to flow from the tumor to the related lymph nodes. My surgeon would use a type of geiger counter to track those nodes and remove them, then remove the tumor.
Okay, got that. I will just work on my cleansing breaths until you're done.
And the radiologist was amazing. She was so careful, she was done quicker and with less pain than I expected.
Then the nurse went over the logistics with me. She gave me a certificate explaining the procedure and said I would need it if I had to go through any metal detector or screening process in the next three days, since I would set them off. She said, "You're hot. I know your husband already thinks you're hot. Now you really are, as in radioactive."
The fluid is blue, and I could see it showing up just below the skin. Mike calls it Spidey juice, and said it should give me super powers. Is it a super power if I can set off a metal detector alarm? I would rather be able to fly. But for a few days, I got to be a blue blood.
By the way, when you are going through all this, you can get as many heated blankets as you want. That and the early pathology results saying the nodes and the tumor margins are clear were the best things about that day.
Did you know that October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month? Not that I need any reminders, but I do appreciate more than ever all the events and promotions. Who would have thought I might personally benefit from the research I had supported?
So Pink has become the color of my armor.
An anonymous friend gave me a bracelet with a pink awareness ribbon charm on it. My surgeon gave me a pink water bottle. The hospital gave me a very soft pink robe.
Then the best came yesterday. Two little angels who live in my neighborhood came over with a pink wrist band, a pink cake with very pink frosting decorated with an awareness ribbon and hearts (they made it themselves, with some help from Mom), and........A BRIGHT PINK FEATHER BOA!
It tickles my neck.
I know I can handle anything when I wear it.

You Outta Be In Pictures

I am working on another entry about Nauvoo, but I wanted to post this short one about the ride. So pardon the interruption.
This is a long, tough ride. Mike and Brad are feeling the effects, especially since they rode for several hours in the pouring, drenching, very heavy rain yesterday before it finally cleared up. I got exhausted just driving through it, thinking about them trying to ride their bikes on roads that were solid ponds of water.
That being said, the farm roads and historic highways of the midwest are stunning. I feel like I am riding through locations for movies I have seen. There is Field of Dreams, or It Happened One Night, or Friendly Persuasion. The sunsets remind me of one of my favorite things about living in Minnesota years ago. The little towns that have been proudly preserved are like the historic parts of Philadelphia, without the crowds.
Today, Mike and Brad were able to do part of the ride on a bike path that has been created along a river. It led to the longest covered bridge in the state of Ohio. It is probably longer than 200 yards. It is on the Mohican path, and can only be accessed on foot, horseback, bicycle or buggy.
Yes, I said buggy. We are in Amish country, where even Walmart has a section in the parking lot for buggies.
We made our way along the path to the covered bridge, and Mike and Brad cycled through it while I waited on one side. While I was there, a horse drawn buggy with a family came up the path to the bridge. Sam barked at the horse while I held him back, but they all smiled and waved at us while they passed and rode through the bridge past the others on the other side.
For a moment, Mike wasn't tired or sore. He was just thrilled with the whole experience.
Ahh, real life.
Better than the movies.

Gearing Up

I am writing this while sitting by a huge cornfield in Illinois. I am reminded of what my curly hair does when it is 99% humidity outside. And for several hundred miles I have seen field after field of corn or soy beans. Isn’t anything else grown in the midwest?

Anyway…

Mike and his brother are doing the Nauvoo to Kirtland Temple to Temple Ride. My doctor strongly recommended we go ahead with this ride, and I will have surgery two days after we get back. I have been going over the volumes of information she gave me, and I can see why she wants us to do what we can before the surgery. So much will change afterwards, and since we know part of that will include at least 7 weeks of radiation, and I won’t be able to leave town during that time, and Mike needs to be recharged, prepped, energized, geared up and fortified with more than 47 vitamins and minerals in order to hang in there through this with me, going ahead with this planned trip was important.

I’m enjoying this, too.

We were able to drive to Missouri and see some church history sites around there before picking up Brad in St. Louis. Then we went on to Nauvoo. This is the first time we have been there since the Nauvoo temple was rebuilt. I will write more about that in the next blog.

It has been nice seeing Mike and Brad doing this ride together. We have not lived near Brad since we were in college, so it has only been short visits at reunions and during travels for 25+ years. This is a rare chance for them to spend time together.

Like any two siblings, they have much in common, and they are also completely different from each other. So this is interesting for me to see the dynamics.

When I periodically pass them on these farm roads, I like seeing them in active conversation, sharing their thoughts and experiences as they ride through this beautiful countryside. They are catching up on all their childhood to middle age stories.

When we sit down for dinner each night, and the conversation goes in all directions, I can tell when Mike is either just relaxing and enjoying it, or keeping his opinion to himself so everything stays relaxing and enjoyable.

Each also brings a different physical experience to this ride as well.

Brad lives at sea level. When they go up a slight hill, he can feel the air thinning.

We live at 6000 feet. Mike is feeling like he has to chew each time he breathes in, the air is so thick. When we were driving over the state line from Colorado to Kansas there was a sign that said that was the highest point in Kansas at 4039 feet. It’s been downhill since then.

Brad is in good shape, but has not been riding a bike as much as Mike. So they stick together and Brad drafts off of Mike. But several times a day Mike has to stop and be on a business call. Brad will keep riding to get ahead for a while. When Mike is done he “time trials it” until he catches up, and he loves that. I love that crazy man of mine.

I think of what it would be like to have this much time with just one sister at a time, or my brother, doing something that we both really wanted to do. Or just having time together. What an unusual and precious experience that could be.

I am glad Mike is doing this. He is covering a long road this week.

The much longer road starts next week.

"C" Is For Cookie, That's Good Enough For Me

Today is brought to you by the letter "C".
C is for Compassion and Courage.
Thanks to all of you, for everything.
I am overwhelmed. So many people sending cards and messages, sharing their own journeys, fasting and praying with us, leaving homemade cookies, soup, fresh picking from their gardens, listening, answering questions, and so much more. I knew of a number of women who are cancer survivors, now I know of many more. Some of them are very private, but they have generously and courageously told me of their experiences, let me ask many very personal questions, and helped me have more information about what is ahead.
Every time I go somewhere, when I return there is something on my doorstep. Handmade cards, drawings from children I know, nourishing foods, special treats. The other day, 10 people from church showed up to help us finish a yard project. It all lightens the load, and lets Mike and I have our strength for what cannot be handed to someone else.
I debated sharing this whole experience with others. But I remembered how much I want to help when those I know are carrying burdens. I need to take this beyond a concept, and let it be the way I live.
And I feel the thoughts and prayers of others working on me.

C is for Care, as in the Red Rocks Cancer Care Center.
I guess timing really is everything. Apparently, this tumor probably started growing about 8 to 10 years ago. I felt it a few months ago because fibrous tissue grew over it. This new cancer center was opened a few months ago. I have met with several of the specialists there, and I am amazed. They took all the time needed to go over every scan, test and report, every option, every part of my life that will impact the healing. My surgeon is not just looking at her part in removing the tumor, my radiation oncologist is not just looking at his part in therapy. They are helping Mike and I form a team with them to overcome and kill the thing that is trying to kill me. And they want me to come through it healed and stronger than ever.
After Dad died, there were people who had worked with him who told us how he was one of the few bosses or teachers they had who would pray with them and for them, and who would hug them. I can now say that I have doctors who pray for me, accept prayers for their own guidance, and who hug me.

C is for Comedy. This is not only from my sisters, it is now officially doctor's orders. So I look for ways to endure with joy. I will take surface level humor as well.
I could go with pop culture, such as the line from "The Devil Wears Prada"..."I'm only one stomach flu away from my goal weight." Maybe I am only one treatment away from my goal weight.
If you need some great humor around this subject, go to youtube and search for Jack Black Mammogram.
This is also a good time to see what kinds of crazy head pieces my artist siblings will make for me, even though (at least for now and I hope never) there is no chemo planned.

C is for Chocolate. The really good kind. I think there should be a clinical trial on the healing properties of fine chocolate. Sign me up for that one.

C is for Cheese, as in "Do you want some cheese with that whine?" Please ask me that if I ever do. Whine that is.

C is for Choice.
Since this is early detection, I still have some choice in some aspects of my treatment. So if you are wondering how important it is to get regular screenings, check-ups and do self-examination, stop wondering. It horrifies me to think how little choice I would have otherwise.
And I always have a choice in how I live. So I choose my life, and every part of it, including the cancer. This is part of my journey, and I am blessed with a wonderful life journey.
Besides that, if I gripe about not wanting this life, and complaining that things should be different, it is exhausting, boring, and makes me unbearable to be around. I'd rather not be alone right now.
Michael told me yesterday that when he gave me a blessing the night before the biopsy, he knew it was cancer, but that we would make it through this together. That is when I knew that he had chosen to make this his battle, as much as mine.
This is how powerful choice is. A few days ago I had an MRI. I had to lie on my stomach, my face laying in an uncomfortable cutout, my hands over my head, not moving for 40 minutes. The physical discomfort was there but not extreme. The mental and emotional strain of thinking about why I was there, and what the scan might show is overwhelming. Mike had talked the technicians into letting him be in the room, holding my hand the whole time. Even though we couldn't talk to each other, he would squeeze my hand every minute or so. This is our battle. And each time I would feel overwhelmed I would think of all the people praying for me, and God's awareness of each of us, knowing us by name. I felt unseen hands placed gently all over my back and legs, easing the tension and worry.
That is the journey I choose.

The Big "C"

So much can change in a second, even if the days leading up to that second seem to take forever.

A few months ago I felt a lump in my breast. It didn’t change, so I went in to have my doctor check it. Within the week, I was having the diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound she had ordered. Within moments of that, they told me I needed to return for an ultrasound guided needle biopsy (yes, it is as bad as it sounds).

Now, here is the part that I don’t understand. They scheduled my biopsy 12 days away. 12 days! Plenty of time to worry and wonder and imagine what kind of things are growing out of control in my body. They said there was not an opening any sooner.

My brother-in-law is a brilliant radiologist in Salt Lake City. I talked to him about this and he was apalled the biopsy was scheduled that far out. His team has worked hard to make sure they can schedule the biopsy within a day of the diagnostic, and they are very busy as well. It takes effort, but it can be done.

This is one thing I am willing to make a fuss about. So far it has resulted in an inquiry about changing things.

But my biopsy was still 12 days out. A very long, stressful 12 days.

That part came to an end yesterday. The biopsy was in the morning. They told me I would get the results today at three. Those 30 hours dragged like the previous 12 days.

When my doctor called, even as she was saying it, I wondered if there was a class in medical school about leading a conversation to the point where you say, “Your biopsy is positive for breast cancer.”

So time has shifted again.

I give myself my moments of falling apart. But there is so much love and support. Within moments of setting up an appointment with a surgeon, and holding onto Mike for a while, and sending an email to friends and family, one of those friends was at the door with homemade frozen strawberry jam, telling me she would go through it in my place if she could. And I believe her.

There were immediate expressions of love, support and prayers through email.

This is what we do, as family, friends, Mormons, women.

It will be hard, but it will be okay. As my brilliant brother-in-law said, “Years from now, you will be in the survivor’s group at a Race For The Cure event, and this will just be something in your past.”

Surrounded by love, I can handle anything. I am so blessed.

And “C” is just a letter in the alphabet.