...and I probably won't get any scan news over the weekend, so there you have it for now. I'm glad, in a way, because now I don't have to have a heart attack every time the phone rings. I have over-thought this a bit by now. Half of me thinks, if it were good news, he would have called by now. He wants to wait to give me the rotten news in person. The other half thinks, "Are you nuts, Shelly? It can only be improved news since last time. You've done 4 chemos!"
So. What can you do. Just keep on living in spite of it all.
In other news, I now am the proud wearer of a short, inverted bob. It was supercute on day #1 and looks like a crazy nest today---completely user error, not the cut. I will work on my skills.
My cousin and my mom arrive in town this weekend. Yay!
PS- I continue to receive photos from people every day (see the "Levity" post for more info on that), and they are getting cooler all the time, so I am going to re-open the submissions soon. Get fired up, people, this is like Christmas in October.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Items
A smattering of thoughts now.
1- Neil and I have sold our house. We must move out by Oct 31. We haven't yet found a new house we love, so in the meantime, we will be staying with friends in Issaquah. This Saturday, our moving truck will pick up our big items. Then for two weeks, our house will be like a shell, with a few mattresses and chairs scattered about. It'll be like camping! Perhaps rather than blogging, I should get packin'.
2- All my life, I've had heaps of hair. Hair to spare. Grandma Yark used to say, repeatedly and rather famously, "YOU'VE GOT ENOUGH HAIR FOR THREE PEOPLE." For evidence (wince), view any photo of me from the 80s-90s. And now, this damned chemo has seriously thinned it out. I lose glops of hair every time I shower. I'm not balding, but I think I am going to require a new hairstyle. Shelly with limp hair: The apocolypse is near. But! Vanity is alive and well. I'm now accepting photo suggestions for a cute new 'do.
3- Steve Jobs. What to say that hasn't been said. Yet another aspect of this strikes me, too. It's utterly amazing how long he lived, YEARS, with stage 4 pancreatic cancer. He shattered his grim life expectancy odds considerably. So I keep thinking of him, wondering what makes a person strong like that. What sparked him. What spurred him on. Where he found inspiration. I need to figure out what he had inside him and channel some of that. Not because I aspire to change the way the world communicates, but simply because I want to be here for the long haul. I've felt a bit discouraged lately, and I am sick of it.
4-I have a PET scan this Thursday morning to see how this chemo is working. My doc says I might even have the results by Thursday night. I'm nervous.
So there you have it. All the news that's fit to print on this rainy Tuesday night.
1- Neil and I have sold our house. We must move out by Oct 31. We haven't yet found a new house we love, so in the meantime, we will be staying with friends in Issaquah. This Saturday, our moving truck will pick up our big items. Then for two weeks, our house will be like a shell, with a few mattresses and chairs scattered about. It'll be like camping! Perhaps rather than blogging, I should get packin'.
2- All my life, I've had heaps of hair. Hair to spare. Grandma Yark used to say, repeatedly and rather famously, "YOU'VE GOT ENOUGH HAIR FOR THREE PEOPLE." For evidence (wince), view any photo of me from the 80s-90s. And now, this damned chemo has seriously thinned it out. I lose glops of hair every time I shower. I'm not balding, but I think I am going to require a new hairstyle. Shelly with limp hair: The apocolypse is near. But! Vanity is alive and well. I'm now accepting photo suggestions for a cute new 'do.
3- Steve Jobs. What to say that hasn't been said. Yet another aspect of this strikes me, too. It's utterly amazing how long he lived, YEARS, with stage 4 pancreatic cancer. He shattered his grim life expectancy odds considerably. So I keep thinking of him, wondering what makes a person strong like that. What sparked him. What spurred him on. Where he found inspiration. I need to figure out what he had inside him and channel some of that. Not because I aspire to change the way the world communicates, but simply because I want to be here for the long haul. I've felt a bit discouraged lately, and I am sick of it.
4-I have a PET scan this Thursday morning to see how this chemo is working. My doc says I might even have the results by Thursday night. I'm nervous.
So there you have it. All the news that's fit to print on this rainy Tuesday night.
Friday, October 7, 2011
A little levity, please
The other day I was texting a friend of mine (who shall remain nameless, I won't even tell you her gender) while she was sitting in an examation room, waiting for her doctor. To be more specific, she was waiting to start her annual gynecological exam. As if I needed proof, she then texted me a photo of her view of the bottom half of the exam table, covered in that sterile white paper roll, with the fuzzy pink feet holders extended. A scene every woman could easily interpret. No comments were needed, it was just a simple capturing of her life at that moment in time.
I thought, this is kind of a fun way to keep up with what is happening in my friends' lives. We're all running these parallel lives, immersed in various activities at once. And Lord knows we love our technology. Since I'm sitting around my house the next few days, please feel free to send me a quick snap of a scene from your everyday that needs no explanation, but which encapsulates whatever is happening for you at that time. Like an email, without words. It can be self-explanatory or cryptic. Dull or silly. Whatever you send, it will make me smile. And feel connected.
If I get enough interesting ones, maybe I'll post them.
I'll let you know if I get any entries. Stay tuned.
I thought, this is kind of a fun way to keep up with what is happening in my friends' lives. We're all running these parallel lives, immersed in various activities at once. And Lord knows we love our technology. Since I'm sitting around my house the next few days, please feel free to send me a quick snap of a scene from your everyday that needs no explanation, but which encapsulates whatever is happening for you at that time. Like an email, without words. It can be self-explanatory or cryptic. Dull or silly. Whatever you send, it will make me smile. And feel connected.
If I get enough interesting ones, maybe I'll post them.
I'll let you know if I get any entries. Stay tuned.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Second opinion
Today, Neil and I are headed over to the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance to meet with an esteemed doctor who is going to give my case a second look. See what he says. See if they have any alternative ideas for clinical trials, treatments, etc. Not that we have any doubts about my current doctor or my care, but, as a physician friend of mine said, it never hurts to have as many smartypants doctors looking at your case as possible. It's like doing your homework. And--I'm lucky to live in a great town for having this disease. Seattle has some terrific doctors and programs to investigate.
(HA! Add THAT to your roster of nicknames, Seattle! "The Emerald City". "The Jet City". "The Queen City". "CancerTown USA".
I got the SCCA's impressive introduction packet a few weeks ago, but didn't look at it until last night. Looking through this stuff is a DRAG. On top of chemo and everything else, the last thing I feel like doing is reading cancer marketing materials, no matter how empathetically written. You know, hopeful sentences like, "Many cancers are highly curable if they're detected in the early stages." (Great! Wait. I'm stage 4.) (P.S.: There is no Stage 5.) (So! You just let that roll off your back, Shelldogg. Remember: you're your own case study! No one has ever had your exact cancer before! The future is not written yet! Screw the stats!) Let the pep talks roll! Laissez les bon temps roulez!
After the appointment, I think I may roll on down to my sister's restaurant (LITTLE WATER CANTINA in Seattle's Eastlake neighborhood! Check it out.) and drink a stiff margarita or two. Nothing has changed with my health, and in fact now that I've completed three rounds of chemo, I should soon find out that my cancer is again receding-- but just talking about it in depth, play-by-play since Nov '09, can take the wind out of your sails.
All that being said, I feel strong this week, and I'm ready to hear what they tell me. I'm wearing my rhino-skin jacket.
(HA! Add THAT to your roster of nicknames, Seattle! "The Emerald City". "The Jet City". "The Queen City". "CancerTown USA".
I got the SCCA's impressive introduction packet a few weeks ago, but didn't look at it until last night. Looking through this stuff is a DRAG. On top of chemo and everything else, the last thing I feel like doing is reading cancer marketing materials, no matter how empathetically written. You know, hopeful sentences like, "Many cancers are highly curable if they're detected in the early stages." (Great! Wait. I'm stage 4.) (P.S.: There is no Stage 5.) (So! You just let that roll off your back, Shelldogg. Remember: you're your own case study! No one has ever had your exact cancer before! The future is not written yet! Screw the stats!) Let the pep talks roll! Laissez les bon temps roulez!
After the appointment, I think I may roll on down to my sister's restaurant (LITTLE WATER CANTINA in Seattle's Eastlake neighborhood! Check it out.) and drink a stiff margarita or two. Nothing has changed with my health, and in fact now that I've completed three rounds of chemo, I should soon find out that my cancer is again receding-- but just talking about it in depth, play-by-play since Nov '09, can take the wind out of your sails.
All that being said, I feel strong this week, and I'm ready to hear what they tell me. I'm wearing my rhino-skin jacket.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
I'm nothing but a fruitfly
I wrote this almost two weeks ago but didn't feel like posting it because I was so sick of cancer, sick of talking about cancer, and sick of telling people about what it's like to have cancer, etc., that I couldn't muster the energy to hit the "publish" button. But I'll post it now because a few friends have recently asked me how I was coping with chemo, etc., and so.... :
------
Tuesday night, I returned from cousin Melissa's wedding (more on that in a bit) to find a fruit fly infestation under my sink. When I opened the bin, a swarming grey cloud rose and attacked me, then, like an explosion, spread out to the four corners of my kitchen: Cabinets. Windows. Sink. Countertops. All covered. I had left a bunch of banana matter to rot in my compost bin over the hot weekend. Whoopsie daisy.The bin's liner bag had liquified, and the bananas were now a brown lake. Hundreds of tiny egg sacs dotted the walls of the stainless steel can. Waiting for their chance.
I spent the day trying to vacuum up flies, or capture them in various liquid traps. I can't tell how much progress I've made, but I know that since I've removed the food source, soon enough, they will all die off. Then maybe we'll return to normal.
For some reason, this insect lifecycle (of quiet incubation, then, a torrent of energetic, soaring, in-your-face life!, then death, and repeat) reminded me of my own two-week chemo cycle. As I'll explain now, starting with the "death" phase, and moving toward the "hatch".
This morning, Neil and I will go in for chemo #2. I'll feel ok today and tomorrow, then by Saturday, up to my gills in poison, I'll feel like crap. On Sunday, I'll be a poisoned, thick-headed zombie who sits in quiet rooms on chairs, staring at things, turning my head around slowly, blinking, sometimes wincing for no apparent reason, unlikely to answer the phone, inept at writing emails, incapable of making decisions. Monday, I'll start to track with conversations better again, though the nausea and the head-games will persist. Tuesday, the feeling of energy will slowly seep back into my being, and I'll grow giddy at the idea that I might someday feel normal again. By Wednesday, SHA-ZAM!, you'll never know anything ever happened to me. Then! I get a WEEK of SHELLY! And all that that means! And you who know me know what THAT MEANS!!
Then, repeat. Death, egg sacs. Hatching. Glorious flight.
Because of chemo's cyclical nature, you'd think I'd be used to it all by now. Somehow, however, I'm not. At each new chemo cycle, I feel angry all over again at my physical and emotional shakiness. And at how poorly I cope when I'm in the thick of the poisoning. (When you're beaten down and sick, you cannot deal well with heavy topics, things like cancer). Last time, when they were unhooking my chemo after mainlining it for 46 hours, an anger took root in me, and I simply could not restrain it. The sweet nurses who know me as a certain type of person were subjected to a soul in crisis. A raging human. I SWORE at them. (I used the "f-word" once, with conviction.) I snarled. I swatted at things. I seethed piss and vinegar. (Not literally, although that may well be a side effect of SOME type of chemo. Wouldn't surprise me.) As I drove home, I called Neil to unleash the rage on a safe, understanding target. Through clenched jaws, I choked out my words with a furious snarl I didn't know I could produce. NO. NOT THIS AGAIN. I CANNOT DO THIS. A HUMAN SHOULD NOT HAVE TO DO THIS. WHY THE HELL IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME? I AM A NICE PERSON. WE HAVE BABIES! I AM YOUNG! I used words like, "torture," "poison," and "THIS IS NO WAY TO LIVE." And I meant every single last F-ing one of them.
I knew this was no way to start out my 9 (+?) month chemo stint. I KNEW I needed to get my mind in a different place, or I'd never be able to get through it. I imagined how it must have felt to be an ancient Egyptian, in Giza, tasked with building those pyramids. I felt like I was standing there, looking at the schematic drawings while holding that first earthen brick, and thinking, "YOU'RE TELLING ME WE GOTTA BUILD that...WITH these?!"
Flash forward a few days. I'm in northern Michigan for my beloved cousin Melissa's wedding. All the Bakers are there. So many friends. A beautiful setting. Pure joy, really. Lightness. We danced all night. I didn't think about my health a bit. I wasn't in denial, either. It just didn't have any place there. Totally irrelevant. I'd even venture a guess that no one meeting me for the first time would have suspected there was a THING "wrong" with me.
Laying in my bed, listening to the wind roaring through the trees and the waves crashing on the lake, I felt complete peace and happiness. So many loved ones, so very close by. So much more fun to be had in this life. And so much energy to direct toward that fun.
From grizzly bear to zen master, all in ONE WEEK. And this swing will repeat, bi-weekly, for an undetermined amount of time. It's a very strange way to live, and sometimes it's brutally difficult, but I'm simply going to have to rise above the bad times and continue to embrace the good times. It's the ONLY WAY TO GET THROUGH THIS and still enjoy what I know is a pretty remarkable life.
------
Tuesday night, I returned from cousin Melissa's wedding (more on that in a bit) to find a fruit fly infestation under my sink. When I opened the bin, a swarming grey cloud rose and attacked me, then, like an explosion, spread out to the four corners of my kitchen: Cabinets. Windows. Sink. Countertops. All covered. I had left a bunch of banana matter to rot in my compost bin over the hot weekend. Whoopsie daisy.The bin's liner bag had liquified, and the bananas were now a brown lake. Hundreds of tiny egg sacs dotted the walls of the stainless steel can. Waiting for their chance.
I spent the day trying to vacuum up flies, or capture them in various liquid traps. I can't tell how much progress I've made, but I know that since I've removed the food source, soon enough, they will all die off. Then maybe we'll return to normal.
For some reason, this insect lifecycle (of quiet incubation, then, a torrent of energetic, soaring, in-your-face life!, then death, and repeat) reminded me of my own two-week chemo cycle. As I'll explain now, starting with the "death" phase, and moving toward the "hatch".
This morning, Neil and I will go in for chemo #2. I'll feel ok today and tomorrow, then by Saturday, up to my gills in poison, I'll feel like crap. On Sunday, I'll be a poisoned, thick-headed zombie who sits in quiet rooms on chairs, staring at things, turning my head around slowly, blinking, sometimes wincing for no apparent reason, unlikely to answer the phone, inept at writing emails, incapable of making decisions. Monday, I'll start to track with conversations better again, though the nausea and the head-games will persist. Tuesday, the feeling of energy will slowly seep back into my being, and I'll grow giddy at the idea that I might someday feel normal again. By Wednesday, SHA-ZAM!, you'll never know anything ever happened to me. Then! I get a WEEK of SHELLY! And all that that means! And you who know me know what THAT MEANS!!
Then, repeat. Death, egg sacs. Hatching. Glorious flight.
Because of chemo's cyclical nature, you'd think I'd be used to it all by now. Somehow, however, I'm not. At each new chemo cycle, I feel angry all over again at my physical and emotional shakiness. And at how poorly I cope when I'm in the thick of the poisoning. (When you're beaten down and sick, you cannot deal well with heavy topics, things like cancer). Last time, when they were unhooking my chemo after mainlining it for 46 hours, an anger took root in me, and I simply could not restrain it. The sweet nurses who know me as a certain type of person were subjected to a soul in crisis. A raging human. I SWORE at them. (I used the "f-word" once, with conviction.) I snarled. I swatted at things. I seethed piss and vinegar. (Not literally, although that may well be a side effect of SOME type of chemo. Wouldn't surprise me.) As I drove home, I called Neil to unleash the rage on a safe, understanding target. Through clenched jaws, I choked out my words with a furious snarl I didn't know I could produce. NO. NOT THIS AGAIN. I CANNOT DO THIS. A HUMAN SHOULD NOT HAVE TO DO THIS. WHY THE HELL IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME? I AM A NICE PERSON. WE HAVE BABIES! I AM YOUNG! I used words like, "torture," "poison," and "THIS IS NO WAY TO LIVE." And I meant every single last F-ing one of them.
I knew this was no way to start out my 9 (+?) month chemo stint. I KNEW I needed to get my mind in a different place, or I'd never be able to get through it. I imagined how it must have felt to be an ancient Egyptian, in Giza, tasked with building those pyramids. I felt like I was standing there, looking at the schematic drawings while holding that first earthen brick, and thinking, "YOU'RE TELLING ME WE GOTTA BUILD that...WITH these?!"
Flash forward a few days. I'm in northern Michigan for my beloved cousin Melissa's wedding. All the Bakers are there. So many friends. A beautiful setting. Pure joy, really. Lightness. We danced all night. I didn't think about my health a bit. I wasn't in denial, either. It just didn't have any place there. Totally irrelevant. I'd even venture a guess that no one meeting me for the first time would have suspected there was a THING "wrong" with me.
Laying in my bed, listening to the wind roaring through the trees and the waves crashing on the lake, I felt complete peace and happiness. So many loved ones, so very close by. So much more fun to be had in this life. And so much energy to direct toward that fun.
From grizzly bear to zen master, all in ONE WEEK. And this swing will repeat, bi-weekly, for an undetermined amount of time. It's a very strange way to live, and sometimes it's brutally difficult, but I'm simply going to have to rise above the bad times and continue to embrace the good times. It's the ONLY WAY TO GET THROUGH THIS and still enjoy what I know is a pretty remarkable life.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Reluctant Poster Child
I haven't been writing much lately. I know.
Recently, I started to come to this unsettling realization that all people think about when they see me is cancer, cancer, cancer. I talk! I blog! I raise money! I require assistance at times! I feel like I've become a one-trick pony of the most unfortunate sort. And I've become so bored/annoyed by it all that honestly, I haven't been able to muster a sentence more about the topic in the past two weeks.
Part of it is my own fault. I'm the damn person who started the blog, the one who yammers away in detail about everything that's on her mind for the whole world to hear. I'm the one who tells you how chemo feels, about when my next scan will be, about my deepest fears and hopes. I recently told a friend that sometimes I feel like the "Ellen" of the cancer world, the young woman coming out, guns blazing, for all the world to witness. I'm now annoying MYSELF a little bit.
And maddeningly, all this talk centers around the one aspect of my life I hate the most. Not to mention, the one that least defines who I am. Cancer is something that happened to me, randomly. It's nothing I chose, and it sure as hell doesn't say a thing about the type of person I am. It was just plain ol' shit luck. Like getting rear-ended on the freeway. Or getting both legs broken. (Except, way worse). For those of you who knew me prior to November 2009, there were probably a number of ways you would have described me. You might have said, "I work with her" or, "She talks a lot", or even, "She's tall". Among many (hopefully more interesting) other things.
Now, if anyone asked you about me, your first response would be, "Cancer." Then you might describe the other parts of me. Isn't it the truth?
Why do I care? I'm sick of it because I don't feel that way about myself. I feel like it should be more like my 8th or 9th bullet point. It's something I am forced to think about. A pesky thorn in my side. An enormous, pesky thorn. And it's not getting the best of me yet, either. I feel totally healthy, except right after chemo, of course. I have loads of great people. The kids amaze me every day. We are looking to buy a new house, planning for the future. Things are happening! I spend my days feeling happy, and I honestly don't focus on cancer, except when I have to. And sometimes I do. But I definitely don't feel sorry for myself, and you shouldn't either.
I guess I just hope you understand that there's a still a balance in my life. Whomever "you" might be, and if you are even reading. And I hope I project that sense of balance, because if I don't, I'm not relaying the entire story. And at this point in the story, the C-word has officially bored me to tears. No, worse: to silence.
As has this particular post. So let's end it now.
Recently, I started to come to this unsettling realization that all people think about when they see me is cancer, cancer, cancer. I talk! I blog! I raise money! I require assistance at times! I feel like I've become a one-trick pony of the most unfortunate sort. And I've become so bored/annoyed by it all that honestly, I haven't been able to muster a sentence more about the topic in the past two weeks.
Part of it is my own fault. I'm the damn person who started the blog, the one who yammers away in detail about everything that's on her mind for the whole world to hear. I'm the one who tells you how chemo feels, about when my next scan will be, about my deepest fears and hopes. I recently told a friend that sometimes I feel like the "Ellen" of the cancer world, the young woman coming out, guns blazing, for all the world to witness. I'm now annoying MYSELF a little bit.
And maddeningly, all this talk centers around the one aspect of my life I hate the most. Not to mention, the one that least defines who I am. Cancer is something that happened to me, randomly. It's nothing I chose, and it sure as hell doesn't say a thing about the type of person I am. It was just plain ol' shit luck. Like getting rear-ended on the freeway. Or getting both legs broken. (Except, way worse). For those of you who knew me prior to November 2009, there were probably a number of ways you would have described me. You might have said, "I work with her" or, "She talks a lot", or even, "She's tall". Among many (hopefully more interesting) other things.
Now, if anyone asked you about me, your first response would be, "Cancer." Then you might describe the other parts of me. Isn't it the truth?
Why do I care? I'm sick of it because I don't feel that way about myself. I feel like it should be more like my 8th or 9th bullet point. It's something I am forced to think about. A pesky thorn in my side. An enormous, pesky thorn. And it's not getting the best of me yet, either. I feel totally healthy, except right after chemo, of course. I have loads of great people. The kids amaze me every day. We are looking to buy a new house, planning for the future. Things are happening! I spend my days feeling happy, and I honestly don't focus on cancer, except when I have to. And sometimes I do. But I definitely don't feel sorry for myself, and you shouldn't either.
I guess I just hope you understand that there's a still a balance in my life. Whomever "you" might be, and if you are even reading. And I hope I project that sense of balance, because if I don't, I'm not relaying the entire story. And at this point in the story, the C-word has officially bored me to tears. No, worse: to silence.
As has this particular post. So let's end it now.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Stand Down*
I'm frustrated. "Swim Across America", the swim race in which I was all set to participate, will be taking place during my chemo treatment. As in, I'll be wired up with vials of chemo as the people are swimming. So I can't do it, after all.
The good news is, with or without me, Team Shelly has raised a more-than-respectable amount of money for cancer research. It goes directly to help with cancer prevention, and to find better treatments and cures. I'm so proud that our scrappy group has cobbled together this considerable amount from nothing. SO PROUD.
Someday, the advances they are making today WILL help save someone you love! MAYBE EVEN ME! Please consider supporting this cause. I will write you a very heartfelt thank you note, and you'll be part of something incredibly important. (Please copy and paste this link, because I can't figure out how to post a link in Blogger. Welcome to 1986, Shelly):
http://www.swimacrossamerica.org/site/TR/OpenWater/Seattle?px=1135298&pg=personal&fr_id=1185
We're also very close to being the #1 team in terms of fundraising. Behind some big corporate hotshots. US! HA! TAKE THAT. GO TEAM SHELLY!
Thanks for considering!
* "Stand Down" is swimming-speak. When competitive swimmers are standing on the blocks, about to race, the starting judge will occasionally halt the proceedings and announce, "STAND DOWN". It means, "WAIT. Step back. We're going to redo this start."
I should write for Wikipedia.
The good news is, with or without me, Team Shelly has raised a more-than-respectable amount of money for cancer research. It goes directly to help with cancer prevention, and to find better treatments and cures. I'm so proud that our scrappy group has cobbled together this considerable amount from nothing. SO PROUD.
Someday, the advances they are making today WILL help save someone you love! MAYBE EVEN ME! Please consider supporting this cause. I will write you a very heartfelt thank you note, and you'll be part of something incredibly important. (Please copy and paste this link, because I can't figure out how to post a link in Blogger. Welcome to 1986, Shelly):
http://www.swimacrossamerica.org/site/TR/OpenWater/Seattle?px=1135298&pg=personal&fr_id=1185
We're also very close to being the #1 team in terms of fundraising. Behind some big corporate hotshots. US! HA! TAKE THAT. GO TEAM SHELLY!
Thanks for considering!
* "Stand Down" is swimming-speak. When competitive swimmers are standing on the blocks, about to race, the starting judge will occasionally halt the proceedings and announce, "STAND DOWN". It means, "WAIT. Step back. We're going to redo this start."
I should write for Wikipedia.
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