Race Day

This past weekend, I ran 13.1 freaking miles on my one year cancer-versary.  It was simply AMAZING.  It's an accomplishment I worked very hard for.  Something that no one can take away from me.  It was the end of a chapter (cancer) and the start of a new one (as a runner).  Believe it or not, I've never considered myself a runner... Until I crossed the finish line and decided I want to do another run.  I feel like I've finally earned the title of runner.

I wanted to share a bit about my race day.  

I set my alarm for 4:30am and hoped to sleep well the night before the race.  Of course, I didn't sleep well... I was wide awake at 3:30.  After trying to go back to sleep, I finally got up around 4am to start my OCD carefully planned out routine.  It wasn't the 13.1 miles that had me stressing out.  {TMI ALERT!!} My finely tuned routine had one goal in mind: a pre-race poo.  For any of you that run, you know how important this can be.  For weeks, I took mental notes about my routines and which activities would increased the chances of reaching my goal.  My routine was on point and 85% of the time, I could predict success.  All I needed was a cup of coffee, a half mile warm up, and indoor plumbing and BOOM! I was in business. 

Here's what my morning looked like Believe it or not, I actually took notes on my phone so I would remember the details of the day:

Pre-Race

4:00 - Up and at 'em.  Make coffee.  Shower and brush my teeth.  Goodness it's early. But, it's going to be a great day! I've trained so hard and it's finally here!

4:20 - Get dressed, eat banana.

4:30 - Write prayer list on my arm.

4:40 - Time to get the shit show on the road!  I decide to run The Link, the indoor tunnel that connects our hotel to the Crown Center.  I run for about a mile and a half, praying my colon body starts to wake-up. 

5:24 - I take coffee back to the room for Richard and go hang out on the toilet a bit.  As a psych major, I know the effects our environment can have on our behavior.  So, I figure it can't hurt to just go sit for awhile.  Still nothing.  

5:30 - It's got to happen soon, right?  I go down to my friend Carrie's room, where we talk about the race.  And poop.  I'm getting worried this isn't going to happen.  1.57 miles in.  Still not happening.  

6:15 - We meet our friend Whitney and Whitney's mom in the lobby.  We are going to do a quick jog to the WWI Memorial (I'd say it was maybe a half mile away).  It was cool and crisp.  Union Station was lit up blue for the Royals and Whitney is telling us about her Grandpa, who has a bench named after him at the memorial.  We get to the bench, say a prayer, and decide it's time to get back down to the start line.  

6:40 - Our hotel is close to the start line, so I run back up to the room to try to go one more time.  At this point I'm panicked!  The race hadn't even started yet and I've logged 3 miles already and still no dice.  

6:45 - I kiss Mase and Richard as they are in bed.  Mase is up and we do our family 'handshake' where we put our hands on top of each others and yell 1...2...3...Moss.  It puts me in a good headspace to hit the course.  

6:50 - Carrie, myself, and 11,000 other runners get in the chute (sort of like a corral for runners).  I feel the urge to pee, but don't have time to go because the race is going to start soon.  I'm nervous, I've worked so hard to poo, I'm positive it's going to hit me sometime during the race.   

The Race

7:10ish - The race starts.  The energy and excitement can be felt in the air.  Holy cow, this is happening.  And I haven't pooped.  Just go with it, Julie.  It's too late to worry about that now.  Enjoy it! You've got this!

Mile 3 - I'm praying for my marriage, per my prayer list.  Richard sends me a quick text of encouragement that I can read on my watch.  Rascal Flatts's song Won't Let Go starts to play on my Beats.  Richard would play this song for me when we were traveling to our doctor appointments.  Tears start to flow.  Dammit.  Stop crying Julie.  Suck it up.  Crying takes energy.  And you need the hydration.  Stop it!   

...You think you're lost.  But you're not lost on your own.  You aren't alone.  I will stand by you.  I will help you through.  When you've done all you can do, you can call.  I will dry your eyes.  I will dry your eyes, I will fight your fight.  I will hold you tight and I won't let go.  It hurts my heart to see you cry.  I know it's dark, this part of life.  It finds us all when we're too small to stop the rain, oh, but when it rains, I will stand by you.  I will help you through...  (Rascal Flatts, Won't Let Go)

Mile 5 - I'm praying for my Gillispie family and I quickly text my sister (thank you Apple watch for enabling me to text while I'm in the middle of a race.  Apple: Feel free to send me a free one for this endorsement).  Jill starts sending me texts of encouragement.  She has been following me the entire time using a tracking app.  She's encouraging me and telling me about water stations coming up.  Even though she was in Florida, it feels like she's running with me.  Another boost.
Mile 8 - I'm getting tired.  I've done a few hills.  The excitement of the start line has worn off.  Still a long way to go.  I round a corner and hear this familiar voice yelling "Go Julie! Go Julie!"  I look around and it is my friend Alicia, who lives about an hour away from KC.  We logged a lot of miles about 3 years ago, navigating motherhood.  Alicia ran a half marathon (I started training with her, but quit).  She knew exactly what I was feeling.  I stopped very briefly to give her a hug and a kiss and she told me to keep running and that she was proud of me.  She's got tears in her eyes and I'm choking back tears again.  She spent a precious morning traveling and fighting the crowds to come cheer me on for all of 3 seconds.  It's just the boost I needed to get over that 8 mile slump.  As I run away, I look back and can see her cheering me on.
Mile 9 - Richard sends me a quick text letting me know that he will be at Mile 11 (with him are my in-laws and Mason).  Another boost... Plus the Sport Beans I ate at mile 5 are starting to hit.  I kick it up a notch.  The motivation that my family is just a mile ahead keeps me going strong.
Mile 10 - I'm praying for all Survivors, especially those I've come to know in a Surviving Together Facebook group.  Praying for those who fought the battle and lost.  Praying for those who signed up for clinical trials so that I could get the best treatment possible.  Again, another boost to keep me going.
Mile 10.5 - I am running hard, okay as hard as you can after running 10 miles, and I'm looking for my crew.  I do this for about 15 minutes, expecting to see them any minute.
Mile 12 - I finally see Richard, Mase on his shoulders and my in-laws.  I quickly stop and give them high fives.  Mase thinks I'm like a super star athlete.  I can hear him ask "Daddy, is mommy winning?" Richard says "Yep, she's winning!"  Talk about a major boost!  I know I'm close to the end.  I've got about 10 minutes of the race left.
Mile 12.5 - I round the home stretch (although a half a mile is still a long ways after you've ran 12) and again, I see Alicia.  She's yelling that she's proud of me and tells me to finish strong.  I'm humbled.
Mile 13 - I see the finish line.  I'm soaking it in.  I'm a bit sad the race is coming to an end.  I feel so strong in that moment.  I'm proud of myself and cannot believe I've done it.  Cannot believe all that has transpired over the past year.  I quietly whisper "I WIN."  And, I'm thankful I didn't have to poop during the race.
After the race, I meet up with Alicia and my family.  Mason is so excited about my medal and decides  he wants to wear it.  Of course, I let him.  I know this was a team effort.  This entire year has been a team effort.

My cheering section!
My friend Alicia who was there to cheer me on in the very moment I needed a cheerleader.
Carrie, Whitney and I celebrating the finish.
My prayer list.
1...2...3...Moss cheer.
My race swag.

Oh, and my story was mentioned on the front page of sports in the KC Star!  You can read the article here: http://www.kansascity.com/sports/other-sports/article39351111.html

Thoughts During Treatment

Work has started back up for me and I don't have much time to write. But, I did want to quickly write this down, as I keep this blog not only to educate others about the walk, but also to document my own journey.

A few days ago, I had another treatment.  They told me I only have 3 more to go (yay!).  As I'm sitting there hooked up to the IV poll, I look around and get a lump in my throat.  I'm the youngest person on chemo-row (the treatment room is set up with probably 25 recliners all in a row) by about 30 years.  The woman next to me is struggling.  She has a walker and hooked up to an IV poll.  Her obvious wig is all askew. She is trying to get the attention of one of the very busy nurses to help her make her way to the bathroom.  (I so badly want to help, but I'm plugged in and hooked up to my own IV poll, so I know I will just be in the way.)  She appears to be confused.  She's at treatment alone. It's absolutely heartbreaking. 

Another gentleman on chemo-row is getting treatment for a brain tumor. I overheard one of the chemos he is taking and I know it's going to be a rough couple of days for him. His wife says he's been battling this brain tumor for 15 years. 

Another woman, who is in a local Facebook group for women with breast cancer, is struggling.  She says the doctors tell her there is nothing left to do.  How do you wrap your head around that?  Do you admit defeat and vow to enjoy what time you have left? Or, do you keep on fighting, praying for a miracle, even if that means you spend precious hours on chemo-row and recovering from the assault chemo does to your body.  The quality of life for these individuals appear to be dwindling and where are they spending their time?  Getting treatment or worrying about this God awful disease.  

I know of another local mother who has young children.  Her breast cancer metastasized to her brain. How do you explain that to young children? Or even your husband who has to consider what life would be like without you?  You can cut off your breast, but not your brain.  That is a whole new level of Survivor.    

As the tears started to fall, my nurse came over. (God bless cancer nurses! All of mine have been amazing!) She looked into my eyes, handed me a tissue and held my hand.  Tears started to flow even harder.  All I can muster up through my tears and sniffles is "It isn't fair." She could see exactly what I saw and didn't need me to explain.  

I feel so out of place.  I think to myself "I don't belong here" but then I remember I DO belong here. I'm sitting on chemo-row, getting the same kinds of treatment these folks are.    I'm no different from them.  That is a scary thought! We are all trying to be Survivors, some of them are just having to fight harder than I've had to.

And that's where the guilt creeps in. When I leave, my plan is to get home and run, I can literally skip out of there if I want (and I just may after my last treatment).  The folks sitting next to me literally struggle to walk 10 feet to the bathroom.  My fight is almost done. His fight has lasted 15 years and no end in site. Who knows who will help her when she is feeling sick and exhausted from her treatment.  At times, I feel on top of the world, and then there are times where I feel so guilty for being spared with a treatable cancer that was caught relatively early.  

Friends Come Hell or High Water

How do these girls look this beautiful in the pouring rain?  

I've mentioned that I run with a group of friends that are there for me come Hell or high water. This morning was no exception.

We all signed up for the Tata Trot 5k weeks ago, a race to benefit breast cancer research. I was so humbled thinking that these girls would get up early, arrange for childcare, and give up their Saturday morning to walk in something that is now near and dear to my heart.  I mean, we all know how precious sleep is to moms, right?!

This morning, the torrential rain started.  I gave everyone an 'out' saying I would completely understand if they just wanted to skip it.  Nope.  These girls were committed.  Not to the 5k, but to me.  As they have been for the last year.

The race shirts said "Cancer, we're coming to get you".  To which my friend Carrie replied, "Gotcha bitch".  See why I love these ladies?

As the race started, the rain turned into a mist.  We laughed the entire way telling stories and poking fun at Maria because her legs were burning after mile marker one.  Isn't that true friendship when you refuse to talk behind their back, but are willing to say damn near anything to their face?

What a great morning we had!  Looking forward to many more!  

My friend Carrie made us these buffs, she's crafty like that.
Left to right: Carrie, me, Brooke, Kristan, Maria, Becky and Whitney

My circle of friends.

TaTa... I mean TaDa!

I've been a bit hesitant to write the post, and if you know me, you know I'm not hesitant to say much. Honestly, now that I am feeling better, I am feeling a little more protective over my boobs.  They aren't trying to kill any more.  Yes, they are still a work in progress, but they are feeling more a part of me every day.  I am a little hesitant to share, but I am so grateful for the women who have mentored me on this path and if I'm able to mentor or help make someone else's journey a bit easier by offering some information, some humor and understanding then that would make my over sharing worth it.

Here's a bit of background: After my prophylactic mastectomy, performed by a breast surgeon, my plastic surgeon put in expanders.  These are basically empty shells (think like a small deflated ball) inserted in pocket he made in my chest muscle.  Every few weeks, I would visit with my plastic surgeon and he would use a syringe to gradually fill my expanders with a saline solution.  While I had a skin sparing mastectomy, my muscle still had to be stretched to create a large enough pocket to hold my permanent implant.  The expanders were quite uncomfortable and rock hard; I'd often compare it to having two cereal bowls in my chest.

On Wednesday, I went in for my exchange surgery. During this surgery, the plastic surgeon takes out the expanders and puts in permanent implants.  The doctor used the same scars he made during my initial mastectomy surgery.  I chose to go for silicone implants, as they look and feel the most natural and my doctor thought that would give me the best result.  My surgeon also took the opportunity to to shave an additional part off of my left chest muscle, as one of the margins to my tumor was very narrow.  The surgery took less than an hour and a half.  I checked in early in the morning and by noon was released and having lunch with Richard and my mom.  While any surgery is scary, this was one that I looked forward to... hopefully it marks the end of my reconstruction.

The pain with this surgery was much less than my mastectomy.  I took pain pills for about two days and ibuprofen one day after that.  While I must be cautious about my activity, I am able to do pretty much anything that doesn't involve heavy lifting.

I was instructed to wear this super tight sports bra for the next 3 weeks (quite a change for me since I haven't had to wear a bra for the last 7 months).  I cannot wait to take this beast bra off and try on some clothes.  Overall, I am happy with my results so far, although it can take some time for things to settle.  My right breast looks phenomenal, nicely shaped and perky.  My left breast still has some significant bruising and swelling, but that is to be expected because of the additional trauma.  I'm anxiously awaiting to see how things fall into place within the next few months.

I will draw the line at posting my pictures on my blog, however, if you are someone who is going through a breast cancer diagnosis and would like to see the progression, feel free to email me and I would be willing to share my pictures with you.  Seeing others' pictures was a big comfort to me and helped me know what to expect along the way.

No matter what my breasts look like, the key thing to remember is that they aren't trying to kill me any more and that is absolutely worth celebrating!  Admittedly, I'm also celebrating having perky boobs, too.

Nailed It

Okay, so, I've committed the good, the bad, and the ugly... Well, here's some ugly:

Chemo nails

About 2 months ago, my nails started getting very sensitive, almost like each one of them had been smashed with a hammer.  I struggled to do anything that required pressure on my nails, such as opening a package of fruit snacks (not good with an impatient 4 year old) or a bag of chips (not good with a hungry 36 year old who loves her carbs).  I also noticed that my nails looked very bruised, you can see the progression in the pictures above.  About 3 weeks ago, my nails started feeling better, but also have started separating from the nail bed (yuck!).  So far, I've been lucky to not lose any of them, but goodness, this is not an attractive look.

I guess we can just file this in with the random and sparse gray hair coming in, the lack of eyelashes (by bottom lashes are completely gone and my top lashes are dwindling).

I thought that finishing the tough chemo would mean my body would start bouncing back, but I am still seeing the effects, some worse now than during treatment (the case with my lashes and nails).  I think parts of my body have had enough and held on as long as they could...  I completely recognize all these little nuisances are minor ~ I'm cancer free and that is what matters, but it's still a reminder of the assault my body has been though the past 6 months.

Yes, I know this sounds vain, but I'm hoping my upcoming surgery (my exchange from tissue expanders to my real permanent implants) will detract from my bald head, my nonexistent lashes and my disgusting looking nails.

Blessings everyone!

"I Like Your Hair"

Last week in the grocery store, this sweet little girl, probably around 6 years old, looks directly into my eyes and with her big, jack-0-lantern smile says to me genuinely "I really like your hair." It was really a sincere compliment. She made me smile big.

Today, after my treatment, we went to Chic-fil-A and I'm sitting in the playland listening to Mason and this 5 year old girl play.  I hear her whisper to Mason "Does your mom have a disease?" Mason replies, "She was sick but her hair will be back soon."  They quickly moved on to talking about their pets and favorite Avengers. It broke my heart... Him having to explain my appearance.  On several occasions, Richard and I have talked about how I'm glad this has all happened before he was aware enough to be embarrassed of his mom with the silly haircut.  I was also extremely proud of him for the confident answer he gave.  I may have cried in Chik-fil-A.

One thing I love about kids is their brutal honesty.  And that brutal honesty comes from a place of wanting to gain understanding.  If they have something on their minds they say it. It's refreshing.  How many times have you had something on your mind, particularly something kind or that is coming from a loving place, and not said it because perhaps you felt it wasn't your business?  I know I'm guilty!  It's somewhat risky to say something, even kind things.  We think "I'll sound corny", "It's none of my business" or "What if I offend them?" 

Which brings me to my new friend Dolly.  Get this, she works at Starbucks in Target (2 of my favorite places!). She is super friendly and never judges me for getting my coffee and wandering around Target with nothing in my cart for an hour.  She also looks me in the eye, something people tend to less of when you have a big-bald head. Last week, she gave me the most genuine compliment: She acknowledged my struggle (let's be honest my struggle is pretty obvious) and told me that she admired my attitude.  She sees me once, sometimes thrice a week, and mentioned that clearly I'm going through something and still have a smile on my face.  The fact that she took the risk to say something means so much...  Just that someone acknowledges the struggle, because let's be honest: when I'm rocking the bald the struggle is pretty obvious.  Thanks Dolly!  See you next Tuesday, or sooner if I can sneak away for an hour long Starbucks/Target vacation.

Bottom line: Why are we so cautious to say things that might mean the world to someone else?  Perhaps we should all be more child-like and say what is on our hearts if those thoughts are coming from a good place and well intended?  For me, I'm going to work on acknowledging someone's struggle... And if a genuine kind thought comes to my head then I'm going to build up the courage to say it, even if I sound cheesy, stupid, stalkerish, whatever.  You never know, it might make someone's day.

My new friend Dolly.  She always brings a smile to my face... And always hands me a great cup of coffee... Coincidence, I think not! 

It's Mom's Turn

It's been awhile since I've written a post... Sorry not sorry.  The truth is I've been too busy LIVING to sit down and write.  And I know all of my cheerleaders are so happy to hear that.  The past week, we've had 65-75 degree days, so Mase and I have been busy with park play dates, climbing rock walls, flying kites, playing pirate ship and anything else we can manage to do outside.  Oh, the feel of sun on my scalp is amazing!  *Note to self, put sunscreen on my pale, bald, head.*

This past weekend I went to Mom's and Mase and Richard had a guy's weekend.  Last week was Mom's turn to have her bilateral mastectomy.  As a reminder, Mom also is a carrier of the faulty BRCA mutation. To be honest, she should have been the first one to have her mastectomy, as the odds certainly aren't on her side (statistically she has an 87% chance of developing breast cancer by the time she's 70).  But, she insisted Jill and I have our surgeries first, even though she is at greater risk of developing cancer due to her age.  What an absolute blessing her selflessness turned out to be - my cancer was very aggressive and just waiting a few months would have made things much worse.  She didn't think twice about holding off on what she needed to make sure my sister and I could do what we needed.  I can't thank you enough, Mom! Please join me in praying she gets a clean pathology report... Honestly we are all waiting; Holding our proverbial breath for the pathology report, which should come in any day now.  Mom really is struggling to even take a breath - honestly it's difficult to even take a deep breath after a mastectomy.  Mom, it gets better, I promise!

As I was tending to mom this weekend, I had a roller coaster of emotions.  A mastectomy is not an easy surgery; It's physically hard and emotionally even harder.  To purposefully scar up your body in hopes of avoiding something even worse (cancer) is a hard decision.  Do you roll the dice and take the chance of being the lucky 13% who won't develop cancer?  Should you leave well enough alone? It's a tough call.  I also found myself joyful that Mom had done everything she could to reduce her risk.  She has done all that she can do, and there should come some relief with that (although the real relief will come after the path report comes back all clear).  Also, it felt good to just lay in bed with her or wake up and have ice cream at 2am together, as she had done with me so many times over the past 6 months.  I know she didn't need me, Dad had everything under control, but I also know it isn't always about what you need, it's about what you want.  I remember telling mom I didn't need her (Richard had everything under control), but I wanted her.  Sometimes you just need your mom... Or daughter.

Honestly, for our family, it is the easiest, most difficult decision ever. My mom was 8 years old when her mother died of ovarian cancer (another BRCA related cancer).  Her mother was carrier of the BRCA mutation, although of course it wasn't known back then.  Mom knows the pain of losing a parent.  Of wishing her mom could see her graduate, be there on her wedding day, or when her kids were born.  She doesn't want her time cut short with her family or grandkids.  She was robbed of time with her mom due to BRCA and she's determined to not let that happen for my brother, my sister or I.    I know the decision she made was about being there for us, because she didn't want us to go through what she had to when she lost her mom.  Again, thank you Mom!  We still need you!  God knows I still need you!

UPDATE: Mom's pathology report came back all clean!! Praise the Lord!! Can't wait to celebrate Asa family!

An Exorcism of Sorts

While, I was initially on a bit of a high after completing my final chemo cycle, I've got to admit this cycle #6 took me down insanely hard and insanely fast.  Three days straight of being in bed.  I cannot even find words to describe the exhaustion.  I've thrown up.  My body aches and has had the chills/convulsions. The chemicals are finding their way out of my body anyway they can: mostly through diarrhea and sweating. My body hates me and it is fighting back. I literally felt like I was dying.  Okay, I know that sounds dramatic, but indeed I thought I was dying.  Chemo is essentially a poison that goes after all the bad cells, and frankly some of the good cells.  I was quite sure someone had gotten the dosage wrong and I had been poisoned.  I'll spare you from the details (you know if I'm sparing you from the details it was bad!), but I went through all the stages of grief in the bathroom the other night.

1. Denial - This isn't happening.  It's in your head, Julie.  Stay mentally tough.  You are at the end, you can do this!

2. Anger - You've made it this far and you are going to die now?  WTF is that Julie?  Suck it up!  Stupid f'n cancer.  I hate you!  I HATE YOU! 

3. Bargaining - Okay, God if you let me live through tonight, I promise I will watch what I eat.  Be a better mom.  Be a better wife.  Just make the pain stop.  Make the muscle tension and uncontrollable shaking stop. PLEASE!  I will never eat {fill in the blank with basically everything here - because it seems like everything is related to causing cancer} again. Please take this cancer away from me forever.  I cannot handle this again.  Make it stop!    

4. Depression - This is it.  I'm dying.  And my husband and son are going to be heart broken.  They deserve so much better.  I've fought this hard and it's all come down to some one accidentally poisoning me.  Is this really the way I am going to go out?

5.  Acceptance - This stage came around 1:30am when I could finally drag myself to bed and eventually passed out from exhaustion.  Oh, the sweet relief of sleep after one of the worst nights of my life.  

I'm curious if anyone else responded to their chemo like this?  I've handled all my other treatments relatively well, but this last one almost did me in.  I felt like they took me to the brink of dying, which I suppose is the entire point of chemo. Perhaps they upped my dose again because of my weight gain?  Perhaps my body had just had enough abuse and wasn't going to take much more? Perhaps the last 5 cycles had damaged my body enough where this one just wasn't as easily accepted. My friend, Jenny, described this episode as an exorcism ~ clearly, she knows the feeling of it all too well (thanks for those words Jenny Parker!  They hit the nail on the head).  

The good news: I'M FINISHED. God willing.  I made it! I keep doing silent cheers in my head and reminding Richard we made it through.  It feels good.  But, there is always that 'dark cloud' of "God willing." I know I should say that phrase with grace and faith, but I don't. I still feel like I'm on borrowed time, but for now I'll take it.  Off to live life.  Thankful to be alive today, in more ways than one!  

I Lied.

I lied.

In several past posts I've written about the blessings to come out of my breast cancer diagnosis.  I've included things such as appreciating my family and my great friends.  But, let's be honest, I had those long before cancer.  My friends aren't amazing because I have cancer.  Richard isn't any more awesome because I'm sick.  Cancer shouldn't get the credit for those blessings.  God gets credit.  Those people get credit.  Certainly some rogue, bastard cancer cells don't deserve the credit.

All cancer does is take.  And steal.  And abuse.  And ravage.

It takes away your ability to blissfully roll through life oblivious to curve balls.  We will always be aware that the risk of recurrence is there.

It steals away time.  The past 4 months has been a whirlwind.  We haven't been focused in the moment, we've been focused on fighting and surviving.

It abuses your body.  Scars.  Ports.  Chemo.  Steroids.  Hormones.  Hair loss.  Extremely dry skin.  Nausea and diarrhea.  Thrush.  My fingernails hurt.  I'm losing eyelashes.  Nosebleeds.  Weight gain.  Exhaustion.

It ravages your confidence.  I know that beauty comes from within.  But let's be honest, a girl likes to feel pretty.  I've lost my swagger.  I don't even have energy to walk with swagger anymore.  I used to get 'checked out' when I was out and about in public.  Now I get 'checked out' because I'm the girl that is either bald or wearing a hat while inside eating at a restaurant.

It detracts from your marriage.  Richard and I are fine and stronger than ever, but cancer has definitely taken some important things from our relationship.

It robs you of your money.  We're extremely blessed to have insurance, but even then cancer is very expensive.  For some, it wrecks everything they have worked hard for their entire life.

It suffocates: In the psychological sense that at times it almost feels like it's suffocating you and in the literal sense that I get winded simply walking to the mailbox or up from the basement.

It robs you of sleep.  The one thing that can give you a reprieve of having to think about cancer and survival... Yep, somehow it manages to take that away, too.  It's exhausting.

It makes you stupid.  It literally kills brain cells.  Chemo brain is a real thing.

It rapes you (please know I don't use that word lightly).  It takes what it wants and has zero regard.  You can't reason with it.  You can try fighting it, but even that doesn't always work.  It doesn't care who it hurts (and it hurts so many more people than just the one physically fighting) and will destroy everything in it's path.

So won't you all join me in giving cancer the big F YOU!  I'm mad.  I'm tired of being strong.  I'm just... well, I'm just tired.  Hate what you have taken from me.  I hate you.  I FUCKING HATE YOU. I'm pissed that I don't get a chance to kill you myself and see you die.  I have to take someone's word for it that you seemingly, passively left my body.  When all I really want is to see you suffer the way you have made me suffer.  Fucking coward. You came in quietly, essentially raped me, and now if you decide to leave, you will leave quietly too.  Not even strong enough to fight the way my family and I have had to fight you every minute since this started.  FUCK YOU.

*Tears of anger.*

Wow!  I feel much better now.  I needed that.

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross would be proud.

The Party's Over

Last night, I was laying in bed and damn near had a panic attack.  The gravity is starting to hit me.  My positive attitude, that has been running on my natural optimism, adrenaline and perhaps naivety, is waning.  I've always thought of this little cancer thing as a minor hiccup in our lives; a year of inconvenience, then I'm home free.  But, the truth is, I'm starting to realize that isn't the case.  I have cancer.  Fucking Flipping cancer!  And it might come back (as a reminder they gave me a 50% return rate, which reduces to 15-20% with the chemo).  And, I fully know if it comes back it will be worse - blood, brain, lung, liver.

I'd like to think because of my positive attitude and willingness to do whatever they tell me to do to reduce my risks that I am somehow immune from it returning, but I'm not.  I've been in a similar situation before: where you try with every ounce you have in you and then some.  Where you refuse to give up and kick, scream and fight for what you want.  And guess what, it wasn't enough.  The exact thing I didn't want to happen still happened, despite my positive attitude, my fight and my willingness to do anything to get it to work.  It just wasn't in His plan.  And to this day, I thank God for that.  That was a hard lesson: Sometimes your best just isn't enough (que Patty Smyth).

But, what if my efforts aren't enough this time.  What if my best just isn't good enough?  It's happened before.  What if it isn't in His plan?  Is it because I cuss too much?  What if cancer does win?  I'd love to think I'll beat it, but the truth is, it is always lurking.  

Picture this: You are walking down the street and someone just mugged you.  Scanning the crowd of thousands, you know that 1 in 5 people are out to get you again.  You can't just quit.  You have to keep going.  You have to keep walking, wondering when one of those people are going to try to take you out again.  It might be in the next block, or it could be miles down the road, or never at all.  But how do you let your guard down when you know the threat is out there.  And next time, you don't just get mugged.  You get it worse, because they've taken all your money and jewelry.  There's nothing left you can easily give up.  

I'm scared.  And I feel myself being anxious and trying to hold it together because frankly, allowing myself to go there all the way is just too damn scary for me to even imagine.  

Well Played

Yesterday I had the opportunity to share my BRCA and cancer story with some very gracious students.  As I rambled presented my information a few things crossed my mind:

1. I miss being in a classroom with students.  Currently, I teach online classes absolutely love the gig, but gosh I miss 'seeing' my students and conversing with them over either the material or just over what is happening in their lives that they are willing to share.

2. I was a bit rusty with my public speaking skills, but it's okay because I have cancer (that's my go to excuse for everything - a part of me is dreading the day I have a full head of hair and actually have to start taking responsibility for what I say and what I do).

3.  This was the first time in years that I needed to dress in something other than yoga pants - I was excited about playing dress-like-a-grown-up for the day.  Then, morning of my presentation I woke up with two massive, fiery red, ingrown hairs on my head.  THE IRONY that the one day I so desperately wanted to look presentable and professional and I wake up with ingrown hairs on my f'ing shiny bald head. Well played, hair gods, well played. 

NEVER ALONE

I'm preparing to tell my cancer story to a group of students and it has me thinking about what I want to say.  Let's be honest, my blog isn't exactly academically appropriate, but I know I want to be sincere and honest and that is exactly what my blog is.  It's dawned on me that cancer is a totally fubar'd total juxtaposition of emotions.

Since the end of yesterday's treatment, I've been on a bit of a high knowing I am on the downhill side the nastiness/awesomeness of chemo (admittedly it might again be the steroids that are making me giddy too).

Chemo is harsh. It's cruel. It knocks you on your ass and makes you crazy. I hate my sick days after my treatment.  Yet, it also may very well be saving my life. Prolonging the time I get with my family. It may be totally eradicating any trace of cancer that name still remain in my body.  Or it may be doing nothing at all, except killing my hair folicales.

And then there is the feeling of being beyond fragile and at the same time like a total badass.  

Or feeling pulled to listen to some amazing worship music and some profanity laden rap music. 

Feeling like I'm holding it all together at times and also on the brink of a complete meltdown.

Blessed and cursed. 

Laughing and crying.

Praising and cursing.

Angry and grateful. 

Strong and weak. 

Excited for the end of treatment, but also beyond scared to be turned lose without supervision. Thankful for my amazing family and hating myself that I'm putting them through this roller coaster. 

Energetic and so exhausted (once again, thank you steroids).

Hungry and nauseous.

Last night, Richard came home and we turned off the tv and had a good heart to heart.  He's good like that.  He is feeling the exact same way I am.  I'm not alone.  It's good when there is someone to walk you off your crazy ledge, but sometimes it's just nice to have someone sit on the ledge with you and hold your hand.  Thanks, Richard.

This morning, after a good cup of coffee, I was reflecting on Richard's and I chat last night.  It's okay to not always be strong.  But, it's also okay to give it to God and let it go.  He doesn't want us to shoulder these burdens alone.  He asks that we trust him.  And we do.  And when we waiver, he takes our brokenness and uses it to work within us.  Never alone.  NEVER ALONE.  

Abundantly Blessed

For the most part, it's been a good week.  I'm finally getting over a cold, which I likely got while my immune system was down.  Thankful I am starting to feel better and also that I am hopeful I will be well for my next treatment, which will be this coming Thursday.  

Ugh!  I have a love/hate relationship with my treatments.  I dread it.  I've found my good days getting clouded by the dread of knowing what's to come.  I know next weekend I will be very sick, very achy and not able to do much of anything.  I know my only goal next Saturday, Sunday and Monday will be to make it through the day.  It almost seems sinful to waste a good day, such as today, with worrying about the future.  But, the worry manages to creep in.  

I also love the fact that after my next treatment, I will be 1/3 the way through.  And by New Year's I will be half way finished with my sentence treatment.  I'm hoping to have a cute, spunky hair style by summer.  I can do this!  It's just a season, right?  Come to think of it, New Year's day I will likely feel the same way some of you may feel on New Year's Day.  Hungover.  I guess I can take comfort in knowing my chemo hangover isn't of my own doing.  

Okay, back to being abundantly blessed.  I've been working on Christmas cards, and as I write each one, I am reminded of why I am abundantly blessed.  It isn't at all the things around me, it is the people around me.  It's my boss and department I work for that has been beyond supportive of me.  It's my friend Joni in Marshfield who watches Mase when I have appointments and showers him with love.  It's my friends Sam and Tara who I haven't seen in nearly a year and continue to text me at those times I need the support.  Their texts of encouragement always seem to come just when I need it.  Or my best friend from high school Sarah, who always makes me smile and we can pick up a conversation so easily just like we did in high school.  Or my mom and dad, who have been beyond supportive of me ~ not just with this cancer ordeal, but my entire life, whether I deserved their support or not.  And my sister.  Especially my sister.  Today she told me "it's okay to tell me when you have bad days.  You don't need to protect me from those.  I want to be there for you."  She said she can tell when I have a bad day because I won't answer my phone.  She's right.  She knows me all too well.  I miss her something awful!  

And then there is my little family.  I look at Mase and I just want to cry ~ but in a good way.  I love the little guy he is becoming.  He has a heart of gold!  I am so thankful that he's not old enough to be embarrassed of me and my bald head.  That would break my heart.  Instead, he helps me pick out my hat and headscarves, and I almost always go with whatever he picks.  If only time would slow down.  That kid has my heart.  I love him so much that it makes my heart ache, again in a good way.  And then there is my husband.  Who continues to shave his head since I am losing my hair.  Who still wakes up in the middle of the night to ask me if I need anything.  Who loves me unconditionally.  And supports me and encourages me to be me...  I am humbled that I get to be married to such an amazing man and that Mason has such an awesome example of a man to look up to.  I love both of them so much it's quite frankly hard to even put into words...  

Even though I have this cancer thing going on, I still feel like the absolute luckiest girl in the world. 

Day 4: A Roller Coaster of Ramblings

Hi all!  I've wanted to keep up and have thought of tons of things to write about,  but honestly, I just haven't had the energy.  This cancer roller coaster is not for the faint at heart.  Maybe there's a common denominator (that common denominator is me and my big ol' bald head ~ more on that later) in a lot of my posts, the highs and lows of this journey are ever twisting.  To the point of nausea.

Speaking of nausea, I'm writing this at 2:40 am because I am up with achy joints, and you guessed it, the dreaded nausea which supposedly and ironically can be treated with joints.  See what I did there? :).  In truth, the nausea hasn't been overwhelmingly bad until now.  In fact, I have a couple of girl friends who seem to have pregnancy nausea that is way worse than what I'm experiencing.  Also on the topic of nausea, I just laid in bed a fucking hour trying to convince myself I wasn't nauseous, all because I was actually too tired to get up and take a Compazine or Zophran.  Yes, the nausea is such a dreaded side effect that they actually give you two drugs to combat the side effects.

That reminds me, there was clearly a distinct marijuana smell from a patient at my chemo appointment last Thursday.  Richard and I decided that it was probably one of the few doctor offices where such an odor wouldn't be considered downright offensive.  Every one is trying to make their way through this, no matter what.  And they sure as heck aren't going to face any judgement from me.  I just wished I liked pot.  The smell makes me sick.  You know the one I'm talking about...  Okay, I've got to stop writing about pot because those strong, thin muscles that are attached to your tongue are starting to tighten as I think about it.  {Gag}.

Some of you are wondering what 'this' feels like.  Here's a little text I sent out to a few of my close friends tonight:  "It's been a rough day.  I'm not in pain just achy, extremely tired and uncomfy.  I am eating and have managed to take 4 naps and a bath.  More than anything my heart is happy.  My body is sick, but a happy heart and a solid, peaceful mind is a great thing!  Still blessed.  Thanks for checking in."

Okay, now onto my roller coaster of ramblings... I've actually been keeping a short list in my phone of things I want to write about when I have the energy.

• The first one was how I laid in bed an hour trying to decide if I was truly nauseated or if it were all in my head.  
• Today was the first snow of the season and seeing Mason's face light up as the big flakes fell was damn near magical.  I will say, even though I don't feel well, there are worse things than just laying in bed, listening to your mom and little family scurry around the house and watching it snow.  
• So thankful for the time I've had with my family through all of this.  Richard has been with me every step of the way.  And so has my mom.  We probably laid in bed together for hours today.  There wasn't even a lot of talking, just a lot of hand holding and her asking me if she can get me anything to eat or drink.  For those who know mom, you know how she loves to make people feel better with food.  It probably breaks her heart that she just wants to cook me something homemade and all I want are these delicious, store bought, scalloped potatoes.  My mom isn't the 'store bought' kind of lady.  She labors in the kitchen and cooks with her whole heart.  *Mom, don't worry, I know you threw that cardboard box of potatoes in the oven with all your heart too.*  
• Damn, it's cold without hair.  Like all the time.  I literally spent my day curled up in bed, with a hat on (and an eye patch Mason thought I should wear).  To my dad, my brother-in-law Jack, Brian Blackford, and a few other guys I know, my apologies for making fun of your cold, bare, bald heads.  Just smile slightly and know that karma is a bitch and I am now eating my words!  
• Speaking of eating, I am so exhausted lately that I told my mom "even chewing seems like a lot of work."  

My PET Scan

Last week, my oncologist Dr. Ellis ordered a PET scan.  He didn't think there was a reason to be concerned, but since my cancer popped up so fast, he just wanted rule out there the nasty little monster was just contained in my breast.

A PET scan is where they inject some sort of radioactive material into your veins and then take some pictures.  It was explained to me that the radioactive material will 'gather' at any tumors, thus highlighting any problem areas.

Upon checking in, a nurse quickly greeted me and took me back to start an IV.  My veins are basically pros at IV's and I barely even get nervous at the thought of them any more, although I still look away before and during the poke.

Once the IV was in place, a nice man (with tattoos peaking out underneath his lab coat ~ I like him already!) came and took me back to a quiet room.  He instructed me to sit back and relax, asked some medical history questions, and then said he would be right back with the mix.  He left my room and walked straight across the hall to a door that required both the scan of some clearance card and a pin number to enter.  It had a sign on it that looked like this:

When he came back in, he had a small little metal box to transport 'the goods'.  He opened the box and I shit you not he took out a metal looking syringe.  I held back my comments as must as possible but I finally blurted out:  "You mean you have to have a bright yellow sign on the door, a card and password to enter that little room, a metal transport box and a metal syringe to protect yourself and you are getting ready to inject me with it?!"  He sort of chuckled and said "yeah, I guess so."  I could feel the room temperature fluid go in my arm and if felt slightly cold.  Also, as soon as it was injected, I got a mild rubbing alcohol taste in my mouth.  No biggie.  

Here's the best part:  Once I was radiated, he turned the lights down, spread a couple of warm blankets over me (yes, sort of like they do at the spa) and told me I needed to lay still for about 45 minutes.  I didn't sleep well the night before, so I was game.  Plus, having a 4 year old, I never get 45 minutes of quiet time!  I closed my eyes and tried to relax.  After what seemed like 20 minutes, I opened my eyes to check the clock again.  It had been a whopping 4 minutes!  Not to worry, my valium was about to kick in, so off to dream land I went.  

After 45 minutes, a nurse came and got me and took me back to the PET scan room.  I laid on this skinny table that slid back in forth through a imagining tube.  I have read horror stories of people freaking out in MRI machines, but lucky for me, and thanks to the valium, my tube was only about 4 feet long, so I never felt 'trapped.'   

This morning, I got the call - The PET scan came back negative!  Whoo Hoo!  They said there was some 'gathering' around my axillary node, but the doctor attributed that to my axillary node dissection and not to cancer... Not sure how they can distinguish the two (I plan to ask a few more questions on Thursday).  But, this is another big win!  Big shout out to our big God!

"It Might Be A Lot Scary"

I've been incredibly impressed with Cox in Springfield.  Since I got my cancer diagnosis, they have reached out to me every step of the way.  I even have a "breast navigator" who calls to offer resources and makes sure we are dealing with everything okay.  Her name is Laura, and from the moment I spoke with her she put my spinning mind at ease.  She 'gets it'.  She knows that it is more than hair that will just grow back (yes, I know it will grow back, but that doesn't take away the trauma of losing it).  She understands that I am young and have to go through cancer while raising a 4 year old. She gets that cancer is a family disease, not just the patient's.  She understands that sometimes you laugh your way through the process to keep from crying.  And she's cool with the crying, too.  She's a cancer counselor.  

In fact, last week, she met me at one of my doctor appointments to pass along a book that would help us explain things to Mason.  The book is called Mom and the Polka-Dot Boo Boo by Eileen Sutherland.  It's a cute little book that talks about mom being sick and taking medicine that might give her silly hair.  We've been very honest about telling Mase that mom is going to have silly hair and that some days she might be tired, but that is okay, because she is getting better.  We are trying to prepare him for the idea that even though I look different, I'm still the same mom, hence the short hair cut before all my hair falls out.  Mase thinks my new spiky hair is "silly and awesome."

Yesterday morning, Richard and Mase curled up on the couch and took a few minutes to read the book.  The conversation went a little like this:

Richard: So, Mase, Mom's hair is going to look silly.  Like Unke Jack's hair.  It might even be a little scary.
Mase:  {Sporting a big smile} It might be silly and A LOT scary!
Richard:  {Holding back the laughter} Yeah, it might be a lot scary, but that's okay.

Out of the mouth's of babes.  I love the special bond these two have.  I love that they can have bow and arrow wars one minute and then talk about 'life' stuff the next minute.

Oh, and Mase is wrapped up in a super soft blanket.  Nurse-extradionnare Jessica surprised me with it at my last appointment.  Mason has claimed it as his own, but I plan on re-claiming it very soon.

Time Thief

Cancer is a time thief.  I'm not trying to be philosophical or deep.  And, I'm not talking about it taking someone far too early, although I know that does happen.  I'm talking about the amount of time spent on doctor appointments, travel, tests, setting up childcare, researching chemo side effects, tracking medical bills and insurance, worrying about losing my hair, looking for hats to keep your head warm, trying to plan for chemo's 'sick days', etc.  It. Is. F'n. Exhausting.

On another note, I have no idea how my sweet husband deals with all of it.  And works, like a lot.  I have to say I have been supremely impressed with his employer, Lowe's.  They have been beyond accommodating through this shit storm season.  Over the past two months there has been literally dozens of appointments and he has not missed one.  He has been there every minute of every appointment.  Every needle stick.  Every phone call.  Every tear.

So, today was a much needed, relaxing day at home.  No appointments.  No travel.  No waiting on tests results or phone calls.  No shuffling and saying goodbye to the kiddo.  Just me and my sweet little family doing things that normal people do on the weekends: laundry, attempt taking a Christmas card photo while I still have hair, naps, playing, snacking, dinner with friends, etc.  Just a pretty normal day.  And it was exactly what we needed after a month that has been anything but normal.

So... we got our 'normal' holiday photo...

The Cut: Take One

For awhile I was thinking I should cut my hair...  I know I'm going to lose it.  But one of my biggest fears (aside from actually losing my hair) is that Mason wouldn't react well to me and my big ole, white, bald noggin.

Growing up my dad had a mustache.  I remember when he shaved it off.  I didn't like it.  I knew was pretty sure he was still my dad, but he didn't look like my dad.  It was almost scary and it took several days for me to get used to his new look.  I just don't want Mase to be scared of me.  I know it's going to be a shock to all of us when I lose my hair, but we are adults and can comprehend that it's just hair; he's four.  He refuses to eat pizza if it is cut in squares instead of triangles.  

A few days ago, my sweet friend/hairdresser Brittany messaged me to tell me we should play around a bit with my hair.  She owns Head Case Hair Lounge.  Richard said the same thing.  So, this morning I decided to pay her a visit for round one.  I suspect 2-3 weeks from now I won't have hair, but I wanted to start the transition now.  Really, how often do you get the chance to do anything to your hair?  I've always had long hair, and I know that going from long hair to no hair was going to be drastic.  

I wasn't sure how I would feel at today's appointment.  I had mentioned to several friends that I was going in for 'the cut.'  Several even offered to go with me.  While I LOVED that they offered to be there, I politely declined, as I wasn't sure what the day would hold.  I wanted to be able to do me - whether that be crying, anger, laughing...  

Brittany greeted me with a big hug, I sat in her chair and we got started.  She grabbed my long, think, blonde hair in one hand and *snip, snip, snip, snip*.  In one pass of her scissors, she probably took off over a foot of hair.  I remember the sound of those shears cutting my hair so vividly.  It was scary. And liberating.  Shit!  This is really happening!  Brittany continued to slowly cut my hair shorter and shorter.  While I thought I would be sad, we laughed and joked throughout the entire experience.  After a highlight and a small pink stripe she styled it and WOW!  I love it!  Honestly, I'm disappointed that I only get to keep it for a couple of weeks.  

I was a bit worried with Mase's reaction to my new 'do.  We have been talking to him for the past couple of weeks that mom's hair was going to be going through some silly changes... And that eventually her hair would look like Uncle Jack's and Papa Jack's hair.  When he saw my hair he told me that it looked funny and that it was awesome.  Music. To. My. Ears.  Big sigh of relief there... One cut down, one more to go.  

This experience could have been really traumatic.  Instead it was fun, relaxing and heartwarming.  So blessed that I was able to go to a friend who was ready to support me no matter how I felt or reacted to the situation.  I didn't feel the need to smile if I wanted to cry, I just got to be me... and smiled through the entire thing!  Thank you sweet friend!  

Thank you sweet Brittany for my new 'do!  

The Stats... And a Plan

The stats:

• 48 hours
• 450 miles put on the Prius
• 8 hours in the car
• 5 doctors visited 
• 2 tests (echocardiogram and a PET scan)
• 3 IV sticks
• 1 flu shot (well, 2 if you count Richard's)
• 2 hours spent trying on wigs
• Thousands of medical bills racking up (more than I even want to know!) - but oh so thankful for insurance
• Countless texts/messages of prayers and encouragement

The verdict:

• 6 chemo treatments - 1 every 3 weeks
• 1 year of a follow up medicine injected into my port
• 1 sassy red headed wig 
• Thousands of blessings 

All this made possible with 4 amazing grandparents who helped watch Mase the past few days.  Thank you Nannie, Poppy, GG and Papa!  Love you guys!

I am excited to write a few posts detailing the past two days, but for now, I think I've deserved a nap.  

What's Up Doc?

On Tuesday, we met with my oncologist for the first time, Dr. Robert Ellis (DRE).  Let me tell you, this guy is SMART and came highly recommended.  I must say I've felt like my breasts and I have been in excellent hands during this whole wild and crazy journey.  Richard and I were surprisingly calm as we entered the Hulston Cancer Center.  I think we were just ready to get a plan.

After some initial blood work, we were taken back to the exam room where we me Dr. Ellis.  He was confident, professional, but also warm and sympathetic.  Even though it wasn't his first rodeo, he was sympathetic to the fact that it was ours.  After he got our story and did a quick exam, he returned to give us the facts and the game plan.

The Facts:

• My cancer is aggressive.  Invasive ductal carcinoma.  HR- (hormone receptor), HER2+ (that has something to do with a protein).  HER2+ is actually a good thing, as there are drugs that can help keep this nasty little bitch cancer away.  
• Without treatment, DRE guessed my cancer had a return rate hovering around 50%.  I've got to be honest, it's a good thing Richard and I were sitting down when we heard that number.  I don't think either of us was prepared to hear that.  Richard even said his legs felt like Jell-o after the 50% bomb was dropped.  BOOM!  
• If the cancer did come back it would obviously hit somewhere else... Only if it hit again, it isn't as easy as cutting off a body part.  It could surface again in my liver, bones or blood.  NO THANK YOU!  
• With treatment, my cancer return rate drops to around 15%.

The Plan:

• 6 chemo treatments, 1 every 3 weeks.  They said the first appointment would last about 8 hours, due to some chemo education and that they would be administering my medicine very slowly to make sure there are no reactions.  After the initial treatment my appointments should be reduced down to about 5 hours.  
• 1 shot needed following each treatment to help keep my blood counts up.  
• 1 year of Herceptin after my treatment.  It's a medicine that will help keep my cancer from coming back.  It will be administered through my port, too.  

DRE also ordered a blood chemistry, an electrocardiogram, and a PET scan, just to make sure the rest of my body isn't trying to kill me.  I'm thankful to the Cox scheduling girl who got a bit feisty on my behalf so I could get my electrocardiogram that day and my PET scan scheduled the following day.  Shout out to the Cox team!  For the most part, I have gotten excellent customer service there - with the exception of the lady who looked like Stiffler's mom from American Pie at one of the registration desks.  She seemed a bit irritated that I had cancer and had the gall to check in for my appointment.    

Yes, I will be losing my hair and apparently you lose it everywhere; so the carpet will match the drapes.  Or more accurately, there will be no drapes and no carpet.  I plan on getting my hair cut soon just to help Mason and I make the transition.  

I knew chemo was a possibility.  While I was hoping to avoid it, hearing the 50% return rate frankly scared the shit out of us!  With that high of a return rate, I feel blessed that chemo is an option.  I will gladly take it if I can reduce my risks that much.  

After hearing the plan, Richard and I were in really good spirits.  We do much better knowing a plan, even if the plan is difficult, it feels good to be moving forward.  We are ready to kick cancers ass!