5-25-09
Last Sunday, family and friends surprised me with a party celebrating my cancer remission status and my graduation from Kairos School of Spiritual Formation in May, despite going through chemo. I am humbled and overwhelmed by the love and support of so many dear people in my life. I am so blessed by all the cards, gifts, weeping cherry tree and red twig dogwood I received. I had wanted a red twig dogwood to plant in memory of Hutch, so this surprise gift is especially touching. The shrub will be a reminder of Hutch’s fiery devotion to me, and the rich love of my family. I'm quite aware this particular pleasure is not in the 'simple' category, so my deepest gratitude goes to all who planned.
I plucked some stray hairs from my face today. While chin and raggedy eyebrow hair smacks of aging rather than glowing health, I can't help grinning over these fine hair specimens.
Speaking of hair, my head is not covered red, curly fuzz. All along I’ve told God I deserve strawberry blonde curls after surviving a chemical nicknamed the ‘red devil’. It is nice to be comforted by God’s laughter. I’ve given up on red, but I’m still holding out for curls.
Carey, my 10yr old cattle dog, plays with a long-legged stuffed monkey, a toy she hasn’t had since puppyhood. The same puppyish enthusiasm fills her as she lays cat-like, belly up, dangling the monkey between her paws and high over her head. She grins, tongue lolling, teeth snapping at the skinny legs dangling above her face.
My perennial garden looks fantastic from a distance. It shows off a riot of emerald, jade and golden green, with sprays of periwinkle phlox, spikes of regal purple lupine, dots of daisy yellow, delicate splashes of sea foam pink and bold geranium red. Unfortunately, up close reveals lots of weeds. When I get down on my knees, grateful for earth and sky and sun, even the weeds are lovely. Last summer’s Queen Anne’s lace, and the fatigue that prevented me from nipping the flowering seed heads, brings a spring carpet of lacy, fern-like aromatic seedlings. As I weed, I celebrate the plants’ fecundity, their subtle carroty fragrance, and the memories of beautiful white lacy flowers bundled in blue glass jars and old tin buckets decorating my son’s wedding two autumns ago.
Last Wednesday, my oncologist, Dr DeGreen, entered the exam room – baaing. Laughing, I told him he sounded like a sheep, not a goat. After discussing scan results (they are still clear enough to be called ‘in remission’) he told me my immune system may take two years to recover from lymphoma and chemo. I listened, knowing he was saying ‘please no’ to my ongoing question of drinking raw goat milk again. Then he grinned, pretended to stifle a shudder, and added, “but if you really want to, you have my permission’. Regardless of what I do about milk, I was touched. I’m grateful he respects my choices, and my understanding of health and healing.
Joyfully,
Sharon
Monday, May 25, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
Transitions
A cardinal sings every day. His song follows me around where ever I am, inside or outside. Red birds are a strong symbol of God’s presence for me. This one is special since we seldom have cardinals come to our bird feeders. A cardinal coming and staying is a miracle! I’m so grateful for this precious gift, this scarlet show of Love and Presence.
I’m in the midst of many transitions. Chemo is over; school is over. How will I now live? Tuesday, I celebrated not having to go to the cancer center. I’m utterly thrilled to be on this side of cancer treatment, while holding tenderly in my heart and prayers all those who struggle on with chemo.
The PET scan is behind me, as of noon today, and a CT scan follows on Monday. I smile wondering if being slightly radio active will ruin the laptop I’m using, and remembering my shock and disgust at having to do these scans again. I smile knowing how I felt so peaceful this morning, so loved by God that being surrounded by the circular scanner seemed like a Divine hug, the humming sound of the machine, a heavenly lullaby. I felt so relaxed I feared falling asleep and twitching or jerking and messing up the scan, so I stayed awake and still by doing Centering Prayer. I love this prayer, this blessed way of being in God’s presence! When I got home, I slipped my copy of the scan disc into my computer and marveled at all the lovely colors in my body. Hopefully, none of the colors represent cancer, but if they do, then I will share with God my full range of emotions and thoughts. And with God’s help, I will discover again the meaning of Julian of Norwich’s words: “all will be well, and all shall be well, all manner of things will be well.”
As my drug basket gets empty, life decisions pile up. I popped the last Protonix (for reflux), took the last Allopurinol (kidney support), and shelved the laxatives and sleeping pills. I wish I could discern what life direction to take just as easily and with as much excitement as I discard old pill bottles. I have enough sensations in my feet to make driving less risky. Driving makes me feel incredibly independent and free! Though my sprained ankle still keeps me off my feet at times, I am beginning to see my life stretching out before me again. For five months I concentrated on survival; now I concentrate on how to live.
My concepts of myself, of God, of life have changed during my year of ill health, especially during the last four months. I want to integrate what I’ve learned, but I haven’t lived much on this side of chemo to know how the changes will look or feel. Now that I’ve recovered, I realize my old patterns didn’t go away, including all the old pressures and demands I put on myself, the over ‘doing’ out of idealism, obligation or religious and cultural conditioning. I see them more clearly though, as I stand in the doorway to a more whole life, a life of greater freedom. Freedom comes with more risk, and the willingness to embrace a greater ‘unknowing’. I stand here with uncertainty coupled with a strong desire to trust.
New opportunities arrive on this doorstep where I am; there are so many opportunities and possibilities that my mind wants to stir up confusion and indecisiveness. With guidance from my spiritual director, with meditation, prayer and stillness, and gratitude for the timely, passionate song of the red bird, my awareness shifts from the logical and rational, to an inner calm, a place of trust, a knowing that life will unfold as I begin walking. I know I’ll always have everything I need. There is a deep well within me, within all who believe, and it flows with the living water of joy, love, confidence, vitality, creativity and peace. When I am thirsty, all I have to do is shift my awareness and drink deeply. As I walk, God walks with me on the journey.
Joyfully,
Sharon
I’m in the midst of many transitions. Chemo is over; school is over. How will I now live? Tuesday, I celebrated not having to go to the cancer center. I’m utterly thrilled to be on this side of cancer treatment, while holding tenderly in my heart and prayers all those who struggle on with chemo.
The PET scan is behind me, as of noon today, and a CT scan follows on Monday. I smile wondering if being slightly radio active will ruin the laptop I’m using, and remembering my shock and disgust at having to do these scans again. I smile knowing how I felt so peaceful this morning, so loved by God that being surrounded by the circular scanner seemed like a Divine hug, the humming sound of the machine, a heavenly lullaby. I felt so relaxed I feared falling asleep and twitching or jerking and messing up the scan, so I stayed awake and still by doing Centering Prayer. I love this prayer, this blessed way of being in God’s presence! When I got home, I slipped my copy of the scan disc into my computer and marveled at all the lovely colors in my body. Hopefully, none of the colors represent cancer, but if they do, then I will share with God my full range of emotions and thoughts. And with God’s help, I will discover again the meaning of Julian of Norwich’s words: “all will be well, and all shall be well, all manner of things will be well.”
As my drug basket gets empty, life decisions pile up. I popped the last Protonix (for reflux), took the last Allopurinol (kidney support), and shelved the laxatives and sleeping pills. I wish I could discern what life direction to take just as easily and with as much excitement as I discard old pill bottles. I have enough sensations in my feet to make driving less risky. Driving makes me feel incredibly independent and free! Though my sprained ankle still keeps me off my feet at times, I am beginning to see my life stretching out before me again. For five months I concentrated on survival; now I concentrate on how to live.
My concepts of myself, of God, of life have changed during my year of ill health, especially during the last four months. I want to integrate what I’ve learned, but I haven’t lived much on this side of chemo to know how the changes will look or feel. Now that I’ve recovered, I realize my old patterns didn’t go away, including all the old pressures and demands I put on myself, the over ‘doing’ out of idealism, obligation or religious and cultural conditioning. I see them more clearly though, as I stand in the doorway to a more whole life, a life of greater freedom. Freedom comes with more risk, and the willingness to embrace a greater ‘unknowing’. I stand here with uncertainty coupled with a strong desire to trust.
New opportunities arrive on this doorstep where I am; there are so many opportunities and possibilities that my mind wants to stir up confusion and indecisiveness. With guidance from my spiritual director, with meditation, prayer and stillness, and gratitude for the timely, passionate song of the red bird, my awareness shifts from the logical and rational, to an inner calm, a place of trust, a knowing that life will unfold as I begin walking. I know I’ll always have everything I need. There is a deep well within me, within all who believe, and it flows with the living water of joy, love, confidence, vitality, creativity and peace. When I am thirsty, all I have to do is shift my awareness and drink deeply. As I walk, God walks with me on the journey.
Joyfully,
Sharon
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Endings and Beginnings
I graduated from Kairos School of Spiritual Formation last weekend!! Since the weekend came during my time of lowered white cell counts, and with flu going around, I decided to forgo all the congratulatory hugging and kissing after class. Instead, I presented my friends with pens and they decorated my head. Enjoy the photos!
Instant bangs!
me with certificate!
Instant bangs!
Yes, I’m in the midst of endings: end to five years as a student at Kairos, end of chemotherapy for lymphoma. I feel lost, though the feeling is more celebratory than confused or sad, as I wander around in the strange space between closure and new adventures.
While my body requires rest and continued healing, my mind is active with ideas, questions and decisions for the future. Two big goals reached feels exciting, wonderful and a tad unsettling.
me with certificate! I’m doing well this week and my sprained ankle is improving. Last week I experienced very odd sensations in my feet, slightly painful, and somewhat like when your foot ‘falls asleep’ from poor circulation and the blood rushes back into the area. I cut back on the vitamin B 6 supplements, which I read could help in healing the nervous system, and this week the odd sensations have stopped. The numbness in my fingers is lessening, and while the soles of my feet are still numb, there is less burning and tingling in my feet. All authorities say it takes six months to a year for this to happen, yet, I am experiencing it now. The affirmations continue to assist my body in regaining balanced health. Thanks be to God the healing abilities of the mind and body!
This is my 'good week'. How wonderful to know my good week will simply move into another good week and another, God willing, until they all blend into the rest of my life. What will I focus on now, how fast will I bounce back from chemo, what life lessons will I take with me? Will I continue my education, focus on writing, building my spiritual direction practise, or find a healthy balance of all? As Macrina Wiederkehr so eloquently says: "I stand before what is, and dwell in possibilities!"
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Did the Affirmations Work? And Other Answers
My foot is not stress fractured and I am overjoyed! It is a pleasure to walk with two feet, however gingerly.
Yes, the affirmations did make a difference. Most side effects have lessened except for neuropathy (nerve damage) in my fingers and toes, causing numbness, tingling, burning.
Otherwise, I have good energy, especially when I pace myself and really listen to my body. Fatigue has not worsened as Dr. DeGreen predicted. I fall asleep faster, don’t always stay asleep, but sleep deep enough that I wake up rested and even skip naps some days.
I do have times of complete ‘brain sludge’ and moments of foggy headedness that feels quite different than absent-mindedness or senior moments, but much less of both this round. Over all, I’ve been able to study, write, teach, be with clients and function much better than I ever thought possible.
My white counts have remained stable and though I’ve caught viruses with the last three rounds of chemo, I’ve never had to delay treatment due to illness or low counts. My throat is much less sore this round and my voice is not as hoarse either. I have no asthma or sinus symptoms this round and am not doing the daily sinus irrigating as before.
I’m aware all of the above could be helped by the other things I’m doing for healing and support, but the real surprise and success of the affirmations is...
…my hair is growing!!
Since I already lost my hair, I did the hair affirmations with much humor. Last week my head itched and felt tender again. I assumed skin and hair follicle damage from Adriamycin, ‘the red devil’, as the nurses and pharmacists call it. The chemical is colorful but my head is not; it’s pale white. Imagine my delight when someone noticed the pale isn’t from pasty-colored scalp skin, but from snow white peach fuzz! The white hairs on my head are definitely growing. Even during chemo! I lost a patch on each eyebrow too, so I quickly checked my face. Sure enough,I see eyebrow stubble. Time will tell how soon my brown/blonde hairs regrow, but this is a fun surprise!
Joyfully, Sharon
My foot is not stress fractured and I am overjoyed! It is a pleasure to walk with two feet, however gingerly.
Yes, the affirmations did make a difference. Most side effects have lessened except for neuropathy (nerve damage) in my fingers and toes, causing numbness, tingling, burning.
Otherwise, I have good energy, especially when I pace myself and really listen to my body. Fatigue has not worsened as Dr. DeGreen predicted. I fall asleep faster, don’t always stay asleep, but sleep deep enough that I wake up rested and even skip naps some days.
I do have times of complete ‘brain sludge’ and moments of foggy headedness that feels quite different than absent-mindedness or senior moments, but much less of both this round. Over all, I’ve been able to study, write, teach, be with clients and function much better than I ever thought possible.
My white counts have remained stable and though I’ve caught viruses with the last three rounds of chemo, I’ve never had to delay treatment due to illness or low counts. My throat is much less sore this round and my voice is not as hoarse either. I have no asthma or sinus symptoms this round and am not doing the daily sinus irrigating as before.
I’m aware all of the above could be helped by the other things I’m doing for healing and support, but the real surprise and success of the affirmations is...
…my hair is growing!!
Since I already lost my hair, I did the hair affirmations with much humor. Last week my head itched and felt tender again. I assumed skin and hair follicle damage from Adriamycin, ‘the red devil’, as the nurses and pharmacists call it. The chemical is colorful but my head is not; it’s pale white. Imagine my delight when someone noticed the pale isn’t from pasty-colored scalp skin, but from snow white peach fuzz! The white hairs on my head are definitely growing. Even during chemo! I lost a patch on each eyebrow too, so I quickly checked my face. Sure enough,I see eyebrow stubble. Time will tell how soon my brown/blonde hairs regrow, but this is a fun surprise!
Joyfully, Sharon
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Bold, Bald, and Pondering
This morning, I get my foot x-rayed again. Pulling a T-shirt over my head wipes off the smear of sweat already glistening on my bald head. It feels like 70 degrees in my bedroom, yet stuffy weather is nothing compared to prednisone withdrawal hot sweats I’ve been tossing in bed with all night. My mirrored reflection shows joy, not irritation; this is the last prednisone sweat I’ll be enduring! I rumple through my Tupperware hat bin; none of my ‘summer’ hats appeal to me, and I shudder at wearing a crocheted one.
“Sassy”, the wig on my dresser, catches my eye. Sassy is lovely. Sassy eased me into baldness and makes me look good under her locks, so why am I staring at the un-sassy, death-white Styrofoam wig head? I feel alive, not a lifeless bald head that needs covering. I want to be comfortable more than acceptable.
I scamper down the steps as fast as hobbling on one crutch allows me to scamper, bald, ear-ringed, feeling powerful. Jay’s mom is driving me to Crossroads Imaging. Before I go out the door, she hovers, asks if I want a hat or my wig. I hesitate, mumbling I’m too hot for a hat, my head itches, and I’m only seeing a technician who already knows I have lymphoma. Jay notices the awkwardness and says “If you want to leave the house bald, go for it!” His kindness ends my hesitation and propels me out the door. Mother smiles and jumps in the car, I have no idea what she really thinks but her silence feels like a gift.
Since I enjoy observing people, my outing becomes more than an exercise in personal freedom. Always curious about human behavior, my own included, I notice responses in me and in others. A man catches a glimpse of my shining white dome and quickly looks at the sidewalk. After he passes though, he looks back. My smiling eyes meet his; he sheepishly turns and hurries on.
Limping through the door of Imaging, I call out a cheery good morning to those inside. The receptionists smile and make eye contact while everyone in the waiting room immediately looks down. I stifle a compassionate grin, remembering how often I’ve done the same. I sit and wait for my turn, feeling everyone’s eyes checking out my head and foot, catching furtive glances when people think I’m not aware. I’m delighted with how little I care about their thoughts of me, not my typical attitude. I do care about them, their curiosity, and humanity. I’d love to laugh and say, stare if you want, ask me questions if you want, I don’t mind.
I’m not writing to make generalizations about human behavior, or to state my wish for greater boldness and less concern with what people think. I’ve never longed to be ‘bald and beautiful’ either. All are appropriate surely, but some other understanding wants to unfold. I’m intrigued knowing I’ve spent much of my life observing rather than participating. My fondness for observing requires blending in, so it’s counter intuitive making scenes or disrupting the status quo. Deeper than my personality quirks is the curious question - do I feel the need to protect people from discomfort, from my bald head, from cancer? In protecting others, am I also protecting myself?
Stepping outside today, bald, beautiful or not, may feel powerful and freeing for me, but it also forces everyone I meet to deal with what they see, to notice their comfort or discomfort, to decide: will I wear my polite mask, the mask that says ‘what you do, who you are, and how you are, doesn’t touch me or affect me’. Isn’t this what we protect ourselves from, really? We just want to get our errands done without interruption, without being affected by another because anything deeper slows us down. It’s a risk being open to self discovery, to another’s joy, sorrow, illness, impracticality, freedom, life or death. The truth is: my very being will always affect others, as will others always affect me. Am I brave enough to notice, to reflect, knowing what I discover may ask me to change, to grow, to love more?
I certainly don’t advocate walking around being open to all; this culture isn’t nearly rested and renewed enough. I don’t think one response can be judged against another. Usually, we are too hard on ourselves and critical of our responses. At the same time, I am sure this elusive quality of openness is highly attractive in our fast-paced, indifferent culture. Being aware helps me be gentle with myself. So, I honor my initial hesitation. And I honor yours if you run into me and my bald head out on the street.
Joyfully,
Sharon
“Sassy”, the wig on my dresser, catches my eye. Sassy is lovely. Sassy eased me into baldness and makes me look good under her locks, so why am I staring at the un-sassy, death-white Styrofoam wig head? I feel alive, not a lifeless bald head that needs covering. I want to be comfortable more than acceptable.
I scamper down the steps as fast as hobbling on one crutch allows me to scamper, bald, ear-ringed, feeling powerful. Jay’s mom is driving me to Crossroads Imaging. Before I go out the door, she hovers, asks if I want a hat or my wig. I hesitate, mumbling I’m too hot for a hat, my head itches, and I’m only seeing a technician who already knows I have lymphoma. Jay notices the awkwardness and says “If you want to leave the house bald, go for it!” His kindness ends my hesitation and propels me out the door. Mother smiles and jumps in the car, I have no idea what she really thinks but her silence feels like a gift.
Since I enjoy observing people, my outing becomes more than an exercise in personal freedom. Always curious about human behavior, my own included, I notice responses in me and in others. A man catches a glimpse of my shining white dome and quickly looks at the sidewalk. After he passes though, he looks back. My smiling eyes meet his; he sheepishly turns and hurries on.
Limping through the door of Imaging, I call out a cheery good morning to those inside. The receptionists smile and make eye contact while everyone in the waiting room immediately looks down. I stifle a compassionate grin, remembering how often I’ve done the same. I sit and wait for my turn, feeling everyone’s eyes checking out my head and foot, catching furtive glances when people think I’m not aware. I’m delighted with how little I care about their thoughts of me, not my typical attitude. I do care about them, their curiosity, and humanity. I’d love to laugh and say, stare if you want, ask me questions if you want, I don’t mind.
I’m not writing to make generalizations about human behavior, or to state my wish for greater boldness and less concern with what people think. I’ve never longed to be ‘bald and beautiful’ either. All are appropriate surely, but some other understanding wants to unfold. I’m intrigued knowing I’ve spent much of my life observing rather than participating. My fondness for observing requires blending in, so it’s counter intuitive making scenes or disrupting the status quo. Deeper than my personality quirks is the curious question - do I feel the need to protect people from discomfort, from my bald head, from cancer? In protecting others, am I also protecting myself?
Stepping outside today, bald, beautiful or not, may feel powerful and freeing for me, but it also forces everyone I meet to deal with what they see, to notice their comfort or discomfort, to decide: will I wear my polite mask, the mask that says ‘what you do, who you are, and how you are, doesn’t touch me or affect me’. Isn’t this what we protect ourselves from, really? We just want to get our errands done without interruption, without being affected by another because anything deeper slows us down. It’s a risk being open to self discovery, to another’s joy, sorrow, illness, impracticality, freedom, life or death. The truth is: my very being will always affect others, as will others always affect me. Am I brave enough to notice, to reflect, knowing what I discover may ask me to change, to grow, to love more?
I certainly don’t advocate walking around being open to all; this culture isn’t nearly rested and renewed enough. I don’t think one response can be judged against another. Usually, we are too hard on ourselves and critical of our responses. At the same time, I am sure this elusive quality of openness is highly attractive in our fast-paced, indifferent culture. Being aware helps me be gentle with myself. So, I honor my initial hesitation. And I honor yours if you run into me and my bald head out on the street.
Joyfully,
Sharon
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
No Mo Chemo!!
Woohoooo…six rounds of chemo are finished!
The nurses sang and showered me with confetti while unhooking my IV lines. They surprised me with their funny 'end of chemo' song. One nurse cried when I told her my next goal is to get in shape enough to climb a rock wall. (small rock wall...indoors :) Not sure if I inspired her to tears or if she thought, ‘yeah right’ at the sight of me on crutches, with an IV, and talking about wall climbing. I confess I feel like crap at the moment, with my sprained ankle/foot and headache from the chemo. I can't really fathom climbing a hill let alone a wall, but I need something to motivate me and get me through the final recovery.
I also confess to being discouraged yesterday, despite finishing chemo. I expected to be dismissed from the cancer center with a wave and a hug, leaving all doctors and procedures behind for at least six months, but I have to repeat all the scans in May, see the oncologist in four weeks, plus get another colonoscopy to check out the former tumor site. Boy, I was not prepared to hear all this so it felt like huge disappointment! Almost took the joy out of the last chemo. The procedures seem to never end. I feel like a hamster on a wheel, running on a medical merry-go-round not sure when I can get off.
The oncologist did take me off Vincristine, the drug that causes numb feet, since I fell. I went for x-rays on my foot and there might be two stress fractures. My foot will be re-x-rayed after the swelling/bruising goes down.
All these temporary handicaps remind me of the time I climbed a huge tree. There are two platforms on this tree, a low one and a high one. I’ve always been afraid of heights, but I was determined to climb the tree. The first time I climbed with my husband coaching. With lots of stops and starts I made it to the first platform, while doubting my abilities with every foot hold. I wondered if hubby was getting exasperated with my hesitation and fear.
On the second climb, I went myself. I decide to take snacks, journal, binoculars and heavy coats in case I end up stranded for days fearing to come down. The sheer weight of all my stuff makes the scramble to the first platform quite cumbersome. I sit there joyfully for a long time relishing in my accomplishment and looking at birds through the binoculars. Yet, the higher platform beckons. My soul longs to be up there, but I’m so afraid! I know I have to lighten my load to climb higher but I’m not sure I’m brave enough to risk leaving behind my securities. I hesitate forever, giving myself pep talks, searching for possible foot/hand holds. Suddenly, I see a clear way up. Pumped with new energy I quickly discard my stuff. I lean over the platform, grinning, and drop my extra coat, my hat, my shoes, the backpack of snacks, binoculars, camera and journal. Lighter and barefoot, I climb. There is no thrill like sitting high in a tree, stuff strewn below, wind blowing your hair and the branches under you, except the thrill of knowing you have to get down!
I didn’t last long in my high perch, it was too cold and I had to get down before I chickened out. Success is measured by small victories, so this memory tells me I could climb a small rock wall, just as I got through chemo and will get off the hamster wheel some day.
For now, I feel the disappointment and discouragement, while also finding joy in my supply of books, DVDs, and soup. I can hole up for awhile; the accumulating house dirt isn’t going to kill anyone. Jay brought me seeds from Agway and plants for our tiny garden. I anticipate hobbling out to the garden and planting. The weather reports are calling for the temperature to be in the 80's soon, so I will also sit in the yard and work on my tan.
Joyfully,
Sharon
The nurses sang and showered me with confetti while unhooking my IV lines. They surprised me with their funny 'end of chemo' song. One nurse cried when I told her my next goal is to get in shape enough to climb a rock wall. (small rock wall...indoors :) Not sure if I inspired her to tears or if she thought, ‘yeah right’ at the sight of me on crutches, with an IV, and talking about wall climbing. I confess I feel like crap at the moment, with my sprained ankle/foot and headache from the chemo. I can't really fathom climbing a hill let alone a wall, but I need something to motivate me and get me through the final recovery.
I also confess to being discouraged yesterday, despite finishing chemo. I expected to be dismissed from the cancer center with a wave and a hug, leaving all doctors and procedures behind for at least six months, but I have to repeat all the scans in May, see the oncologist in four weeks, plus get another colonoscopy to check out the former tumor site. Boy, I was not prepared to hear all this so it felt like huge disappointment! Almost took the joy out of the last chemo. The procedures seem to never end. I feel like a hamster on a wheel, running on a medical merry-go-round not sure when I can get off.
The oncologist did take me off Vincristine, the drug that causes numb feet, since I fell. I went for x-rays on my foot and there might be two stress fractures. My foot will be re-x-rayed after the swelling/bruising goes down.
All these temporary handicaps remind me of the time I climbed a huge tree. There are two platforms on this tree, a low one and a high one. I’ve always been afraid of heights, but I was determined to climb the tree. The first time I climbed with my husband coaching. With lots of stops and starts I made it to the first platform, while doubting my abilities with every foot hold. I wondered if hubby was getting exasperated with my hesitation and fear.
On the second climb, I went myself. I decide to take snacks, journal, binoculars and heavy coats in case I end up stranded for days fearing to come down. The sheer weight of all my stuff makes the scramble to the first platform quite cumbersome. I sit there joyfully for a long time relishing in my accomplishment and looking at birds through the binoculars. Yet, the higher platform beckons. My soul longs to be up there, but I’m so afraid! I know I have to lighten my load to climb higher but I’m not sure I’m brave enough to risk leaving behind my securities. I hesitate forever, giving myself pep talks, searching for possible foot/hand holds. Suddenly, I see a clear way up. Pumped with new energy I quickly discard my stuff. I lean over the platform, grinning, and drop my extra coat, my hat, my shoes, the backpack of snacks, binoculars, camera and journal. Lighter and barefoot, I climb. There is no thrill like sitting high in a tree, stuff strewn below, wind blowing your hair and the branches under you, except the thrill of knowing you have to get down!
I didn’t last long in my high perch, it was too cold and I had to get down before I chickened out. Success is measured by small victories, so this memory tells me I could climb a small rock wall, just as I got through chemo and will get off the hamster wheel some day.
For now, I feel the disappointment and discouragement, while also finding joy in my supply of books, DVDs, and soup. I can hole up for awhile; the accumulating house dirt isn’t going to kill anyone. Jay brought me seeds from Agway and plants for our tiny garden. I anticipate hobbling out to the garden and planting. The weather reports are calling for the temperature to be in the 80's soon, so I will also sit in the yard and work on my tan.
Joyfully,
Sharon
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Cheers!
I'm bored and need some good cheer, so I'm rereading my gratitude journal from last year. I found this entry from April 2008:
Today I'm grateful for flowering weeds, a gossamer cloud of delicate white flowers bursting from the brown earth on thread-thin stems, like lacy pins on a cushion. Tiny points of beauty, so breathtaking, so easy to miss.
I smile when stepping over goose, fox and deer droppings as I walk the field lane. How lovely to be reminded I share this space with living creatures fed and nourished by the abundance of this place!
I love God surprises! This morning, when rounding a curve in the field, I saw thousands of tall white flowers lined up along the path, waving as if anticipating my arrival! I waved back, loving them, blessed by their greeting and joy in being alive. I forget plants speak and move every day from dawn to dusk following the path of the sun. I'm grateful the breeze gave the flowers 'words' to shout so I could hear.
I'm intrigued with my husband's excited face as he beckons me out the door. "Hear that? I think it's a chipping sparrow! And, did you see the two new daffodils blooming in the garden?" For a delightful moment he was more 'little boy full of wonder' than grown man; how precious!
I'm grateful for my body, for its ability to lament; I'm sorry it took so long for me to pay attention. Once again I stop and befriend this fragile shell in which my spirit dwells; I work on embracing, rather than wanting it to be less sensitive. I'm grateful for the acupressurist and chiropractor that have helped me this year and for the nutritionist and the medical doctor with whom I have coming appointments.
~~~
I’m surprised how things have changed. I'm glad to be on this side of lymphoma diagnosis and treatment. Yet, I dread Tuesday, the last round of chemo. I'm so close to the end, but impatient for it to be over already!
I want my life back. I'm tired of being on hold, traveling this detour. I don't even smell like myself, I smell like a science lab. No one tells you this in Cancer Patient 101, that the little details matter more than the big ones. Who notices their own smell, or feels
disoriented when it becomes unfamiliar? Books, magazines, cancer centers instruct on attractive ways to cover up a bald head or a medi-port, apply make-up, dress with color and jewelry, but who addresses whether your hubby finds your altered pheromones attractive? I've never doubted Jay's devotion, but I confess fearing my toddler grand daughter would be hesitant to be with me since I look and smell different.
I wonder what will change back and what will remain as is. I wonder if I will worry about cancer screenings in the future. I wonder if I'll be tired for a month after the last chemo. Could the tiredness go on longer? Do I still have fibromyalgia and mixed connective tissue disease, or did I move from illness to health in the last six months? What was healed? How will I be in all the questions? I'm no different than anyone else, healthy or ill. There just are no guarantees, no sure answers. There are only questions, and along with the questions, there is love. Love is the constant.
I have extra time to contemplate the meaning of life, and I'm not referring to cancer recovery. This morning (my good week, even!), I fell down the stairs and bent my foot backwards. I'm forced to sit here with my swollen left ankle elevated, ice-packed. I'm so mad at Vincristine, the chemo drug that causes numb fingers and toes. I'm mad at myself for concentrating so much on gripping the laundry basket that I forgot to be careful how I move my numb feet. I'm mad at Jay for being mad at me for trying to carry the basket downstairs. As I write, I laugh at all the madness.
I've had some wonderful visitors today; my sister dropped off groceries, my neighbors come to see me and we talked about their loved one's recent death from lung cancer. I feel so privileged to be loved, and to love in return, and to simply be present to others.
Cancer or not, swollen ankle or agile foot, good week or chemo week, nothing matters as much as love. Life's meaning is measured by how well I give and receive love.
Joyfully,
Sharon
Today I'm grateful for flowering weeds, a gossamer cloud of delicate white flowers bursting from the brown earth on thread-thin stems, like lacy pins on a cushion. Tiny points of beauty, so breathtaking, so easy to miss.
I smile when stepping over goose, fox and deer droppings as I walk the field lane. How lovely to be reminded I share this space with living creatures fed and nourished by the abundance of this place!
I love God surprises! This morning, when rounding a curve in the field, I saw thousands of tall white flowers lined up along the path, waving as if anticipating my arrival! I waved back, loving them, blessed by their greeting and joy in being alive. I forget plants speak and move every day from dawn to dusk following the path of the sun. I'm grateful the breeze gave the flowers 'words' to shout so I could hear.
I'm intrigued with my husband's excited face as he beckons me out the door. "Hear that? I think it's a chipping sparrow! And, did you see the two new daffodils blooming in the garden?" For a delightful moment he was more 'little boy full of wonder' than grown man; how precious!
I'm grateful for my body, for its ability to lament; I'm sorry it took so long for me to pay attention. Once again I stop and befriend this fragile shell in which my spirit dwells; I work on embracing, rather than wanting it to be less sensitive. I'm grateful for the acupressurist and chiropractor that have helped me this year and for the nutritionist and the medical doctor with whom I have coming appointments.
~~~
I’m surprised how things have changed. I'm glad to be on this side of lymphoma diagnosis and treatment. Yet, I dread Tuesday, the last round of chemo. I'm so close to the end, but impatient for it to be over already!
I want my life back. I'm tired of being on hold, traveling this detour. I don't even smell like myself, I smell like a science lab. No one tells you this in Cancer Patient 101, that the little details matter more than the big ones. Who notices their own smell, or feels
disoriented when it becomes unfamiliar? Books, magazines, cancer centers instruct on attractive ways to cover up a bald head or a medi-port, apply make-up, dress with color and jewelry, but who addresses whether your hubby finds your altered pheromones attractive? I've never doubted Jay's devotion, but I confess fearing my toddler grand daughter would be hesitant to be with me since I look and smell different.
I wonder what will change back and what will remain as is. I wonder if I will worry about cancer screenings in the future. I wonder if I'll be tired for a month after the last chemo. Could the tiredness go on longer? Do I still have fibromyalgia and mixed connective tissue disease, or did I move from illness to health in the last six months? What was healed? How will I be in all the questions? I'm no different than anyone else, healthy or ill. There just are no guarantees, no sure answers. There are only questions, and along with the questions, there is love. Love is the constant.
I have extra time to contemplate the meaning of life, and I'm not referring to cancer recovery. This morning (my good week, even!), I fell down the stairs and bent my foot backwards. I'm forced to sit here with my swollen left ankle elevated, ice-packed. I'm so mad at Vincristine, the chemo drug that causes numb fingers and toes. I'm mad at myself for concentrating so much on gripping the laundry basket that I forgot to be careful how I move my numb feet. I'm mad at Jay for being mad at me for trying to carry the basket downstairs. As I write, I laugh at all the madness.
I've had some wonderful visitors today; my sister dropped off groceries, my neighbors come to see me and we talked about their loved one's recent death from lung cancer. I feel so privileged to be loved, and to love in return, and to simply be present to others.
Cancer or not, swollen ankle or agile foot, good week or chemo week, nothing matters as much as love. Life's meaning is measured by how well I give and receive love.
Joyfully,
Sharon
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