Today is my 2 year Cancer-versary. Two YEARS?!

How am I celebrating? Well, I'm not. Thanks to this other "C" word disease that has taken over the world. You may have heard of it.

But I have, what I hope will be, an encouraging perspective to pass along. David is no doubt laughing at this statement, because he's more used to my discouraging perspectives I usually share with him.

My diagnosis 2 years ago came out of the blue. I was shocked, a little overwhelmed, fearful of what the future held. I went through a bit of social withdrawal during treatment being stuck at home and felt misplaced being out of my normal routine. Sound familiar?

And that went on for months.

But I had a lot of support.

From friends and family and the multitude of prayers lifted up on my behalf.

And my terrible days made me appreciate my good days so. much. more.

Am I going though all of those same emotions going into this 30 day stay at home mandate? Absolutely. But I'm not quite as overwhelmed as I would be, because I know what it's like to be on the other side of them too. And I know we'll all get to that other side eventually.  

Some things I've learned:

You are not alone. But it certainly can feel like it when you're staring at the same surroundings day in and day out and you're seeing FB posts about all the fun crafts your friends are doing with their kids, but your kids are all teenagers and are relishing this quarantine behind closed doors in their rooms. I digress...and perhaps rant a little.

I'm trying to branch out and do other things besides FB during this time, but it really is a helpful tool to have. It lets me feel connected to all of you somewhat, even if you're just posting a picture of your dinner. Post away! I appreciate all the informational posts about COVID 19 but feel free to post other things happening in your lives too. Not to diminish the importance and seriousness of the pandemic, but to help us all feel a sense of normalcy in this chaotic time.

It's ok to give in to mini pity parties sometimes. I sure did during treatment. Most days I could joke about looking like Uncle Fester, but sometimes a FB memory picture would pop up of me with hair and I'd go have a good cry in the bathroom. But then I'd be thankful that the meds were doing their job and I would emerge and carry on.

Tate has said a few times, "I don't even remember what you looked like when you had hair...it's like when we got the new carpet and I couldn't remember the old one." Deep thoughts from a 13 year old.

This sounds totally cliche but just approach one day at a time. When I heard "30 days" I had a mini freakout. But if I don't focus on the thirty part, and just focus on each day as it comes, it's much more manageable.

Support each other. Reach out. It meant SO much to me to get a simple text saying, "Hey, just thinking about you today...". I see a lot of this happening around me and it's amazing. I need to be better at it.

Chemo weeks felt never ending at times. But then, just like that, I was ringing the bell.

I've forgotten the horrible taste in my mouth from the saline flush accessing my port.

I've forgotten the aversion to some of the foods I couldn't eat during that time...ugh, marinara was the enemy!

And I've forgotten what it felt to be awake most of the night after surgery, trying to get comfortable in the basement recliner but not succeeding because I was stiff and sore and the pain meds were starting to wear off.

But I've tried to hold on to the good things that came from it. The compassion I feel for others when they're going through an illness or tough time. The help I can offer along the way. Even the hair tips I can relay to my bare headed sisters.

I was grateful when my kids started fighting with each other again, after they'd been walking on eggshells right after my diagnosis.

Just like I'll be grateful for my bad days at work when I'm able to go back.

Things like this change people. But I think mainly for the good.

And, no, David, I'm not turning into an optimist...so don't get your hopes up.

Between trying to convince my brood that, yes, they do need to at least finish Junior year, Freshman year, and 8th grade year to be productive members of society, and helping them find the perfect outfits to start in, I forgot to post a post-op update. (Say that 5 times fast!)

And here's hoping this will be my last. post op. update. ever.

Because...my margins were clear! No evidence of malignancy. Music to my ears, my benign tissues, and my new implants. 

Drue was out of town with a friend for my surgery so I reminded Tate the night before that he'd be home alone, lest he channel his inner Macaulay Culkin and think he'd wished us away, "I have my surgery tomorrow and Reese will be at work."

"Oh. Where will Dad be?" he asked. 

"Uhhh...perhaps with his BRIDE of 21 years while she's under anesthesia." We may have a little more work to do preparing him for a future relationship. 

I could tell he had already moved on from the conversation and was planning in his head how to consume the entire contents of the pantry while we were gone. 

The hospital parking lot and lobby were eerily empty at 5:45am.

But I was happy to be first on the schedule. I wasn't as happy to see my brand new year older age emblazoned on my hospital bracelet.

I'm required to take a pregnancy test before surgery and am happy to report there are no little Hollaways on the horizon. Had my test been positive, I most definitely wouldn't have needed anesthesia. I would have passed out all on my own. 

Getting prepped for surgery is such a flurry of activity, questions, pokes, prods, signatures, and the ever popular getting marked up with a sharpie. My plastic surgeon and his assistant marked up my chest. Then my breast surgeon popped in and wrote "yes margins" on my right side. I thought about grabbing the marker when they left and scribbling "Thank you, have a nice day" with a smiley face on my rib cage.

I can't wear contacts during surgery and they always take my glasses off before whisking me away to the OR. This time they started to whisk me to the wrong room and I heard someone stop them before we screeched to a stop and my bed was pulled backward down the hall and pointed in the right direction. This was only mildly unsettling. Everything was blurry and I couldn't see the faces of anyone in the OR. So I just had to trust they got me to the right one. An oxygen mask was held on my face while someone stood over me watching and waiting for me to drift off. So surreal.

David ran into his old high school basketball buddy turned surgeon again in the post op area. Never fails. He wasn't even my surgeon that day. Glad they can have little reunion get togethers on my behalf.

Recovery wasn't bad at all. My only restriction is I can't lift more than 5 lbs for 6 weeks. This is a tad annoying because I feel totally fine so I tend to forget this restriction. But my plastic surgeon scared me into following it so my implants don't bust through my incisions. Everything weighs more than 5 lbs! Laundry basket, laundy detergent, our dutch oven pot David cooks scrumptious meals in but I usually wash.

Speaking of David, he took great care of me as usual. So thankful. My plan before my first surgery last year was to assign the laundry, dishes, and cleaning tasks to the kids. But he took all of it over on his own, including the cooking which he already does anyway. (No, I don't loan him out.) The other day I laid down the law to the kids that going forward they would be put back on the dishes rotation. Groans ensued. "Dad spoiled you guys all last year by doing everything," I continued. "Mom's breast  cancer journey is officially over!" David declared, "Everybody back to work!" More collective groans. So supportive, my crew. 

I did feel a twinge of domestication a few days after my surgery when I was feeling good and getting up and around more. So much so that I decided to bake a cake I'd been craving. Drue discovered it first, "What are you doing?"

"Baking a cake."

Looking puzzled, "For us? Or for work?"

Reese found it next.

"Why are you making a cake??"

"Because I want to."

"Who's it for??"

When I told her it for us, she laughed and yelled up the stairs, "Drue! Mom's actually making a cake!"

And David had to put his two cents in when he smelled it, "What did you make?"

"A cake," I said through gritted teeth.

"Huh. You just thought, 'Hey, I'll make a cake'?"

And this is why I tend to stay out of the kitchen.

The main KU campus welcomed me back with construction in the dreaded parking garage. We're talking traffic lights in the garage, one way lanes, and cones everywhere. I finally made it to the roof level, walked down a creepy stairwell, and completely by accident stumbled into the plastic surgery lobby for my follow up. Oy.

Everything is healing up well. My right side has an air pocket in it from where the extra tissue was removed. So for a few days I sounded like a 12 year old boy making armpit noises whenever I moved my arm. I was just glad it made the same noise at my appointment. I figured it'd be like taking my car to the repair shop.

Radiation did a number on my left side. So I'm not even. My plastic surgeon suggested going back in, doing some fat grafting, tucking, lifting. Um, no. I shower, dry off, and throw on my clothes. I don't pull out a level and prop it on my bosom while looking in the mirror. I'm good. They're good. And my cake was really good.

I think I'll throw my family for a loop again and go bake some brownies. Just because. 

After spending Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve mornings getting radiation, I figured I had to find a really cool way to celebrate my birthday. So I'll be having surgery bright and early tomorrow morning. Just to be clear, I'm not observing any holidays in 2020. Maybe that will unjinx me.

We'll actually be leaving the house dark and early at 0520 hours. David briefly entertained the idea of Ubering me there, until he remembered Top Golf is right across the street from the hospital. If he tries to toss his clubs in the car tomorrow I will call an uber. And remove his name from my emergency contact list.

Never in a bazillion years did I ever dream I'd be getting implants for my birthday. Whose life is this?? Hopefully this will be the end of my reconstruction. Until about a decade from now when I have to swap them out for new ones. My breast surgeon will also be taking out more tissue on one side because my margins weren't completely clear last Summer.

Please be clear. Please be clear. Please be clear. 

I am such a hopeless sap. I've had tissue expanders in since last June after my double mastectomy, which a man had to have invented. So. Uncomfortable. But even though I'm thrilled to bid them farewell tomorrow and commence sleeping on my sides again after over a year of not being able to, I'll kind of miss them. I mean, we've been through a lot together this past year. They did their job and held up well during radiation.

My plastic surgeon will be able to go in my same incision on one side (just making it a little longer) but will have to make a new incision on my radiated side. Makes no difference to me. I already feel like Frankenboobs. What's what more scar?

My super creative sister sent me a tiny little bra made of money for my birthday and wrote in my sweet card to treat myself to a nice new one. Reese peered into the box and said, "What? That's not even going to fit. How small does she think you're going?"

And, no, I won't be taking this opportunity to to go up a letter size or 2. For those of you wondering but were too embarrassed to ask. I used to blush completely discussing these types of things. My, how times have changed.

I got a notice in the mail a few weeks ago that it was time to schedule my annual mammogram. I wanted to send it back and say, "No can do. No mammos left to gram."

I also received a pre-survey questionnaire to fill out prior to coming in tomorrow. The very first question was, "Have any of the following symptoms related to your liver disease gotten worse in the last 6 months?"

Ummm...I think my first question to them in the morning will be, "Exactly what type of surgery are you planning on performing?! And since when do I have liver disease??"

This morning I wandered down the grocery store aisles with list in hand, had a friendly conversation with the Starbucks baristas, tossed my bags in my car, and headed home.

Typical, ordinary morning.

Much like the one I had a year ago today. I ran errands that day too before work, began planning in my head what I needed to pack for Spring break, and oh, yeah, made a quick stop at the imaging center for my mammogram.

A stop that would stop me in my tracks.

One. Year. Ago.

We meet again, March. And you are weirding me out because of all the dates and memories associated with you.

A quick stop for my mammogram before work-March 6, 2018.

Having no clue a year from that date, I'd be typing this blog entry, still without the full range of motion of my left arm, running my hand over my fuzzy crew cut.

What. On. Actual. Earth.

And it's one of those bizarre things where it feels like yesterday but also like a lifetime ago.

Like time's stood still but also like I aged 5 years in one.

The entire month of October is dedicated to breast cancer awareness. When social media and ads are adorned with pink ribbons, inspirational quotes, and pictures of beautiful bald ladies uniting together.

But I hope you are just as aware in March. On your ordinary days. Dropping off kids at school. Getting your oil changed. And scheduling that mammogram you've been putting off.

Last night I went to a concert at the Kauffman Center for work. The same Kauffman Center I toured the day I got the call with my biopsy results-March 22, 2018.

Another surreal reminder date coming up.

You've certainly come in like a lion, my friend. Stirring up all the feels.

On one hand I'm glad to see you because it means I've made it through a year. Ask any cancer survivor and they'll proudly tell you how many years out they're celebrating.

On the other hand, it's hard for me to face you. Because my life before you, before cancer, is slipping farther and farther away and I've already forgotten bits and pieces of what it felt like.

But I'm learning to embrace this new life. This "beanie baby", as Drue affectionately referred to me these past 6 months, packed up my beanies and donated them back to the wonderful boutique I got them from. Except my favorite one. That one I'm keeping. Unless David donates it to Goodwill like he did the tote of baby clothes I was saving as keepsakes.

I'm blending back in now instead of standing out as a cancer patient. People just assume I got too clipper happy with my short locks. And I have zero doctor's appointments this month. After having a slew of them the previous 12.

One of our sweet bridge players who calls me "Kersten" saw me today and said, "I'm still praying for you every day. I don't know your last name so I just pray for 'Kersten who works at the Community Center' ". Thankfully, He knows just who she means and has been faithful to carry me through this past year.

I better wrap up this update...I've got a beanie to go hide!

A week from today marks 10 months.

10 months since I found out I had cancer.

But I'm not writing to talk about next week.

I'm writing to talk about today.

Because today was my last day of scheduled treatment.

My final radiation.

I unexpectedly finished a week early because I didn't need the added boost they had factored in initially. So it hasn't really had time to sink in yet.

I made it. We made it. Because so many of you have been right there with me. Cheering me on, praying for me, sending messages of encouragement. And I'm so grateful for each and every one.

I had radiation to my left side which meant I needed to move my heart and lungs down and out of position of the beam. To do so, I had to hold my breath each time the beam was turned on. I'd hear a voice come over the intercom and say, "Take a breath and hold it..."

Which, incidentally, has contributed to me developing the lung capacity to rival Michael Phelps. If I let my breath out while the beam was still on, it would shut the whole machine off. So I counted, daydreamed, and tried not to think about turning blue until they came back over the intercom saying, "You can breathe". They radiated 4 spots each time. My midline, left side, and 2 spots targeting the lymph nodes by my clavicle. Those last two went all the way through me and toasted the back of my shoulder like a marshmallow.

I'm sporting 6 pretty cool tattoos. If tiny little black dots are considered "cool" these days. Reese wants me to connect them all together now into some huge fancy illustration covering my torso. Too many dot to dot books as a child.

To prove I was me, I had to stop at the door each time, show them my hospital bracelet, and recite, "Kristen Hollaway. 8-1-76. Left (the side they were treating)". Once I was in the room, they displayed a picture of me from my first day and asked, "Is that you?". Seriously. If someone wanted to take my place that badly, get burnt to a crisp and have all the energy sucked out of them causing them to crawl into bed right after work some days, they're off their rocker.

My modesty flew out the window long about my second or third doctor's appointment last Spring. Since KU is a teaching hospital, there was always a student or new doctor getting trained by one of mine. And I was asked time and time again if it was ok if they sat in on my examination. "Sure, no problem," I'd say, wanting to add, "Anyone else out in the hallway wanna come take a peek? Housekeeping? Maintenance? Bring them all in!" This from the middle school girl who used to change into and out of her gym clothes faster than Clark Kent could slap on a cape.

For radiation, I had to change into my gown then traipse back out into the little waiting area, pretending like it wasn't awkward at all as I tried to hold the back closed and slither into a seat next to fully clothed family members waiting for their loved ones. At least I made it out there with it on each time. Once I was in such a hurry to get to work afterward, I stripped off all my top clothing, adjusted my beanie, and headed for the door, thankfully realizing a half second before I opened it that something was missing!

So I relinquish my standing 10am time slot. And hate that there will certainly be another person ready to fill it. I wish them well. I hope they're nice to sweet "B", my little old man friend I won't be seeing anymore and who's only halfway done with his treatment.

This last month has probably been the hardest for me. I haven't felt inspiring. Or amazing. Or anything of the sort. I've just felt off. Not a fun place to be. Stuck inside your own mind, going through the motions. But I'm plugging along and coming around. And growing the softest little baby hair you ever did feel. "You almost have enough for bedhead," David pointed out.

I snapped this one day while the person before me finished up. Probably sweet "B".

Beam on.

Beam- shine brightly.

I can do this. A rough chapter has finished. But my story isn't over yet. I feel more like a snuffed out candle at the moment. But I'll shine again. Perhaps for someone else going through this.

Beam on.

Next up: I'll be on an oral med for 5 years. And will part ways with all of these.

Oh, and I'll have my exchange surgery this Summer where they'll switch out these blasted tissue expanders for what will most likely be the smallest implants my plastic surgeon has ever created. He confirms with me at each appointment, "And you're sure this is the size you want to be?" I may mess with him next time and say, "Actually, no. Now that I think about it, can you take some of this out and make me a little bit smaller?"

My breast surgeon doesn't want to miss out on our little reunion so she'll be there also to take out more tissue on my right side. Some of my cancer cells decided to party too close to the edge of what she took out in June. So we need to make sure none of those little suckers slipped through.

So what did I do to celebrate my last treatment?

I picked Drue up from school for an orthodontist appointment. Because life goes on. And that's a-ok by me. I'm certainly ready to get back to being an ordinary Mom doing ordinary Mom things.

This was the garden outside the cancer center on my first day of chemo.

And here it is on my last day of radiation.

A different season for sure. Each season has its own challenges. But also its own beauty.

I feel like I've been holding my breath since that March 22nd phone call.

It felt so good to hear them say at the end of my treatment today, "You can breathe..."

I'm not bidding 2018 a fond farewell. I'm looking it in the eye with a triumphant grin, giving a little wave, and saying a BIG "Buh-Bye"!

Whew! What a whirlwind. It tricked me at first, giving me a few low key months before everything began to unravel in March. I never imagined at the beginning of this year my NYE festivities would include hanging out at the Cancer Center getting radiation and visiting with my oncologist. This girl knows how to party.

We all have those memorable milestone years with which we mark time by.

If someone mentions 1994, I immediately picture myself, blue cap & gown, getting my high school diploma.

1998- black cap & gown crossing the stage at SBU and in a wedding dress a few weeks later.

'02, '04, '06- bringing home newborns.

Of course, 2018 will be forever remembered and marked with the "C" word.

I finished chemo, got my port out, started the next phase of treatment, and I felt amazing. Or that's how I thought I'd feel. My emotions have actually been all over the place.

If you look at me wrong, I'll cry.

If you smile at me comfortingly, I'll cry.

In fact, if everyone could just stop making eye contact with me altogether for awhile until I feel semi back to normal that'd be best.

Some have complimented my outlook. But I can't take credit for that. That's God.

He's got this.

He writes my story.

He's carrying me through.

I would have a much more defeatist attitude if my hope wasn't in Him.

A few months ago we sang a new (to me) song at church. I am team "traditional hymns" all the way and am slow to embrace new songs and choruses. But this one grabbed a hold of me and made me wonder, "Wait, has Matt Redman met me?". His song Never Once certainly hit home.

"Kneeling on this battle ground
Seeing just how much You've done
Knowing every victory
Was your power in us

Scars and stuggles on the way
But with joy our hearts can say

Never once did we ever walk alone
Never once did you leave us on our own
You are faithful, God, you are faithful"

And all the mental snapshots of this past year come flooding back.

The room where I waited in my gown while they reviewed my additional mammogram images.

The Hen House parking lot I called David from to tell him I needed a biopsy.

The parking lot at work where I was standing when I got the call it was cancer.

The MRI tubes.

I wasn't really alone any of those times. He was right there with me.

I know others of you are still reeling from the events 2018 tossed your way. But we made it! Tomorrow we turn the page. It certainly doesn't erase the effects of this past year but it's a fresh start and a new number. With all sorts of adventures and possibilities in store.

2018 was a hard year.

But it was also an amazing year.

And I would go through it all again just for the friendships I've made, laughs I've had, hugs I've received, encouragement, support, the list goes on.

The sweetest little old man has radiation right before me. We smile and exchange pleasantries as he exits and I enter. Today he said, "Good Morning. Have a good New Year!"

I held back the tears that threatened to break through (he's going to be excluded from my "no eye contact" decree because he's precious) and wished him the same.

To 2019 I say, "Bring. It. On."

How is it that I'm halfway through chemo and haven't written an update?

Probably because it knocks me on my hindquarters.

And makes me say weird things like, "Are these your footballs...I mean shoes?!" and "There are plates in the dryer...I mean dishwasher!"

I feel like a walking, talking Mad Lib most days.

So how's it going?

Well, it's going...to drive me bat crazy if these next 7 weeks don't zoom right on by. And if my last 4 treatments are anything like the first 4. Which they aren't supposed to be. BUT, again, nothing during this whole ordeal has been how it's "supposed to be" with me. How's that for a lovely upbeat attitude?

I guess let me paint the picture of the infusion room to set the stage. It has multiple pods of chairs. Which is basically 4 sections of recliners lined up on both sides facing each other. Maybe 10 per pod? I don't remember. I don't take that detailed of notes, people.

I walked in that first day and they said, "Pick a chair".

Slight panic set in. I do better when someone says, "Sit there". Takes the decision making off me. I'd wished I'd read up on Infusion Room Etiquette, if there's even such a thing.

There were plenty of chairs that morning. So should I find the farthest one from others? Do I sit down right next to someone and make a new friend? Do I greet people as I go by? Or curtsy as I make my way down the row? I decided just to give a slight smile to folks as I passed. Heck, we're all stuck in this room together for hours that none of us want to be in.

Then I saw it. My chair. In the corner. Back against the wall so I could see the whole room. Right next to the window overlooking the garden. With a spot for David next to it. Off I headed. As I sat down I realized there was a guy right across from me getting infused.

Shoot. This wasn't going to be awkward at all. I'm sure he wasn't thrilled to now be sitting across from this newbie stranger for the morning. But I'd already committed to the chair so it would have been more awkward to get up and move.

As I settled in, I gazed around at the others in my pod. The fellow across from me I'd be avoiding eye contact with. An older man hooked up to meds with his wife next to him. Another white haired gentleman already asleep.

What the heck?! Had I inadvertently wandered into the man pod? I later learned that wasn't a thing. Just a coincidence that day.

I won't go into a play by play of chemo because that will just start to read like a medical journal and even my eyes will begin to glass over. I did get a wee bit curious though when the nurse wheeled over a huge cart of supplies, gowned up, and started creating a sterile field to access my port that first time. Even I have to wear a mask for that part. I started thinking, "Wait. What? Do they have me scheduled for a surgery right here and now I didn't know about? And am I scrubbing in for my own mini surgery?!"

I got two meds these first 4 rounds. Adriamycin and Cytoxan. Or "AC" for us BC experts. Yeah, I'm down with the breast cancer lingo now. We're a super hip club in case you didn't know. One I hope none of you ever have to join.

The Adriamycin, as I mentioned on FB, is known as the "red devil". And boy howdy, is it ever! I am SUPER thankful I didn't have terrible nausea with it. My home meds basically knocked me out for 4 days afterward to help avoid that. Hey, bring it on. I'll take that. I had to suck on a popsicle while it was getting infused to help prevent mouth sores. I felt like a 5 year old getting bribed to take their shot.

The "red devil" part for me was just when I started to come around and have a day or so of standing upright and safely being able to drive myself places, it would say, "Oh? Feeling better are we? Have plans to head on in to work today? Alrighty. I'm just gonna drop your white blood cell counts to almost nothing. And, what the heck, let's drop those red cell counts too. Nope, more. A little more. Eh, let's just go ahead and make you anemic and put you right on the edge of needing a blood transfusion. There. And just for grins, since I dropped those levels so low, let's raise your temp up. More. A little more. Yep, 103 sounds about right. I don't want to make you go unconscious or anything."

I was on 3 different antibiotics and needed IV fluids once. All during my weeks/weekends where I was supposed to be feeling good. Little devil for sure.

I've gotten pretty good at knowing when my counts are dropping. Walking out to the mailbox and feeling like I just ran a 5K usually tips me off.

When I had to page my oncologist this weekend for yet another fever, he said, "Ok, tell me where you are with your treatments because I'm just coming back from vacation."

"Well, I just finished my AC..."

"Oh thank God!" he interjected.

"I know! I am!"

The smell of the saline they use to flush my port has become my most hated smells of all smells. Oh. My. Word. I have to hold my breath and go to my happy place when they do that part. Why can't it come in different scents/flavors? Like tooth polish at the dentist? Bubblegum would for sure be my first pick.

The kids have been pretty understanding when I feel like crud in a bucket and they have to forego having sleepovers here. Drue texted me this weekend asking how I felt. When I said, "Not so great" she said, "Oh, ok. I was gonna ask if so-and-so could sleep over but we can do it another time."

She texted me a few hours later asking again how I was feeling.

"What do you mean??" I texted back wearily. We'd already been through this. There would be no sleepover. Turns out, she was just genuinely concerned that time and wanted to make sure my fever was gone. No ulterior motive whatsoever. Oopsie.

So that about sums it up. Probably more detail than you cared to know. If people see me out and ask about chemo, I usually say, "Oh, it's going pretty good. Not as terrible as I'd feared." Because I feel like I have to defend it since it's, quite frankly, saving my life at the moment.

For some reason, it has rained on each and every treatment day thus far. I'm sure there's a witty correlation to be made there but I'm sleepy so that will have to wait for another day.

My coveted window corner chair was occupied this last time. I texted David who hadn't made it in from the truck yet. He offered to get his tire tool and "rough somebody up" for me.

I will not be asking him to co-author the Infusion Room Etiquette Book I'll be writing.