A Little Less "Organ"ized...Get It??

Greetings from my bed, snuggled betwixt our yorkie poo and pittie. Who, I would say, make excellent caregivers, except for the fact that Gizzie's way of checking to see if I'm alive is by standing on my stomach. And George is just living his best life because he normally doesn't get free reign in our bed until nighttime.

Surgery went well. It was a little trickier than my doctor had expected, because there was a lifetime's supply of endometriosis hiding behind my uterus that surprised even her. I like to keep my healthcare team on their toes apparently. 

My 4:15am alarm was in no way welcomed. But we were on our way by 4:45ish. David was most excited about the perfect parking spot he found, right near the entrance to the hospital. "You gotta get up pretty early to find a better spot than me," he said proudly. 

Got all checked in and headed back to pre op. He got to come with me this time, and of course, provided much comedic relief for all those within earshot. When the nurse stepped out he asked, "Did they say they could get me a warm blanket?"

"What? No!" I hissed, hoping they hadn't heard him. 

"I think you have to request it and then slip it to me..." he suggested. "Also, I have a mosquito bite that's been bothering me. Do you think they could take a look at it?". 

Oh here we go. It was at this moment I began to rethink him being back there. 

The nurse returned and went through all the routine questions. Name, date of birth, do I know what surgery I'm having, etc. I answered "hysterectomy and oophorectomy". David looked puzzled and asked, "And where exactly are her oofas?". 

Out the nurse went again to check on her other patients. David was starting to get restless by then and began inspecting my gurney. "I wonder what this button does?" 

"Leave it!" I warned. 

"Do you want me to start your IV?" he asked as he picked up my arm and began tapping it to wake up my veins. "Or turn on your oxygen?".

"I don't want you to touch a single solitary thing," I admonished. 

He sat back down in his chair and while he was repositioning his mask, one of the strings broke. Honestly. He's like my 4th child. He began scanning the room like MacGyver, looking for something he could use to put it back together. "I need a suture kit," he decided. 

Off I went to the OR. And in seemingly the next 30 seconds, I was being wheeled to my room for the night. I took about 10 catnaps that afternoon, being unable to stay awake for more than 5 minutes at a time. David got a kick out of the "goals" written on my board. "Dangle pain control?" he questioned my nurse. "That seems kinda mean. You don't just give it to them when they need it?!"

I surpassed my "dangle" goal for the day. And instead of just sitting up on the side of my bed, I managed to slowly walk around the unit with my IV pole and nurse aide. Such an overachiever I am. Although, at the pace I went, a snail would have given me a run for my money. 

The anesthesia made me sick as a dog who just ate stale mac n cheetos (yes, that is a mac & cheese stuffed cheeto puff). An oddly specific comparison, I know.  But Gizzie found a half eaten one in one of the kids' rooms years ago and we thought she was done for. She was so sick for an entire day. Didn't even move once. So of course I rushed her to the vet first thing in the morning and thankfully she's lived happily ever after ever since. But it's now our standard family measurement for how sick someone is. 

I made it through that first night. One minute feeling on the verge of making that journey toward the eternal light, the next a nurse coming in saying she had my discharge orders to go home. I called David to come fetch me (he lost rock, paper, scissors apparently), "She said you can just pull up to the main entrance and she'll wheel me out," I explained. 

"Got it. So, like, do I just honk or what?". 

"Don't you dare." 

My nurse took out my IV and went to grab my discharge papers. As I repositioned myself in bed, it was like old faithful erupting from my hand. Blood spattering all over the floor, on me, on my bedding. Think prom scene from Carrie. The poor housekeeper who got assigned to my room probably couldn't decide whether to clean and sanitize or report a crime. 

David got me home where I promptly crawled into bed and drifted in and out of consciousness for the next day and a half. Small stretches of walking, increasing each day, were recommended for a smoother recovery. Since opening the front door these days feels like opening the gates to hades, I opted to shuffle around in circles on our air conditioned main floor. 

I picked the worst time to pass down my car to Tate and upgrade myself to a larger SUV. I haven't yet learned how to casually get in and out of it. I just kind of awkwardly slither out and breathe a sigh of relief when my foot finally touches solid ground. So if everyone could just avert their eyes for the next 4-6 weeks if I happen to pull up beside you and attempt to exit my vehicle semi successfully, that would be helpful. 

In the meantime, it has been handy having my pick of chauffeurs this time around. I learned rather quickly not to say, "Who wants to drive their dear old Mom to Target??". And just began assigning each offspring the task randomly. A neat thing about our city is they somehow managed to deliberately map out each and every route I take to anywhere and begin road construction. As Tate ineffectively dodged some bumps in the road, I remarked, "Umm...ow. I feel like some more of my organs are going to fall out." 

"Wait, those were organs you had removed? You should have sold them on the black market!". His chauffeur duties have been suspended for the time being. 

My surgical team sent me home with some parting gifts. They left 3 or 4 of my ECG electrode patches stuck to me. Each time I shower, I discover another one. Like a little scavenger hunt. 

All in all, I'm doing well. And feeling good. I'm up to one to two outings per day. And down to one nap a day where I wake up in a fuzzy stupor not knowing what year it is. 

As always, I'm so grateful for your prayers and well wishes. I feel like I have more than exceeded my allotment of them these past 4 years. But I know God has placed each and every one of you in my life for a reason. And it's not just so my list of potential chauffeurs can get longer...

Fallopian Farewell

Some people have Summer homes. Or tranquil getaways to a favorite vacation spot each year. 

I have the OR. Not Oregon, although that would be lovely. Operating Rooms. I find myself visiting different ones around the metro each Summer. And instead of collecting little souvenir shot glasses, I collect those plastic hospital cups with lids and straws that measure my water intake. I'm accumulating quite the menagerie. 

Cancer is that rather unique gift that keeps on giving. If that gift is a subscription to something you never asked for, absolutely detest, and isn't eligible for returns or exchanges. 

I'm off to get my 8th surgery in the a.m. 

No, my cancer isn't back. But the medicine I take to help prevent breast cancer reoccurrence, Tamoxifen, can cause uterine cancer. So every year I get a sonogram to check things out. And EVERY YEAR it shows suspiciousness lurking amongst my lining. Which means I either have to get a biopsy done, or in last Summer's case, a hysteroscopy and d&c. 

People. I am slated to be on Tamoxifen for SEVEN MORE YEARS. So after my last suspicious sonogram this Spring, my doctor said, "That's it! Everything's coming out!". Kind of like when your kids are all causing a ruckus in the very room you're trying to find some peace and quiet in for 5 minutes so you finally yell, "EVERYBODY OUT!".

I'll be adding a few more "ectomies" to my health history. A hysterectomy and bilateral salpingo oophorectomy. Boy, spellcheck didn't like that latter one. At. All. 

Tate is disappointed he won't be getting that little brother he's always longed for. I didn't have the heart to tell him that ship had sailed years ago. Not only sailed, mind you, but had gotten lost forever in the Bermuda triangle. He's now trying to convince us to trade one, or both, of his sisters for a brother.  Or a bull terrier. Either will suffice. 

At least he's actually able to talk about the surgery now. When I was first explaining what it was, he said, "Mom! That's a bad word!". To which Drue and I both said in unison, "Uterus??". To mess with him more, I said I was planning on keeping all my newly evicted reproductive organs in a jar on the mantel. 

This immediately cleared both kids from the vicinity with Drue saying, "Mom...ewww. Good-bye." Teens are too easy sometimes. 

I assigned David the most important job of all. Of course he's my ride, but after surgery, I told him to make sure I put my earrings back in right away. I got my second hole pierced recently, and although it's past time that I can change them out, they still need an earring in so they don't close up. He's already set a reminder in his phone. While he was setting that, he asked what time we needed to be at the hospital. 

"5:15am," I replied. 

"Of course we do," he said good naturedly. Poor guy can't catch a break with my first surgery of the day luck of the draws. 

When he found out I'd be staying the night he asked if he needed to take the following day off work as well. "Heavens no," I said. "Just come pick me up between conference calls or something. Or heck, send one of the other THREE drivers in our household. But not Tate. He only knows how to get to Taco Bell and back home." 

I find it kind of poetic, fitting, ironic...I'm not sure which word works best...that I'm having this surgery done at the same hospital where I had all my babies. I've come full circle. 

Oh, and I'll be able to come off of Tamoxifen afterwards and switch to an aromatase inhibitor instead. "But I thought you came off Tamoxifen last year?" you say. Or you would say if you remember reading that in my March 2021 update. And you would be correct. 

Chemo threw me into early menopause. The one and only side effect I really didn't mind. Last year, my lab work showed that, yes indeed, I was post menopausal. So my oncologist took me off Tamoxifen and started me on Letrozole. Lo and behold, I went back to being pre menopausal within a month or so. Which caused my oncologist to scratch his head, order more lab work, and put me back on Tamoxifen. So if you're keeping track, I went in to menopause, came back out, then went. back. in. How David has not walked right out the front door, never to return, I have no idea. I have been a hot mess. Literally. 

And I wasn't the most emotionally/hormonally stable person pre cancer treatments as it was. But I can't take any hormone replacement anythings because that's what fueled my breast cancer to begin with. Oy. 

Never in a billion trillion years did I dream I'd be matter of factly blogging about menopause, ovaries, my uterus, or my bosom. But ridiculously modest me couldn't have gotten ear lobe cancer. Or pinky toe cancer. Neither of which causes me any kind of embarrassment to talk about whatsoever. Nope. This Mom of three who was too shy to even say "breastfeeding" and only felt comfortable referring to it as "nursing" got breast cancer. And her coping mechanism is writing. So there you have it. I am now the epitome of TMI. 

I'm off to pack my little bag. And do a few weird nesting things around the house that I always do before surgeries. Like scrub the kitchen trash can lids and refold my winter sweaters on the shelf in the way back of my bedroom closet. You know, important stuff like that. 

Update

I wanted to get this update done while I'm still able to decipher what happened in real life vs what I dreamed. If I launch into a story about my surgeon riding in to my pre-op room on a tiger, you'll know I switched to the dream version. Also I need a distraction from that ever annoying sign of healing...the incessant itch! David helpfully suggested taking a hot shower. When I started to shoot that idea down he continued, "No, really, you should take a shower!"

Good News: Both my covid test and pregnancy test were negative. Praise the Lord and Hallelujah! I accidentally scheduled my covid test for last Sunday at 2:10, thinking the AFC championship game started later. David said, "I'm sure the heck not driving you!". But it worked to my advantage because there was not another soul in line. 

I figured out why I always have to bring my i.d. for surgery check ins. Because no makeup is allowed, no contacts, no hair products, etc. So I know they are just trying to make sure I'm the same patient they see in their office when I show up looking a fright the morning of surgery. 

Thankfully, we made it safely through snowpocalypse. I-35 had one good lane open and we cruised right on through. We only started seeing cars having trouble once we made it to the main KU Med campus. And if David hadn't been on a mission to deliver me safely and on time for check in, he would have for sure been out there helping push people to safety.

We pulled into the parking garage and the ticket gate was already up to let people through. So we were't sure if we still needed to stop or what. We went ahead and got a ticket just in case and I reminded David to bring it in to get validated. "Oh, ok, we can just tape it to your arm and they can validate it during your procedure," he suggested.

David is the cutest right before my surgeries. He's still his jokey self but with an adorable sense of nervousness and uncertainty. He lamented the fact he hadn't brought a straw to use in his coffee thermos so he could just stick it up under his mask and guzzle it down. No one is allowed back in pre-op at this time which didn't sit well with him, "You mean this is it? I have to say goodbye to you here in the waiting room?". When they called my name he grabbed me into what I thought would be a quick hug, except he held on like he wasn't going to let them take me. Ever. Precious. Except I'd waited so long for this day to come I slithered out his grasp and headed on back.

I sure missed my pre-op buddy once back there though. Entertaining me and all the staff that pop in. Grey's Anatomy was on my TV. Which I found humorous as I looked out in to my real life OR area where no drama was ensuing whatsoever. Pretty boring, actually. 

The inflatable warming blanket they put on me kept slipping out of the top of my blanket and slapping me in the face. David would have found this hilarious, no doubt comparing me to Violet Beauregarde plumping up into a huge blueberry. 

Everybody on my OR team popped their heads in. Nurses, doctors, assisting doctors, anesthesia team. I started feeling like a pretty big deal. And also a little guilty that all of them were assigned to little ol' me. I got marked up, drugged up, and literally signed my life away in case my procedure went south. 

David kept texting to see if I'd gone back yet. After about 2 hours, they brought in my little surgical cap and I texted him that it was getting close and I was putting my phone away. He chose the worst, most ominous reply whatsoever, texting, "See you on the other side". 

And I was out. Sometimes I make it to the OR room before I conk out. But this time I didn't even make it out into the hallway. Then I groggily heard my name being called by my post op nurse. She popped out to update David, then as she helped me get dressed, asked, "So, do you have a barn?'. I thought I'd heard wrong and assumed she meant, "How's your arm?". But it all came together when she said, "I told your husband you couldn't operate any heavy machinery and he said you had rented a forklift and planned to clear out your barn this weekend." My eyes were droopy but I was still able to roll them. 

We headed home about 12 hours after we'd started out that morning. David is not good at sitting. Or waiting. Or being patient. So I asked him how in the world he had fared all day. He has decided they really need to institute a volunteer program for people like him waiting all day on their loved ones, "There was a piece of carpet that had pulled away from the wall in the waiting area...I could have been tacking that back down. A win win. They get projects done for free and I get to work out my restlessness." 

So how did my procedure go? Sorry, I'm sure that's why you started reading in the first place. It went well. He put in 2 bypasses on my forearm so those are all stitched up. Then he moved some lymph nodes up my side and took out a bunch of scar tissue that was there from my last surgery, So perhaps this means I'll be able to reach both arms above my head at the same height again. I hopefully get my dreaded jp drain out tomorrow. My core muscles said, "Oh crud! She's completely depending on us to get her out of bed and out of the chair again!" which they weren't too happy about. But we came to an understanding and I'm getting up and at 'em quite a bit more easily. My soreness is easing up everyday. But I feel a bit narcoleptic, falling asleep sometimes mid sentence. 

I had to sleep in this huge foam swiss cheesy looking thing the first night. Which will now become something David wants to throw out, but I'll want to keep for a future pinterest project I'll never do.

I'm currently still orange from the iodine solution they slather all over you to prevent infection during surgery. And my upper lip got busted from the breathing tube. So basically I look like a one armed oompa loompa who's been in a bar fight.

David had me do a test drive with him earlier to the store to see how I did since he's abandoning me going to Denver tomorrow. I passed. And didn't fall asleep at the wheel. 

Time will tell on how well the procedure worked. And how much of the swelling will actually be able to be managed. 

I'm off to take my post dinner nap. And contemplate showering. But not before I color in my left side on my little blank surgery person. 

How I'm Spending Groundhog Day

Every 6 months or so I like to go ahead and have another cancer related surgery on a different body part. So far I've done skull, chest (duh), and uterus. This week's lucky winner is my left hand/arm. Perhaps I'll print out a blank person and color in all my various parts that have been sliced and diced. Kind of like when people print out a map of the US and color in all the States they've been to. Ok, not quite as fun as that, but I do like pretty color visuals. 

"What is this surgery for?" you ask. 

Lymphedema. 

"Ah. And what exactly is lymphedema?" you ask. 

Dang, ya'll are nosy. 

Basically, it's swelling from a damaged lymph system. Mine was damaged on the left side during my double mastectomy because in order to remove all the lymph nodes they needed to for testing, they had to dissect through multiple layers on that side to get to mine. Which made those lymph nodes pretty angry. So they decided to go on strike. If they had little picket signs they'd read, "We're a pain, we won't drain" or something along those lines. So my surgeon is just going to replace those naughty little nellies with working lymph nodes willing to do the job. And no, I'm not trying to make this political in any way with regards to workers going on strike, etc. But since pretty much every.single.thing is made political these days, go ahead and come at me. But on my right side, so I have a chance. 

I had a bout with lymphedema in the Spring of 2020. Yes, other health things actually occurred that year other than covid for some of us. It cleared up, only to rear its ugly head again in October of that year. I wore my compression sleeve nonstop, had multiple appointments with my lymphedema nurses, weeks of therapy and a lovely compression pump contraption, and lymphatic massage. All to no avail. My arm/hand remain swollen, stiff, and sore at times. David refers to it as my "Popeye" arm. And if tattoos weren't banned on a limb affected with lymphedema, you better bet your bottom dollar I'd get a little anchor on my forearm in a heartbeat. 

So last April, after all my lymphedema management options had been exhausted...my plastic surgeon declared me a perfect candidate for two procedures he happens to specialize in. A lymph node transfer and lymphovenous bypass. I, of course, was ready to get on his schedule that following week. However, when I didn't hear back from his office for a few weeks I reached out and said, "Sorry to be a pain...just checking to see if I have a surgery date yet so we can plan our Summer around it." 

His nurse replied back that unfortunately, due to covid, and OR's not being back up to full capacity, the soonest they could get me on their books was Feb 2, 2022. I remember staring at that date in disbelief. Bursting into tears. Cursing covid...who hasn't? Then bucking up and accepting what was completely out of my control. For those of you who've followed along from the get go of my diagnosis in 2018, I shared that my diagnosis was 3/22. My craniotomy/skull biopsy was 5/22, my double mastectomy was 6/22, and I started Tamoxifen on 1/22 the following year. So I had to laugh when I finally realized the coincidental significance of my 2/02/22 surgery date. One of my lifelong besties, Kelly (and her family) are runners. For their various races, 5Ks, 10Ks, half marathons, and whatnot she always finds a Bible verse that corresponds to their bib numbers. I discovered an entire chapter for mine. 2 Samuel 22. David's song of Praise. Praising God for his deliverance. And specifically verse 2: "The Lord is my rock, my fortress, my deliverer." Which He most certainly has been for me throughout these past 4 years. 

David is being his sweet, albeit ornery, self. He scared the dickens out of me yesterday, causing me to jump, scream, and flail my arms. Today he attacked me while I was sitting in bed on my phone, grabbing my knee, one of my most ticklish spots, again causing me to scream and slap his arm. "You can't do that kind of stuff starting tomorrow!" I reminded him. "I know," he replied grabbing my knee once again, "That's why I'm getting it all out of my system now." 

He has been out of town every week (except holiday weeks) in November, December, & January. This is where the sweet part comes in. He made sure to be in town this week and took off all day tomorrow, even though my surgery will literally take all day and I told him to feel free to check emails, get on calls, etc. And he took off the rest of the week as well. Which I suspect has more to do with his upcoming birthday this weekend, but it was still sweet. He is giddy about being home all week so he can cook. He texted his meal plan to the fam on Sunday and said, "This is just going to be the best week ever!" Umm...except for those of us who'll be doped up on oxycodone. 

For the lymphovenous bypass, my surgeon will shoot dye up my arm through the spaces in between my fingers, map the lymphatics, and wherever the blockages are, make a slit in my arm and connect the blocked lymphatic vessels to working veins via itty bitty mini shunts. He's already warned me it takes awhile to notice a difference and it will never look like my right hand/arm. But hey, I'll be happy if I'm just able to fit my wedding ring back on my finger. And so will David. So the old single fellas will stop winking creepily at me. 

I do have a bone to pick with my plastic surgeon tomorrow, however, when I see him. During my reconstruction process he kept asking if I was sure I didn't want to go bigger. I assured him that, no, I've never been well endowed and was certainly not going to take the opportunity to do so at that time. What he didn't warn me about was that I would gain 40 pounds once starting my hormonal therapy (ok, and perhaps, my love of sweets and disdain of the gym) but MOSTLY due to my medication. And implants don't grow! Every other area of my body has spread out far and wide, except them. So now it looks like I never even got reconstruction and chose to stay flat. And I'm sure most people are left questioning my gender, especially when I run errands in sweats. I feel like there should have been a warning label of some sort. "Objects implanted in your chest don't grow proportionately with the rest of your body." 

And, of course, in true Midwest fashion, with my surgery date upon us...we're under a winter storm warning for tomorrow. Thankfully, David has a truck. Which I will most definitely be sending him out in to pick up my surgeon should he be unable to make it to the main KU campus tomorrow. 

Since most people don't know what lymphedema is, I've decided I'm going to have as much fun with recovery as I can. So when people see me all bandaged up and say, "Oh no! What happened?" I'm just going to make up various scenarios as I see fit. I'm thinking of starting off with shark attack, run over by my teen drivers, or Wordle playing paralysis. 

Home For Christmas

When I was little, I thought everyone had a Southern family refuge like Pine Lake. Where we spent a week every Summer, tucked away in a log cabin built by my Granddad, fishing, exploring the creek with cousins, being slung around in the back of his old pickup, and being loved on by all of our Alabama family. 

The Army took my parents out of Alabama to a handful of other States and overseas, finally plopping them down for good in the Midwest. Leavenworth, to be exact. And I've always felt a little sad for my Mom, that she was never able to return to her home to stay. Had they returned while I was still at home, however, I would have attended Auburn University, not Southwest Baptist University. And would never have met that handsome strawberry blond fellow in my Old Testament history class. And had they returned after I left home, my kids would have missed out on years of Grandma Judy watching them each week and all the memories they hold dear from those days. 

I guess it's only fitting that our last big family get together, Thanksgiving 2020, was at Pine Lake. The day after my parents returned home to Leavenworth from that trip, my Dad had a heart attack, underwent surgery, then suffered 2 kinds of strokes during recovery and hasn't returned to their Leavenworth home since. 

This past Spring, my Mom ended up in the hospital, followed by a rehab facility, and finally an assisted living up the road from me, where my Dad now lives as well. I would love to insert here...and they lived happily ever after.  However, their health issues continue to increase as their independence continues to decrease. They've both had a myriad of challenges and my Mom has been in and out of the hospital multiple times. 

"I'm dreaming tonight, of a place I love, even more than I usually do, and although I know it's a long road back, I promise you..." when I hear that old familiar tune this season, tears spring to my eyes, realizing my Mom most likely won't be making another trip down to her home. 

Perusing Target's dollar section the other day, tears again sprung to my eyes (this seems to be a common theme for me this Christmas season) as I looked down and saw a little wooden cabin. While not an exact replica of the one my Granddad built, I knew it could work. I had no sooner put it in my basket, than I saw another little wooden structure shaped like a triangle, complete with red and green paint in the package. And my vision sprang to life. Those two pieces, along with a few decorative pine trees and a little john deere tractor ornament completed the look. 

When my Mom returns to her apartment from her current hospital stay, she'll find her own little piece of heaven on Earth. 

So she can be home for Christmas...if only in her dreams. 

Three Years

To be sung to the tune of the William Tell Overture..."Happy Cancer-versary, Happy Cancer-versary, Happy Cancer-versary, H-A-P-P-Y Cancer-versary!". Why, thank you! So kind of you all to remember. Gifts? You shouldn't have. Oh. You didn't? That's quite alright. I'm sure those stimulus checks were put toward another good use. What is the 3 year Cancer-versary gift anyway? I have no clue. I think it might be white chocolate mochas from Starbucks. Either way, I will be treating myself to one this morning.  

Like many of you in the Facebook world, my memories popping up this time of year are of our awesome family adventures on Spring Breaks past. This time next year, unfortunately, our family won't have any memories pop up for 2021 because we went NOWHERE. I guess I could have documented David and my's trip to the ol' Home Depot the other afternoon. He always tricks me into thinking we're running in for one thing. Then suddenly remembers about 15 things he needs. Every. Stinkin'. Time. 

Please don't take our lack of travels this year as a woe is me complaint, however. Remember, we were that family who cancelled their Paris plans at the last minute then turned around and hopped on a plane to Hawaii instead, just as Covid began shutting down the country around us last March. So we were definitely past due our turn of staying home. 

Pictures of our past Spring Breaks always bring up fun memories with the fam. Funny, how it's always the good memories that come to mind. Never the ones of me getting frustrated with the kids wanting to stay in the condo rather than go exploring and saying in exasperation, "That's it. This is our last family trip together. Next year you guys are staying home!". That's probably for the best. But for me, the pictures from the past three years are also marked by my cancer timeline. 

Take this picture of Tate and me at Universal Studios in March 2018, I remember the laughs, warm temps, my blue nail polish (what in the world possessed me to pick that color?!). And then, upon seeing my loosely braided locks, I automatically remember, "Ohhh yeah. This was pre-diagnosis."

Right before going on this vacation, I'd had my annual mammogram, showing a suspicious area, and had a biopsy scheduled for a few days after we would return home. God was already wrapping His arms around me even then. My worry wart self was able to fully enjoy a week away with the crew. (Minus my aformentioned mini outburst of never taking them anywhere again.) Oh sure, I got on a medical site, or twenty, after everyone went to bed. And even woke up in the middle of the night googling something else related to breast cancer multiple times. But I really was able to relax and rest in the fact that God already knew what my results would be and this hadn't thrown Him for a loop in the least. 

Then, there's this picture of Tate and me at Corpus Christi in 2019 (yes, the girls also accompanied us on on these trips, but their ol' Mom wasn't deemed instagram worthy at that time so there aren't very many pictures of us together. And Tate was still small enough for me to grab and clutch onto until he smiled). This one automatically brings up all the feels from from March '18 to March '19. A whirlwind year of scans, surgeries, chemo, and radiation. Oh, and why in the world did I think I was ready to venture outside my home sans beanie when my hair was still shorter than his?!

Speaking of Tate, much to his chagrin, David made him take Honors Biology this year. His first, and according to him, last honors class. The other day he said, "Hey, we're studying cancer cells right now." "Oh? Did you raise your hand and say, 'My Mom had cancer'? You might have gotten extra credit or something," I suggested. "Uhh, no. But we learned they mutate and stuff," he continued. I waited for him to go on, because I've learned if I start showing genuine interest and asking probing questions, he clams up and disappears just as quickly as the conversation had started. That ornery grin I know all to well began spreading across his face as he said, "So, like, you're a mutant..." 

Hmmppff. See if I take any pictures with him on our next getaway! 

So how are things going with me currently?

Depends on the day you ask me. Most days I would say, "Great! So glad all that's behind me! Thankful God has brought me this far!" But if you catch me on a bad, pity party kinda day, I may say, "Ugghh. I developed lymphedema in my left arm and spent months wrapping it daily in gauze, bandages, and foam. I spent weeks in therapy trying to get the swelling to stay down. (Which wasn't too bad because I had the awesome Janis, who coincidentally adopted one of our foster dogs years ago so I got to catch up with her quite bit.) Alas, my arm and hand are super stubborn (like the rest of me) so I have an appointment in a few weeks with my plastic surgeon to discuss a procedure where he shoots dye up my arm, maps the lymphatics, then puts in little mini shunts to help them drain properly. I did get to bid farewell to Tamoxifen this month and switch it out for Letrozole, a med that has a higher rate of preventing reoccurrence but causes bone pain. Always a pros and cons list with these meds. My baseline bone density scan revealed I have osteopenia so I've started on calcium/vit D tablets the size of actual horse pills. I have an appt in a few weeks to hopefully rule out uterine cancer. My biopsy this Summer for that was benign. So I'm gonna go ahead and declare the same this time around. Wouldn't it be nice if it worked that way? Oh, and my meds cause such tremendous hot flashes/sweats at night that I recently purchased a pet cooling get pad to sleep on."

Whew. Bet you're r-e-a-l-ly hoping you catch me on a good day now. 

Exercise is good for lymphedema, and just good for your body in general in case you weren't aware, so David and I joined a gym in January. We were able to add the kids to our monthly membership for just $10 but they have yet to darken the door. We even promised to stay on the opposite side of the gym while they were there and not to make eye contact or acknowledge them in any way if our paths should happen to cross. Meaning, I would hold my tongue from yelling out, "Good job, Sweetie" while Tate was on the bench press. 

So just David and I go together. Which has actually eased one of my worries. I've always wondered what will happen the day Tate flies the coop. Will David and I just look at each other and say, "Now what?". Or will we shake hands amicably and say, "Well, it's been a pleasure working with you," as we head our separate ways? But we've discovered we kinda do enjoy hanging out with just each other. And have even found things to talk about other than our offspring. 

Letrozole is an itty bitty yellow pill. Which makes me think of the verse in Matthew that if we just had faith the size of a mustard seed, we could move mountains. I'm still working on that one. I think an extra shot in my white mocha might help.

Cancer Journey

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.