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BLOG FORMERLY KNOWN AS: I HAD A MIND ONCE

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Wow. What now?


Wow.
I'm speechless. Almost...






Remember this anxious person?
I can't believe I'm now on the other side of all this.Today I finished the last of the three big hurdles:
Surgery. Chemo. Radiation.
To celebrate, I hoped to post a video clip of Will Ferrell in the beginning of Kicking and Screaming. He's got big hair circa 1970 and wears a thick sweatband and short shorts. He's jumping over these hurdles and he's knocking every one of them down, but he charges on, however awkward and idiotic he looks, which I thought was a good metaphor for my experience.

But since I couldn't find that clip, I'm posting this other gripping excerpt from the same movie. (It reminds me of my husband on a bad day in Starbucks ).


So what now? I'm told that people tend to have a hard time after treatment...that the feeling is like walking off the side of a cliff and free falling. A friend who'd had that experience sent me the book After Breast Cancer by Hester Hill Schnipper (fun name to say five times fast). Looks good, but haven't read it yet because I'm not totally done. I still have a mini-hurdle called Herceptin to finish. Herceptin isn't a bad deal, however. Herceptin has no side effects. Herceptin is like a heat seeking missile targeting those bad ass HER2 positive cancer cells (thanks to my 7 year old for helping me think of my treatments in weaponry and video game terms).

Herceptin is also a major breakthrough, and hopefully works well. Herceptin means I remain safe in the womb a little bit longer, going to Oncology every three weeks, which to be honest, is kind of nice. Particularly if my treatments are on Thursdays, when Lauren* the massage therapist is there to rub my feet. Last time I also met Ginger*, a 60-something-looking volunteer manning the beverage cart.  She struck up a conversation with me, asking me about my family, my cancer, my work. I told her I was a writer and she seemed genuinely interested. She asked me what I'd written, if and where I'd been published, and  I wasn't hating talking about any of this, ya know what I mean writer friends?  I told her I had nine more radiation treatments to go, but I'd be back here, to Oncology, for a good few months. She said, "Well, I'll be here. I'm 83..." (this is where I cut her off, saying, "No way Ginger! You look 20 years younger!") and I have all sorts of aches and pains, but I'm healthy. I come here to volunteer, but also to keep things in perspective."
Yeah, me too.
*Names are made up not to protect the innocent but because I'm still working on my name remembering skills...she did look like Ginger from Gilligan's Island, however

This morning, when my nurse handed me my radiation discharge papers, she offered me the same survivor poem that she gave me the day of the breakdown/breakthrough. I reminded her that I already had one
 "Maybe you want another for your car?" She asked.
"One's good," I said.
With or without a poem, I know things are different now. But I fear anything I write right now
about how I've changed and what I've learned thus far will make me sound like a cliche. Like the skin around my right breast, everything is still so raw (ick. sorry.). And as any writer worth her own salt knows, best not to poke around in there too much when the experience is still so very fresh.

But one thing I will say is this: I'm high on life today. I love everybody and everything. The squirrels in my backyard: I love you guys! The slow drivers on route 3: I love you too! My family and friends and old ladies on the street, and the color of the leaves, and the lady who sold me my muffin this morning (although she was kind of gloomy but I love her anyway). I love the radiator in my living room, the person who invented hydrocortisone cream, and my shoes.





I'm so very joyful that someone really needs to smack me.
xo

6 comments:

  1. Buddhamy this too shall pass.....no worries! So very glad that you are able to rejoice, giggle and adapt weaponry for your personal needs. You'll still have your groupies to wrap you in a slanket when you need it. xoxo

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  2. Hi there Amy! I was reading a few of your posts and had a quick question about your blog. I was hoping you could email me back when you get the chance, thanks : )

    Emmy

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  3. Excellent news!!

    This is where musicals come from. From situations just like this.

    Ordinary people, beset only by the minutia of daily life, don't think to write stories in which characters suddenly break into song and begin to dance. I mean, why would they? The idea is ridiculous (see, I'm proving my own point ((damn I'm clever)).

    But I doubt that you feel that way. Nor, I imagine, would anyone else who's gone toe-to-toe with a serious illness like you have.

    I once sliced open one of my fingers while trimming a Christmas tree, and the emergency room doctor who sewed me up painted a grim picture of nerve damage and a serious lack of future mobility. Fortunately, he also sent me to see a specialist (in what I can only assume was the field of Injuries Arising Out of Allowing Idiots Access to Sharp Knives). Our consultation was brief and to the point:

    Specialist:
    Now, let's take a look at this finger.

    He removes the two metal splints and sixteen layers of medial gauze that the ER doctor has encased the finger in.

    Specialist:
    . . . This is a cut.

    Kevin:
    Is there much nerve damage?

    Specialist:
    . . . It's a cut.

    (beat)

    Kevin:
    So, . . . no nerve damage?

    Specialist (looking closer, almost to himself):
    Actually it's more of a deep scrape than a full-on cut.


    I left his office in a state of pure elation. I can only imagine what it must be like for you.

    [And, yes, if you were wondering, I have punched myself in the throat for mentioning another personal medical experience within your cancer blog.]

    They (being they) say that extreme highs such as these cannot be sustained. That eventually there is a regression toward the mean.

    And while I tend to agree with that assertion (just picture Gene Kelly, Debbie Reynolds and Donald O'Connor performing the "Good Morning" number from Singing in the Rain non-stop to the point where Kelly blows out both his knees and O'Connor starts dry heaving from muscle exhaustion), I think that it's possible to nevertheless adjust your mean. That your definition of normal, daily life can become just a bit more brighter. Your view of things a bit more optimistic.

    That would be my wish for you.

    Keep up the good work.

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  4. Another perfect blog entry. We are so lucky to know you!

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