Therapy

     Last time I was stuck in the pokey (that's my euphemism for the hospital, the pokey)... as I was saying, last time I was stuck in the pokey for the long haul, they sent the occupational therapist to see me. I had to demonstrate my ability to dress myself by removing my socks, then putting them on again, over and over. They watched me hobble to the sink and brush my teeth. I suppose they would have been interested in watching me brush my hair, except I was bald, so no go on that. I was asked to demonstrate that I could retrieve an object from the floor or a high shelf. Easy enough I guess. They really wanted me to walk, yet they kept me tethered by  i.v. lines and a g-tube and drains hanging from my belly. They didn't want me to hobble to the toilet without help, yet they lectured me for not walking enough. They asked if I was depressed. Who wouldn't be?

    When I was a student, I worked and volunteered at the Good Samaritan Retirement Village. Some days,  I helped with the arts and crafts. I thought arts and crafts was silly. How could paste and scissors and markers help someone in a wheelchair? After my stay(s) in the pokey, I understand. It's not about the result. It's about the process. It's about the act of creation, the focus of attention, the healing that occurs when you participate in something, anything. That occupational therapist who wanted me to improve could have helped me by bringing me some paste and scissors and markers.

   Now that I'm home, I find myself drawn to arts and crafts. I get lost in the process of creating something, anything. I call it the Zen of Chopping. I cook not really to feed myself, but to prepare health for myself. I take my time preparing the ingredients. I find the beauty in a nicely sliced onion. A perfectly cooked egg.
But, it's not about the egg. While I enjoy eating a perfectly cooked egg, I benefit more from the process of creating it. By sinking my attention into the maybe mundane task of stirring, I am giving my mind focus. Focus that distracts me from the details of what has happened, from cancer. An ovarian cancer sister once compared cancer to a radio you can't turn off. That radio is poorly tuned, never clear, but always emanating sound. Some days the volume is loud and demanding, other days are a low hum, but that radio is always on. The task of preparing a perfectly cooked scrambled egg turns down that volume, dampens the static of that radio. "coming at ya from station OVCA.." 

   As a side effect of my search for Zen, I make almost everything from scratch. I relish the hunt for ingredients. I read cookbooks. I watch all the cooking contest shows. It's both a quest for health and a remedy for that  radio. Last night, I wanted cake. I made my favorite recipe from scratch and served myself on my grandmother's plate. I was satisfied and that radio was a faint buzz in the background. That therapist would very happy to see me cooking. Who cares about my socks? I hardly even wear socks.

 

Weekend of Hope

    At the beginning of this month, I was able to travel to Vermont for the Annual Stowe Weekend of Hope. I experienced a weekend of health, hope, inspiration, learning and fellowship with cancer survivors, their friends and families, and the people of Stowe. Met some great people doing great things. Tried watercolor painting. Tried  hula hooping. Visited Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream factory. Spent an hour with a Buddhist monk. Tried the local brew. Ate more than my share of truly delicious bagels. Hiked the morning dew at the Trapp Family Lodge. Hung Buddhist prayer flags. Toured the local ghosts in the misty night of the full supermoon. Had fun! In the midst of all this fun activity, however,  lay the kernel for what I am searching. I was moved by the vitality surrounding me. Everybody I saw was affected by cancer. We had an unspoken kinship from which to move forward. I liken the feeling to the moment the bee-girl finds her own kind in that video by Blind Melon.  This moment....

    What's so powerful about a moment like this?  The recognition without explanation. The acceptance without speaking. The mere fact that you are not alone. The connection. Someone else knows what happened to you because it happened to them. We all have common ground. We can move on now. And we did. The closing ceremony was a program of exuberance for life. Young dancers who chose not a dark inward somber piece, but a colorfully strong flowing life reinforcing piece. Local singers and songwriters who performed songs of healing and connection. There's that word again, connection. It's important. Connection to each other, connection to your feelings, connection to your body, connection to  life.

    The very last performance was a song that I heard several times that weekend already. The first performance my eyes teared up a little, with a touch of sadness. The second performance my eyes rolled, with a touch of anger.  This final performance my eyes flowed, with overwhelming release. I liken it to the moment the crisis breaks, when you realize it's over, you made it, you're okay and you burst into tears. That moment. I want to share that song with you now. Maybe it will have some power for you, maybe not. And that's okay....

                        

          Peace. Love. Ice Cream.

Roadmap

      I love maps. I loved geography class in school. I drew maps of the neighborhood, maps of the house, maps of my bedroom. I covered the walls of my dorm room with old maps from National Geographic magazine. One of my favorite books is the huge atlas that takes up the whole table when opened. When I arrive somewhere new, one of the first things I do  is get a map. I mark where I am and then I mark the places I go. Yep, I'm that geek.

     I especially like to study that map later and see where I have been.  I can see how big the Great Salt Lake really is. How tiny Great Britain really is. How close Vermont is to Montreal.  I like to study history by tracing events on a map. See how far those pioneers walked when they settled the American West? On foot? I'm not sure I would have done that. See that tiny chunk of land that everybody claims is theirs? It's very small. No wonder they fight. Looking at a map helps me understand people, helps me understand the past, puts it all in perspective for me.


      ***************************GRAPHIC ALERT***********************************

      ******************************REALLY!!!!!************************************

     ********************CLICK OUT IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH************************

     ***********************It's not that bad, but really, you were warned********************


    At my appointment with my oncologist,every 3 months, they palpate my belly feeling for new growth. This time, when I bared my belly, I heard a gasp. "Wow, we really did a number on you." Yep. You can tell what happened to me by looking at my belly, by looking at the map of scars. It's not only a record of my past two years of living, but also a record of my challenges and indirectly a record of my triumphs. Let's take a look...

    It's all there for the record. You can see the main vertical valley from 4 major abdominal surgeries. The divot from the first ileostomy and the smaller divot below from the second ileostomy. The little hole from the gastric tube. The 4 smaller holes from the stab wound drains. You don't see the 4 more inches heading south ending in a big puckered dimple. You don't see my belly button. I finally lost anything resembling that after the last surgery. The main scar used to be straight up and down. My bowel perforation destroyed so much tissue that they had to sew me up patchwork style and hope that it held. I survived that! My belly looks pretty damn good after a year of healing! A year! Of Healing! Wow. That's where I've been. But I'm back now.  <3

   P.S. No wisecracks about the muffin!

   

Intermission

     I guess I can call myself a Survivor. It's been a year since my last chemo treatment. My oncologist, Dr. L, tells me he cannot see any evidence of disease. No Evidence of  Disease. NED. The holy grail of oncology. This is when other survivors tell of "doing the dance", the NED dance. I've seen women dance out of Dr. L.'s  office gleefully on the way back to their lives. I've seen women whoop and holler at their victory. Why can't I dance and whoop and holler? 

     I guess I am in Remission.  I can dance some before falling down. Whoop! Holler! Most women with ovarian cancer can achieve remission at least once. Ah, there it is, the nugget of discontent, I am in my first remission. Most women with ovarian cancer have a recurrence within 2 years. I am halfway through my first remission. I will most likely return to treatment. Whoop. Holler.

    I guess I am in Intermission. I feel the need to live life to it's fullest during this time, this precious timespan of no symptoms, no treatment, no cancer. I must not waste this time. I spent 6 months recovering from my last surgery and it's consequences. I have even less time now. I must not waste this even shorter timespan.

    I guess I need to get busy.