Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Quote-of-the-Day
When you have cancer you worry that every new develop in your body is a sign that the cancer is worsening. I was worried that a smallish pocket of tissue in my belly was ascites, or fluid in my belly which can be a sign of tumor growth. So at my last appointment as he was palpating my belly, I asked him about the spot. He felt for a second then loudly proclaimed, "I am happy to announce that that is just fat." You are priceless, Dr. Lim. :)
Sunday, September 26, 2010
The Road Ahead
I like to drive. I like to drive on the roads of wide, open, unpopulated spaces. This is the road to Gerlach, Nevada and the Black Rock Desert. It's a straight shot for about 60 miles. Perfect for the meditative process. Driving this road yesterday reminded me of my life. I can see the road. It's clearly marked. I know where it ends up. I have no fear of the destination. But sometimes I can only see a little bit of the road. It seems to end at the horizon. As I get closer and closer, I recognize a little anxiety about what lies just over the crest, the part of the road I cannot see. I know that the road continues even though it's unseen. I question which way does it go? Does it curve and if it does curve, which way? Will I be able to maintain control? What lies just over the crest? An obstacle that blocks my path? Am I prepared for an obstacle? And then I reach the crest and can see the next stretch of road, my questions are answered and I know that I can navigate without any trouble and I continue down the road. And so on and so on. C'est la vie.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
My Buddy Cancer
Cancer is a bully. When you aren't paying attention, he grabs your elbow and pulls you along at breakneck speed. He pulls hard and fast. He pushes you past insurmountable brick walls and you wonder if he is going to push you into those bricks. He drags you to the edge of towering cliffs and you wonder if he is going to whip you over that edge. Your heart is pounding. You are afraid. Cancer is in complete control and you are losing.
Cancer is too strong to beat with one schoolyard fight during recess. This fight will be long and last until the end of your life. You resist. You resist by getting treatments, by taking care of yourself. Your resistance is heavy, heavy enough to be the anchor that keeps you from plummeting over the edge of that cliff. Aannndddd......things slowww dooowwwnn. You can catch your breath. You can speak without shrieking. Cancer is still anchored to your elbow, but he is not winning today. And that is exhilarating.
You will live your life with your buddy, the bully Cancer, by your side. Sometimes he will be the lead of the bullwhip and you will be flung helplessly around. Sometimes you will be the strong one, standing firmly in defiance. Those will be your good days. Hopefully, on the grand scale of life, the balance of your days will weigh positive.
Cancer is too strong to beat with one schoolyard fight during recess. This fight will be long and last until the end of your life. You resist. You resist by getting treatments, by taking care of yourself. Your resistance is heavy, heavy enough to be the anchor that keeps you from plummeting over the edge of that cliff. Aannndddd......things slowww dooowwwnn. You can catch your breath. You can speak without shrieking. Cancer is still anchored to your elbow, but he is not winning today. And that is exhilarating.
You will live your life with your buddy, the bully Cancer, by your side. Sometimes he will be the lead of the bullwhip and you will be flung helplessly around. Sometimes you will be the strong one, standing firmly in defiance. Those will be your good days. Hopefully, on the grand scale of life, the balance of your days will weigh positive.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
The Bald Head
I woke up this morning, fetched the paper, refilled my water glass and then took my shower. As I stepped out of the shower, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Specifically a glimpse of some bald lady. I was shocked for a split second before I realized that I was looking at my own reflection. Then I remembered, oh yeah, you have a bald head because of your chemo because you have cancer. My bald head is a badge of my disease that I am forced to wear. It has robbed me of my identity and my privacy.
My bald head outs me as a cancer patient. People stare. And they know something intensely personal about me just by looking at me. I attended a charity event that benefited the American Cancer Society. There was a booth selling crazy hats. I thought that was a magnificent idea and wanted to try on some of the hats. I whipped the scarf off my bald head and there it was, the stare. The acknowledgment that I was one of them, one of those unfortunate people with cancer. Maybe I am only uncomfortable with this when I sense pity. Nothing steals strength faster than pity.
My bald head sometimes garners me a little extra kindness. The grocery clerks are more patient. The banker rushes to assist me. Strangers hold the door a moment longer. What is counter-intuitive is that children are not afraid to ask me about my head. I welcome those questions and the dialogues that can follow. These are the interactions that give me strength.
That moment in the mirror this morning startled me. It reminded me that I have cancer. That must be what happens to some people when they first catch sight of the bald head. She has cancer. I remember that initial shock. It is blinding and consuming. I have had time to deal with this fact, I guess I can wait until they catch up. I can accept that fact that they know me as "the lady with cancer". I can accept that fact that they know some of my personal issues without me telling them. I reject the pity. I look forward to accepting kindness, hopefully with grace.
My bald head outs me as a cancer patient. People stare. And they know something intensely personal about me just by looking at me. I attended a charity event that benefited the American Cancer Society. There was a booth selling crazy hats. I thought that was a magnificent idea and wanted to try on some of the hats. I whipped the scarf off my bald head and there it was, the stare. The acknowledgment that I was one of them, one of those unfortunate people with cancer. Maybe I am only uncomfortable with this when I sense pity. Nothing steals strength faster than pity.
My bald head sometimes garners me a little extra kindness. The grocery clerks are more patient. The banker rushes to assist me. Strangers hold the door a moment longer. What is counter-intuitive is that children are not afraid to ask me about my head. I welcome those questions and the dialogues that can follow. These are the interactions that give me strength.
That moment in the mirror this morning startled me. It reminded me that I have cancer. That must be what happens to some people when they first catch sight of the bald head. She has cancer. I remember that initial shock. It is blinding and consuming. I have had time to deal with this fact, I guess I can wait until they catch up. I can accept that fact that they know me as "the lady with cancer". I can accept that fact that they know some of my personal issues without me telling them. I reject the pity. I look forward to accepting kindness, hopefully with grace.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
The Aha Moment
Have you seen those ads on TV that ask you what is your "Aha" moment? Supposedly this is the moment when you realize your purpose in life and can follow your path forward to blissful ever after. The ad suggests that this moment is when you realize your artistic talent or find your soul mate or some other romantic bullshit. That's right, I said bullshit. Let me be the first to tell you that your Aha Moment is the moment when your life changes beyond recognition into something you could never have fathomed in your wildest dreams. The moment after which nothing is ever the same. I know my Aha Moment. It is 1:30 pm on April 7, 2010. This is when my doctor confirmed that I had ovarian cancer. Aha.
In the months following that fateful micro-second of time, I have struggled with the classic grief process. You know, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. This is not a smooth path, nor is it chronological or progressive. I had a small moment of denial right after surgery when I awoke for the first time and had fleeting hopes that I might have been dreaming. Then I said to myself "holy fuck, it's real". That's a direct quote. I won't bore you with the insipid details of my emotional and spiritual ambiguity since then. My point is this, that a horrible terrible thing can bring positive change to your life. Aha.
Having cancer has taught me to SLOW DOWN. Why hurry? You cannot possibly assimilate everything happening along your path when you are moving so fast. Take the next step, one step at a time. You cannot possibly know the future, so address what is in front of you at this moment. Laugh with your friends. Do what you want and don't do what you don't want. Make the effort to connect. Enjoy what you can. Be kind. Don't be the person (like me) that has to be struck by cancer to realize these things. It's a hecka wake-up call. My diagnosis has brought me to a blessed, centered and serene place. It's a rough way to get here, but I'm finally here. Aha.
In the months following that fateful micro-second of time, I have struggled with the classic grief process. You know, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. This is not a smooth path, nor is it chronological or progressive. I had a small moment of denial right after surgery when I awoke for the first time and had fleeting hopes that I might have been dreaming. Then I said to myself "holy fuck, it's real". That's a direct quote. I won't bore you with the insipid details of my emotional and spiritual ambiguity since then. My point is this, that a horrible terrible thing can bring positive change to your life. Aha.
Having cancer has taught me to SLOW DOWN. Why hurry? You cannot possibly assimilate everything happening along your path when you are moving so fast. Take the next step, one step at a time. You cannot possibly know the future, so address what is in front of you at this moment. Laugh with your friends. Do what you want and don't do what you don't want. Make the effort to connect. Enjoy what you can. Be kind. Don't be the person (like me) that has to be struck by cancer to realize these things. It's a hecka wake-up call. My diagnosis has brought me to a blessed, centered and serene place. It's a rough way to get here, but I'm finally here. Aha.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
The Addict by Michael Stein
This book is a MUST READ for all pharmcy people. Written by a physician who treats addicts as an inside look into the addict's head. That's what I wanted to get when I picked up this book, an inside look into why an addict does what he/she does. As a pharmacist, I struggle to understand and not judge when I am helping these people. I believe that they have a medical problem that carries severe personal and social burdens. Addicts will often act out at me at the pharmacy counter. It's very hard not a take their outbursts and insults personally. I just say to myself that their disease is talking, not really the patient. If I could just understand their head, then maybe I could help them better. Maybe we could have a positive interaction instead of the inevitable conflict that spirals down into anger for both of us. This book helped me a little with that. Mostly, Stein let me look into his head. I loved this. He had the same doubts. He has some misgivings. Some days, he wonders if he is actually helping his patients at all. He is so honest and forthcoming about addiction from the treatment side. I can personally relate when he says that a good day is when he is moved by a patient, when he is reminded that he is involved. My favorite quote is "I am a great protector of sad memories and I carry my own, which I visit regularly". I think that this shows us that we are not so different, the addicts and the not-addicts. The mystery is in why that addict chooses their path. Stein reminds us that some economists say that substance abuse follows the same economic pattern as basic supply and demand. My question is this, why so some of us choose that market? We may never know an answer exact enough for my scientific brain. Stein reassures me though, that I am not the only healthcare provider who struggles with these questions and just-out-of-grasp answers.
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