One year ago, I was curled up in the fetal position on a loveseat in a waiting room as patients, nurses, doctors, and technicians went about their business. The fuzzy white bathrobe provided to me from the breast clinic did little to comfort or prepare me from the unfolding horror. Images from the mammogram I had just had were serious enough to warrant immediate biopsies, the results of which confirmed infiltrating breast cancer, already spreading to lymph nodes in my armpit. My life turned upside down not in the blink of an eye, but in the squish of a breast.

The journey continues. The next big event will be breast reconstruction surgery at the end of August. If anyone is keeping score, surgery has been postponed by a month – giving my treatment damaged vessels a little more time to recover. In the meantime, I’m doing my darndest to prepare for a successful surgery, part of which involves playing with my favorite grandson in the backyard kiddie pool.

Fair warning — this post contains an abridged version of unpleasant medical realities. Don’t read if squeamish.

It’s been a very long and exhausting year. No, I’m not finished with breast cancer treatment, yet. Yes, I’m finished with chemotherapy. Yes, I’ve had my mastectomies and lymphadenectomy. Yes, there were good results from the surgeries. Praise God. Yes, I’ve had radiation. But I have three more infusions of herceptin for a total of 17 infusions every three weeks since last August. Whew. My body is tired. My spirit is tired.

Trying to bloom where I’m planted

One month after radiation ended I started experiencing minor swelling in my hands and feet. The plastic surgeon thinks this is normal — thinks that my body is still recovering from major surgery last December and that I need to give it more time. The physical therapists (yes, I’m in physical therapy) think it is cause for alarm. They think it’s lymphedema, which is just one more crappy take away from everything else that is happening to my body. In physical therapy, we’re working on my range of motion, but mainly the therapists are manipulating my lymph fluid around so that it can properly drain through my subclavian veins. It’s complicated. And tiring.

After all cancer treatment is finished in early July, (I can’t wait), then I have my next surgery, breast reconstruction, (at the end of July), which is a little terrifying, though I’m trying to be brave. The plastic surgeon is going to make substitute boobs for me from my belly fat, which means that I’m basically going to be cut in two from hip bone to hip bone, just below my belly button, just so I can feel and look “normal” in the long run. Normal meaning that when someone looks at me with clothes on, I will look like a woman by having boob like protrusions. Right now, I have prosthetics where my boobs used to be, which have been expanded to a point so that there will be enough skin to put my belly fat underneath it. But here’s the freaky part, (like the rest of it isn’t freaky), belly fat remains belly fat no matter where it is in the body. So if I gain weight in the future, it will go straight to my belly, which will have been rearranged to my chest wall. Belly boobs. I know, science! Crazy.

As demanding as this last year has been physically and emotionally, to prepare my heart for the stress of the next surgery, Tilly the Wonder dog and I are out walking and seeing our ‘ole dog walking buddies. (!) The next surgery will put me out of commission for a while (again), so the Amazing Reese and I are also saying yes to small social engagements, if feasible. It’s been nice to connect (reconnect) on a small level in the midst of such a difficult year.

A month ago, I finished what is now referred to as the “worst part of my breast cancer treatment” so far — radiation therapy. The experience was so bad that I quit in the middle of it, only to coax myself to finish a negotiated reduced treatment course. I NEVER want to do radiation again.

Cancer treatment is not over. Every three weeks, I still have infusions of a drug called Herceptin. Herceptin is the only drug available that effectively treats my type of breast cancer, so I’m exceedingly glad that it was developed. Five more cycles of infusion therapy (which puts me finishing all treatment in July), and then I can focus on breast reconstruction surgery, which, I think (hope) will be the last step in this journey. According to blood work, almost all of my numbers are back to normal, which means that the good days outnumber the bad, though I do tire easily. Also, hoping to improve flexibility and strength in my upper body (post mastectomy), I will start physical therapy later this month.

The vibrancy of spring as new growth appears on the trees and blossoms bloom after a prolonged winter convalescence is the best encouragement — that and the continued kindness of friends who remember me in their prayers and written messages. Every day, I’m trying to return to life and thankful for my little part of it/in it, however small.

Enjoying an impromptu visit at home from some young neighbor friends

Exposed, hurting, lying on what seems like a narrow mortician’s table in a cavernous room, alone, encapsulated by an enormous machine shooting me with targeted radiation all in the name of cancer — I am a science experiment. Technicians come and go, twisting and adjusting my body, laying a heavy gelatinous slab over the scar where my breast used to be, asking if I am OK….I’m not. Every day. It exhausts me. I think I am strong, and yet when the all clear is given and it’s time to rise off the table, to leave my torture chamber, it feels exactly like trying to run away from a monster in a dream. My legs want to move but walking is slow and labored. I’m spent. Even though I have been technically released from the shackles of treatment, the heavy chains have really been piled in my arms, handed to me to carry until the next day, when I will be locked to the table once again. Day after day. Week after week. I hate radiation.

Friends drive me to and from the treatments. They sit in the small waiting area and do just that — wait. Yesterday, my driver was my neighbor and her precious four year old daughter. The four year old asked me how it was when I was finished with treatment. I told her that it was not fun, but that the doctor said it was medicine that I had to take, and that it makes me cry, and she said that she had a flu shot. Empathy — so sweet. “And did it make you cry?” I ask. “Yes, I did not like it.” “But was your mom there to hold your hand?” (To which mom said, “I was there to hold her whole body.”) “Yes,” she said. “And you know that she loves you, right?” “Yes.” “That’s what it’s like to have friends like you drive me to the doctor and wait for me and drive me home afterwards. It’s like the love you feel when your mom holds your hand when you are scared but have to take your medicine anyway, like your flu shot. I feel your love for me and it comforts me. So, thank you for taking me to the doctor today. You helped me take my medicine just by going with me and waiting for me.”

The entrance to my torture chamber

It came as quite a shock when I was in the clinic the other day, that getting a tattoo was part of the preparation process for radiation treatments. Actually, it’s five little tattoos marking the area that will be zapped for 15 minutes a day for six weeks. (Oh, by the way, radiation treatments start later this week.) I was really hoping that with my “pathologic complete response” report after surgery that radiation could be avoided altogether, but since the cancer is/was HER2 positive, and in my lymph nodes, radiation is still recommended as part of the overall treatment plan. To be honest, I’m more than a little apprehensive about radiation. It’s just one more small step for this woman, but it feels like a giant leap. It all feels like a giant leap. Like I’m on the moon and a mission control room full of doctors and insurance agents are deciding my future, whether I live or die, from thousands of miles away. Each decision they make directly impacts whether or not I’ll make it back home, to loved ones, to live life on earth. But here I am today, with my feet on the ground, and about to get zapped with radiation. I very much feel the gravity of the earth AND the situation. God bless them, I have enlisted a few friends to help with transportation to and from the radiation appointments — transportation, yes, but also for the moral support. (I don’t think I’ve told them that.)

In addition to radiation, the oncologist has added another drug to my infusion schedule, one which has caused a whole new round of side effects, though still not as bad as the chemicals used during the first six cycles of infusion. All of it — EVERYTHING — has slowed me down quite a bit — starting with the port placement last July to chemotherapy to surgery to more infusions and now to radiation — but I’m making it and doing as much living as I can when I can.

The doctors are pleased with my recovery from surgery and as such, I’m starting to use my arms beyond tiny t-rex motions again, and feel confident and well enough to socialize (on good days), and have a fuzzy selfie to prove it — proof positive that in between all of the bad, there’s a whole lot of good.

Looks like we all went to the same barber!

Four weeks post surgery, my “social life” consists of doctor visits and not much else. Doctor’s orders have severely limited my activity level which is a trial in and of itself for someone who likes to DO stuff. The doctor said not to lift anything heavier than a fork, after which I asked if I could have food on the end of the fork! (The answer was yes.) The instructions are really not to lift anything heavier than five pounds. A half gallon of milk is four pounds, so really, I’m not doing much at all….except browsing the internet….which has gotten me into a little bit of trouble. I can’t believe what I’m about to admit and I can’t believe that I fell for it.

It’s no secret that I enjoy all things vintage. Our home is very modestly filled with furniture found in estate sales, consignment shops, and garage sales. More than once I’ve “rescued” items from curbside (trash) and refurbished them and or repurposed them. The new term for this is upcycling. So, with that mindset in mind coupled with my limited mobility, the majority of my distractions in hunting and gathering has been on the internet — the great world wide web.

One can search for very specific items on the world wide web….for instance, vintage and estate jewelry. It can be very tempting to look, for instance on Instagram…..no harm there, remember, I’m restricted from manual labor, but Instagram led to Etsy. Oooh, look at all the pretty vintage jewelry on Etsy! So lovely, but, and this is how the thought process went, I bet I can find it cheaper on eBay. I wasn’t even SHOPPING for anything, just looking, but I’m very competitive, and when I saw a too-good-to-be-true auction item for .01 (plus $37.50 shipping),  I bid on it. And won. And got excited and bid on something else….plus $37.50 shipping. And won. And now, I’ve got two cheap pieces of probably plastic cracker box jewelry due to arrive anyday and I have regrets. Big regrets. Spending $37.50 x 2 is not fair to the lovely friends who have come along side us to support us in grand and small ways during this cancer journey/battle. It’s not fair to Reese who works hard every single day taking care of me in grand and small ways.

Reese is, of course, kind, gentle, and forgiving about the eBay purchases, which I hope to return. He understandably doesn’t want me bidding on anything else, but his grace towards me after I do something so foolish is one more example of why he IS the Amazing Reese.

Surgery to remove my breasts and lymph nodes was a little over a week ago. The surgeon called yesterday to tell me the results of the pathology. I burst into tears during my conversation with her. I immediately called Reese and burst into tears. And, moments later, burst into tears again while trying to relay to my parents what the surgeon had said on the phone. The news? Pathologic complete response after neoadjuvant therapy. What that means? In layman’s terms — no evidence of cancer in either of the removed breasts or lymph nodes! The tears were tears of relief. And joy. So much joy.

Doctor’s orders have me using my arms very little — think of tiny t-rex arms and their limited range of motion and you get an idea of how much I can do for myself (not much). There are a few other unpleasantries associated with recovery from the surgery, but they are manageable with lots of help from the Amazing Reese, and both mom and dad, who came to help after surgery. I’m overwhelmed in a good way with the super, terrific, incredibly great report from the pathology. I’m alive with the probability of an extended life, AND I’m home for Christmas. These last few months of hell have all been worth it.

me and dad and our matching hair dos

Hard to know what sort of update to post reagarding the cancer devil. Life isn’t rosy these days, but it is still sweet. Even though I was not in best form, my (54th!) birthday and our family gathering around Thanksgiving still happened. Laughter, tears, goodwill, love, conversation, and friendship were in abundance. Reese and I have been accepting the help offered to us from friends and especially family — help in the form of meals, cleaning, laundry, dog walking, and even Christmas tree installation. We’re much more accustomed to being the helpers instead of the helped, so everything seems out of whack, but that’s just the way it is for now.

The tumors aren’t shrinking from the chemotherapy as much as was expected — not great news. Other options are being discussed in addition to the already planned treatment path. Surgery is scheduled for the second week in December. Everything feels unnatural….almost like it is happening to someone else’s life, but it’s mine. Ours. The Amazing Reese and I are very much in this together. We certainly didn’t expect this tragedy in our lives, but years of loving one another for better or worse (this is definitely worse), for richer or poorer, in (this horrible) sickness and in health as long as we both shall live (how long do any of us have?) is making it easier to bear. Not easy, just easier.

In other news, a couple of my flower paintings are in an exhibit at MotherDog Studios in the warehouse district of downtown Houston through mid February. Knowing that I wouldn’t feel well enought to attend the opening during Art Crawl, I took some time before my last chemotherapy treatment to go see the show. It was well curated by John Runnels — no surprise there — and the studio is more that happy to welcome visitors and patrons of the arts during regular business hours.

Peonies Envy in MotherDog Studios

There are no days where the bulk of my thought processes are not somehow centered around the breast cancer in my body. Though none of us know the time or the place of our death (generally — there are a few exceptions), I certainly have been thinking of my life with a newfound awareness of its tenuousness. If I die tomorrow (not of cancer — just some random accident), I’m 98.9% content that I’ve lived the life I should have lived with the gifts, talents, place, time, and resources that have been entrusted to my care. That’s not to say that my life is 98.9% perfect, just that I’m content. There are a few more thank yous to voice, a few debts to pay, a few more things to do, and a few places I would have liked to visit on this earth, but by and large, it’s been a great life — including the adversity. So when I die, preferably later rather than sooner, know that I was grateful for my time here, for my place, and especially for my people, including everyone reading this. Thank you!

With my time yesterday, one of the sweet good days between chemotherapy treatments, I painted. (Only two more chemos to go — yay!) It’s something that I’ve wanted to do since my chemotherapy induced alopecia started — not only to document this incredibly personal event, but to take away some of the power it holds over my fragile ego. This feels like kind of a big deal.

It’s 18″ x 14″ oil on linen.

Sitting in the infusion chair is scary. People think I’m brave….but I’m not. I cry every time. In order to live, I have to do it, sit there and take my medicine, but it’s not easy. The Amazing Reese has been able to join me for every treatment so far, God bless him, but that’s a luxury and likely will not last. So today? I’m alive and grateful for it. In this year long journey, the first half of phase one is finished. The tumors have shrunk — significantly from the first treatment to the second, not so much from the second to the third treatment, but still shrinking. That’s a good thing.

Thank you to the community of people both near and far who continue to reach out with offers of help and kindness. Though it’s difficult, I’m trying not to compare my journey with others, because life isn’t fair, and in any other circumstance, I’d sit and empathize with you about your aunt who lived for five years after a breast cancer diagnosis but died, right now I just can’t afford to listen to those stories. For whatever reason, even the good stories can be overwhelming. I love people and value kindness above all, and appreciate that people don’t know what to say to me, but maybe just being kind is enough. Maybe we don’t always have to talk about cancer. Maybe we can just be.

Thanks for understanding.