Yoga Mat Island

Ah, summer vacation. Even with this year, with my sleeping excessively and crazy schedule, I still both recognize and appreciate summer vacation. It is a time to relax, a time to be slow, a time to be still even.

I have started this summer with a series of spa appointments. It is my version of alternative medicine. Often while I get my facials and massages, Eastern music plays and my therapist uses lotions and potions that smell of eucalyptus and lavender and for me, this is as close to organic healing as it gets. I am not only comfortable with the human touch; I welcome it as long as it is in that little spa room. Oh sweet spa lady, please charm those toxins out of my body. Hydrate my skin with love and sweet smelling goodness. Even my pedicures and manicures have turned into necessary medical appointments, especially now that my nails have gone all funky with the chemo. I have weird rings on my nails. My oncologist threatens that some nails may just come off the nail bed…to not be alarmed. Oh hell, I think. So I go to my spa and have them painted bright corals and think I’ll appreciate these nails while I have them.

I also started going to a yoga class, too…yoga for relaxation. I have only been to two classes, but I know I am hooked. I love the poses. I love feeling the muscles in my body come to life. I love the slowness, the deliberateness of it. I feel so calm, so in control. When I am done with the class, I have the same feeling as after a massage, only I paid like $10 verses $100 and no one touched me. Well, that isn’t true. The yoga teacher has to touch me often to get my body in the right pose and sometimes there is partner stuff, but I don’t count that. I feel very isolated in yoga but in a good way. I feel like I am on my own little yoga mat island, where my body is a machine and not some defective effed up vessel. I feel so present, and I get to talk to God with my breathe and my consciousness and my spirit…and that bad mojo is just dissipating off of me AND it is dark so even though there is a mirror right in front of me reflecting my bald, uncoordinated self, I can barely see myself and in the low light and my all black outfit, I look strong. Plus, maybe, just maybe, this alternative Eastern medicine thing works, and I am cured!

Being a wanna be hippy myself, I have lots of friends and acquaintances recommend alternative medicine to me. Have I tried acupuncture/herbs/juicing/vegan diet/eating seaweed?...You get the picture. It isn’t that I am against it. I just trust Western conventional medicine as well. I goggled the latest chemo drug they are giving me, Taxol, and guess what? Taxol is a natural product, comes from the tree bark of the Pacific Yew. I think it must be synthetically manufactured by now. There are only so many Pacific Yews out there, after all. The thing is that it doesn’t get more natural than tree bark. So even my Western medicine is pretty alternative. Now who decided to go get tree bark and put it in a solution and inject it into my body twelve times is another story…and why this is seen as a good profitable idea (even though it is) and smoking marijuana is illegal is also weird to me. None the less, tree bark has bought me more time and now chemo doesn’t seem so brutal to me. It is just nature helping nature in a really weird, insane way.

Just like spa visits and yoga and chemo, good old Sunday morning church is also a part of my medicine. I really go almost solely for the Eucharist, truly believing that the little wafer and drop of wine are healing me. I figured I have covered all the bases. Meditation, reflexology, tree bark, and Christ’s body and blood. That should pretty much cover it. And as I lay silent and relaxed on my yoga mat, I hear the voice of the divine. “Be still and know that I am God.” I know, and now is a good moment. It is the best moment. 

OM.

The Watcher

Caleb wrote this for school. He is my son and 10 years old.

THE WATCHER

Hi, I'm the watcher; I watch all that moves and stays.

The most interesting thing I've seen was the battle of disease, it's always the disease verses hope. If anything the most dreadful battle is cancer verses hope. I remember when I first saw them both. I saw cancer first; he was like an invisible man wearing a cowl and tunic. The tunic was all black with smoke trailing around it; the black smoke was the souls he killed. His cowl reached down to a cape that was completely black except for the symbols in the middle, it was a purple ribbon with a circle around it and a cross slashing through it. When I saw him he was choking on an innocent civilian, he was begging for mercy but no one helped.

Then hope came, light came out of the clouds and it came down as a big circle of light and it absorbed cancer. Ever since then hope won most of the time. And I hope that he will absorb all of cancer and there will be no more.

I am the watcher, I watch all, and I have hope.

Sunny Side of Life

Yesterday was a great day. It was one of those memory days. You know, years from now when my kids think of their family, they will think of this day. My oldest son had a small awards ceremony in a beach town. We toured a beautiful college campus, went to his ceremony, took ridiculous amounts of photos and then checked in at a beach hotel. We swam in the pool. We walked on the beach. We ate a delicious gourmet dinner and got ice cream later. We swam some more. Everyone was so happy. Later, at night, when we went for our final 9pm swim in the pool, Caleb asked me to race him underwater. When I told him I didn’t want to get my head wet because of my scarf, he told me to just take the scarf off. His words, “Mom, nobody cares if you wear something on your head. Nobody even cares.” That was a great moment. Another was when Levi commented walking down the beach, “I’m glad I won that award so we could have this great day.” Modest one, that kid.

Caleb’s comment about my bald head got me thinking. Here I thought cancer had robbed me of something, stripped me of my true identity. It turns out though that my family has always seen the same me. Cancer has allowed me to truly seize the day- to take insane photos of my kid getting a certificate, to relish a late night swim, to savor that scoop of mint chocolate chip. Thank you, cancer.

I am in such a good mood that I am not even dreading tomorrow, chemo day. They graciously moved it a day later for me so I could have my mini-vacation. It’s okay though. While I am looking on the sunny side, I am going to think of all the good things this situation has delivered to me.

1.      I get ridiculous amounts of mail and mostly, this is a good thing. I will single handedly keep the United States Postal Service in business. Every day I open my mailbox, I get a few medical bills, yes, but I also always get a few get well cards. I have been saving all my cards and get well letters in a box. Someday, when this over, I will make a collage or something of all the sentiments. For now, I just open the box periodically and marvel at all the people that love me. Thank you, cancer.

2.      Last year around this time, I was visiting Jenny Craig every week and buying overpriced, reduced calorie frozen food. Last week, when my old Jenny Craig lady called to see if I wanted to start the program again, I was able to tell her, nope. I vaguely told her that I was able to lose that final fifteen pounds “on my own.” I am down the weight and my foobs look perky. Thank you, cancer.

3.      Because I am spending every week in the cancer center getting several hours of chemo, I get a lot of reading time. I am very up to date on ALL the latest magazines. The cancer center has them all, too. I also have been able to watch lots and lots of Netflix. Thanks to cancer, I have watched some great television that I might have otherwise missed including Samantha Who, Downton Abbey, Hot in Cleveland and most seasons of Lost. That is $8 a month well spent.

4.      Because of all the meals my friends have so graciously prepared and delivered to me, I now have an insane amount of Tupperware. I also have some great cooks as friends.

5.      Chemo makes you super dry. For the first time in my life, I have actually been through entire tubes of lip balm. I don’t like wasting things so for whatever reason, this makes me very happy. For all you friends that gave my Burt’s Bees and the like, I used them all completely. Thank you! AND I now know my signature scent is peppermint. (Not Chanel No. 5 or something from Estee Lauder…just peppermint). I have always wanted a signature scent.

6.      Because of cancer, I have met some fabulous people. From my doctors to survivors to fellow patients, I have connected with people that I might never have known. I used to ride by all those medical buildings and wonder who goes in there. Now I know. I go there and so do some wonderful people with their loved ones and magazines and crocheted hats. I am so much more aware now of other people…so much more compassionate. Thank you, cancer.

Last night, my family all slept very tightly in a hotel room in two queen beds. I loved it. I loved having Ken so close. I loved being able to watch my boys sleep. In a weird way, we have been lucky. If cancer hadn’t entered our lives, I might not know how much my husband loves me. I am in awe of his great big heart. There are nights that I fall asleep holding his hand and when I wake, he is still holding my hand. I am calling my parents more often. We are taking the time to really talk to each other. I am so conscious of all the love and support I get from my friends and family every day.

I’m so silly. Cancer didn’t take away “Anna” at all. It unveiled me and has revealed to me this wonderful world. So there’s the silver lining. Let’s see if I am still celebrating cancer tomorrow…

Passing

So I have a step father-in-law that is a professor. Years ago when he was teaching African American studies, he wrote a chapter for some book. We were at the beach that summer, enjoying family and summertime. He asked me to read his chapter. I remember it was on “passing.” I had never heard that term before then. “Passing” refers to a person classified as a member of one racial group but attempting to be classified by another. In the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries, some people of mixed race “passed” themselves off as solely white. While reading his chapter, I immediately thought of an old movie Imitation of Life. I had watched that movie sometime in my childhood. VCRs had just come out. My family had gotten one, and we found ourselves in the video store picking movies every Friday night. My mom directed me to all the classics. I watched all the Gidgets, Where the Boys Are, and…Imitation of Life. It was fun to see the old movies with my mom. I distinctly remember Imitation of Life. It was about a light-skinned daughter that spends her life trying to pass as white, much to her mom’s shame. I cried and cried during that movie. All of these memories- reading the chapter, the movie, the idea of passing- came back to me today. They came back to me with a huge wave of melancholy.

I am on my sixth month of living with cancer. Much of this time, I have concentrated my efforts on just showing up. The months after surgery and of the red devil, showing up took all I had, but the good news is that I am feeling better and better every day. This second round of chemo is much easier to handle. (I am done with the red devil and am now receiving a drug called Taxol.) Because I am feeling better, I have graduated to wanting more than to just show up.

Saturday, my kids were invited to go to a water park all day to celebrate their service as acolytes to the church. Temporarily forgetting myself, I committed my entire family to go. I want things to be normal. I want to celebrate my children. I want to see them laugh and run and come down a waterslide, but when I got there and faced a full day in a sunny, crowded water park, I had second thoughts. I probably spent an hour in the changing room. I had my bathing suit and rash guards and scarves and big floppy sun hat. I had my big sunglasses. I quickly found a chair in the shade, under an umbrella and I got through the entire day, trying to “pass” as someone healthy. I hoped that my big gigantic hat hid the fact that I have no hair. I slathered SPF100 on me with hopes that the sun wouldn’t react with the chemicals in my body. I tried not to rub my leaky, runny left eye and I let Ken and my sons fetch me multiple cups of water…and we had a fabulous day.

Sunday, we went to church. I put on a nice dress and I actually wore my wig. I hate the wig, but again, I was hoping to appear healthy. I was hoping that this Mother’s Day we could forget about this stupid sickness and its aftermath. I wish I had picked out a more subtle wig from the onset to be honest. (I bought two very red-haired wigs, one short and one long). In the beginning, I was thinking I’d be very Samantha-Sex-in-the-City with a pink wig and flamboyant scarves, but these days, I just want to go to the Olive Garden without everybody looking at me. I just want to pass. Every day for the last couple of weeks, I have just wanted to pass. I don’t want to appear tired. I don’t want to be bald. I don’t want to be late to things because I got tied up in the bathroom. No, I don’t want that.

I hated that girl in that movie. How dare she shame her mama like that. She should be proud of her race, proud of her mama. I feel like a hypocrite now. My hatred for pink ribbons is another way I am trying to pass for healthy. I lie to myself. I am a girl with breast cancer. This Friday, I will go with my son to Lakeland’s Relay for Life. His entire class is going. They have raised awareness and money for this disease. They have done this for me and others like me. On Friday, I will walk the laps and I will not hide. I am hoping I have the courage to go bald. The truth is that it is exhausting, this “passing”. It is exhausting and it makes cancer something shameful, and it isn’t shameful at all.

People Watching

So here we go again. As I sit in the cancer center waiting room, it strikes me how similar it is to an airport. First you check in, and then they take your blood. If your lab work comes back okay, they give you a ticket to ride, literally. They give you a slip of paper with your chemo orders on it that you pass to a nurse, then you sit in a waiting room and wait for a chair to open up in the infusion room. Not much to do except read House Beautiful, glance up at Price is Right and people watch...unless you are Ken, who kills his time in the puzzle corner. Then they call your name and you are assigned a recliner and plugged in for the long ride.

I am going to describe my fellow cancer patients to you. In order to protect their privacy, I'll speak in stereotypes. It is the same sort of crowd every time.

There are the old married couples. One member of the team is the cancer patient and the other is the loud, busy advocate- making sure their sweet honey bunny has plenty of warm blankets and their favorite starlight mints and a word search book. They discuss common everyday matters. Did you remember to turn off the coffee maker? So and so called and will meet us at Perkins for lunch. I love these folks. They always bless my heart and ask about my kids.

There are the single ladies. Characteristically, these ladies are also the I-embrace-the-pink-ribbon types. We are talking head to toe pink- pink shirts, pink hats, "Save the ta-ta's" buttons, pink bags. They sort of remind me of Gator fans only they are Team Komen all the time. They talk loud on their cell phones and chat up the social worker. God bless them, too, because they hand knit me pink hats right there on the spot and make me spell my full name so they can add me to their church prayer list. I imagine they lead their ladies auxiliary group, too, given the courage they have to wear their cancer like that.

Occasionally, there are the young hipsters with cancer. They spend the entire time texting or whatev on their cell phones. They wear flip flops and are quiet and get every look of sympathy in the room. I particularly appreciate one young guy last week who was next to me. Because he wore flip flops, I was able to study his feet and noticed he, too, had dark areas on his toe knuckles. (I am not sure "toe knuckles" is the correct terminology.) Here I was thinking I just had really dirty feet or spending too much time in cheap Payless shoes. Turns out, toe ridges are a side effect of chemo. Thanks, random Abercrombie guy.

The saddest cases are the fight-for-my-right to party types. I see a lot of super skinny people denied chemo because their blood counts aren't good or something. Contrary to what you might think, most people fight hard to get the chemo anyway. One, the crap is saving your life and two, you are already there and mentally ready to go. They had to already stick you to get the blood work. Who wants to come back and do it all again tomorrow? Uh...nobody. One time this guy got all plugged in and quickly asked for a coke and some Cheetos. He was scarfing those delicious orange snacks down when the nurse returned and snatched them away, telling him that his blood sugar was sky high. Poor guy was begging for that damn coke, just like I've heard some beg for the chemo. Most of the time, when it gets confrontational like that, the nurses get the doctor. The oncologist will chew your butt right out in front of everybody. If you keep at it though, they'll give you your chemo, Cheetos, coke, anyway. We own these bodies after all. Hell, I think if you demanded it enough, those nurses would bring you a Bud Light and a cigarette.

What do we all have in common? Well, besides cancer. Just like a long flight, all us patients got our eyes on the bathroom. You have to stake out the bathroom right away. There are two restrooms for like thirty people. We are all hooked up to fluids, we all get our soda and snack, and we are all here for a couple of hours at least. It takes a lot of planning. You have to get the nurse to unplug your iv, and then you have to be ready to roll your drugs and it's stand through very crowded recliners and bags and people to the bathroom...and you have to beat your competitors. Otherwise, you could be waiting fifteen more minutes. Sometimes people get stuck in there for whatever reason. Oh the drama.

Today, I am among another stereotype- the cancer patients with their iPads. All of us in the "green" group today are busy touching away on our screens. We got one sleeper in our group, today. (I call them sleepers...they are the ones that get Benadryl in their iv). I opted out of Benadryl today, too much going on in the infusion room...plus it slows down my fast break to the bathroom.

We are one motley crew here. Bless our hearts.

Me, Myself, and I

I am here at the cancer center receiving my fifth chemotherapy treatment. This time I decided to come alone. Many, many friends volunteered to come with me. Ken, of course, wanted to come. No, I told them. I wanted to be here alone. I didn't want to fill the space with distracting talk. I didn't want to share the cold, sterile walls of the infusion room. I wanted some me time.

After this one, I have eleven more chemo treatments. I will have X-rays and bone scans and more tests the rest of my life. I will have more surgeries. This is a given. This is a life once cancer enters it. Even without cancer ever entering the picture, I still have more hardships and trials in my future. We all do. It is time to deal with my codependency issues and tap into my inner warrior. I need to know that if I need to, I can do it alone, and believe me, I know that because of my awesome support team, I never have to do it alone.

As a mother, I often have to send my kids into battle, "toughing them up" as we sometimes say. I have dropped my kid off at summer sleep away camp, knowing full well he hated being away from home and his own private bathroom. I have listened to my boys play badly in violin concerts, watched tears fall from their eyes onto their violins, felt their humiliation and regret for not preparing adequately enough for the performance. I have seen my son strike out at a tournament baseball game. I have seem them not get a call back after auditions, after painfully singing solo in front of strangers. Just this past September, I had to send my oldest son to a new school. I watched him with his new clothes and backpack board a school bus that was taking him to a new experience, full of new faces, locker rooms, and long bus rides. This family...we know how to do hard.

My mom must have said to me a million times since my diagnosis , "I would sure do this for you if I could." I know you would, mom. I know because you love me and that's how people feel about the ones they love, but mom, I have to hold the bat myself. I have to be the one at home plate, but don't worry. I have been watching you. I have seen you get through tough times- most notably the death of Derek. I watched you plow through the pain with grace and courage. My mom is one steel magnolia.

And now, my kids are watching me.

Fear and Loathing.

There is a line in Hunger Games (the movie) where Peeta says, "If I am going to die, I still want to be me." Or something like that. He is talking about how the games may change him, how he may have to kill people, etc. The quote occurs very early in the movie and it had me crying through the rest of it. Cancer is my own "hunger game." I am fighting so hard, and cancer will change you. It changes you physically. It changes you emotionally. I have lost myself in this fight.

For one, my body ain't mine anymore. Whose "boobs" are these? I have no freaking hair. I told my friend the other day that I was going to ask my doc about all these damn freckles. I am sure chemo is causing a massive freckle outbreak. My friend laughed her butt off. She tells me I have always had freckles. I have?

I have headaches all the time. I am sure the chemo is wreaking havoc on my brain. I can't think of words. My sentences get stuck in my throat. Where was I going with that thought? I tackled my college's math problem of the week a few days again and got stumped. What if this medicine is making me stupid? Who am I without my mind? I feel like I am living "Flowers of Algernon." Remember that book? Does the fact that I remember it make me less stupid? I think it does and am temporarily relieved.

I am tired. So tired. You aren't a good warrior when you are tired. The "me" I want to be isn't lazy. (I am sure like the freckles though that I have always had a little lazy in me.) I can't have this cancer situation turn me into someone else. I guess the truth is I never really thought about "me" before this. I am not talking about Anna the teacher or Anna the mom or Anna from eastern North Carolina...just plain old me. Who is Anna? She isn't her boobs. (I once was! I had a good run with that rack.) I am more than a thinker, more than a feeler.

I remember in a college ancient philosophy class, my professor talked about the concept of a university. What made a university? Was it a group of buildings? We all agreed that it wasn't just a group of buildings. My professor looked right at me in that class and asked me what made me Anna. When I was a little baby in a crib, was that still me? Yes, I replied. Still me. I think of that scene all the time now. This body with my poor excuse for boobs and no hair is still me. This body will change many times before it ends. My mind will go through its own transformations. Still me.

Also recently, I watched another movie- "Rum Diaries" which besides giving me Johnny Depp eye candy, gave me more to contemplate. Mainly, I've been thinking about Hunter S. Thompson. What a weird dude...weird when he was sober, weird when he wasn't. Yet this guy had some essence that certainly made him Hunter S. Thompson. So do I. So do you. I can't help but like crazy old Hunter S. Thompson.

Here is Hunter S. Thompson's suicide note (and don't worry, I am NOT in danger of that. Please.)

"No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun -- for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax -- This won't hurt."

I feel the weird guy's pain. My changes are no fun and boring, too, but I, unlike crazy man, I got hope. I am not out of rum, and if this blog post seems looney-tune and incoherent to you...well, blame it on the chemo.