Small Town Charm

Sweet Baby B stayed home this weekend. I arose on Saturday, swept Bu into my arms and headed outside to my Mom's trailer. We visited for a short while and I carried Bu back into the house and made her breakfast. I looked into her face and realized... she can't go! I burst into tears and began telling Richard how painful a day without her is. Even when I was in the hospital, I spent the majority of each day with her, with the support of my family. I can't have it any other way. I am still relatively well and have energy, so it does not make sense to be without her.

I took my emotional show on the road, and went back out to the trailer to explain -through sobs- that Bu would have to stay here. My poor Mom started to apologize, in case I took her the wrong way, that she was only trying to give me a break, and not steal Bu away from me. She is without a doubt, the best type of support anyone could have in my situation. She's there for any times that I would need her, intuitive at times when I wasn't even aware I needed her, and gives me space for all the rest of the time. She hasn't imposed herself for even a minute of this journey, and I then felt bad for making it sound like it would have been a complete honor for her to babysit my child all weekend. We continued our cycle of apologies for a few moments before I settled into talking about the despair I had felt the night before. Talk about an emotional breakthrough! I hadn't been crying for the first 2 weeks of treatment, and all weekend, I allowed myself to let the tears flow. My Mom and Lauren (sister) were a very appropriate audience for such an unconstrained moment. I had a similar moment with Cassandra (sister) a couple of nights previous, but that was out of anger. This weekend was purely, passionately, sorrowful.

That's not to say we didn't have fun. We had a lovely encounter with the folks residing in Dundurn. There was a colorful Canada Day Celebration that boasted a military display, a 'car smash' (2 cars, a sledgehammer and young men with muscle shirts and apparent rage), a moonbounce, preserves, pineapple pie, beer gardens in a lovely barn, a greenhouse display and archery. When we arrived, a fellow in a jean, cut-off shirt that remained unbuttoned to display several faded tattoos, listed off all of the events. He also purchased the fireworks that were to go off at night; the man loves a party. Some friends met us there and we walked the grounds, taking in all that the celebration had to offer. An egg toss started, so we decided to join in. Truthfully, I had never 'tossed' an egg, but why not? After 26 years, it was high time I tried. Apparently, Lauren and I are rather good at it! We took a step back after every toss (more than the other contestants- we were further apart), and would have won if my last catch didn't contribute to the demise of our poor egg.

Shortly after the festivities, Lauren and Mom went home and my house was quiet, as Bu was sleeping. I was delighted when Richard came home, and he informed me his was playing at the soiree that night. As a respected member of the town council, it was his duty to announce the winner of the Town Slogan Contest (which was my idea). Dundurn: A Place to Grow. This is certainly true for me. And my family.

In a small town, time moves slowly- as if to allow for one to savour every sweet moment. I feel relief every time I drive away from the city. I love Saskatoon, but it is a nice place to go to, and not for me to exist. I believe this little community was the best place for us to buy our first home. When we started our house hunt a year and a half ago, something told me to veer off the highway on my way home from Regina. I fell in love with the overhanging trees on main street, the quiet parks and the neighbourly waves I received. Something told me this was where we needed to be.

And here we are. It isn't convenient for anyone to have to travel back and forth for my daily radiation treatments. And it takes organization to remember every little thing before going to and from the city. But it is a retreat- a place to get away from noise and people. I need this safe haven right now.

We had a few good friends stop by for visits. Bu seems to like hosting people here, something that rarely happened before. She is delighted when someone comes through the door, and no doubt has expectations of entertainment. Life is good. I feel better after allowing some sorrow to slip out of my heart. I will have to work on bringing more to the surface. But for now, I am going to stand outside and let some rain fall on my face. Having a shaved head provides so much freedom somehow- I used to avoid getting my thick, long hair wet at times. I feel so much more equipped to be spontaneous and pounce on opportunities nowadays.

Dancing in the rain,

M

Relative Acceptance (June 30th, 2011)

I am currently experiencing the darkest mood I have ever encountered. It is a dangerous thing to try to communicate at a time like this, and journaling these moments has felt very off-putting in the past. I realized not long ago, that I have shared most of the more pleasant sides of what I am going through, and well, that's not exactly a true account, now is it?

I fear I am in true despair. I feel very unbalanced. My body is literally toxic right now. My urine could injure someone if it came into contact with skin. It is a hopelessly depressing fact that I am chemically charged right now. Not to mention the radiation. My God. My mouth is starting to get so sore that talking is painful. I am on day 2 of a strickly-liquid diet, as food is impossible to eat. I can take medications to numb my mouth, but they are tragically temporary- long enough to get some calories and protein down the hatch. I have been warned that I must not lose even a pound a week, as I will have a feeding tube inserted in my stomach. Naturally, I am determined in my efforts to stay out of that category. I diligently consume the 2,500 calories and 98 grams of protein recommended by my nutritionist. My nausea is supposed to subside soon, but then I have another chemotherapy cycle to begin in a week and it will all start again. The delicate inner lining of my mouth is peeling and blistering from chemotherapy or radiation, or likely both. The parts of my mouth that don't yet have sores feel sunburned and extremely sensitive, making the 4-5 times a day brushing of the teeth routine very much dreaded. I am experiencing ringing in my ears constantly, water tastes like metal (everything does, really), I'm tired, irritable, menopausal... Everything feels fairly difficult right now. Once I start complaining, I can't stop. So I don't travel this road very often... and rarely out loud.

The worst part of this has to be that in the back of my mind, I question, 'why me?'. I'm a 26 year old female. This type of cancer is an 'old man cancer'. I don't even have the more treatable oral cancer of HPV. I have your average, run of the mill, locally advanced squamous cell carcinoma that 80 year old men get because they have smoked pipes their entire lives. The only probable answer ever given to me was that it was likely caused when I was 7 and accidentally drank a cleaner on the farm. The scar tissue in my mouth and throat could cause abnormal cell development, but why it is so aggressive right now is a mystery. So, scientifically, it is indeed baffling. Spiritually, I can admit that I feel I am on a quest. I have gone very deep within myself to connect with the Universe. I find this part of the journey to be entirely profound. But that is for another day. Right now, I feel I need to address the despair in my heart.

In my 'why me?' moments -of which there are several, daily- I feel a silent envy of others. Anything could trigger it, and it is not always the same things. One day, I may genuinely only feel happiness when I see people having fun -and the next, I feel jealous that my carefree days are replaced with intense reminders of my mortality. I am on an entirely different level than most people. All I think about is living, and being alive. I have not allowed myself to look at too much on facebook these days, as hearing about everyone's summer plans nearly always evokes jealousy. While I would love to report that I am spending time in the sun, going on holidays and attending weddings, or other lovely social functions, I am really hiding from people because my white blood cell count is low, and I'm going to radiation everyday, and I'm too sick to care for my daughter. It's not that I can't be reminded of the joy in the world, but it just hurts too much. And I'm so early in to this journey that I really must protect myself from feeling so badly. It is only going to get worse from here. It's so difficult to imagine, but I see it everyday at the cancer clinic.

The people I have met there are undergoing various forms of treatment, but we are a community. The strength I see in the confines of that space is truly inspiring. It is rather difficult to witness, however. The thing I was the most afraid of when I was on the cusp of this 'battle', was that I was beginning to fade away. I will fade. My light, my spirit, my energy, my physical self, my emotional self- every part of me will fade. And I know I will brighten up eventually (I feel there is no other real possibility), but the thought of fading is frightening.

I have absolutely no energy to give to anyone right now. I am maxed out when I get up and take on my task of drinking water and starting my oral hygiene regime. My family supports me to get further on in my day, and I am so grateful that my daughter has barely noticed so far that everyone has stepped in to be her primary caregivers in my absence. We are a tight, cohesive unit. But it still pains me that I can't just be a normal mom. That I can't kiss her in fear of getting a debilitating cold.

I am just a fading light. Others keep lending me their energy all the time. I should be more grateful, but I feel a very real anger inside of me. One that I must address soon, or I fear I will hit a wall. I go through my day in such a haze, that I feel numb to most of the pain or annoyances I have just described. I am so angry that this is Boudicca's first year of life and I have to deal with missing out on being her Mom so I can take care of my own survival. None of this is fair. I have made my amends, making peace with everyone, and when I find I didn't go deep enough, I start all over again. I appreciate every little thing in this Universe. I have changed. I am becoming my true self. I forfeited most of my tongue 4 months ago, and with it, my self-confidence, ability to speak and communicate effectively. I emerged from that ordeal with a strengthened resolve to overcome my insecurities and find ways to cope. When I finally accepted that fate, I got told the cancer had spread and was impossibly large. I had a major surgery to remove all of the lymph nodes on the left side of my neck, limiting my mobility (among several other things, too numerous to mention). Then I found out that I had stage 4 cancer and would need to quickly begin treatment to save my life. I am as resilient as they come... and I am overwhelmed right now. My life is foreign on the surface. When I think about who I was 4 months ago, it is so incredibly different from who I am today. I am not saying it is all bad, and truthfully, deep down, I know I will be at peace someday again. But right now, with praise to allah... it is really bizarre. Problems that were so significant before have really taken a backseat. When you are reminded how precious life is, you really begin to pay attention to how much you crave living. I am not necessarily afraid of dying personally. But the impact my death would have on my daughter terrifies me to the core. I am not done teaching her (or learning from her). I simply have to be there for her even a little longer. It will take a miracle for me to live another 5 years. My cancer will almost definitely return in that time, I have been warned. Oh, but if it doesn't.... a more grateful person could not exist. I have a shelf life. I've been told of what will happen if the cancer spreads to any of my organs. 9-12 months is the best I could hope for at that point. 6 months if I opt not to get chemotherapy. I am still shaken by my medical oncologist's words.

So when people say, 'you'll be fine... you're strong', I silently cringe. Strength has only a little to do with this outcome. Fate, attitude, trust, faith, etc are all vital. I know I am strong. But there is a very real possibility I may not be fine. Failure to acknowledge this is spawned out of fear, and I realize why people are not comfortable addressing it. I sound judgemental, and I am not trying to be. I may have said the same thing to someone before I went through this.

Well, my incoherent rant is nearing its end. I have exhausted myself emotionally, and must rest. Saturday will be the first full day I will have without seeing my daughter. She leaves tomorrow with my Mom to go to Swift current for the weekend and I must rest up so that I may spend time with her in the morning before she goes. I am almost sick over being without her... Sweet B.

Good night. Namaste.

Monday, Monday (June 20th, 2011)

I started this Monday morning receiving Radiation Therapy at 9:00 sharp. It didn't go too badly, though I believe that was due to the attivan I dutifully ingested an hour prior. I daresay that I was able to meditate and nearly fell asleep! It was almost like being in a tanning bed. I was afraid of the experience, not knowing what the equipment looked like, or the staff, or the act of receiving radiation into my body... not as devastating as I thought... so far.

Immediately following, we went back upstairs to receive chemotherapy. We waited for about an hour and I was hooked up t an IV by 11:00 AM. I shared a room with a woman from Cadillac, and my father was in his glory, as he chatted with her about mutual acquaintances. He really is a delight in conversation, and it was nice to have the background chatter. My Mom was quite concerned the entire time and ensured I was as comfortable as possible. I hung out in the strange room for hours, receiving 5 or 6 litres of fluid into my body. I honestly don't even know what all of it was, pre-chemo concoctions to support my kidneys and liver functions, a lot of saline fluid, anti-nauseants, and then the infamous Cisplatin (chemo). I wondered if I would be able to tell an immediate difference, and I could not. It maybe burned a little bit, but that is being picky. At around 4:00, a nurse came in to give me some options. I could keep going on this way, with one IV and be done at 7:30, or they could start another one and we could be done in an hour and a half. I naturally opted to get out of there sooner, collect my daughter sooner and be home. The unfortunate part of this is that I have tiny veins, and have already cursed them when I have had to be poked by needles 7 times to try and get a line in. Today was no exception. I only received 3 poked before getting one in on my inner wrist. We were out of there at 5:30 and grateful to be done a full day. Bu had a great time at her boyfriend Luca's house. I am grateful for my dear friend Joanna, as I don't have to worry about Bu's happiness or comfort at a time like this. She fits in well there.

Day one down. 6 more weeks of treatment and at least 4 more weeks of healing before I will feel better. Here we go...

Microscopic Points of Interest (June 8th, 2011)

I am a reluctant member of the Cancer Community. I just came from the Cancer Clinic- I was fitted for the radiation mask that I will be wearing at least 30 times, as that is how many therapy sessions I will encounter through this next leg of the journey. It was a bizarre experience, claustrophobic (though I am not) and strangely comforting. My heart was full of fury the only other time I went to the clinic, I dared the Universe to have the audacity to make me endure even more pain and heartache with my 'battle'. Of course, I had an inkling that my fate was sealed when I was given 'My Radiation Plan' before the radiation oncologist entered the room. All I could think of is not being able to take Bu swimming this summer, having to stop breastfeeding, not being able to care for her for months. I was furious indeed when it was confirmed. I listened to the expert tell me what I was about to experience, the many side effects associated with it, and I asked several questions that I had mapped out on looseleaf on the drive up to Saskatoon. I only broke down once: when I asked if it would affect future plans to have children.

This second encounter of the clinic felt similar as I entered. I felt, nay was unapproachable. Having come from an appointment with my surgeon to get an ulcer on my tongue looked at (recommended by the dentist I saw prior... all this morning) and to get a prescription for the tonsillitis that had been brewing for two days already, I was in no mood to be around anyone. I had just been told that after radiation and chemotherapy, my chances of survival were at 50%, because the cancer was so advanced. Two people, the same cancer, and one would die within 5 years. I desperately want to reach the plateau of Boudicca remembering me, and then naturally, I would want to see her off on her first day of school, support her when friendships go awry, be the Mother-of-the-bride... I will not be satisfied with leaving her too soon.

The poor, young girls who were performing the mask fitting made the mistake of asking about my daughter, as it was marked in my file. I burst into tears and explained that I simply was not able to accept that I was about to go down this path. I was at a loss for words, just caught up in disbelief. So many people offered to be with me at the appointment, and I declined as I thought it was 'no big deal'. It apparently was.

I got the mesh-like plastic moulded to my face and it was so tight I could not open my eyes, smile, or move a muscle in my face. The feeling of it creeped me out. How on Earth will I summon the strength and patience to go half an hour, being bolted down by my neck and shoulders, with a hard, plastic face mask and receive radiation? It's depressing and anxiety-causing. The girls informed me that most people have to take attivan, and I made yet another appointment to get a prescription so I could relax.

I go for a CT scan tomorrow, where I will wear my new wares and get some skeletal and microscopic points of interest of my head and neck mapped out. I have to be at the RUH lab by 7 tomorrow morning. I've already had 7 appointments in 3 days (2 of them being dental work- I had to get a fluoride tray fitting, and sealants on my teeth to protect them from radiation, as my enamel will be stripped off). I have 2 appointments tomorrow and counting. Things only get more intense from here on in, and I am rather intimidated by this medical intervention. A part of me is purchasing a plane ticket for my husband, daughter and myself to fly away to an island to live out the rest of my days in uninterrupted bliss. Must I really face this head on right now?

Balance

I am going through a truly remarkable phase in my life... cancer. It has made me feel all emotions deeper and stronger than I ever could have imagined- I feel alive more now that I am being confronted by my own mortality.

My summer will consist of an intense treatment plan to absolve my Stage IV cancer. I will be surrounded by loved ones- my Mom will be here full time, my sisters and Dad will rotate in and out, and dear friends have lined up to support all of us through this time. The sweetest part is that my parents have parked their 5^th wheel trailer in my backyard, giving me full access to my family but with the comfort of being alone with my immediate family at night time; the best of both worlds! The type of support I am being given could literally not be exceeded. I am a lucky woman at an unlucky time.

My eyes are opening. My world is becoming more precious. I am humbled, grateful, scared and quietly confident. Everyday I have significant realizations about life, and I am aware of the spiritual path I have embarked on. I am fortunate to be able to look past my present pain to see my destiny. No matter the outcome, this is the journey I am meant to have, and the result will be me finding my true self.

Everything is bittersweet, all is in balance.