Out (August 15th, 2011)

I am out.  Among the normal people who go places and have things to do that don’t revolve around a medication schedule.  Around my daughter who expects every ounce of energy that I can muster.  In a space that has privacy.  I am at my parent’s farm and I can hardly believe the version of myself that I became.  I was fearful of leaving the hospital and joining the outside world.  I felt like I shouldn’t be leaving a safe, sterile place that has all of the assistance I could ever need; I became dependent on the institutional atmosphere.  Now that I am a few days out, I am becoming more human.

I went for a walk yesterday and had to wave away mosquitos.  I grinned inwardly at the thought that I had even missed these pests.  All of the things that make a person feel alive, both good and bad, are vital in bringing comfort and adding that extra dash of vitality.  In the void of the hospital, I rarely missed a dose of dilaudid (a painkiller)- if I could mask the pain and be numb, I certainly did.  I felt like allowing the time to pass and just lay in a hospital bed until I (or more often, my Mom) talked myself in to going for a walk.  I became detached from feeling and being.  I was waiting for October, when I could expect to feel better. 

I am now in the thick of the pain.  The side effects of radiation accumulate and build until after the treatment ends.  The first night of being out, I vomited all night and became severely dehydrated; I was terribly afraid that I simply couldn't exist out of a hospital environment for the time being and I would have to go back.  I had a slow turn around and began to tolerate crushing pills to put into my stomach tube. My esophagus has felt worse over the past few days, and my tongue is still a mess… but I believe I may be on the cusp of a healing breakthrough.  I can hope this is the case.

My Aunty Cheryl was over for a quick visit today.  It was lovely to see her- I literally miss everyone... and I cried for the fist time in a long time… Cassy played a video of when I rang the bell after my last radiation treatment.  (There is a bell in dedication to a 5 year old girl who finished radiation treatments and it is a rite of passage for those who have completed their treatments- it was a very emotional experience for me).  I have shut out so many pieces of my experience for the time being, I realize this now, as I have slipped back into survival mode.  Thinking about radiation therapy makes me feel wounded.  Putting the journey into context and feeling proud of myself for being this strong, fills me with an intense emotion. I honestly can not believe all that I have had to endure.  It makes me thankful to not have known the extent of the treatments when I first heard the word cancer back in February.  My god, I would not have been able to keep my head up after everything if I knew I would continue to be knocked down.  I can admit this has been a struggle.  I will be the first to admit I am so god damned afraid for my life that I silently pray all day to be able to live. I am constantly on the verge of tears, but am physically unable to just let go and surrender a full-out cry session.  My throat is so tight and there is so much pain that when I start to tear up, I have to breathe and meditate through the moment.

On Thursday, I had to go to the hospital to get blood work done.  I also had a doctor appointment for an infection… my body is literally maxed out right now and any more stress could land me back in the hospital.  Being out in public was a scary experience- I was leery of everyone I encountered and wore a mask and gloves to ward off any germs.  I saw a few people I knew and literally could not make small talk.  I used to be the Queen of Small Talk, but I just don’t have it in me right now.  I am unable to relate to people.  I guess I may be in a different space soon enough, once I can apply some normalcy to my life again!  To go grocery shopping, have at least an ounce of a social life, not be consumed with my white blood cell count, not be on 14 prescriptions, …live in my home.  I’m just not there right now.  Perhaps I am forever changed and will never go back in that direction.

Boudicca.  My sweet girl is so big, so quick and so bright.  I am constantly in awe of her, as I feel I am getting to know her all over again.  She is so much bigger than the beginning of the summer- the last time I was her ‘full-time’ Mom.  She is a sassy little person who could walk all over me, and it wounds me slightly to say no to her.  I want to protect her and give her the world… and ultimately, she needs to be balanced and learn several vital lessons. I am so pleased she has been so resilient throughout all of this; it would have been infinitely more difficult if she was having a more difficult time with this transition. She misses Richard, but we are were we need to be right now.  The bond she has developed with my parents (especially my Mom) is beautiful and strong.  She has loved playing with her cousins and receiving love and comfort from my sisters.  And we will be going home soon enough.  Home… the concept of a home really has changed for me.  I have several homes, which is complicated but comforting.

Love to all,

M

One More Weekend...

I have managed to make a tragic mistake in blog-ownership... I haven't updated it in far too long! I have no excuse.  I simply haven't felt like communicating until now.  I have found myself in a true purgatory state for nearly 4 weeks- I'm in the hospital. It all started on the day of my wedding anniversary, July 11th, when I had an allergic reaction to my chemotherapy session (earlier that day).  I had a terrible fever, chills, and a rash; my Mom rushed me to the Emergency Room at 11:30 pm.  I endured blood work, urine tests, an x-ray, several rounds of questions by doctors and nurses and an unreasonable amount of pain.  My Mom stayed by my side, trying her best to keep me as comfortable as possible.  I remember falling asleep for small segments and nearly grew delirious in the chaotic environment- complete with intoxicated people and various demographics of the Saskatoon community. We spent nearly a full day in the Emergency Room before being placed on the Cardiology Ward the next night. My Mom only left once my husband showed up and she knew I was taken care of by appropriate nurses- being that she is an all-star nurse, I couldn't be luckier to have a more appropriate guardian at these scary times.

I got moved to '6100'- the Oncology Unit at the RUH. I have been here for so long that it is an eerie version of a home to me right now. I have a rhythm to my day and spend my time anticipating an interrupting intrusion of my little hospital room world.  I couldn't even count how many exist everyday: doctors (I have seen at least a dozen on a semi-regular basis), nutrition experts, nurses, special care aids, social workers from the Cancer Clinic, people bringing telegrams, people mistaking my room for another patient's, or asking if I want my tv hooked up, residents, dentists... but sadly, no real visitors. A lot of the time, I have been too fragile to accept visits from friends and family. 

I only made an exception when I attended a fundraiser put on by some of the most generous and beautiful friends anyone could ask for... it was one of the most intense moments I've ever had.  For 3 and a half hours, I got to be 'normal' and celebrate with so many loved ones. I haven't been able to have a typical summer, and that night filled me with so much love and inspiration that my spirit is still soaring from it. 

I have only had a feeding tube surgically implanted in my stomach for a week.  Prior to this, I was given a concoction called, 'TPN' (Total Parenteral Nutrition) through a PICC line (Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter), which was also surgically implanted in my upper arm and acts as a semi-permanent IV. Because I have not successfully swallowed any liquids (water included) for the duration of my stay, I have relied on these two methods for all of my nourishment. It has been psychologically painful to think that if I could just swallow a glass of water and work my way up to other liquids, I could go home and be with my daughter. It goes against every ounce of survival skills in my possession and the frustration was constantly in the back of my head.  Alas, I could do nothing.  I am still unable to do anything.

I haven't had any privacy; complete with detailed questions about things like my bowel movements (definitely not in my comfort zone).  The biggest challenge hasn't been born from the fact that I hate hospital environments, but rather because I've had to be out of my home environment, with my loved ones (most of all, Bu) at the core. I have missed her so much that I carefully weep at night -I say carefully because my throat is a big, scabby mess and even crying requires more energy than I can spare.

I have completed both chemo and radiation. Radiation wrapped up with a lovely ceremony- I got to ring a bell that is mounted on to the wall of the RT area. It was so lovely to take part in a ritual, especially one that started in honour of a 5 year old little angel who had radiation and her family donated it to allow survivors to take part in this passage to the next chapter in their journey. It proved to be an emotional passage as my parents and sisters embraced me with tears and felicitations. Chemo wrapped up today and I am afraid to admit that I have been waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop. Chemo caused my 'imprisonment' nearly 4 weeks ago and I can't help but be fearful that misfortune is brewing in my blood.

It is a bizarre experience to have pre-chemo meds hooked up and know that there is still an option of saying 'no' to the Cisplatin. The way they give this chemical concoction is through IV and the drug itself is labeled by a bright, neon green bag- making it look frighteningly radioactive. A very big part of me wanted to reject it and be done with this cycle, but I have invested so much into this therapy that it seems a pity to walk away at the end.  I feel I owe it to myself to give my future the best possible 'margins'. My doctor had said that the side effects I have been experiencing are quite concerning (hearing loss, the allergic reaction, mucositis, mouth sores, kidney problems) and I had to carefully weigh the pros and cons. In his absence, for 2 weeks, I had seen many of his colleagues and have to admit to feeling misguided by one of them. My White Blood Cell and Neutrophil Counts were low earlier in the week. I could have been transfused to bring them up, but he said if we wait a few days, it should be fine. When my doctor returned to have this very real conversation with me, he said it was too bad that I didn't get the chemo earlier, as it is most effective within 24 hours of my last radiation session! It is too late to do anything about that now, but I can't help feeling disappointed in the gaps of care. I just have to hope that what I have endured will be enough to give me the precious time that I crave so intensely that I will happily live a life without ample hearing, taste, saliva, normalcy... I have done all I can do. With massive open sores in my mouth, I still did my daily fluoride treatments that caused such an intense burning feeling I felt I was going to pass out from the pain. I meditated my way through it. I walked around the hospital to keep my strength up, dragging an IV pole with me everywhere I went for a month. I watched my child develop very quickly into a little girl in between her visits and spent lonely nights in a hospital bed trying not to allow my heart to turn bitter at this hand I have been dealt. I have tried so hard to remain in the moment and celebrate even a portion of each day so that I wasn't constantly trying to fast forward to the end of this journey. I need to feel this angst and need to be present, as I do not want to have to go back to this place to address what happened; I want to move on gracefully and own this.

My daughter is coming to visit me right away.  I haven't seen her in a couple of days and will hopefully be reunited with her more permanently when I leave this place and go to my parent's farm to start healing 'outside'.  I can't wait. Well, I can wait as I have been... I'm almost free! 

With Love, 

M 

P.S: I am foregoing proof-reading this, as Darling Bu has arrived. Any errors will have to just add to this post's authenticity...

Strange Routine (July 6, 2011)

My days of radiation therapy are becoming a strange routine. We go to the Royal University parking lot, deposit our monthly pass and the arm lifts, bidding us entrance. My Mom hands it back to me, I put it back into the protective sleeve and grab our 'cancer clinic parking permit' to place on the dash. I walk into the cancer clinic with my Mom (and sometimes Bu). I use hand sanitizer, smile at the lovely women at the reception desk and head downstairs. My Mom takes my photo by the door marked, 'Radiation Department' every day, and we head down to the RT reception desk. I dig around in my purse for the mandatory appointment card, where the next day's time is written down for me. We wait for a few minutes, I usually decide I should quickly pee before I'm called, and then an RT staff member comes to get me.

My Mom watches my sunhat and purse while I wind down the hallway to the 'Meadow' RT room. I enter the tiny change room and select the most worn, softest gown from the stack, take my bra off, pull my strapless dress down to my waist, and tie the gown at the side (I am unable to tie it at my neck, as my left arm is not very mobile). I glance at myself in the full-length mirror and exit. I deposit my bra (and typically, a scarf) in one of four lockers available. I often am called right away, but sometimes I sit and wait. There is a really beautiful kaleidoscope sitting there, and I occupy my time by slowly turning the bottom to change the lovely images only a slight frame at a time. When I am called, I use hand sanitizer again and walk around a corner, down a hallway and round another corner to the now-familiar area. If I am wearing glasses, I set them down on a chair. I recently found out I am able to wear my contact lenses, which I favor, but I ordered 12 pairs of glasses on-line and am sure I will be flaunting them soon.

I keep my sandals on and walk over to the plank that I am to lay on. Polite conversation is typically exchanged. I am becoming a bit of an expert at where to position myself on said plank, so that when I lay down, my shoulders, head and neck are where they need to be. Then I tilt my head back and forth until I find the perfect position for it. I take my arms out of the sleeves of my gown, typically exposing my breasts (I haven't quite mastered the maneuver, and quite frankly, don't care too much). There is music softly playing in the background. One of the techs puts a contoured cushion beneath my thighs and I am always comforted by the feel of it. Another tech goes to grab my mask off a shelf where there are approximately 15-20 similar ones. I am always a bit startled when it appears over my face and comes down over me. I rarely have my nose in the right spot, and have to wiggle around to find the true place for it. For the first 6 treatments, I kept my eyes closed the entire time, as I felt pressure on my eyelids and was honestly too afraid to open them. Now, I keep them open for the first while and close them when I start to meditate and drift within.

After my mask snaps into place, the plank is raised and the few lights that are on are dimmed even more. Red X's are present to line me up. I was given 3 tattoos when I went for my mask fitting. One in the middle of my chest where my cleavages starts, and 2 on my sides, parellel with my belly button. A black pen is used to redefine the areas (a scope signal, like an aiming tool) The techs manipulate my shoulders, use the sheet beneath me to slightly rotate me the slightest fraction and use terms like, 'A little ant' or 'I'm slightly post' and they raise the plank more or less, move it side to side and calculate very precisely where my entire body should be. At this point, I tuck my hands below my hips, careful not to adjust even a little. I was cautioned that I wouldn't be strapped down completely with restraints, but only if I can manage not to move on my own. I only get one chance, and I am determined to keep even the slightest bit of freedom.

Sometimes the music is turned up as the techs announce I am ready and they leave the room. I have never been disappointed by the selection of songs- I feel as though each day, there is a new playlist tailor made just for me. I've even joked with a couple of the girls that they must have really done their research, as they appear to know my musical tastes so well! The best part of it is that I narrowly escape a Taylor Swift song or Sweet Home Alabama, as they start to play when I am exiting the room.

I am slightly adjusted by remote control once the girls are at their desk and have to line me up on their monitors too. Then the buzzing noise starts, and the equipment begins to rotate around me. There is a square window that starts out inches above my face. There are 'leaves' in it that move around and adjust just the right amount of radiation in just the right areas, protecting things like my sense of smell, my hearing and eyesight. Good stuff. I try to keep my eyes open, but eventually lose interest in watching the machine move around me. I close my eyes and focus on being healthy. And I pretend that the radiation is reiki love, coming into my body and healing me. This causes me to relax and focus inward.

I used to get a half-way point heads up, but asked to not have it any longer, as it tended to startle me when a voice on a microphone comes through speakers and says, 'Krsh... Half way done, Megan'. Typically before I know it, 20 minutes have passed and someone is at my side reaching over my face saying, 'All done, Megan', and I slowly become aware of my surroundings. I put my arms back into the sleeves of my gown and wait for the plank to be lowered, the cushion removed from under my legs, the mask taken off. I sit up slowly, put my legs over to the side and tie my gown. I grab my glasses if needed and walk out, get dressed and say good bye to the several staff members. When I meet my Mom in the waiting room, she is sometimes chatting with someone and she tells me their story once we leave the building. We sometimes have to see a nurse to change an appointment upstairs, or chat with my social worker, or grab a copy of some paperwork.
It is a strange routine, a strange existence right now.  I have found a surprising amount of comfort in the routine, as it means that time is moving forward and I'm not stuck.  With grace, patience and support, I will be on the other side of this experience.

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?