November 19, 2015

Wow. Thursday was amazing.

I am so thankful. And so fortunate. 

I am very loved. 

By a LOT of people! I mean--WOW! I am truly overwhelmed.

It was the type of day that will stand out for a long time. Like your wedding day. Or the days your children were born.

Unless you have like 15 kids, then you'd probably mix that shit up, right?

My day started at 5:05 am, when I heard and felt Randy get out of bed to go help Nathan. Fortunately Nathan got back to sleep, but was borderline-meltdown because his stomach was empty like a Sarlacc Pit when he got outta bed about 7, insistent that his brother play a round of Candy Land. Seriously, the kid could've eaten Boba Fett and still needed more food.

Isaac's got a lot going on, getting ready to leave the house by 7:25. But he stopped and played Candy Land, because that's the type of brother he is. And so did Randy, because that's the type of dad he is. There was just enough time before they left for school and work. Abby played too. But it's hard for her because she doesn't have opposable thumbs. Isaac won. No meltdown occurred. Gratitude. 

Nathan and I played Connect 4. Fine motor skills. Planning. Strategy. He's working on these pieces. Monopoly Jr. was next. Counting the number of correct spaces. Counting money. Adding. Subtracting. Basic reading. He's getting it. But lots of colors on both games can cause stress for him. We had a strong snack before leaving the house. Always have a strong snack before you go workout with Mrs. Ventura. Always.

We walked into the dojo for Hapkido, and when I opened the door, Meghan, Vanessa, and Emily greeted me with gusto! YES! Thank you ladies! As I was helping Nathan into his dobok, I breathed with you--and needed it. Gratitude.

I got to spend about 40 minutes talking to my Mom-in-law, Uncle Jerry & Granny. On the actual phone. Because, really, the only time I use the talkie part on my phone is for medical appointments. Right? It was fantastic to talk with them. I drove out to Ediz Hook and watched the waves roll in on the north side of the spit. It was grey in Port Angeles, and the sun was shining on Victoria, BC and it was beautiful. I stayed in my truck, where it was warm, just talking with them. Sometimes, you just gotta hear your Momma's voice, you know...?

I picked N up from Hapkido, where he lead the class in stretches for the first time! So proud of him! Thank you Mrs. V for the picture! This is what autism can look like. This helps me feel like we're all doing something right for Nathan; creating a supportive community for him.

We ran several errands after class. A year ago, I would even think about taking Nathan to one store, let alone 3, AFTER all the action at Hapkido, and AFTER playing board games. He impressed me. I knew I was pushing my luck though, and we headed home. He was starving again, and I didn't have any food that he was willing to eat.

He was starving and needed me to help him not have a meltdown. I parked him on the couch, with both of his weighted blankets--totaling about 25 lbs--and gave him the TV and Roku remotes. He watched mellow shows, as agreed upon--he was still pretty reasonable--but was super on edge. He expended an incredible amount of energy; I could feel him teetering on the edge of a very dark and very deep precipice. I knew he could go into meltdown mode if I didn't hurry and make something substantial for lunch. He ate a full plate of fried chicken nachos with avocado (not my tastebuds) and was pretty darn happy after that.

When Randy and Isaac came home, I was amazed when I's handed me a stack of cards--he told his teacher and classmates that it was my birthday AND last day of radiation. Mrs. L took time out of her day and her lesson plans and rolled with my kid and his excitement and they made cards for me! So honored. So thankful. Plain white printer paper folded in half make the best cards ever. The kids drew super heroes and lasers, hearts and flowers and rainbows. And the kid spelling--telling me I'm a sooper heero! Love it! Gratitude for Mrs. L and for the kids that are helping Isaac during our family Cancer Adventure. 

I left for my last radiation treatment, carrying a dozen cupcakes that Nathan and I made Wednesday. It was a homeschool project for us--reading the instructions that Betty Crocker kindly provided on the box. Measuring = math. Pouring = fine motor skills. Using the electric hand mixer AND moving the bowl around = using both sides of his brain simultaneously. Baking = chemistry. Using the oven properly = kitchen safety. He'll get there. He's not the Pokey Little Puppy. He's Leo the Late Bloomer. And it's ok.

I walked in the two sets of the sliding glass double doors and was totally surprised by what greeted me--a bouquet of balloons, a cupcake, and 2 cards! So thankful to Jen and Caitlin for stopping at the Cancer Center and dropping gifts for me. So thankful for Robin and Tess at the front desk and the birthday card. They were all thrilled with the cupcakes--because they have the type of job where people are not happy, and people are dealing with terminal illness, and energy levels can be quickly affected. I'm not sure they are thanked enough. So the cupcakes were my way of saying thank you for helping me. Rob, my favorite radiation tech, insisted on taking my picture. He said that in 20 years, I'll want to remember this point in time and that I needed a picture of me. I'm glad he insisted; I'm glad I listened. 

I stopped by to see Lynn the Radiation Oncology Nurse who also happens to be a Rock Star. I gave her a cupcake and gave her a hug. I thanked her for her dedication to her patients, and to me. We both got teary and promised to keep in touch.

I stopped by to see Florence--she was my Other Mother through My Cancer Adventure. My own mother was unable to come up; I get it...a flight from Tucson to Seattle, then a drive to Port Angeles is a big deal...and my folks are getting older. But Florence went to most of my chemo infusions with me, and brought fancy chocolate for after treatment was done. Twist my arm to eat chocolate! And, at her house on Thursday, she gave me some fancy chocolate, and a beautiful orchid in a vase. She's been a gardener for 40+ years and disclosed she's killed many orchids. I promised I would do my best to keep it alive. Typically I have a black thumb of death.

A quick drive back to Port Angeles because I also got to go to acupuncture; this has been an important piece of my cancer care. Pat has been fantastically supportive and explained every thing she did when she was inserting needles. For the most part, I don't feel the needles when they go in. Sometimes I do, but it's like a pinch and then it's gone. Ain't no big thing. Then I rested for 40 minutes--it was much needed. I did't go last week to acupuncture because Pat was sick; as a health care provider, she doesn't want to expose others--and for that I am so thankful. But last week was rough; and I'm thankful it's over.

And then I brought home Chinese food and used a gift certificate we were given--thank you whoever gave that to us back in the summer. I appreciate the birthday dinner! The leftovers fed us grown-ups again Friday night. Nathan had fried chicken nachos; I's ate pasta. I'm a short order cook a lot. But it's important for the Routine. Whatever, just eat, bitches. 

I also spoke with my folks Thursday night. I worry about them more than they know. Mostly I worry about Mom (mostly....) And while it was good to hear their voices, I know that I'm going to have to talk with my Dad at some point. Although I've not seen my folks in over 8 years, I can tell my Mom is starting to show signs of slipping. My Dad is planning to retire in about 6 months when he turns 65. He's been talking about retiring for the past three years, so we'll see what happens in May. He's probably already aware of Mom's mental health status; but we still gotta talk. It's not going to be easy; and I'll do it when I'm ready, when I'm feeling stronger. I'm the oldest; I'm the Health Educator and it's a major health issue; I discuss this topic with my students, and so it falls to me. 

I texted with my brother yesterday, too. I am thankful for him. He sent a card and a Wonder Woman magnet and told me about the gift certificate at Michael's. Randy and I are going there on tonight for dinner. We need a break and an evening out.

After Chinese food, Rand and the boys sang "Happy Birthday" and I blew out the candle on my cupcake. We each had 1/2 a cupcake, because nobody needs that much sugar before bed. Even though we ate late, the boys were still in bed asleep at their normal time: 7:30 pm. 

It's hard to pick a favorite thing about Thursday November 19, 2015, the day I turned 43 and am considered young according to my oncology team. The sun was out most of the day--that was a huge bonus! But a favorite--I'm not sure I have one. I'm quite pleased with myself in that I averted TWO meltdowns with Nathan. But really, I am thankful for the entire day: for the love and support of my husband and my children; for my friends who I've chosen to be my family; and for walking out of the Cancer Center as a Breast Cancer Survivor.   

Changes

He is in a darker place than me. I've not been there before. My father is still alive. My wife does not have cancer.

I am in a different place because I am almost done. Tomorrow will be a day of completing a huge and arduous undertaking. Tomorrow will be a day of new beginnings.

Tomorrow is the last day of radiation. Tomorrow is my 43rd birthday.

He says not to worry, but I do. Because when the person you love more than anyone is hurting, and his voice is disappearing, it's hard to not worry. Do we even realize how much we depend on our voices? Especially when you're a teacher.... 

And so we adapt. We change. We learn. I've chosen to give myself things to look forward to; it helped me during the darkest times of this disease. 

Tonight was book club. I got to out to a new restaurant in Sequim, with my girlfriends. My book club. The Tequila Mockingbirds. The most amazingly supportive group of women a girl could ask for. The ones who have held me up, helped my family, and kept us in their hearts. The ones who would strip naked and dance with me by the light of the moon if I asked them. Maybe some day I actually will. Wine country anyone? Don't worry, I'll bring the grass. Well also need a bon fire, because it's goddamned cold up here in Washington! These women are the ones who I get to see religiously once a month, but not often enough. The ones where we picked up like we just saw each other yesterday. We seek advice, and give advice to each other on parenting, and being an adult child. And books. Jesus the books we've read. Gratitude--to the women I get to read with. And to their families. 

But I digress. Because I am worried and I am stressed and I am anxious about the change that we are going to go through.

Tomorrow evening, I will no longer be going through treatment to combat this fucking tumor that reared it's ugly head back in February. The one I found exactly 5 days after we decided to homeschool Nathan. Gratitude--having him home during the hardest thing I've ever gone through, and always having support through his presence alone. 

I'll still be a cancer patient; I have check ups every three months for two years with my chemo doc. I'll have a mammogram in 6 months. 

But this weekend, we'll transition into taking care of Randy and his voice. He has a medical appointment with a voice specialist in Seattle on Monday. It's taken six years for us to reach this point. Because, it's not getting better. And I'm done fucking around with my husband not being able to clearly articulate himself. I'm tired of saying "what?" and it's not because I went to too many rock concerts. (Can you ever go to too many rock concerts?) I know he's tired of not being heard. I can understand his exhaustion. I feel it too, but differently. 

Because as hard as 2015 has been on me as a person, my husband, my children, and my mother-in-law, I've had the opportunity to be reminded of some things--not that I didn't know this before...but this past year has solidified it for me--

only you can take care of you and your health...

and when you're a parent, it's really hard to take time take care of yourself and your health, no matter how much support you have....

and when you're a special needs parent, it's even harder to take care of yourself and your health.

And so you choose. The kids, or you. 

And kids always come first.

And health always comes first.

And healthy kids--we gotta have that above all else.

Right?

Or so we're told.

No.

Because here's the thing--if you don't take care of you and your own health, nobody's gonna do it for you.

And if you don't take care of you, you can't take care of your kids. 

So 2015, while you've been the hardest year ever, I had the opportunity to learn from you. 

I've learned to accept gifts. 

I've learned to express gratitude daily. 

And I've learned to take better care of myself, every single day, so that I can take better care of my family. 

Because when you have cancer staring you in the face, calling you out, you can either run and hide, or you can stare right back and say bring it on. Bitches. 

Questions

"Mommy, what's a tumor?"

A tumor is a bunch of bad cells. And there's one cell that has faulty DNA. Basically, the cell made a bad choice, and he decided to throw a party. But it's not like a fun birthday party at the bowling alley. It's more like a party where he's getting all the other cells to be bad, too. And then all the bad cells get together and form a tumor.


"Mommy what's surgery?"

Surgery is when a doctor called an anesthesiologist gives me medicine to make me go to sleep. Then another doctor called a surgeon takes a really really sharp knife called a scalpel and makes a cut on my breast, but I don't feel it because I'm sleeping. Then she takes out the tumor and sends it to the lab to be tested so we know what type of tumor it is. She also put a port in my body so that the chemotherapy can go into my body. Then she uses thread and sews up the hole she made in my breast. Those are called stitches. And then the anesthesiologist helps me wake up.

"Mommy why did you have surgery?"

So the doctor could take out the tumor.

"Mommy can I see your scar where the surgeon took the tumor out?"

I'm not ready to show that to you yet. Maybe some day. But you can see my port.

"What's a port?"

A port is a piece of plastic that the surgeon put into my body so that the medical oncologist and the nurses can put the medicine. It's right here, can you see it? There's a tube that goes into my heart and that's where the medicine goes.

"What's a medical oncologist?"

A doctor that gets to help people with cancer. 

"Mommy, what's chemotherapy?"

Chemotherapy is a really strong medicine that kills cancer cells. It's trying to stop the bad cells from having a bigger party.

"Mommy, why do you have to have chemo if the surgeon took the tumor out?"

Because I have the biggest, baddest type of cancer, so the medical oncologist said I need to have this super strong medicine, just in case there are more cancer cells in my body that we don't know about. We want to make sure that all the cancer cells are gone.

"Mommy, do you have chemo today?"

I do. But tomorrow I don't. Let's write the days I have chemo on the calendar, and that way we all know and it won't be a surprise. Ok?

"Does getting chemotherapy hurt?"

When the nurse puts a needle into my port, there's a little poke, kinda like when you get a shot. But it's not too bad. I do not feel the chemotherapy going into my body. 

"Mommy why is your hair falling out?"

Because the chemotherapy makes all the cells that grow really really fast die. Cancer cells grow really really fast. And the cells that make up our hair and our finger nails are cells that grow really really fast.

"What happened to your finger nails?"

My finger nails got bumpy from the chemotherapy. It's no big thing. My nails will grow out eventually.

"Mommy why did Jackie shave your head?" 

Because I asked her to and she loves me and wants to help me.

"Mommy, I'm not shaving my head."

That's ok, little dude. I want you to be true to yourself. If you're not ok shaving your head, then I don't want you to do it. I expect you to be honest; you are being honest by telling me you don't want to shave your head.

"Mommy, I'm shaving my head with you."

Thanks, big dude. I know you understand what I'm going through probably better than most adults do.

"Mommy, I like you better with hair."

Thanks, little dude. It'll grow back in eventually. It'll just take a while.

"Mommy, what color is your hair going to be?"

I don't know. What color should it be?

"Purple!"

Of course.

"And green!"

Totally.

"Mommy, here's a picture I drew of us. See, you have long curly hair. Mommy will your hair be long and curly when it grows back?"

Thank you for this picture. It is beautiful! I love that you drew us holding hands, too. Did you write your name and date on it? Because I want to be able to remember that you drew it for me and when. I don't know how my hair will look when it grows back. It's pretty cool to see it come in, isn't it?

"Mom, I'm sorry you're not feeling good. Chemo is no fun."

No. Chemo is no fun. Thank you for laying in my bed and reading to me. You're so helpful and kind. I'm glad you're home with me and that you're taking care of me.

"Mommy, when will you feel better?"

In a few days, but hopefully sooner. We have to wait and see, ok?

"Mommy, I love you."

I love you too.

"Mommy, do you like going to chemo?"

Yes and no. Yes because I know that the medicine is helping me. No because I know I'm going to feel horrible and will not have the energy to get out of bed and take care of you.

"Mommy, I'm glad you're almost done with chemo."

Me too. 

"Mommy what's radiation?"

Radiation comes from the sun, so it occurs naturally. The radiation oncologist picks a certain type of radiation that comes from a machine. And this radiation helps kill the cancer cells.

"What's a radiation oncologist?"

A doctor that gets to help a lot of people who have cancer.

"But if you had chemo why do you have to have radiation?"

Because my tumor was the biggest, baddest type of tumor a woman with breast cancer can have. So the medical oncologist and the radiation oncologist work together to make sure we can beat the cancer. 

"Mom, do you have radiation today?"

Yes. I have radiation every weekday for 22 visits. Let's write a big R on the calendar so we know when I go, ok? And then, when I'm done, I'll put a big red X across the day.

"Mom, which is better? Chemo or radiation?"

Well, neither is better than the other. They are very different. Chemotherapy was slow and it took a long time, but it gave me a chance to sit down. Radiation therapy is quick, and I like that the treatment is over very quickly. Chemo made me feel really awful. Remember I had to go to the Emergency Room? Radiation makes me tired, and my breast is very sensitive, and I need you to hug me very carefully, please.

"Mommy, I'm glad you're almost done with radiation."

Me too.

"Mom, I love you and I'm sorry you have cancer."

I love you and I'm sorry that our family is going through this. But you are helping me to be strong. Thank you for loving me, my beautiful, amazingly strong boys. You have no idea how much I love you.

"Mommy, I hate cancer."

Me, too, dude. Me. Too.

So much to be thankful for

The best advice I was given about My Cancer Adventure was from my mental health therapist, who I've been seeing for about three years. She knows me very well. And she said, "Treat this as if you were pregnant."

She told me this at the very beginning of My Cancer Adventure (it's not a journey. It's an Adventure. More on that later....).

And for the most part I have treated myself as though I was pregnant in that I had a health condition, I was trying to rest as much as possible, eat what sounded good, including candy and salad and fried anything and chocolate and whatever sounded good at that particular moment.

But also, as with a pregnancy that will eventually end, I tried to live each day with the knowledge that someday, I will not be in Cancer Land any more.

That day is coming.

Tomorrow I'll start the last of the radiation treatments.

Only four more.

During My Cancer Adventure, I've done my best to give myself things to look forward to. It helped keep me healthy. It helped keep me sane.

In April, Jen took me to Swedish Medical Center in Seattle so that I could get tested for the breast cancer genes. We walked around a beautiful garden, had lunch and rode The Great Wheel. Oh--and I tested negative for both the genes. Got to keep my boobs--that's huge in Breast Cancer Land!

Also in the spring I walked on the waterfront trail on Saturday mornings with my dear friend Carrie. We only stopped because I started having complications from chemo...and needed to be close to a bathroom. And while I was sad to let the walking go, and not spend time with my friend, I knew she understood. We'll start walking again soon. 

During the summer, while I was going through chemo, Randy was able to teach a few classes and they were on-line. I could not imagine getting through each day without his love and support. I have more on this...but I am not ready to type that yet....

Pretty much every week this summer, yes, while I was going through chemo, we went as a family to the water--either East Beach at Lake Crescent, or Salt Creek Recreation Area. Being at the water was very therapeutic for me. And the boys got a ton of exercise--bonus! And. let's face it, there's a bathroom there if you gotta go!

We spent a LOT of time together as a family this summer. I hope I helped to create positive memories for my boys and my husband. I know they will remember Our Cancer Adventure. But I also know they'll remember times at the lake and at the ocean.

We always met Christine and her boys. She is the very first person I was ever brave enough to go with--with my children--to the lake and the ocean. And I'm really thankful we started doing that in the summer of 2014! Because, let's face it, trying to watch the boys near water is crazy insane! I have fond memories of one day in particular where we met up with Christine and her boys, Laura and her boys, and Becca and her girl.... It was a beautiful sunny Pacific Northwest Day--one of the many reasons to live here!

My little brother Sam came up from Phoenix for a week! It was seriously the best part of my summer! We are 12 years apart--it was the first time we'd been alone as adults, without our parents. It was the first time we'd seen each other in 8 years. While Randy and I were establishing our careers and having babies, my little brother Sam was in college and then went to law school. He's a public defender and gets to help a lot of people. I admire him probably more than he will ever know. But I know the feeling is mutual. I love him deeply.

I had the opportunity for two of my dearest friends, Jen and Pam, to do a photo shoot of me. It was an incredibly humbling, but also empowering and raw experience for me. And thank you Chandra for letting us use your house. Then we painted! That was a lot of fun!

I went to my book club meetings as much as I possibly could and even hosted them one summer evening--it was fantastic! These women are my extended family. Jen, Christine, Bonnie, Caitlin, Teresa, Stacie, Nicole, Tory, Heidi, Tennille, Kim, Amy. You complete me. Thank you. Can't...starting to cry.... But I cannot wait till Wednesday night! We have so much to celebrate!

I am thankful for my dear friend Wendy who happens to be a member of the American Cannabis Nurses Association. (No shit, click the link.) She has taught me more about this amazing medication than I ever thought possible. Thank you, Wendy. Hugs to Nick & Raul.

Last month I went to the annual fundraising dinner for the OMC Cancer Center--thank you Carrie! It was a lot of fun!

Today, I got to spend time with my friend Rachel, who is due with her second baby; it was her baby shower. I also go to see Shawnda and Jen K. and Priya and Kim...and meet a few new ladies. Making new friendships and keeping old ones is so important. And Rachel and Shawnda and Jen K. get it because we're all special mommies--we have kiddos that have some type of developmental disability. You ladies...so much goodness. And, Rach, I am looking forward to meeting your beautiful new baby--it has helped keep me looking forward!

I am thankful that my dear friend Teresa came to clean my house every other week out of the goodness in her hear and because she loves me and she knows that my immune system is compromised and didn't want me to get sick--and I didn't (knock on wood!). Never has it sparkled so!

And I am thankful to the amazing people who cooked for us and delivered meals! Thank you so much for the generosity. Thank you for understanding that we have texture issues and that we don't eat meat that has bones. Thank you for accommodating my special needs family. Thank you for feeding my children and my husband, because there were times I simply could not be around food, let alone prepare it.

This week is a big week for me, for my family, for my extended family. And there are things I'm looking forward to each day...

Monday, get to see Dana at Nathan's Speech Therapy appointment.

Tuesday, get to see Meghan (and hopefully Emily, Michelle, and Vanessa!) when I drop off Nathan at Hapkido. I also get to see my mental health therapist--she helps me feel grounded. Teresa is coming to clean and help me change the sheets on my bed. No, really, it's not something I am able to do myself right now because my breast hurts. You'd be surprised what you use your pectoral muscles for! AND, we get a dinner delivery from Carrie!

Wednesday, I hope to get to take Isaac to Hapkido in the afternoon. And book club meets that night!

Thursday November 19th is the last day of radiation AND my 43rd birthday! I think I'll probably bake some cupcakes, too. Because it's my day. And I want cupcakes. Bitches.

I have so much to be thankful for. I have a family that loves and needs me. I have a wonderful group of supportive and loving friends.

I have to look forward. I have to get through the next four days.

So far, my skin looks good. And my breast hasn't caught on fire.

I'm earning my lasers. They will be shot from my nipples and I will defend the health care rights of women everywhere.

And, through most of My Cancer Adventure, I've been able to laugh. I've cried a lot too. But I've laughed.

And for that, I am thankful.

So stop. Count your blessings. There is goodness in the world. There is goodness in each of us. Thank you for reading.

-Rachel

Faith, hope, peace, love

Radiation treatment

I take one last sip of my steaming peppermint tea and turn off the engine of my trusty light blue 4Runner. I know better than to be emotionally attached to a vehicle, thank you Stephen King. But this truck has carried me through two pregnancies, brought both boys home, taken them to the emergency room, countless trips to Seattle for doctor appointments, and now my own battle with cancer. I take a deep breath and brace myself against the wind and rain. This storm is nasty, and I can't help but think of Axl singing  "...like a cold November Rain..." at the top of his lungs. God he turned into a wacko. Slash totally came out on top; he's a badass. Like me. I am a badass. I will get through this. Deep breath, here we go.

I open the door of my truck, get out and walk quickly across the parking lot, attempting to protect myself from the bone-chilling wind as the colorful autumn leaves dance at my feet. I am thankful the rain has stopped for now. I think of lyrics by the Cowboy Junkies, "Haven't seen the sun for seven days; November's got her nails dug in deep" and I wonder, as I approach the entrance to the Cancer Center, if the predictions for this storm will be accurate. Will we go seven days without the sun peeking through? The Dungeness River was raging when I crossed it on Old Olympic Highway.

The automatic double doors open and I walk through both sets and stop at the desk on my immediate left. Robin asks me my birth date. I smile and reply. She smiles back because she knows my last day of treatment is also my birthday, which doesn't happen very often for patients. She tells me to go on back.

I walk towards the large, light brown wooden double doors, my head is down, still chilled from the wind and on a mission; I want to be done. I no longer read sign on the right door. It is made of acrylic and somehow seems cold. Terse. It is a large white sign with black lettering that says:

NO 

Unauthorized

Patients 

Or Family

Members Beyond

This Point

They're not messing around with that sign. But I'm authorized, so I go through the door on the right, and make a quick left. On my right there is a huge set of floor-to-ceiling, double-door cabinets with simple horizontal silver handles. I open the one that says "Patient Gowns" and reach in, pull out a gown, and pick one of the changing rooms. I like the first one on the left because it is bigger and I need space around me. I know what's coming.

I grab the padlock with the key in it and close the cream colored, closet-style folding-door with two panels of horizontal slats. There is no lock inside. There used to be a hook-and-eye contraption, but somebody probably fainted and the staff couldn't get to them. Bye bye hook-and-eye lock. Patient health and safety is first here in the Radiation Oncology Department. 

I take off my bright green fleece scarf and lay it neatly on the relatively comfortable looking double wide ottoman that is against the wall, and in front of the extra large mirror that hangs on the wall. The ottoman is a funky color. Not brown, but not beige. Taupe? I don't know. But, it has gold colored thread making funky designs on it; a stem with 6 or 7 pokey things. Are those dandelion fluff...? Or are they some kind of creature from deep in the sea that is yet to be discovered? They are beautifully sharp. I appreciate the brief distraction they provide me.

I set my brown hat next to my scarf. My hat is very special to me; someone made it, but I don't know who. It even came with a purple nylon scarf that was woven into the hat at the bottom. It's a very clever design; I've received many compliments on it. I wore the purple scarf for a while, but I recently took it out and replaced is with a leopard print scarf, which just feels better for me. At the Cancer Center, they have 5 or 6 huge brown baskets that are filled with free hats. People knit and crochet hats and then donate them to the Cancer Center; the hats are for to patients. We get cold easily, it's because we have little to no hair, and the amount of heat we loose from our heads is incredible. I'm constantly cold. The volunteers are kind enough to make hats that are gender specific; it's a very cool thing. Each hat is sanitized in an autoclave and then sealed in a gallon size ziploc bag. Cancer patients have suppressed immune systems and we certainly don't want to catch a cold from a well-intended volunteer who knitted or crocheted a hat. I mean, who knows where she was sticking her fingers! Right? GERMS! I don't need to catch what you've got. But I'll take that hat, thank you very much! I really do love it!

I remove my black pea coat and hang it on the large metal hook on the wall, to the left of the large mirror. I take off my gold necklace with the butterfly on it and gently lay it on my bright green fleece scarf. My maternal grandmother gave me this necklace and butterfly when I was 17. I take off my hoop earrings that I bought from Walmart when I started My Cancer Adventure. Three pairs for $3.88. Whatever. It's all good. I started wearing them when I shaved my head back in May. These horribly cheap earrings have stood up longer than I anticipated. Not too shabby, China.

From my left wrist, I take off the silver charm bracelet that Isaac purchased for me at school last year when he was in kindergarten, during the holiday season; it was likely made in China, too. I intentionally leave the grey rubber bracelet notifying health care professionals about my chemo port. From my right wrist, I remove the two dark steel grey and pink beaded magnetic bracelets that I purchased when I was pregnant with Nathan. Someone told me that magnets can help with nausea. Ok. I'll try. As long as I don't puke, right? I was a puker. It was awful. I lay all three bracelets on my bright green fleece scarf, next to my necklace and my cheap earrings.

I take my bracelets off because once they got caught between my wrist and the cradle and it hurt. I take off my necklace because I envision my butterfly leaving a permanent mark on me neck. Unlikely. But still.

I leave my wedding band and my engagement rings on my left hand. On my right hand, I leave on the silver antique looking ring with the beautiful sapphire blue cubic zirconia, which is behind the wedding ring of my paternal grandmother. She and my grandfather were married for over 50 years. On the inside of the ring, you can still read the inscription:  . D. to R.R. The C is missing; but I know it means "Charles Doak to Ruth Romine." She always said it was the most romantic thing he did for her. The ring has been on my ring finger for 6 years; my uncle sent it to me after my grandmother died at the age of 86.

I remove my shirt and see my reflection in the huge mirror. I avoid my own gaze; but I see my body. I know what I look like. But I summon the courage to meet my own gaze and hold it. Have I really changed so much since February when I discovered my lump? Taking a deep breath, my eyes fall to the four-inch long scar on my right breast; it is as long as my left index finger. It is becoming flatter; a radiation perk. I exhale, and quickly put on my gown, opening in the back, and it swallows me, before the tears overflow. I take several more slow diaphragmatic breaths as I tie the gown at my left shoulder and then my hip. Telling myself that I'm almost done with living the nightmare that started on March 9th when I got my cancer diagnosis. I look into my own eyes in the mirror again, take another deep breath and whisper to myself "I am strong. I will do this." I take one last look at my phone: the time says 3:08. I turn around and slide open the cream colored closet style door.

I go out of the changing room, padlock in hand, line up the two eye holes, insert the lock, spin it around, and click it shut. I put the hot pink telephone chord style key chain around my left wrist. I turn right and go into the bathroom to pee before I get on the table. Always pee before you get on the table. Always.

When I'm done, I quickly cross the room and sit down in the tangerine colored chairs. There is no clock in the room, and I'm thankful. I'm sure it was discussed by the the interior designer and whoever made the decisions about this particular waiting room. No clock because it will likely cause patients to become more anxious. God knows we're all more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Especially the first timers. They can tell you till they're blue in the face that it won't hurt, when the radiation beam is hitting you, but until you go through it, you don't believe them. And let's face it, patients would always rather be somewhere else. So, no. No clock for this room.

Directly across from me, there is a yellow piece of paper hanging on the wall. It is colorful and says:

TAKE A SEAT

WAIT HERE

UNTIL

CALLED FOR 

YOUR 

TREATMENT

APPOINTMENT

I can't help but wonder who made it and why they chose the colors they did. 

To my right is a huge photograph of 3 herons on the beach, with orange and blue tones. It matches the tangerine colored chairs. There is a handled basket in the corner full of magazines. Once I looked at the astronomy magazine, but it was 10 years old. I've also looked at the Women's Day magazine, it is more current: November 2015. I look through the recipes and clever crafts, welcoming the distraction. Mmmm...no-bake chocolate mousse pie. I wonder if I can get Nathan and Isaac to work together and make that for Thanksgiving? Heh. That's not gonna happen. Who am I kidding?

I look up and through the slats that the four panes of horizontal, frosted glass provide. I hear the techs talking. I know the man in front of me is receiving his treatment. They aren't talking about him; I just know he's in there.

I also know the treatment is not going to hurt. I know the radiation technicians are nice. But I don't want to be here. I'm done with cancer. I'm done with treatment. I'm done with living in the hell that cancer creates for people. 

The patient before me comes out from the treatment room. He told me he turns 80 on November 22nd, "the same day they killed Kennedy" he said. His hair is jet black and he wears a wedding ring, gown, pants and shoes. He told me earlier this week that he has lung cancer. I do not know if he was a smoker; I did not ask, it is not my business.

Rob, the radiation technician comes around the corner and looks me in the eye, smiling he says, "You ready, Rachel?" 

I look at him, smile back, and say, "Ready as I'm gonna be." And we walk back together. He is a gentleman, and gives me the opportunity to go through the very tall, and double-wide glass door with a wooden frame first. It is painted with the words "Caution. Radiation area" and the radiation symbol. We walk through a second door, which is about 18 inches thick and made of lead. Both doors are shut when the machine is working.

As we walk, he says, "So today's the first day of the new position that we created on Tuesday."

We look at each other and I say, "Yes, I'm ready."

"Are you ok?" he asks me. He is a nice person; I know he genuinely cares.

"I'm tired, but I'm ok."

"It's Friday. And you're almost done..." he says. 

We turn to the right as we enter the treatment room and the machine is in the center of the room. It is huge and intimidating. I avoid looking at it and instead look at the 27-inch computer monitor hanging on the wall on the left well above the sink. On the monitor, I read my name and birth date. I verify that I am me and then walk to the treatment machine. 

On the bed is my new body cast, made specifically for me. It cradles me from my head to my low back. It is propped up at a 30-degree angle. The treatment I'm about to receive is considered a booster. I had 16 treatments of the entire right breast, and will have 5 boosters. For the original 16, I was on my back; for the boosters, I lie on my left side. Dr. Zimmerman is intensifying her treatment and targeting the scar and the tumor bed. She wants to make sure this thing doesn't grow back. She's not fucking around; but that's what happens when you get the biggest, baddest type of cancer that a pre-menopausal woman can get. So, really, I'm glad that my doc is a badass like that.

For the first 16 treatments, I would sit on the hard plastic table and bring my feet up. I would begin to untie my gown at the hip and then at the shoulder, and quickly learned that it's easier to do this before getting on the table. Sometimes, the techs help me, but I really prefer to do it myself. Especially at the beginning, I wanted them out of my space. They were lucky they didn't get elbowed (thank you Mr. and Mrs. Ventura for teaching me). But now, I don't mind the help. I'm tired, and my right side and shoulder ache.

I sit on the hard bed which is covered with a white sheet. Marj brings over a warm blanket and covers me as I lay back. Thank you Marj. I'm glad you're here. She's a woman and I find her presence comforting. But I do miss Juliet, who is on vacation. We connected instantly; she's a breast cancer survivor and her son is on the autism spectrum.

I slip my arms out of my gown, but keep my hand up, holding the gown and covering my breasts. Marj takes the gown off of my right breast. I feel exposed and emotionally raw. I continue to take deep breaths, trying to hold back the tears. Radiation is exhausting in a very different way than chemotherapy was. 

I raise my arms above my head, and they fall into the blue cast of my body. Marj pulls the sheet towards her, and as instructed, I do not help her. She is ligning up the lasers with the two small tattoos between my breasts, and the small tattoo on my right side. Gotta make sure everything lines up. These people deal in terms of millimeters, and they are doing their job, they get to help a lot of people. Cancer is big business. 

Rob picks up a controller and looks at the two 27-inch monitors that are on my left. With the controller, he raises the table so that I am elevated to about the middle of his chest. The table then pivots, and my feet are pointing towards the door. 

Rob and Marj talk business "98.2" "she's centered" "down to 73.6" "she's perfect on my side" "ok here we go..."

Rob turns to me, I am unable to move, so I look at him the best I can. He says "ok, Rachel, I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Ok I'll be here..." I say, trying to keep it light, because that's what I do. 

The machine starts to rotate to my left, I see my reflection in the glass where the radiation will come from. Above me, a 24-inch square wooden box that is attached to the ceiling becomes visible. I see a round black piece of plastic that is shining green lasers onto my chest. I also the yellow and black sign with white engraved letters that says, "CAUTION! AVOID EXPOSURE LASER RADIATION IS EMITTED FROM THIS BEAM"

I meditate. I close my eyes. I breathe.

During a few of my treatments, I would try to spell other words from "radiation" and "exposure". I got 17 words once from "radiation". Then I was done.

I hear a faint clicking coming from the machine, which is still above me, but has rotated to the left. I hear a buzzing noise, and know that the "BEAM ON" sign is lit up. I never counted how long the beam is on for.

The "BEAM ON" sign goes out and stops buzzing. It is quiet in the room. I begin to move; my feet pivoting to the left, my head going to the right as the machine rotates over me and ends up on my right. I know Rob has come in and is moving me with the controller. But he is quiet. I've joked with him that he could be a spy because of his stealth-like maneuvers.

On my sixth visit, he said, "got any itches on your nose?" as I was laying on the table and he was moving me. "Yes, actually, I do." And he said, "Yeah, it usually happens on number 5 or 6. Want me to scratch it for you?" I chuckled and said, "No, thanks, let's just finish it up!"

Rob leaves the room and silently shuts the heavy lead door. A few seconds later the "BEAM ON" sign lights up and is buzzing again, hitting the right side of my breast. And then there is silence.

The first time I was on the table, they took pictures to make sure I was in the right spot and that they could repeat the pose. Every few days, they'd take x-rays to make sure that my ribs lined up with my own ribs. The entire process is fascinating.

Rob and Marj come into the room. I put my arms in my sleeves as they lower the table and me down to a more reasonable level. The machine is rotating up into it's holding position.

Today, for the booster, I lay on my left side, in the new cradle. They got me positioned just so, with the new tattoo that is near my scar and I happen to have a freckle on my back that they used to line me up on the lasers. More pictures to make sure I'm in the right position.

Marj attached some type of contraption to the machine so that they could target the scar and tumor bed. Rob came over and drew on me with a blue permanent marker so that I would line up again with the contraption on Monday. He said to try not to rub the ink off, but that if it comes off it's no big deal.

Dr. Zimmerman came in and checked my position, making sure that I was where she wanted me. I lay on my left side, pillow between my legs, my right arm is above my head, my elbow bent at 90 degrees, resting above my head. "Perfect" she said. "Rachel are you comfortable?" she asked. "No I'm not," I said. And she said, "you don't look very comfortable, but you can tolerate it for 45 seconds, right?" "Yes. Yes I can." "Your skin looks great, by the way. Nice work!" She left the room with Rob and Marj. A second later the "BEAM ON" lights up and the buzzing starts. It stops just as quickly and Rob and Marj come in.

The table descends, the machine raises back up to it's resting position. I put my arms back in my enormous gown and sit up. I want out. I want to change and go outside and breathe fresh air.

I quickly say good bye and have a nice weekend to them. I walk with a mission through the open lead door and the open glass radiation warning door, retracing my steps back through the waiting room and towards my dressing room. The next patient is there for his treatment, I turn and courageously make eye contact with him. His lower jaw is swollen and he has no voice; he is probably in his late 50s, and was probably a smoker. My heart breaks for him a little as he nods at me.

In the dressing room I quickly get my shirt on, my earrings, necklace, bracelets on both wrists. My bright green fleece scarf, my black pea coat, and my tan crocheted hat with the leopard print scarf. I take my gown and turn to leave, hanging the lock on the eye hole as I open the door. I put the gown in the hamper in the cabinet, turn and walk through the double wooden doors and out into the  main lobby of the Cancer Center. I walk towards the sliding glass doors and say good bye to Robin, Jenn is there now too. We say "Have a good weekend" and "See you next week" to each other. The weekend is mine. I get a break from the Cancer Center.

The doors open and the wind is blowing. It feels good to be outside and walking. I step off the sidewalk and into the grey day, feeling the wind blow cold on my face, as I get closer to the 4Runner I click the unlock button on my fob and open the door when I arrive. I step up, then sit down, shutting the door against the wind. I start the engine and plug in my iPhone. I need music. I take a quick sip of my still warm peppermint tea.

I have Margot on my mind and pull up "New Dawn Coming" by the Cowboy Junkies. I unwrap and take a bite of the Ghirardelli's sea salt dark chocolate square I brought with me. Always have chocolate after treatment. Always.

I shift the truck into drive as Margot sings to me...
"Hold on honey there's a new dawn coming
and a big bird to sweep you away
Keep on dreaming soon there'll be a reason
to see it through one more day"

Yes, Margot...yes there will. 

Missing

I'm missing you. Your smile. Your laugh. Your zest for life.

I hardly see you because our schedule is so crazy.

You're out the door and headed to school each morning at 7:25.

You get home at 2:20, and I'm out the door by 2:40 to go to radiation.

A quick hug and kiss is what I get from you, and I am thankful for that little piece of you.

I get home about 3:45, and on Monday afternoons you're out the door, heading for Hapkido.

I sometimes get to take you on Wednesdays, but it depends on how I feel. It's not a guarantee that we get that time together.

The first lesson you probably learned is that there are no guarantees in life.

You're in bed each night no later than 7:30. Sometimes, you even pass out on the couch before 7:15.


You are only 6-1/2 and already deal with so much.

You have a brother who gets most of my attention

I hate this disease. I hate the effects of the treatments. I hate that it has taken the better part of this year.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that Nathan has autism and epilepsy and that his medical needs are constantly in the front seat.

I'm sorry I have to go through chemo and radiation in order to live.

I'm sorry that the side effects of cancer treatment have made such a deep and viscous cut into our life.

I'm sorry that you have so much on your plate.

But you still sparkle.

You still shine.

You still play, imagine, and act....

Oh, the drama!

You will earn all the Oscars, my child......

You are so amazingly strong, resilliant, and courageous.

I am proud of you.

I love you, Isaac.

And thank you for each and every hug and kiss.

All my love always,
Mommy