Magic Hour

We recently had a company called Magic Hour provide a free photo shoot for our family. They do this work pro bono for people with cancer, and we are so grateful. The photographer who worked with us, Melissa of Icarian Photography, was wonderful. She made us feel instantly at ease. I have been in the mind of legacy lately, and what could be left for my daughter and husband, and so it was such a relief and gift to have this offered.

Here are a few shots:

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I like to read. A lot. On days when fatigue wears me down, I rest here. Sometimes I close my eyes and the same soft breeze that brushes the Golden Gate wafts through those curtains. I remember the outside world, and I remember the long wide ocean that moves not far from me.

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Our messy garden. The cherry tomatoes have gone bonkers. The colors and bees and flowers cheer me up. Sometimes the best living is not organized. In disarray you might find your heart.

 

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And here, with my daughter, is mine.

Love out.

 

I Bunt, I Trip, I Get Back Up.

It’s been a rough patch.

This last chemotherapy treatment, the 6th out of 6 cycles of Taxotere/Xeloda, has caused fevers, flu-like bone aches, and general misery. I’ve been in and out of bed for days in a haze of napping and trancelike kitchen/bathroom visits. The pain in my bones and shoulder became so bad that the oncology nurse prescribed Norco, a known opioid. I plan to be judicious and careful about its use.

Today is the first day in over a week that I’ve been able to go outside and walk more than a mile anywhere, and just sitting in the sun gave such relief. Looking at the yard, at the tufts of clouds, at the sunlight and tomatoes and lobelia draping over the planter boxes, I couldn’t help but marvel at the gift of health. Of energy returning. Of life.

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FYI: I am not this woman. This is not my yard. I don’t wear white cotton dusters and I currently have no hair. But I do love sunflowers. And living.

I’m very fortunate that I did not get HFS, or hand-foot syndrome, a potentially debilitating side-effect that causes deep peeling/cuts in hands and feet. I’m fortunate that neuropathy has never been more than a few short tingles in my toes. But this last treatment knocked me out, and the fevers  – which fluctuated between 99 and 101 for about two days – and deep bone pain, and dizziness, and fatigue, were hell. It was worse than the worst flu.

What makes these episodes so difficult is their unpredictability. My fever came on an hour after waking up. After a nap I felt slightly better, until nausea and severe nerve pain knocked me back down. This went on for a few days. But it is precisely this roller coaster of side effects and unknowns that has made it difficult for me to return to work, or to commit to activities, or coffee, or dinners,  for any consistent time period. And it’s frustrating, tiresome, and it takes a toll on our whole family.

So, I’m hoping the worst – the chemotherapy nadir – has passed, and that soon white and red and stem cells will begin reproducing quickly again. I’m hoping this treatment has sucker-punched the tumor into oblivion, or at least into operability, and that the word “cure” might be bandied about again. I’m hoping my health will begin its slow crawl back. The odds are smaller this time, but I take my cue from the Yankee Clipper.

Play ball.

two female in baseball gears in stadium ready to catch and swing baseball

 

 

Solo Tahoe Hike. Bucket List. File Under “Not Dead Yet.”

I’ve always wanted to hike the Lake Tahoe mountain range.  It’s been a dream of mine to hike the Tahoe Rim Trail. According to the link, it’s considered one of the most scenic hikes in the world, and I can see why. Starting from the Tahoe Meadows Trailhead, the valley views are incredible.

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Altitude: 8, 740 feet.

I went alone. I was a little nervous – not about safety, but more about my health. I’ve had a large number of lymph nodes removed due to cancer metastases, and one of the side effects of this (not mentioned in the “happy pink” and “you’re a survivor” positivity ticker tape) is the lifelong risk of permanent arm swelling, cellulitis, risk of cuts, bites, and possibly permanent manual massage and pumping and physical therapy that comes with lymphedema. After my breast cancer surgery, the list of “things to avoid to prevent lymphedema” included: high altitudes, vigorous exercise, pet scratches, dehydration, weight lifting, vigorous and regular movement of the right arm, saunas and hot tubs, and so on. The list was a devastating litany of losses.

The physical therapist told me, “You might want to think of getting rid of your cat. Also, avoid air travel.” More than the cancer, I felt like my life had been taken away. How much more of my body would be carved, how much more to lose? I went home and wept. I hated it all – the cancer, the lost tissue, the loss of activities I loved. Life.

But, as we must do to continue living, I regrouped. Such gratitude to my support group, to include online ladies, a hallelujah chorus of friends, family, writing group, community, my husband and daughter and wonderful colleagues. This pool of support buoyed me, kept me grounded, prompted (and prompts) me to get back out and live.

And so this hike, 6 miles in high thin air, was more than walking. It was a kind of milestone, a kind of fuck you to the limitations of this disease. It’s not the 10 miler I’d hoped, or the full 15-day outback trek I’d dreamed of, but it’s a start. A small victory.

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And afterwards?

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The best, sauciest, crab cakes EVER. With wine and a sweet lake breeze.

Cheers.

 

Bodega Bay, CA

We love the sea.

My husband, daughter and I spent a few days at the coast just getting quiet, reading, drinking coffee, walking and listening. The landscape, it is not especially glamorous or light-filled, but we like it that way. I like the quiet serenity of it.

 

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The subtlety of the colors and layers reminds me to look more deeply.

Not everything has to be bright, or vivid. Not everything needs to move.

And yet it does.

 

 

Results, Pending

The CT scan showed that the tumor is shrinking. It’s gone down by about 1 cm.

This should be good news, and it is, but the rise of the celebratory music is dampered by the ongoing knowledge of cancer’s continued presence. I am talking about a lack of trust, a lack of belief in the body’s full capabilities. This lack is not pessimism, but rather the realization that this body can and has betrayed me. Faith in a long future is a vertebrae that’s been removed. One slight hunch is now always impacting movement, tilting each tentative step. It’s a little harder to look up.

“Continue the treatment until it shrinks further.” Then surgery, then recovery.

Then wait.

My old life feels like a harbor from which I drift further away each day.

I do not want to sound sad. There is always coffee, or sunlight.

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A friend or a flower.

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A note or a text message, laughter, friendship, good books, food, family, naps. You, they, these things:

  • are all the antidote.
  • are all I need.

And the truth is? We are always pending, are always, like the pendulum,

asway.

 

 

 

I Remember.

Flowers on the windowsill. Such pleasure in their colors and blooms.

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Yesterday a haze of exhaustion. Wandering. Up and down stairs.

Water.

My mind a sluice with this thought, that. No order.

Post-infusion low counts and a ton called not going on my belly. Aka: sit down. Aka: not today.

Taxotere. Cold slide into my veins and killing the quick cells. Do your work.

How the sun, beautiful wanderer, lights up all the kitchen jars and vases like a song through glass. I can almost hear it.

 

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Oh, warmth. Oh, living.

And arrival.  Here now.

What else was it that I wanted? What else did I ever ask for?