I'm back. We had a wonderful trip, full of food, drink, culture, and history. It was just what the doctor ordered. Have I ever told you how much I love traveling? Suffice to say, if I could find some sort of sponsor to give me money to travel as a job, I would. I would even wear something with said sponsor's logo. Tattoo on the forehead could even be negotiated.
In each of the cities and towns we visited, there was water. Paris had the Seine, Normandy had the sea, London had the Thames, Scotland had the sea, Budapest had the Danube, and Venice had the canals. Regardless of the city, or the size or location of the body water, people are always drawn to it. People (myself included) want to sit by it, eat by it, walk by it, swim in it, and drink by it. It's a magnet, really, that people find to be calming and nourishing.
I'm going to get a little metaphorical and symbolic right now. Bear with me. Water's ebb and flow reminds me of the push and pull we all go through, throughout our years. Some years produce much bigger waves than others; some years the water's current pulls us to parts that are unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Yet, we ride the waves and the currents and somehow end up back on shore, sometimes a little wet and weary, but most of the time changed for the better.
I think about how a year ago, I didn't even know there was a tumor growing inside me. I was going about my life business as usual. Then a month later, that tumor decided to rear its ugly head (literally) and our lives were thrown for a loop. There were so many waves that we rode this year, some much bigger than others. Yet each wave or current that tossed or pulled us, we were buoyed by our strength and the support of others and set back on shore. I am happy to say most of the time we arrived safe, sound, and thankful.
I have a good friend who is going through a really rough time right now. I was chatting with her last night and told her that things will get better. They will. My experience this past year tells me so. Just keep riding that wave, keep swimming, and you will land right side up on shore, and changed for the better.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Monday, June 17, 2013
That Boy Stein
I'm done. Radiation ended Saturday (they were able to move my Monday appointment to Saturday). I have an appointment with my oncologist on Thursday, and eventually have to get my port removed, but that's it. School ended last Friday. We leave for our trip this Friday. A couple endings and some new beginnings.
I would never have gotten to this point without Stein. Sure, I would've muddled through and found my way here eventually, but not without a lot of pain, tears, and exhaustion. These past eight months have been some of the most difficult, tiring, challenging, and emotionally-charged months of our lives. Yet, he has stepped up to the plate and beyond to try to make the best of it and ease the pain for me along the way.
When I first met Stein, I knew immediately that he was a kind person. Behind the sarcastic, gruff personality, was the most helpful, friendly, and big-hearted man. He talked about his friends and family often, and he loved to tell me stories about his siblings and niece (later to be nieces) and nephews. He was ready to jump in and help anyone who asked, and many times didn't need to be asked in order to help. He loved going to visit people spontaneously, just to say hi or bring some food or a gift he knew they would love.
He hasn't changed throughout the following years we dated and then got married. He will still drop everything the minute he hears someone needs help. He still drops by people's houses to bring something over that he knows they will love. He loves to get friends and family together whenever possible to share a restaurant he loves or a new place he's discovered. He asks people how they're doing, and listens intently when they answer him. Just before we were getting married, I had a conversation with his mom and she said, "David is one of the nicest people I know, and I'm not just saying that because he's my son and he's marrying you." I agreed with her and added, "He really makes me want to be a better person. He is a great example."
It comes as no surprise, then, that during this roller coaster we rode for the past eight months, that he was front and center waiting and willing to help out whenever and wherever necessary. He was master of the calendar when I had appointments scheduled. He has never missed one appointment that I have had, whether it be a blood draw, a chemo treatment, a CT, PET, or MRI scan, a doctor's visit, or a radiation treatment. For most of these appointments, he has sat in waiting rooms, sometimes for hours upon hours, waiting. For most of the appointments, especially the 6:40 a.m. radiation treatments, I told him that he didn't have to go, that I would be alright. Yet, he insisted on going. "It will make me feel better if I'm there," he would say.
While I was going through chemo and just recently when I was going through radiation, he would let me sleep when I felt tired, made dinner when I couldn't muster the energy or didn't know what I wanted to eat, and slept on the couch to make sure I had a good night's sleep. Every morning, he asks me how I'm feeling. When we talk on the phone during the day, the first thing he asks, even if I can tell he's had a bad day, is how I'm feeling.
Caregivers are truly the unsung heroes. Stein has sacrificed so much in these past months and hasn't shown that he is tired or frustrated or too busy. In the midst of trying to help me, he has also been dealing with the loss of his dad and brother, while simultaneously working to keep the office and business running as usual.
A lot of people don't realize what the caregivers go through when they are faced with the challenge of taking care of a sick loved one. Most people only pay attention to the patient and offer help for the patient. But it's the caregivers who deserve the credit. Stein absolutely deserves the credit here. I wouldn't have been able to get through this adventure smoothly and successfully without him by my side. I'm so lucky in so many ways. Being married to him is the biggest one.
I would never have gotten to this point without Stein. Sure, I would've muddled through and found my way here eventually, but not without a lot of pain, tears, and exhaustion. These past eight months have been some of the most difficult, tiring, challenging, and emotionally-charged months of our lives. Yet, he has stepped up to the plate and beyond to try to make the best of it and ease the pain for me along the way.
When I first met Stein, I knew immediately that he was a kind person. Behind the sarcastic, gruff personality, was the most helpful, friendly, and big-hearted man. He talked about his friends and family often, and he loved to tell me stories about his siblings and niece (later to be nieces) and nephews. He was ready to jump in and help anyone who asked, and many times didn't need to be asked in order to help. He loved going to visit people spontaneously, just to say hi or bring some food or a gift he knew they would love.
He hasn't changed throughout the following years we dated and then got married. He will still drop everything the minute he hears someone needs help. He still drops by people's houses to bring something over that he knows they will love. He loves to get friends and family together whenever possible to share a restaurant he loves or a new place he's discovered. He asks people how they're doing, and listens intently when they answer him. Just before we were getting married, I had a conversation with his mom and she said, "David is one of the nicest people I know, and I'm not just saying that because he's my son and he's marrying you." I agreed with her and added, "He really makes me want to be a better person. He is a great example."
It comes as no surprise, then, that during this roller coaster we rode for the past eight months, that he was front and center waiting and willing to help out whenever and wherever necessary. He was master of the calendar when I had appointments scheduled. He has never missed one appointment that I have had, whether it be a blood draw, a chemo treatment, a CT, PET, or MRI scan, a doctor's visit, or a radiation treatment. For most of these appointments, he has sat in waiting rooms, sometimes for hours upon hours, waiting. For most of the appointments, especially the 6:40 a.m. radiation treatments, I told him that he didn't have to go, that I would be alright. Yet, he insisted on going. "It will make me feel better if I'm there," he would say.
While I was going through chemo and just recently when I was going through radiation, he would let me sleep when I felt tired, made dinner when I couldn't muster the energy or didn't know what I wanted to eat, and slept on the couch to make sure I had a good night's sleep. Every morning, he asks me how I'm feeling. When we talk on the phone during the day, the first thing he asks, even if I can tell he's had a bad day, is how I'm feeling.
Caregivers are truly the unsung heroes. Stein has sacrificed so much in these past months and hasn't shown that he is tired or frustrated or too busy. In the midst of trying to help me, he has also been dealing with the loss of his dad and brother, while simultaneously working to keep the office and business running as usual.
A lot of people don't realize what the caregivers go through when they are faced with the challenge of taking care of a sick loved one. Most people only pay attention to the patient and offer help for the patient. But it's the caregivers who deserve the credit. Stein absolutely deserves the credit here. I wouldn't have been able to get through this adventure smoothly and successfully without him by my side. I'm so lucky in so many ways. Being married to him is the biggest one.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
The Radiation Factory
Is there anyone out there who has watched the TV show Lost? Well, if you ever saw the show, you would understand when I say that some days in the Radiation Factory I feel like I'm part of the Dharma Initiative.
It is like a factory, though. Every morning, around 6:40 a.m., Stein and I go to the radiation clinic. (Yes, Stein has continued his relentless care-giving with this endeavor. Either that, or he's got something for clinic waiting rooms...) We enter through the automatic doors, Stein turns left to go into the waiting room, and I turn right and hit the button on the wall. Two automatic doors swing open, and I get on the computer inside the doors and punch in the last 4 digits of my social security number. The next screen pops up and tells me what machine I will be on. From that I can determine which of the 2 waiting rooms I will have to go to. From the computer, I go to the locker room, change into a gown from the waist up, and go sit down in one of the waiting rooms.
They usually call me within 5-10 minutes of waiting. I rarely get through an article in any magazine (if I even pick up one), and sometimes I'll see others waiting. A lot of the same people I see everyday. We all nod or mumble a "Good Morning". The atmosphere is a little tense, a little somber. Oftentimes for me it's sad. I try not to think about the terrible things that cancer has done to people, but it's hard when you can see the physical damage on some of the bodies I see. These visuals always serve as reminders to me that I'm going to be okay, that I'm the lucky one. They also knock me down a few notches when I think that my pity party is the worst in town.
Yesterday, a young man in his twenties wearing a surgical mask was wheeled down the hall and parked outside the waiting room. I noticed that next to him was an IV pole or a chemo machine that had about 5 bags of different medicines on it. I wondered if he was receiving his chemo infusion as he waited to go into radiation? He seemed to take it all in stride, like this was his job. A few minutes later, an older man came into the waiting room. I mumbled a "Good Morning", and he couldn't even mumble it back. He grunted, and when I looked over, I noticed something on his neck that prevented him from speaking.
Today I witnessed a touching moment. An older man who I see most days, makes his way around the halls holding the back of his gown closed. (Stein unfortunately caught a glimpse of the man when he wasn't holding his gown closed and the automatic doors swung open.) Today I saw him come up to another patient in a wheel chair (a teenager?) and said, "I'm done today, but I want you to know that I'm praying for you, and everyone at my church is praying for you." I thought it was just my typical Hallmark-card-commercial-emotional side coming out when I teared up, but when I looked around the waiting room, I caught glimpses of eyes welling up. Too much for 6:40 in the morning!
The actual radiation session doesn't take long at all, and has become a routine. They position me on the bed, put my mask on, clamp it down. and then leave the room to take x-rays. Sometimes, they'll come in the room to make adjustments, but for the most part, the machine does its work. The beam rotates around me and stops on me at about 7 different angles, with the actual radiation lasting about 20 seconds at each angle. A lot of times they'll have music playing which helps to distract me. Yesterday's music didn't help, though. It was Thriller by Michael Jackson. Although I like the song, it was the part when Vincent Price is talking and then lets out a maniacal laugh. I little too much while I was strapped down to the table.
I'm done with 9 sessions, so I have 8 more to go. I've been trying to keep the sore throats at bay with a daily regime of the Aloe Vera juice, honey, and tea. Keep your fingers crossed. In the meantime, school is winding down and I'm counting down for that, too. 6 1/2 more days. And then our trip is a week later. A lot of endings. But a whole lot of beginnings.
It is like a factory, though. Every morning, around 6:40 a.m., Stein and I go to the radiation clinic. (Yes, Stein has continued his relentless care-giving with this endeavor. Either that, or he's got something for clinic waiting rooms...) We enter through the automatic doors, Stein turns left to go into the waiting room, and I turn right and hit the button on the wall. Two automatic doors swing open, and I get on the computer inside the doors and punch in the last 4 digits of my social security number. The next screen pops up and tells me what machine I will be on. From that I can determine which of the 2 waiting rooms I will have to go to. From the computer, I go to the locker room, change into a gown from the waist up, and go sit down in one of the waiting rooms.
They usually call me within 5-10 minutes of waiting. I rarely get through an article in any magazine (if I even pick up one), and sometimes I'll see others waiting. A lot of the same people I see everyday. We all nod or mumble a "Good Morning". The atmosphere is a little tense, a little somber. Oftentimes for me it's sad. I try not to think about the terrible things that cancer has done to people, but it's hard when you can see the physical damage on some of the bodies I see. These visuals always serve as reminders to me that I'm going to be okay, that I'm the lucky one. They also knock me down a few notches when I think that my pity party is the worst in town.
Yesterday, a young man in his twenties wearing a surgical mask was wheeled down the hall and parked outside the waiting room. I noticed that next to him was an IV pole or a chemo machine that had about 5 bags of different medicines on it. I wondered if he was receiving his chemo infusion as he waited to go into radiation? He seemed to take it all in stride, like this was his job. A few minutes later, an older man came into the waiting room. I mumbled a "Good Morning", and he couldn't even mumble it back. He grunted, and when I looked over, I noticed something on his neck that prevented him from speaking.
Today I witnessed a touching moment. An older man who I see most days, makes his way around the halls holding the back of his gown closed. (Stein unfortunately caught a glimpse of the man when he wasn't holding his gown closed and the automatic doors swung open.) Today I saw him come up to another patient in a wheel chair (a teenager?) and said, "I'm done today, but I want you to know that I'm praying for you, and everyone at my church is praying for you." I thought it was just my typical Hallmark-card-commercial-emotional side coming out when I teared up, but when I looked around the waiting room, I caught glimpses of eyes welling up. Too much for 6:40 in the morning!
The actual radiation session doesn't take long at all, and has become a routine. They position me on the bed, put my mask on, clamp it down. and then leave the room to take x-rays. Sometimes, they'll come in the room to make adjustments, but for the most part, the machine does its work. The beam rotates around me and stops on me at about 7 different angles, with the actual radiation lasting about 20 seconds at each angle. A lot of times they'll have music playing which helps to distract me. Yesterday's music didn't help, though. It was Thriller by Michael Jackson. Although I like the song, it was the part when Vincent Price is talking and then lets out a maniacal laugh. I little too much while I was strapped down to the table.
I'm done with 9 sessions, so I have 8 more to go. I've been trying to keep the sore throats at bay with a daily regime of the Aloe Vera juice, honey, and tea. Keep your fingers crossed. In the meantime, school is winding down and I'm counting down for that, too. 6 1/2 more days. And then our trip is a week later. A lot of endings. But a whole lot of beginnings.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
4 Down, 13 to go
So I've had four radiation treatments. So far, so good, but I have to admit I keep bracing myself for the side effects. I ventured into Dr. Google-land yesterday, which probably wasn't the best thing. I know, I know, I should stay away from the internet. But being the planner that I am, I thought maybe I could learn a thing or two from some people who have gone through the same experience.
One of the side effects that could possibly happen, due to the location of the tumor and where they aim the beams, is a sore throat. As my doctor described it, "It will be like a sore throat you get when you get a cold and it will go away just as quickly when you're done with treatment." Sounded pretty harmless to me. Yet, I don't know about you, but I HATE sore throats. (I don't bargain with God like I do if I feel nauseous, but it comes pretty darn close). Because I don't want to have a sore throat, I turned to Dr. Google. And promptly freaked out.
Dr. Google told me that some people have experienced such bad sore throats that they couldn't eat ANY solid foods. Some temporarily lost their sense of taste. Some couldn't even drink water. Some had to get feeding tubes and IVs for food and water. Some were in such excruciating pain that that had to take prescription pain killers. Say what? I know that these are the extremes, but all I kept thinking about was our upcoming trip to Europe. So help me if I won't be able to taste or swallow the wonderful foods and drinks in the places we're visiting.
A lot of the people talked about Aloe Vera juice and the healing qualities of it. So yesterday I found myself at Trader Joe's buying a gallon of aloe vera juice and drinking it mixed with cranberry juice. I am hoping that it possibly prevents some of the soreness from taking place (even if it's in my head). For y'all who know me, I take great pleasure in eating and drinking. I would be depressed if I was denied this pleasure.
In other news, Stein and I have been gone the past two weekends in Chicago. The first weekend we celebrated my mom's husband Rich's birthday, and the following weekend we celebrated my dad's birthday. They were both whirlwind weekends that were chock full of family, food, and fun. Some of the people we haven't seen in years, so it was nice to reconnect. This weekend I am looking forward to getting flowers planted and just hanging out at home.
Thank you again to all those who have contributed to Patty's marathon fundraising! She made 100% of her goal! WOOHOO!!
One of the side effects that could possibly happen, due to the location of the tumor and where they aim the beams, is a sore throat. As my doctor described it, "It will be like a sore throat you get when you get a cold and it will go away just as quickly when you're done with treatment." Sounded pretty harmless to me. Yet, I don't know about you, but I HATE sore throats. (I don't bargain with God like I do if I feel nauseous, but it comes pretty darn close). Because I don't want to have a sore throat, I turned to Dr. Google. And promptly freaked out.
Dr. Google told me that some people have experienced such bad sore throats that they couldn't eat ANY solid foods. Some temporarily lost their sense of taste. Some couldn't even drink water. Some had to get feeding tubes and IVs for food and water. Some were in such excruciating pain that that had to take prescription pain killers. Say what? I know that these are the extremes, but all I kept thinking about was our upcoming trip to Europe. So help me if I won't be able to taste or swallow the wonderful foods and drinks in the places we're visiting.
A lot of the people talked about Aloe Vera juice and the healing qualities of it. So yesterday I found myself at Trader Joe's buying a gallon of aloe vera juice and drinking it mixed with cranberry juice. I am hoping that it possibly prevents some of the soreness from taking place (even if it's in my head). For y'all who know me, I take great pleasure in eating and drinking. I would be depressed if I was denied this pleasure.
In other news, Stein and I have been gone the past two weekends in Chicago. The first weekend we celebrated my mom's husband Rich's birthday, and the following weekend we celebrated my dad's birthday. They were both whirlwind weekends that were chock full of family, food, and fun. Some of the people we haven't seen in years, so it was nice to reconnect. This weekend I am looking forward to getting flowers planted and just hanging out at home.
Thank you again to all those who have contributed to Patty's marathon fundraising! She made 100% of her goal! WOOHOO!!
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Radiation Day One
I'm glad the first session is over and I know what to expect for the rest of the (16) sessions. I tossed and turned all night last night, trying to anticipate what it may be like. They told me that the first session takes the longest (40 minutes), but most sessions will take about 20 minutes total, including undressing, waiting to be called, and re-dressing.
I forgot to mention that I had two simulations done before I actually started the radiation. At the first one, I was positioned on the bed of the CT scanner, and they marked my body with a Sharpie in four different places. Then they placed stickers over those marks so that they wouldn't wash off in the shower. After they had me positioned just so, they rolled me into the tube and took some pictures. The whole process didn't take long, including a "tour" of the place and how to check in when I started my sessions.
As we waited for them to call me back with my schedule, Stein and I realized that the sessions may run into our vacation to go see Chris. We called the doctor's office to inquire about this, and we received news we hadn't expected: they wanted me to have a second scan because they wanted to position me a different way and limit the amount of radiation I would receive in different spots.
So, I went in at 7:00 the next morning for the second scan. As I was getting prepped for what I thought would be the same as the previous simulation, the tech said to me, "And you know we're making a mask for you, right?" Visions of the propaganda video we watched danced in my head. I remembered seeing the masks, but breathed a sigh of relief when I was told I wouldn't need one. This is what it looks like:
I forgot to mention that I had two simulations done before I actually started the radiation. At the first one, I was positioned on the bed of the CT scanner, and they marked my body with a Sharpie in four different places. Then they placed stickers over those marks so that they wouldn't wash off in the shower. After they had me positioned just so, they rolled me into the tube and took some pictures. The whole process didn't take long, including a "tour" of the place and how to check in when I started my sessions.
So, I went in at 7:00 the next morning for the second scan. As I was getting prepped for what I thought would be the same as the previous simulation, the tech said to me, "And you know we're making a mask for you, right?" Visions of the propaganda video we watched danced in my head. I remembered seeing the masks, but breathed a sigh of relief when I was told I wouldn't need one. This is what it looks like:
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