We Are All Cancer Survivors Now

During these last few unprecedented weeks, a familiar feeling has been nagging at me. 

I am reminded of my treatment year, when we were so very careful to keep germs away from me, and me away from germs.  I was immunocompromised then, so much so that I had that super-expensive injection to keep my white blood cell count up.  On the days I went to work, I used the bottle of hand sanitizer on my desk as soon as I got in; that same bottle is still on my desk, nearly empty, and all alone in my empty office.

I am reminded of the days in between my every-six-months scan and the followup appointment with my oncologist when scanxiety runs rampant. 

I am reminded how in the years since treatment and my last surgeries, no matter how long it has been or how good the current prognosis, even the tiniest new twinge or strange sensation in my belly convinces me that It Is Back.

And now, I can welcome you all to this state of mind.  Now that we are all (hopefully) staying at home most of the time, and riding out these very strange days, you may have an inkling of what it feels like to be a cancer survivor, as you over-analyze every cough and ache and pain and wonder, do I have It?  Will I end up in the hospital?  Will I survive?

Welcome to my world.  It's nice to see you.

Number of the day is 5 (and letter is W)

I've just registered for Jimmy Fund Walk number 5!  I remember the first time I walked, in 2016 - about 5 months post-treatment, sporting ostomy #2, for a half-marathon distance.  Since then I have walked 3 marathons, each one a little easier than the last.  I'm excited to participate again to celebrate winning my fight and to support everyone else who has had to face the challenge that is cancer.

I welcome your support, financial or otherwise.  Thank you!
http://danafarber.jimmyfund.org/goto/eemthomas

Mood

I was thinking today that I’ve been through a lot.  Not just the cancer and the treatment and the surgeries, and this ongoing survivorship maintenance reminding me that at any moment it might come back.  That seems like enough.  But there was a lot before that, too, equally awful.  And I have not given up, or despaired, or played the cancer card, or any of the other cards I could play. Everyone goes through hard things, difficult things.

So I feel it’s important to say to myself, to whomever, that it’s good to recognize the shit you’ve been through, that it was shitty and difficult and you’ve been through it and you survived.  And you are tired, because surviving is all on its own just exhausting.  And you survived for a reason - you’ve got better things to do, better experiences to find and to live through, better things to build, people to be with, art to make, changes to make.

I’m thinking, then - I went through all those things, am going through these things, and you are too, so I think we owe it to ourselves to do and be things that make us happy and not do or be things that don’t.  I feel like I’ve put up and put up with all these appearances, and now I’m putting the world on notice. I’m not playing any more of your reindeer games.  I did not survive for that.

Cheers to doing and being better, to some rigorous personal honesty.

And another one down

Made it.  Pretty decent pace, despite the heat - 8 hours exactly start to finish, including rest breaks.  Thanks to all who donated to my walk campaign!

Plastic Fantastic

I had a colonoscopy yesterday.  My post-treatment surveillance requires I have one every 3 years.  I still had an ostomy the last time around, so this was my first one since getting reconnected and reversing all the things.  And, it was awesome.  I’m not still dizzy on fentanyl; I mean it.

I was more anxious about this screening than with any of my CT scans so far.  Partly it’s the preparation: 5 days of nothing good to eat, 1 solid day of no solids, and the inconvenient flushing of your entire GI tract.  Partly it’s the alien invasion nature of the test; cameras don’t belong where they put the camera.  But mostly I think it’s the intimacy.  They are looking directly at your insides and will know immediately if there is something to worry about.  They might say so in that moment, thinking you won’t notice given the sedation, but what if you do notice and panic and end up sobbing on the table with a camera still in your large intestine??

It also requires an IV, and you know how much I love those.  The nurse prepping me did all the right things. I told her of my vasovagal history, and she told me of her daughter’s vasovagal history - so, she knew just how icky it could be.  I told her of my needle phobia, and she reminded me that the needle is just the delivery mechanism.  She took extra care.  I looked away, she asked about my vacation to distract me, she tightened the tourniquet and rubbed with alcohol and I took my deep breaths.  She did the stick, and missed.  She tried to get the vein without re-sticking - moving the needle slowly and subtly around under my skin - and I started to get the familiar tingle in my fingers, the  sinking feeling.  It’s cruel, I thought, that there isn’t a way to knock me out before getting the IV.  The surgeon’s assistant came by to help; she picked a most awkward spot on the side of my hand, and did all the right things too, and got it on the first try  (a more painful stick, but she was quicker).  I stopped sinking, but had them wrap it so I couldn’t see it, just in case.

Then they wheeled me in and started the cocktail.  I was sleepy but still aware.  I saw all the insides - my patent anastomoses, all the evidence of prior surgeries, all the scar tissue, clear as day.  I think I was talking, asking questions even.  It was surreal and amazing.  I was cancer free, still.  I was delighted.  And I was completely comfortable.  I was wheeled out to recovery, looked at my wrapped hand, and I fell in love.

It’s not fashionable to praise plastic.  It strangles our sea creatures and remains perfectly, unapologetically composed on littered streets and in landfills.  But there are some plastics we need.  One of these is the tiny flexible tube that slips in our veins, delivering medicine, comfort, hope, life.  I love you, my intravenous fluid drip, just the way you are.  

Just keep walking... just keep walking...

I've got a few more letters in my alphabet now.  Last week's training walk was very, very difficult - a lot of hills, and I started first thing in the morning without a drop of coffee or any breakfast.  I actually had to stop and sit down, near the top of a particularly steep hill, just shy of the 10-mile mark.  I have NEVER stopped on a training walk.  I'm hoping it's not a bad sign; just a sign that I shouldn't embark on 10+ routes without some sustenance.

Here is B, X, Y, backslash, and I.

 

Walk ALL the letters!!

Last year I started my Arlington Walk Font alphabet, mostly to keep training interesting.  While I'm a pretty structure-oriented person, I am not particularly a fan of repetition, especially with exercise.  I got about a third of the way through the alphabet last year.  I am determined to finish it this year, at least the upper case.  This morning I made a Z.  Now I can spell AMAZE.  Go me.

The current collection is below.  Walk all the letters.  And make a donation if you are so inclined!