Tag: cancer

dance

wendi4 Comments

Dance when you’re broken open.
Dance when you’ve torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance when you’re perfectly free.
Struck, the dancer hears a tambourine inside her,
like a wave that crests into foam at the very top,
Begins.
Maybe you don’t hear the tambourine,
or the tree leaves clapping time.
Close the ears on your head,
that listen mostly to lies and cynical jokes.
There are other things to see, and hear.
Music. Dance.
A brilliant city inside your soul!

– Rumi

 In the past two weeks, my body has been reawakening and my spirit lifting. I’ve been integrating moments of spontaneously removing my head coverings, which seems like a small thing, I’m sure, but there’s vulnerability in baring a naked head to the world. Especially when that hairlessness isn’t by choice. And so the times when I take off my hat in the park to take advantage of the sun shining down on my crown, I try to quietly acknowledge this temporary place that I currently occupy- that space between treatment and healing, life and death, internal and external. The present moment, where I am able to recognize that vulnerability is a gift of this human experience, and that I am not alone in it.

This past week, I had my fourteenth infusion, and I celebrated the following day by dancing at NIA class with a community of joyful souls. Even though nobody but me and my friends knew about the countdown of infusions, it was a precious gift to feel secure enough to throw my hat and over shirt to the back of the room when I was too hot. Wearing just my camisole and yoga pants, I spun, leapt, and danced with a smile on my face and my bald head shining for the world to see. I couldn’t have felt more beautiful or healthy, and it was clear from the responses of some of my classmates that they appreciated my honest presence- scars and all.

The more I consider what is important in my world, the more it boils down to the people around me and my ability to be authentically me. I love that I’ve been encouraged to be open and honest in my experience and to continue to be my silly self. Cancer doesn’t always make one wise, but it absolutely encourages one to reflect on what really matters. To me, that includes dancing, even when I can’t keep the rhythm, and laughing, even when nobody else gets the joke. Isn’t that where joy begins? And it flows into the world, creating possibility.

counting, “normal”, and heart connections

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I’ve officially hit the double digits on my chemo- 10 down, 8 to go. Never thought I would be so obsessed with dates, but here I am marking my mental calendar in an attempt to sooth my psyche. I want hair! I want useful fingertips! I want to lose this steroid weight! Mostly, I need to know when life will get back to whatever normal will be post chemo. As if there is ever such a reality as normal. Seems “normal” shifts and changes minute to minute, second to second. Oops- that was normal this morning, but the afternoon normal has shifted to include urping and watering of the eyes. Tune in for this evening, when normal may well involve manic housecleaning and sudden onset of nausea….there is no planning for what a body on chemo will do, and it just adds to the excitement. When I feel great, like on most Saturday mornings, when I have steroids pumping through my veins, I feel as though I could run the hills of Seattle without taking a break- then I go to walk the dogs, and my muscles ache and I’m gulping for as much oxygen as my mouth and nose can ingest. Good thing Franny and Emma don’t judge me or require me to bound hills or even walk at a fast clip. I’ve found joy in just walking slowly and noticing the very small things. Only occasionally do I lose patience with myself (or those sweetly neurotic dogs).

This past week also marked my last class for fall quarter. I spent last weekend attempting to maintain my energy for writing a final paper, and it took every last bit of brain capacity and physical stamina I could muster. It was challenging, to say the least, but it also made me reflect on the fact that I am so thankful to have been in this program during this time in my life. Who would have guessed that I would have the opportunity to use my classmates as a therapeutic healing force in my breast cancer drama? But that’s exactly the gift that I have had, and so this week was both exciting (knowing that I’m taking a quarter off to rest) and sad (knowing that I won’t have class as a blissful distraction as well as a healing tour de force). I will miss having the anchor that school has offered. I will also very much miss the hugs, tears, and open hearts that I have encountered each and every time I entered the classroom.

And so here I am on my first “free” Saturday morning, reflecting on the past year, which has been, um, wild. I have no doubt that the year ahead will offer just as much thrill. My hope (fearful of the word “plan” these days- too many expectations attached) is that I can stay on this ride and yet keep as rooted as I think I have been. To be present. To be joyful when I need to be, and to allow the tears to flow when they will. Isn’t that what life is? I actually had just this reminder this past week when I had the opportunity to have what can only be described as a heart connection with my niece, Destyni (how perfect is that?). I won’t go into the details of our conversation, but I will offer that I remember being a “tween” and I could relate to the feelings that she offered of being lonely and smothered at the same time. Because who knows at any given moment what we may need as human beings? “Right now I need some space- WAIT! Don’t leave! I need you!” Random acts of being human. Give us all a break. We are filled with hormones (don’t I know it) that make us wildly irrational sometimes. It’s so damned fabulously wild and irritating that sometimes you just have to sit and laugh (or is that the hormones talking?). I am thankful for those heart connections. And I have lots of them. I experience pure bliss when I have what is a painfully rare opportunity to chat with my sister, Tami, who I admire beyond words for what appears to be an infinite capacity to be loving and giving amidst chaos (it’s humbling, believe me). I look forward to my weekly connections with my parents, who are a perfect blend of sweet and spicy, and always leave me grateful for being a daughter. I am joyful for friends who are experiencing new love (joy, joy, joy), who send me emails and cards, gifts of free facials (I’ve received two gifts for facials- yahoo!), as well as those who need to vent how pissed off they are about this or that. Truly, I am just disgustingly thankful. I just need to figure out how to tie these damned scarves.

bliss.

wendi1 Comment

Ahhhhh- yoga! Reen and I attended our first post-surgery yoga class this past week, and it felt phenomenal. What joy to move my body in ways that I haven’t been able to (as in, downward dog) until now. This healing process is a long one filled with moments of humility and growth, and it’s been amazing to recognize how much certain ways of moving and being have meant to me. I’ve been practicing my own mini sessions of very modified yoga at home, but being in a class of other yogi’s and yogini’s who have been touched by cancer was pure bliss. It was a mellow and gentle class, which was perfect for both of us. Even my sweet Reen left relaxed (though starving) and pleased that we attended. We left the class with smiles on our faces, and headed directly to Red Mill Burgers for garden burgers and a milk shake. Again, it was bliss.

Five infusions down now, and as of this Sunday evening, I’m feeling pretty good. Just a touch of acid stomach and the usual fatigue that overtakes me by 5 p.m.  The steroids allow me to celebrate my vibrancy through Sunday morning, and then I begin to fear symptoms of nausea and exhaustion. This week, however, I’m on a new nausea routine of morning protein drinks (thanks, mom!) and small snacks throughout the day. So far, fingers crossed, I’m not nauseous, and I only feel a bit funky in my belly. Not bad! After a week of suffering terrible indigestion with heartburn, my plan is to be more careful with what I eat. Boy, though, the cravings for starch are intense! Read More »

change of scene

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Every morning and evening I massage the skin and scars on my chest, feeling my ribs and sternum more intimately than I ever have before. I take care not to bother the port that sits just below my right collar bone, and I look carefully at my scars to make sure they continue to heal properly. It’s become a normal part of my routine, and yet there are moments when I am stunned at how bazaar this entire experience truly is. I’ve lost a part of my body, and I very rarely take the time to breathe that fact in. If I had lost a hand, foot, my ability to speak, or to hear, I would be in some sort of rehabilitation and people would be able to recognize and talk about those losses. I would be forced to think about those losses and to acknowledge them. Instead, I’ve been blessed with the freedom to consider my losses on my own time, and to witness my healing in the mirror. What is shocking to me is how strong I feel, even though I see a fragility in my appearance.

This Friday will mark my fourth chemo infusion. I consider that one month down, three and a half to go (ideally). So far, I’m only experiencing mild nausea and fatigue, and I’ve been told some of my symptoms are due to chemo-induced anemia. I’m crossing my fingers for continued blessings in this process, and hoping for strength in the months to come. I’m also ready for a change of scene. The more immersed I am in this process, the more completely exhausted of it I am. It’s the only thing on my mind, and yet it’s sometimes the last thing I want to think about. I want to know what’s happening in other people’s lives, and yet people don’t want to “bother” me with their problems. Believe me, I want to know. Cancer is a big, fat bore. I want to be gifted with other people’s dramas. I want people to stop sensoring themselves for fear that I don’t have the time or the capacity to hear about what they’re going throught. I may have little time right now, but I sure have the interest, ability, and desire to listen. Give me a break from my little drama.

another friday night…

wendi3 Comments

I swear, I’m having a cancer/chemo baby. Nausea, non-stop cravings, exhaustion, change in my body, emotional upheaval, and a massive desire to change everything about the space in my home (as in “nesting”). Yesterday I ate an entire bag of brown rice chips while sitting on the step stool in my kitchen. I’m not proud of it, but it’s my new reality. The positive thing is that I have school to ground me into focus on something outside of this physical experience, and that Reen is patient with my apparent temporary insanity.

This weekend I made my way to Rudy’s Barbershop for my funky fresh look. I know it may not last long, but I’m loving the newness of my appearance. It’s so funny how a haircut can make all the difference. Will shaving my head be just as liberating? Doubt it, but the increasing nausea post infusions is taking my mind off of my obsession with hair loss. No amount of ginger or homeopathic nux vomicacan cease the disgusting waves of imbalance that I feel a couple of days after treatment. Nausea is my nemesis, and I intend to seek and destroy- hopefully without having to rely on more nasty meds to do it.

I’m trying to be present in the now- to experience this as fully as I can without focusing on the future, but this entire process begs me to seek out what the coming months hold. If only two infusions can make me feel this gurgly and imbalanced, what do I have to look forward to? Friday afternoons and evenings hooked up to an infusion pump and having to wheel around while my bladder goes into overdrive…falling asleep within a half hour of the Benadryl, and being woken up every hour or so to tell the charge nurse my name and birthdate due to some medical policy…the taste of saline as the port is cleared for another drug…the smell of alcohol, the itchiness from the bandage over my port, the pain as the bandage is removed, and the chill of the evening air as Irene escorts me to the parking garage. I am blessed and thankful, and I am also in awe of the courageous people I witness in the chairs around me when in the infusion unit. I never feel alone in this.