We are in the midst of the first big storm of the season! I’ve just driven home in a snow as thick as fog with visibility being at best about a block. Outside the city limits that low visibility might be a more common occurrence but it is quite a rarity here in town. The light, fluffy flakes are coming down in a constant stream. The wind is strong and steady. If this keeps up we’re in for a snow day tomorrow! A snow day! Ah, those words delight at any age.
The path I took home was through an historic district that has gaslight-styled streetlights. They have a more diminutive height than their newer runway-model cousins and give off a pinkish light which made the storm feel kind of friendly. The trees lining the street were hard to see but when they did finally come into view it was both stunning and startling to see their dark form stand in complete contrast to the swirling world of white around them.
Walking in from the car there wasn’t a sound to hear. Earlier in the evening it was so cold that the snow creaked and groaned under each footstep. I did not take it as a personal commentary- that below zero snow has a certain sound no matter your weight. Now it’s warmer, relatively, so the crunch has gone.
In Winter the world comes as close to complete silence as it ever will. The quiet found in a hibernating world is exclusive to months of snow. Here the hubbub of activity available during Summer’s long days is a distant memory. The planning and preparation time that is Fall has past and the promise of the new and soft green that is Spring is a still a dream. Winter asks us to set that all that was and all that will be aside and just be.
It is enough to have quiet and calm, to be quiet and calm. Again and again in a world cocooned in white Winter shows us the peace it has to offer. It’s easy enough to get caught up in the frenetic pace of the holidays. It’s tempting to keep up the speed of going and doing but Winter asks us to let go and slow down, even if it has to produce freezing rain to get us do that.
When scraping my car of said freezing rain and/or clearing it of snow it is then that I become re-familiarized with all the car's quirky and unusual crevasses. Design choices that might never be an issue in, say, Texas become common adversaries here in the wintertime. If anyone at Pontiac is interested (and they may just be ready to listen now), I’ve got some opinions about the windshield wiper and wheel well designs that I’d like to share…
On Thursday I drove back down to the Mayo with Mom and Dad for my fourth tri-monthly check up. It’s been a little more than a year since my surgery which is hard to believe. In fact, in transferring dates to the 2009 calendar I found myself stymied at the thought that it has been a year and a half since I first found the lump. A year and a half. Really? I feel like I’ve been in a time machine and now find myself here at the close of 2008 wondering what has happened.
The answer is, of course, a lot. In these months since the completion of treatment integrating what it means to live life post-cancer has left me feeling like a Maple tree in the spring: tapped out. I’m in recovery from a year and a half of life lived outside the lines. Not that I had any idea how it would be in the first place, but it is really different than anything I’ve ever experienced and it’s taking some getting used to.
In these past months I’ve been doing my best to find small ways to restore myself. As much as I and probably the rest of the world dream of winning the lottery in order to take time off the chances of that actually occurring are quite slim, especially when you don’t buy a ticket. Instead, I have built small bits of meditation into my workdays to keep me calm and weekly T’ai Chi classes help keep me centered.
So this Winter I will be turning inward to renew and refuel. I will do less and be more. And as we move further into this season of rest I continue to say thank you, thank you, thank you for just about everything you can imagine. It is by no small miracle that we are all here in this world of quiet together.
Wishing you the peace of the season,
Karen
Monday, December 15, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
An Addendum
Yesterday when sharing with my t’ai chi instructor about the previous day’s delightful encounter with the grasshopper I used a new word in the story: intention. “When the grasshopper centered himself and leapt with intention to my coat and to the blade of grass he was graceful and precise.” My instructor pointed out that the grasshopper had never been either place- not to my coat nor to the blade of grass- and yet he was able to make both of those leaps precisely and gracefully. Being centered and moving with intention focused his actions.
When the grasshopper was fleeing down the sidewalk his movements were frenetic and frantic. I had interrupted his early evening stroll with the possibility of, well, frankly, death and who wouldn’t be a little frenetic and frantic when faced with death? One clomp of my sturdy shoe and he wouldn’t have to wonder where he could get his lovely tweed suit pressed, it would be permanently pressed for him. His need for the moment was to propel himself out of harm’s way and indeed he did that but it distracted him from his original intent which may have been, like most of us, to find a little meal and a quiet place to rest for the evening.
While the flight or fight response is critical in emergencies- like a giant coming after you- it isn’t really required on a daily basis. For the most part we don’t have literal giants here in our world but, certainly, there are figurative ones that we encounter in our daily lives: work, commitments, time constraints, financial constraints, bills, health crisis, healthcare crisis, the economy, the housing collapse, the banking collapse, the elections, polar bears, the future of our country and of our world. There’s a lot to be frenetic about if you want to be.
I know for a fact that I have often moved in frenetic and frantic ways in my day-to-day life. When I’m busy I think “Hey, I’m important. My job is important. I am needed.” And while those things are true in and of themselves, they don’t define me as a person- many people can say those very same things- and they don’t express who I am as an individual. I’m discovering that by being driven only by external forces I’m not paying attention to my internal goals. I’m being sidetracked by a giant’s shoe.
In this past year I have had encounters with a real giant’s shoe, a really giant shoe: breast cancer that migrated into the lymph nodes. It’s not the kind of shoe you ever plan to take home with you but there it is. What I have learned is that with many things in life including an illness you may not get to choose the shoe but you certainly do get to choose the outfit to go with it. As Tim Gunn from ‘Project Runway’ says weekly “Make it work, people! Make it work!”
And so I am. In living with a diagnosis of cancer, rather than allowing it to move me in a frantic and frenetic way, it has given me the opportunity to center myself and move with intention. This is taking some focus, well actually re-focus, and practice. And just as with other things I’ve learned in my lifetime I’m getting guidance and support from a number of good teachers. When the student is ready the teachers will appear. And I am ready to live consciously and with intention.
So the grasshopper, that dear, dapper fellow, was much more than just a heralder of autumn. He was really a reminder and example to me to center myself and move with intention. The same opportunity is there for you, too. If it’s not something you’re already doing why not give it a try? You might just end up in a place you’ve never known but always knew you were meant to be…
With peace,
Karen
When the grasshopper was fleeing down the sidewalk his movements were frenetic and frantic. I had interrupted his early evening stroll with the possibility of, well, frankly, death and who wouldn’t be a little frenetic and frantic when faced with death? One clomp of my sturdy shoe and he wouldn’t have to wonder where he could get his lovely tweed suit pressed, it would be permanently pressed for him. His need for the moment was to propel himself out of harm’s way and indeed he did that but it distracted him from his original intent which may have been, like most of us, to find a little meal and a quiet place to rest for the evening.
While the flight or fight response is critical in emergencies- like a giant coming after you- it isn’t really required on a daily basis. For the most part we don’t have literal giants here in our world but, certainly, there are figurative ones that we encounter in our daily lives: work, commitments, time constraints, financial constraints, bills, health crisis, healthcare crisis, the economy, the housing collapse, the banking collapse, the elections, polar bears, the future of our country and of our world. There’s a lot to be frenetic about if you want to be.
I know for a fact that I have often moved in frenetic and frantic ways in my day-to-day life. When I’m busy I think “Hey, I’m important. My job is important. I am needed.” And while those things are true in and of themselves, they don’t define me as a person- many people can say those very same things- and they don’t express who I am as an individual. I’m discovering that by being driven only by external forces I’m not paying attention to my internal goals. I’m being sidetracked by a giant’s shoe.
In this past year I have had encounters with a real giant’s shoe, a really giant shoe: breast cancer that migrated into the lymph nodes. It’s not the kind of shoe you ever plan to take home with you but there it is. What I have learned is that with many things in life including an illness you may not get to choose the shoe but you certainly do get to choose the outfit to go with it. As Tim Gunn from ‘Project Runway’ says weekly “Make it work, people! Make it work!”
And so I am. In living with a diagnosis of cancer, rather than allowing it to move me in a frantic and frenetic way, it has given me the opportunity to center myself and move with intention. This is taking some focus, well actually re-focus, and practice. And just as with other things I’ve learned in my lifetime I’m getting guidance and support from a number of good teachers. When the student is ready the teachers will appear. And I am ready to live consciously and with intention.
So the grasshopper, that dear, dapper fellow, was much more than just a heralder of autumn. He was really a reminder and example to me to center myself and move with intention. The same opportunity is there for you, too. If it’s not something you’re already doing why not give it a try? You might just end up in a place you’ve never known but always knew you were meant to be…
With peace,
Karen
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Autumn
I’ve just had a lovely chat with a grasshopper. He didn’t have much time to talk, what with his busy traveling schedule and all, but the few minutes we did share were quite delightful. He was wearing his best green tweed vest and pants with a beautiful iridescent shirt: very dapper and yet sensible. Tweed is just the thing for the changing weather in these early, beguiling days of autumn.
He had caught my eye as he hurriedly hopped down the sidewalk trying to flee me, the giant seemingly coming after him! Had I only had a chance to tell him not to worry. My intent was much more mundane than to stamp on a fellow traveler; I was just on my way to get the mail.
We headed down the walk a little further and he attempted to jump a small brick retaining wall which held back green grass offering the safety of camouflage. He tried twice then three times to propel himself up and over with those thin, powerful legs but with no success. It was the gold ring on the merry-go-round: enticingly close but just out of reach. So, there he sat on the cement awaiting his doom.
I squatted down beside him to get a better look at this heralder of fall and he took the moment to catch his breath. After a minute of rest where I got to see the finery of his suit up close, his breathing slowed. I wondered what I, and really, the rest of the world looked like to him through those multi-faceted dark eyes.
“In all the things of nature there is something of the marvelous.” – Aristotle
At this point a small black ant wandered unknowingly into our scene and marched toward the hind end of the grasshopper. I couldn’t see the particulars of the encounter but knew when the ant had found its way up to him because with one quick flick of a leg the ant was propelled in a new trajectory.
I thought I was the observer in this story until the grasshopper turned his head and looked up at me. Then, keeping his eyes fixed on me, he gently rocked to the left and then to the right. He repeated this process three more times… left then right, left then right. His meditative movements reminded me of t’ai chi, which I have just begun to learn, but what was he really doing? Ah ha! He was judging the distance to his next landing which, as it turns out, was the coat that I had draped over my arm!
Where his sidewalk performance was less than artful (really fringe) and very tumultuous (he hit his head no less than twice on the brick retaining wall seemingly without consequence!?), in the blink of an eye he alighted to my blue-green tweed coat. He paused for just a moment and then quietly and easily moved up my arm as if to say ‘Oh yes, I take this walk daily. It’s very nice- you’ll like it.’
When he got to the edge of the coat he surveyed the new horizon which included my sweater with its zigzag of blue stripes. Yeowza! Talk about your busy intersection! But he was unflappable: he’d been in the big city before and was used to the noise.
For a brief moment we rested there together, he and I. Then, as if he heard the conductor calling out his train’s departure, he fixed his eyes on the green horizon, gently rocked left then right to get his bearings and made a long, swift jump to a tall blade of grass. It was a perfect landing.
I bid my new friend a fond farewell, thanked him for his time and wished him safe journey wherever he was going. Then I left the long, low shadows of the late day and went in to get my mail.
Wishing you the beauty and abundance of the season,
Karen
He had caught my eye as he hurriedly hopped down the sidewalk trying to flee me, the giant seemingly coming after him! Had I only had a chance to tell him not to worry. My intent was much more mundane than to stamp on a fellow traveler; I was just on my way to get the mail.
We headed down the walk a little further and he attempted to jump a small brick retaining wall which held back green grass offering the safety of camouflage. He tried twice then three times to propel himself up and over with those thin, powerful legs but with no success. It was the gold ring on the merry-go-round: enticingly close but just out of reach. So, there he sat on the cement awaiting his doom.
I squatted down beside him to get a better look at this heralder of fall and he took the moment to catch his breath. After a minute of rest where I got to see the finery of his suit up close, his breathing slowed. I wondered what I, and really, the rest of the world looked like to him through those multi-faceted dark eyes.
“In all the things of nature there is something of the marvelous.” – Aristotle
At this point a small black ant wandered unknowingly into our scene and marched toward the hind end of the grasshopper. I couldn’t see the particulars of the encounter but knew when the ant had found its way up to him because with one quick flick of a leg the ant was propelled in a new trajectory.
I thought I was the observer in this story until the grasshopper turned his head and looked up at me. Then, keeping his eyes fixed on me, he gently rocked to the left and then to the right. He repeated this process three more times… left then right, left then right. His meditative movements reminded me of t’ai chi, which I have just begun to learn, but what was he really doing? Ah ha! He was judging the distance to his next landing which, as it turns out, was the coat that I had draped over my arm!
Where his sidewalk performance was less than artful (really fringe) and very tumultuous (he hit his head no less than twice on the brick retaining wall seemingly without consequence!?), in the blink of an eye he alighted to my blue-green tweed coat. He paused for just a moment and then quietly and easily moved up my arm as if to say ‘Oh yes, I take this walk daily. It’s very nice- you’ll like it.’
When he got to the edge of the coat he surveyed the new horizon which included my sweater with its zigzag of blue stripes. Yeowza! Talk about your busy intersection! But he was unflappable: he’d been in the big city before and was used to the noise.
For a brief moment we rested there together, he and I. Then, as if he heard the conductor calling out his train’s departure, he fixed his eyes on the green horizon, gently rocked left then right to get his bearings and made a long, swift jump to a tall blade of grass. It was a perfect landing.
I bid my new friend a fond farewell, thanked him for his time and wished him safe journey wherever he was going. Then I left the long, low shadows of the late day and went in to get my mail.
Wishing you the beauty and abundance of the season,
Karen
Monday, August 18, 2008
A f(h)airy tale
Once upon a time in a land of straight lines and flat horizons there was a little red-haired girl who loved curls. She loved all that they offered: the bounce, the energy, the volume. It was her belief that curly hair suited her much more than the straight hair she was born with so she had curls set freshly every four months.
Then one day, a day which began like many others, she found herself on an unexpected journey. With the help of her Blanket of Love and Support and her medical team (which included some mighty feisty piranhas) she would head out through unfamiliar terrain. Her treatment plan which would map her course was set: chemo and surgery and radiation. Oh my!
She had been told that chemotherapy would be the curl's demise. (Had she known she was going to get cancer I can assure you she would not have just permed her hair.) Piranhas, while being a toothy adversary, were not discriminating in their eating habits. Brawn, not brains, was their specialty so they would go after all the fast replicating cells in her body which included the hair.
So to prepare for the eminent fallout, off came the freshly set locks. The cut looked like a flashback to the eighties but that was a short-lived amusement: the piranhas did their good work and chomped and chomped and chomped. Out the hair fell in profusion until there were only a few stalwarts remaining. Having always been a saver, she kept The Few until new downy fuzz came in, then her sister helped trim them off.
It's now been a year since the girl and the curl parted ways. New hair has come in where there once was none. The color has changed- it is no longer red- and were it longer it would sport the classic chemo curl. Both are common side effects of the drug therapy.
So where does the little (formerly) red-haired girl go now? As with any epic journey, she has returned to her life changed. Her long-standing rule about 'bangs, always bangs' has been strewn, along with the red curls, to the side of the road. She’ll let go and trust: an abundant world full of beauty awaits!
So stay tuned... the hair isn't the only thing changed on this unexpected journey.
Then one day, a day which began like many others, she found herself on an unexpected journey. With the help of her Blanket of Love and Support and her medical team (which included some mighty feisty piranhas) she would head out through unfamiliar terrain. Her treatment plan which would map her course was set: chemo and surgery and radiation. Oh my!
She had been told that chemotherapy would be the curl's demise. (Had she known she was going to get cancer I can assure you she would not have just permed her hair.) Piranhas, while being a toothy adversary, were not discriminating in their eating habits. Brawn, not brains, was their specialty so they would go after all the fast replicating cells in her body which included the hair.
So to prepare for the eminent fallout, off came the freshly set locks. The cut looked like a flashback to the eighties but that was a short-lived amusement: the piranhas did their good work and chomped and chomped and chomped. Out the hair fell in profusion until there were only a few stalwarts remaining. Having always been a saver, she kept The Few until new downy fuzz came in, then her sister helped trim them off.
It's now been a year since the girl and the curl parted ways. New hair has come in where there once was none. The color has changed- it is no longer red- and were it longer it would sport the classic chemo curl. Both are common side effects of the drug therapy.
So where does the little (formerly) red-haired girl go now? As with any epic journey, she has returned to her life changed. Her long-standing rule about 'bangs, always bangs' has been strewn, along with the red curls, to the side of the road. She’ll let go and trust: an abundant world full of beauty awaits!
So stay tuned... the hair isn't the only thing changed on this unexpected journey.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Welcome to the Mayo Clinic, Mile Marker Number Three
In July, when the kids are gone and schools are as quiet as they'll ever be, there's some annual school work that occurs. Today, phone calls about two of those recurrent jobs reminded me of where I was, or wasn't, last year.
Thanks to the persistent encouragement of my friend Tom, last year I was down at the Mayo Clinic with Mom, Dad and Janis. Though I had already scheduled surgery here in the Cities, Tom had suggested I still make an appointment at the Mayo which, thankfully, I did. So there we were last year, making our way through two full days of procedures and appointments, making decisions that would set in motion The Action Plan for the next seven months.
The welcome we received at the Mayo Clinic was unlike anything we experienced in the Cities. As my friend Tom said, "I can't tell you how it is different but it is very different". Boy, was he right. It was just what I was looking for: a place that offered comprehensive care. No need to look in the phone book for an oncologist- she's right there as part of the Breast Center. Consultation with the reconstruction surgeon? Those options are reviewed and a plan made pre-surgery, as opposed to the post-surgery option we found offered here.
That first day we were assigned a lead doctor to guide us through the process. She set up appointments with the oncologist and the reconstruction team among others. The appointment with the reconstruction team is standard procedure for every Breast Center patient as they want you to know all your options; there are no guarantees as to what will have to happen in surgery. She also switched my appointment from a resident surgeon to a lead female staff surgeon who does only breast surgeries, something for which I am forever grateful.
At the Mayo a wealth of information is available and access to classes about your disease and treatments are offered. I signed up for one called "What to Expect During Chemotherapy" that was offered the day after I had my first chemotherapy. Better late than never, right? In that class I met an independent, renegade farmer from South Dakota named Galen.
When the three people with Mayo Clinic numbers were going around the room introducing ourselves and our entourages (just like Hollywood stars, none of us traveled alone) Galen said he was 'here with his driver and his subordinate'. To his right sat a man, to his left a woman. It was unclear who was who, so I asked him. He said that the man, his friend, was the driver and the woman, his wife, was the subordinate and as he said that she raised her hand in a yes-I-guess-that's-me kind of way. "Well, at least they're aware of their positions!" I replied and we all laughed.
When the class concluded we three chemo patients shared a little more about ourselves and concerns. I was the only one who had already had chemotherapy and was glad to be able to share what the rooms were like, about the tireless rounds of the Treat Lady (for God sake, please take a treat!) and how the procedure worked for me. Galen said that he was concerned about getting chemo because someone had said to him 'That stuff's poison, you know'. He was visibly scared at this thought.
Chemotherapy isn't something that's done on a whim or without concern. Indeed there is a great deal of concern when it's required and that concern is for life.
It had been frightening enough for me going in for my first chemo treatment with the belief that only good and love were going to come from it. I can't imagine the fear of entering into it believing you would be taking poison.
Poison is something that causes only harm. Chemotherapy is a powerful drug or combination of drugs that hopefully stop cancer from growing or spreading. Their benefit, saving a life, is weighed out with their drawbacks, the risk of toxicity and long-term side effects, and in most cases the benefit outweighs any risks.
"Oh, no" I said to him. "Chemotherapy is not poison. It is powerful, powerful drugs but it is not poison." I continued with my beliefs on how chemo was only going to do good in my body and then said "I'm visualizing the chemotherapy as piranhas eating up the cancer cells!"
Now, I was really going out on a limb here sharing with this stranger from another generation about visualizing chemotherapy as voracious, freshly-imported fish from South America. He might have thought I was the nuttiest nut ever and I might have just ended the conversation in an uncomfortable silence but in one of the most gracious and grand gestures Galen said "Well, if it would be of any help, I'll be a piranha for you."!
Here was a man who was terrified of the gigantic tumor on his arm and what he would have to do the next morning and in the next months. He put aside his own fears and concerns to reach out and offer support to me, the gal from the big city with her chemo-as-chompy-fish idea. It was so unexpected that I said right back to him, "And I'll be a piranha for you!"
Our paths didn't cross again until I searched him out (not an easy task with HIPPA) and got a letter to him thanking him for his kindness that day and telling him how many times I'd recanted the story of his gift. He's doing well now after chemo which shrunk the tumor (hooray!), the surgery that followed and the subsequent radiation treatments.
For the longest time I couldn't tell the story of Galen's gift without tearing up. What a beautiful gesture in the face of fear and uncertainty! May we each find within us the grace to share with others in their time of need.
With thanks and love,
Karen
Thanks to the persistent encouragement of my friend Tom, last year I was down at the Mayo Clinic with Mom, Dad and Janis. Though I had already scheduled surgery here in the Cities, Tom had suggested I still make an appointment at the Mayo which, thankfully, I did. So there we were last year, making our way through two full days of procedures and appointments, making decisions that would set in motion The Action Plan for the next seven months.
The welcome we received at the Mayo Clinic was unlike anything we experienced in the Cities. As my friend Tom said, "I can't tell you how it is different but it is very different". Boy, was he right. It was just what I was looking for: a place that offered comprehensive care. No need to look in the phone book for an oncologist- she's right there as part of the Breast Center. Consultation with the reconstruction surgeon? Those options are reviewed and a plan made pre-surgery, as opposed to the post-surgery option we found offered here.
That first day we were assigned a lead doctor to guide us through the process. She set up appointments with the oncologist and the reconstruction team among others. The appointment with the reconstruction team is standard procedure for every Breast Center patient as they want you to know all your options; there are no guarantees as to what will have to happen in surgery. She also switched my appointment from a resident surgeon to a lead female staff surgeon who does only breast surgeries, something for which I am forever grateful.
At the Mayo a wealth of information is available and access to classes about your disease and treatments are offered. I signed up for one called "What to Expect During Chemotherapy" that was offered the day after I had my first chemotherapy. Better late than never, right? In that class I met an independent, renegade farmer from South Dakota named Galen.
When the three people with Mayo Clinic numbers were going around the room introducing ourselves and our entourages (just like Hollywood stars, none of us traveled alone) Galen said he was 'here with his driver and his subordinate'. To his right sat a man, to his left a woman. It was unclear who was who, so I asked him. He said that the man, his friend, was the driver and the woman, his wife, was the subordinate and as he said that she raised her hand in a yes-I-guess-that's-me kind of way. "Well, at least they're aware of their positions!" I replied and we all laughed.
When the class concluded we three chemo patients shared a little more about ourselves and concerns. I was the only one who had already had chemotherapy and was glad to be able to share what the rooms were like, about the tireless rounds of the Treat Lady (for God sake, please take a treat!) and how the procedure worked for me. Galen said that he was concerned about getting chemo because someone had said to him 'That stuff's poison, you know'. He was visibly scared at this thought.
Chemotherapy isn't something that's done on a whim or without concern. Indeed there is a great deal of concern when it's required and that concern is for life.
It had been frightening enough for me going in for my first chemo treatment with the belief that only good and love were going to come from it. I can't imagine the fear of entering into it believing you would be taking poison.
Poison is something that causes only harm. Chemotherapy is a powerful drug or combination of drugs that hopefully stop cancer from growing or spreading. Their benefit, saving a life, is weighed out with their drawbacks, the risk of toxicity and long-term side effects, and in most cases the benefit outweighs any risks.
"Oh, no" I said to him. "Chemotherapy is not poison. It is powerful, powerful drugs but it is not poison." I continued with my beliefs on how chemo was only going to do good in my body and then said "I'm visualizing the chemotherapy as piranhas eating up the cancer cells!"
Now, I was really going out on a limb here sharing with this stranger from another generation about visualizing chemotherapy as voracious, freshly-imported fish from South America. He might have thought I was the nuttiest nut ever and I might have just ended the conversation in an uncomfortable silence but in one of the most gracious and grand gestures Galen said "Well, if it would be of any help, I'll be a piranha for you."!
Here was a man who was terrified of the gigantic tumor on his arm and what he would have to do the next morning and in the next months. He put aside his own fears and concerns to reach out and offer support to me, the gal from the big city with her chemo-as-chompy-fish idea. It was so unexpected that I said right back to him, "And I'll be a piranha for you!"
Our paths didn't cross again until I searched him out (not an easy task with HIPPA) and got a letter to him thanking him for his kindness that day and telling him how many times I'd recanted the story of his gift. He's doing well now after chemo which shrunk the tumor (hooray!), the surgery that followed and the subsequent radiation treatments.
For the longest time I couldn't tell the story of Galen's gift without tearing up. What a beautiful gesture in the face of fear and uncertainty! May we each find within us the grace to share with others in their time of need.
With thanks and love,
Karen
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Mile Marker Two
If you'll look out your window to the left you'll see we're coming up on Mile Marker Two. It was a year ago today that the test results from the breast biopsies came back and the initial diagnosis was confirmed: I had breast cancer. What in the world? I have breast cancer?! At thirty-nine and with no history of it on either side of my family, though Janis found out in her extensive studying on the subject that the majority of women diagnosed with breast cancer have no family history of the disease, this was quite a shock.
The radiologist who gave the initial diagnosis of cancer was an older man and, honestly, this is one of those times when you want someone who has been reading mammograms forever to be reading yours. As I like to say, the he hadn't just decided late in life, 'Hmm, what to do, what to do... Well, I could work at Wal-Mart this summer as a greeter, or, I could be a radiologist. I think I'll give radiology a whack'.
When I was given the images of the mammograms and the ultra-sound to bring to the appointment at the Mayo--- that's a mile marker for a later time--- and tried to see what it was that he saw that indicated it was cancer, I was ever-the-more thankful for his years of experience and sharp eye. I knew that of the five mammogram images there was on one image a spiculation, a spike-y, needle-like spot, that could been seen that indicated cancer. Dag-nab-it if it didn't take multiple looks through the images each time I showed it to someone to find that spot it was so subtle. Thank goodness there are people who make it their life's work to interpret these things!
You may recall that I had asked in the initial appointment with the radiologist two days earlier what he thought the lump was. His sharing his thoughts, that it was cancer, gave me the opportunity to shift my thinking and to decide that no matter what the final test results showed--- and I really, really hoped he was wrong--- but that no matter what happened only good and love was going to come from it.
That shift in my thinking- deciding for myself how this was going to go- was the most critical decision I made on this unexpected journey. I decided it was going to be a path filled with good and love. I chose to have a positive outlook. I said 'I can do it'.
It's a choice we all have each day. We each create our world with the eyes we choose to see it through.
It's not that there aren't crabby folks in my day (sometimes it's me), and that stupid, frustrating stuff doesn't happen, and that, at times, my belief in the grand goodness of life waivers more than I'd like. It's that, most days, I choose to see the world as a good place filled with good people doing their best to make their way through this lumpy, imperfect, beautiful, amazing world.
So parts of me have been removed, so I take more medication than I ever imagined I would, so I have to stretch my left arm to retain range of motion. So so so. So I'm here. With you. And that, my dear people, is a mighty fine place to be.
With love,
From the gal who believes the cup is (sometimes even more than) half full,
Karen
The radiologist who gave the initial diagnosis of cancer was an older man and, honestly, this is one of those times when you want someone who has been reading mammograms forever to be reading yours. As I like to say, the he hadn't just decided late in life, 'Hmm, what to do, what to do... Well, I could work at Wal-Mart this summer as a greeter, or, I could be a radiologist. I think I'll give radiology a whack'.
When I was given the images of the mammograms and the ultra-sound to bring to the appointment at the Mayo--- that's a mile marker for a later time--- and tried to see what it was that he saw that indicated it was cancer, I was ever-the-more thankful for his years of experience and sharp eye. I knew that of the five mammogram images there was on one image a spiculation, a spike-y, needle-like spot, that could been seen that indicated cancer. Dag-nab-it if it didn't take multiple looks through the images each time I showed it to someone to find that spot it was so subtle. Thank goodness there are people who make it their life's work to interpret these things!
You may recall that I had asked in the initial appointment with the radiologist two days earlier what he thought the lump was. His sharing his thoughts, that it was cancer, gave me the opportunity to shift my thinking and to decide that no matter what the final test results showed--- and I really, really hoped he was wrong--- but that no matter what happened only good and love was going to come from it.
That shift in my thinking- deciding for myself how this was going to go- was the most critical decision I made on this unexpected journey. I decided it was going to be a path filled with good and love. I chose to have a positive outlook. I said 'I can do it'.
It's a choice we all have each day. We each create our world with the eyes we choose to see it through.
It's not that there aren't crabby folks in my day (sometimes it's me), and that stupid, frustrating stuff doesn't happen, and that, at times, my belief in the grand goodness of life waivers more than I'd like. It's that, most days, I choose to see the world as a good place filled with good people doing their best to make their way through this lumpy, imperfect, beautiful, amazing world.
So parts of me have been removed, so I take more medication than I ever imagined I would, so I have to stretch my left arm to retain range of motion. So so so. So I'm here. With you. And that, my dear people, is a mighty fine place to be.
With love,
From the gal who believes the cup is (sometimes even more than) half full,
Karen
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Mile marker one
If I hadn't written in my calendar I'm not sure I would've remembered it but it was a year ago today that, while I was getting dressed, I found a lump in my left breast. I remember thinking 'hmm, where did this come from?'. Just five weeks earlier I'd had one of the most thorough breast exams of my life. Nonetheless, I called my doctor and made an appointment to get the lump, which I was sure was some sort of a clogged something, looked at. And with that the begining of this unexpected journey began.
This anniversary has come up rather quickly in part because as I get older I find that time moves ever more quickly and, as you can understand between all the doctor's appointments, chemo and radiation treatments, surgery--- now surgeries (Oh lord, I did not want to be 'that girl who is always having surgery'! Of course having had only three surgeries in this lifetime doesn't technically meet the threshold of always. Sometimes, and I'm not saying that this is one of those times, the degree in Theater Arts is powdered up and paraded around a bit.), not to mention with work and regular life the year's been quite a blur.
Janis told me, when we were first navigating our way through the unfamiliar landscape of the diagnosis of cancer and I was concerned about what the future would hold, that the next months would pass quickly and then the anniversaries would come and come and come and that we would be there to mark their passing. And how right she was. I am so fortunate and so thankful to be here today with you, my dear family and freinds, to pass this mile marker in good health.
The recovery from surgery continues to go well. The scars and brusing are healing, I've weaned myself off the pain meds and the days are no longer spent in a state of perpetual naps. I'm not doing sit-ups yet but honestly I wasn't doing them before the surgery either.
There was only a little bump on the road when the nausea overtook me on Saturday night. Vomiting after abdominal surgery was really not on my list of 'things to do' and I thought we had made preparations to keep it from happening but the pills just weren't cutting it. So Mom and Dad, who were stalwart caregivers, and I spent Sunday in the ER with me getting pain meds and anti-nausea drugs intravenously and all of us taking naps in the very spacious and sterile room. Once the nausea was under control, all was well.
Because of the pain meds I've been taking, I have had a lot of reading time this week and have just finished Anne Lamott's "Traveling Mercies, Some Thoughts on Faith" and have just begun "Plan B: Some More Thoughts on Faith". She defines traveling mercies as prayer of sorts which means 'Love the journey, God is with you, Come home safe and sound'. I believe that on this unexpected journey and in this life that this prayer has been true and it resonates with me especially today, on this anniversary.
In her books she begins each section with a poem. This one, which is by the beautiful sage Rumi, comes from the section in "Traveling Mercies" titled 'Shore and Ground' and holds within it the recipe for a beautiful life:
Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see through the distances. That's not for human beings.
Move within, but don't move the way fear makes you move.
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened.
Don't open the door to the study and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground. - Rumi
Thank you seems insufficient but bigger and more effusive words could not better express my gratitude to you for the love and support you have generously and tenderly wrapped around me. Thank you for walking with me on this unexpected journey. I intend to keep walking with peace and joy and beauty and am honored to have you by my side.
With love,
Karen
This anniversary has come up rather quickly in part because as I get older I find that time moves ever more quickly and, as you can understand between all the doctor's appointments, chemo and radiation treatments, surgery--- now surgeries (Oh lord, I did not want to be 'that girl who is always having surgery'! Of course having had only three surgeries in this lifetime doesn't technically meet the threshold of always. Sometimes, and I'm not saying that this is one of those times, the degree in Theater Arts is powdered up and paraded around a bit.), not to mention with work and regular life the year's been quite a blur.
Janis told me, when we were first navigating our way through the unfamiliar landscape of the diagnosis of cancer and I was concerned about what the future would hold, that the next months would pass quickly and then the anniversaries would come and come and come and that we would be there to mark their passing. And how right she was. I am so fortunate and so thankful to be here today with you, my dear family and freinds, to pass this mile marker in good health.
The recovery from surgery continues to go well. The scars and brusing are healing, I've weaned myself off the pain meds and the days are no longer spent in a state of perpetual naps. I'm not doing sit-ups yet but honestly I wasn't doing them before the surgery either.
There was only a little bump on the road when the nausea overtook me on Saturday night. Vomiting after abdominal surgery was really not on my list of 'things to do' and I thought we had made preparations to keep it from happening but the pills just weren't cutting it. So Mom and Dad, who were stalwart caregivers, and I spent Sunday in the ER with me getting pain meds and anti-nausea drugs intravenously and all of us taking naps in the very spacious and sterile room. Once the nausea was under control, all was well.
Because of the pain meds I've been taking, I have had a lot of reading time this week and have just finished Anne Lamott's "Traveling Mercies, Some Thoughts on Faith" and have just begun "Plan B: Some More Thoughts on Faith". She defines traveling mercies as prayer of sorts which means 'Love the journey, God is with you, Come home safe and sound'. I believe that on this unexpected journey and in this life that this prayer has been true and it resonates with me especially today, on this anniversary.
In her books she begins each section with a poem. This one, which is by the beautiful sage Rumi, comes from the section in "Traveling Mercies" titled 'Shore and Ground' and holds within it the recipe for a beautiful life:
Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see through the distances. That's not for human beings.
Move within, but don't move the way fear makes you move.
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened.
Don't open the door to the study and begin reading. Take down a musical instrument.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground. - Rumi
Thank you seems insufficient but bigger and more effusive words could not better express my gratitude to you for the love and support you have generously and tenderly wrapped around me. Thank you for walking with me on this unexpected journey. I intend to keep walking with peace and joy and beauty and am honored to have you by my side.
With love,
Karen
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Quel fromage
Well, it's not exactly what I had planned but it is the best thing to do: my ovaries are going to be removed tomorrow morning, very early (who books these things? where's my publicist?) in a laproscopic procedure called an ooferectomy which I imagine to be based on the phonetic spelling of the French word for egg, oeuf. (Bad speller of the world untie!)
Why the sudden plan for surgery you ask? Well, it starts with enthusiastic ovaries which, on their own, are really very lovely. In fact, as Janis pointed out, it means that my body has come back from all the treatments! I was in the small percentage of women who get their periods back after having chemotherapy - how amazing is that?! However, with the cancer having been estrogen positive, keeping estrogen around is not a good idea and in fact is what we've been working to stop: I've been getting monthly implants of a drug to ensure I stayed in menopause.
I've been saying that word a lot lately, menopause, and it does make me feel older than I am. The average age for menopause is 51 so at 40 I'm a little ahead of the curve here. And this may be why I felt a little chompy when the checkout gal tonight asked 'Would you like paper or plastic, Ma'am?' and I thought really, rather than paper or plastic, I'd prefer not to be called Ma'am...
So, back to the upcoming surgery. It's certainly not something I had planned, another surgery just seven months after the last one, but it is the most prudent choice for the bigger picture of healthy living. I want to know that I've done everything possible to remain cancer free so I'm doing what needs to be done (thank you Sister Stella!).
That big ol' blanket of love is wrapped around me now. Thank you for all your good thoughts and prayers-
With much gratitude and love,
Karen
Why the sudden plan for surgery you ask? Well, it starts with enthusiastic ovaries which, on their own, are really very lovely. In fact, as Janis pointed out, it means that my body has come back from all the treatments! I was in the small percentage of women who get their periods back after having chemotherapy - how amazing is that?! However, with the cancer having been estrogen positive, keeping estrogen around is not a good idea and in fact is what we've been working to stop: I've been getting monthly implants of a drug to ensure I stayed in menopause.
I've been saying that word a lot lately, menopause, and it does make me feel older than I am. The average age for menopause is 51 so at 40 I'm a little ahead of the curve here. And this may be why I felt a little chompy when the checkout gal tonight asked 'Would you like paper or plastic, Ma'am?' and I thought really, rather than paper or plastic, I'd prefer not to be called Ma'am...
So, back to the upcoming surgery. It's certainly not something I had planned, another surgery just seven months after the last one, but it is the most prudent choice for the bigger picture of healthy living. I want to know that I've done everything possible to remain cancer free so I'm doing what needs to be done (thank you Sister Stella!).
That big ol' blanket of love is wrapped around me now. Thank you for all your good thoughts and prayers-
With much gratitude and love,
Karen
Monday, May 26, 2008
That damn race
She did it! She did it! She did it!
Janis did it: she ran that whole damn race! In her snazzy new Minuzos she zigged and zagged with her friend Ann, who drove from Madison to run with her, to complete the 3.2 mile course through the neighborhood around the Mall of America (I know, I didn't know there was one there either). It was a cold morning and the wind was unrelenting, certainly not ideal conditions for a first race (of many??!), but she did it anyway. She did it because she could. I am so proud of her!
We had a lovely contingency at the event: Billy and his friend completed the run, Amy, Mom and I walked the outdoor route and Ann's Mom did the indoor route (rather more sensible on such a cold day). In total, the number of pre-registered participants for the day was 40,000. Amazing.
My friend Maria and her sister walked as they do each year in honor of their Mom. Some walked with a list of names pinned to their backs of women they were walking in support of; others walked in memory of a loved one. There were groups of people dressed in matching outfits and carring placards to show support or to keep a memory alive.
If you're a cancer survivor you're given a special pink shirt and pink hat to wear. With each year of survival you get another pink ribbon to add to the hat. There were a number of women whose hat brims were full of ribbons, something very hopeful to see.
It was, however, overwhelming to see how many women had died. There were a number of family groups who were wearing t-shirts printed up with a photo of their loved one on the back. So while walking the route you're faced with the pictures of those who haven't survived. Young and old, moms and grandmas, sisters, friends- there they weren't. Since then that's been very much on my mind.
The weekend was a very full one indeed. It started with the six month post-surgery check-up at the Mayo on Thursday and Friday, our a cappella group's spring concert on Saturday, the walk on Sunday morning and the final spring concert on Sunday afternoon.
On that Thursday I had the first mammogram since the diagnosis last year. It felt a little like the first date after a bad date: the hopes for the current experience are colored by the last. 'Pleeeease, let him dress appropriately' or in this case 'please let it not hurt'. Thankfully, this was mostly true.
Whenever it's possible I ask to see the images. I'm right in the room when they're collecting them for goodness sake and it's very interesting to be able to see one's insides. During the mammogram I was reminded that there were seven metal clips left in the breast. Not to worry, I've been assured that it is medical grade metal and won't set off the alarm system at the airport.
The breast MRI was scheduled for Friday at 6:30am which is really quite early in the day for any activity. The Mayo doesn't even open until 6:30am so there were many other patients waiting to be let in. It was like we were at a theme park anxiously awaiting the gates to open and, when they finally did, we rushed in to be the first in line at our favorite rides.
One woman ran to the bank of elevators as if, when she arrived up at the appointment desk, she'd be denied access for being late. I can assure you I did not run.
The MRI emanates some very loud noises. For those of you who haven't had the opportunity to experience it there's a low, constant background sound much like the hum of a bagpipe, some intermittent click-click-clicking and a higher whirring sound that even with ear plugs is hard to tune out. In spite of all that and the IV for injecting the contrast I was able to take a little nap. Clearly I'm getting acclimated to the world of medical testing. Well, that and the test was at 6:30am...
It was during the breast MRI last year that the enlarged nodes under the arm were identified. This time around there was a spot that needed further analysis. After the 9:45am appointment with Dr. P an ultrasound was scheduled. The images there still could not conclusively say whether the spot was scar tissue or something more annoying so a fine needle aspiration was ordered.
They were apologetic for having to do the additional testing so soon after the surgery but my motto has been and continues to be 'do what you need to do'. They called by the end of the day to say the preliminary tests- and now the final report confirms- that it was scar tissue.
Through the extra tests and the wait for the results I focused on remaining calm and used the meditation techniques I learned last year to focus on my breathing and the moment at hand: right now everything is fine. If there's something that needs to be dealt with I'll do it.
There were a few times that my head ran away with thoughts of the cancer, returned, and what that would mean: surgery, recuperation, more chemo, a worse prognosis. But again I would calm myself by focusing on my breath, on the moment. I was proud of myself for staying present.
At the time I didn't realize how exhausting it was to quell the fear and to remain focused. By the end of the day I was wiped out. I had planned to be back at work that afternoon to check in on a large project we were doing but with the extra tests we didn't get back into town until after 5pm and I think I just went to bed.
Aside from being quite busy with work and regular life, as regular as it can be now, I've been rather exhausted emotionally which is why I haven't posted anything in quite a while. I feel as if I'm balancing two worlds in my hands- the regular world and the changed one- and it's taking everything in me to do it.
As ever, thank you so much to all of you for your continued support. Please know that your thoughts and good wishes are a welcomed treat. A special thank you to all my families: to Kathy & Vic and Shirley & Jim for their lovely cards, to Ro & Jo for their spontaneity, to Char and Mary for lifting me up, to Mark & Shirley for their team effort of consistent calls and strong support.
Much love and peace,
Karen
Janis did it: she ran that whole damn race! In her snazzy new Minuzos she zigged and zagged with her friend Ann, who drove from Madison to run with her, to complete the 3.2 mile course through the neighborhood around the Mall of America (I know, I didn't know there was one there either). It was a cold morning and the wind was unrelenting, certainly not ideal conditions for a first race (of many??!), but she did it anyway. She did it because she could. I am so proud of her!
We had a lovely contingency at the event: Billy and his friend completed the run, Amy, Mom and I walked the outdoor route and Ann's Mom did the indoor route (rather more sensible on such a cold day). In total, the number of pre-registered participants for the day was 40,000. Amazing.
My friend Maria and her sister walked as they do each year in honor of their Mom. Some walked with a list of names pinned to their backs of women they were walking in support of; others walked in memory of a loved one. There were groups of people dressed in matching outfits and carring placards to show support or to keep a memory alive.
If you're a cancer survivor you're given a special pink shirt and pink hat to wear. With each year of survival you get another pink ribbon to add to the hat. There were a number of women whose hat brims were full of ribbons, something very hopeful to see.
It was, however, overwhelming to see how many women had died. There were a number of family groups who were wearing t-shirts printed up with a photo of their loved one on the back. So while walking the route you're faced with the pictures of those who haven't survived. Young and old, moms and grandmas, sisters, friends- there they weren't. Since then that's been very much on my mind.
The weekend was a very full one indeed. It started with the six month post-surgery check-up at the Mayo on Thursday and Friday, our a cappella group's spring concert on Saturday, the walk on Sunday morning and the final spring concert on Sunday afternoon.
On that Thursday I had the first mammogram since the diagnosis last year. It felt a little like the first date after a bad date: the hopes for the current experience are colored by the last. 'Pleeeease, let him dress appropriately' or in this case 'please let it not hurt'. Thankfully, this was mostly true.
Whenever it's possible I ask to see the images. I'm right in the room when they're collecting them for goodness sake and it's very interesting to be able to see one's insides. During the mammogram I was reminded that there were seven metal clips left in the breast. Not to worry, I've been assured that it is medical grade metal and won't set off the alarm system at the airport.
The breast MRI was scheduled for Friday at 6:30am which is really quite early in the day for any activity. The Mayo doesn't even open until 6:30am so there were many other patients waiting to be let in. It was like we were at a theme park anxiously awaiting the gates to open and, when they finally did, we rushed in to be the first in line at our favorite rides.
One woman ran to the bank of elevators as if, when she arrived up at the appointment desk, she'd be denied access for being late. I can assure you I did not run.
The MRI emanates some very loud noises. For those of you who haven't had the opportunity to experience it there's a low, constant background sound much like the hum of a bagpipe, some intermittent click-click-clicking and a higher whirring sound that even with ear plugs is hard to tune out. In spite of all that and the IV for injecting the contrast I was able to take a little nap. Clearly I'm getting acclimated to the world of medical testing. Well, that and the test was at 6:30am...
It was during the breast MRI last year that the enlarged nodes under the arm were identified. This time around there was a spot that needed further analysis. After the 9:45am appointment with Dr. P an ultrasound was scheduled. The images there still could not conclusively say whether the spot was scar tissue or something more annoying so a fine needle aspiration was ordered.
They were apologetic for having to do the additional testing so soon after the surgery but my motto has been and continues to be 'do what you need to do'. They called by the end of the day to say the preliminary tests- and now the final report confirms- that it was scar tissue.
Through the extra tests and the wait for the results I focused on remaining calm and used the meditation techniques I learned last year to focus on my breathing and the moment at hand: right now everything is fine. If there's something that needs to be dealt with I'll do it.
There were a few times that my head ran away with thoughts of the cancer, returned, and what that would mean: surgery, recuperation, more chemo, a worse prognosis. But again I would calm myself by focusing on my breath, on the moment. I was proud of myself for staying present.
At the time I didn't realize how exhausting it was to quell the fear and to remain focused. By the end of the day I was wiped out. I had planned to be back at work that afternoon to check in on a large project we were doing but with the extra tests we didn't get back into town until after 5pm and I think I just went to bed.
Aside from being quite busy with work and regular life, as regular as it can be now, I've been rather exhausted emotionally which is why I haven't posted anything in quite a while. I feel as if I'm balancing two worlds in my hands- the regular world and the changed one- and it's taking everything in me to do it.
As ever, thank you so much to all of you for your continued support. Please know that your thoughts and good wishes are a welcomed treat. A special thank you to all my families: to Kathy & Vic and Shirley & Jim for their lovely cards, to Ro & Jo for their spontaneity, to Char and Mary for lifting me up, to Mark & Shirley for their team effort of consistent calls and strong support.
Much love and peace,
Karen
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Hitting a new stride
One morning in late June I got a phone call from Karen saying she was having a mammogram and they want to do a biopsy because they think they found cancer and could I come. I'm there.
After we leave the clinic, we sit in Karen’s car and attempt to process what we have been told. There are tears, frustration, confusion and disbelief. Phone calls are made. More uncertainty, anger and fear. Finally a quiet moment brought on by exhaustion. The younger sister turns to her big sister and moans, “Oh great. Now I suppose this means I’m going to have to run in that damn race!” The first of many laughs at cancer’s expense.
(That race, if you aren’t familiar, is the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. It’s an annual 5K run/walk that is held all over the country with the money raised benefiting local breast cancer support services and research projects nationally.)
For the next six months more pressing concerns filled my mind and I forgot about the race. But sometime around Christmas I began to feel like I needed to do something. Yes, I’d been a support for Karen but that was something I wanted to do, something I couldn’t not do. For this, I needed to extend myself in making a difference.
“Oh great. Now I suppose this means I’m going to have to run in that damn race!”
My words kept resurfacing in my mind.
I said it as a joke at the time, but to be honest, there was some fear behind it. What do I know about this? What impact was this going to have on my sister's life? And on my life? Would I be one of those race participants who would need the special t-shirt that said “In Memory of”?
But why was I even considering it? I don’t run! I haven’t run since it was required in gym class for the Presidential Fitness Test. I struggle to breathe and my shins hurt. So why would I intentionally choose to run when no one has asked me to? Because it’s important and necessary. Because you’d have to work at it. Because you’d want to quit. Because it isn’t fun. Because it is a challenge. Because you need to do it.
Because you watched your sister face the unknown. Because she didn’t have a choice but to run and finish the race. Because it sure as hell wasn’t fun for her. Because you watched her come to you with a little wicker waste basket filled with a nest of her hair and ask for your help in removing the rest of it. Because you watched her embrace her new look and not feel bad about it. Because she kept having to give things up but kept finding things to take. Because she was forced to be resilient and manage lots of change and ambiguity when she prefers consistency. Because you watched her push herself through physical therapy to gain back her range of motion after surgery. Because you watched her do all sorts of things she didn’t want to do, but did with grace nonetheless. Because she ran the race for her life and finished boldly. Because if she can take on all of the challenges, changes and unpleasantness of cancer treatment, I can surely find a way to run 3.1 miles in a lead vest.
I’ve been ‘training’ for about a month now by mostly walking on the treadmill and trying to run for five to seven minutes each time. I am confident I could walk the 3.1 miles with no issues, but every time I try running for much longer it feels like someone is standing on my chest. Perhaps I am just not built for running. I didn’t go to the gym once last week.
Tonight I had wanted to go to an antique auction to bid on an accordion I had my eye on (don’t laugh), but I decided instead to buy myself some proper running shoes. Later, at the gym, I am thrilled to say that I ran for a mile! No boa constrictor. No lead vest. No one standing on my chest.
I found my breath.
I believed for the first time that I could actually do this.
The Race for the Cure is an event for everyone. There is a 5K run/walk, 5K wheelchair race, 1K walk and a kids’ fun run. And, for those who don’t want to/are unable to physically participate there is even a “Sleep In for the Cure” event.
My intention had been to enter individually, but I’m wondering if any of you would be interested in forming a team with me (The Piranhas?!) . The team can be composed of anyone participating in any of the events – even the Sleep In! We can set a fundraising goal for ourselves and see our progress charted online. You would have exactly two months from today to train!
The Race is on Sunday, May 11th. (Oh crikey… the run starts at 7:30 a.m. That may be a bigger challenge for me than running 5K! Ugh.) The walk begins at 9:00 a.m. Registration is $25 if you sign up by April 19th. For more information, click here.
If you are not in Minnesota and would like to participate, please check with your local Komen chapter for event information. Click here for a link.
A Wurlitzer accordion…
After we leave the clinic, we sit in Karen’s car and attempt to process what we have been told. There are tears, frustration, confusion and disbelief. Phone calls are made. More uncertainty, anger and fear. Finally a quiet moment brought on by exhaustion. The younger sister turns to her big sister and moans, “Oh great. Now I suppose this means I’m going to have to run in that damn race!” The first of many laughs at cancer’s expense.
(That race, if you aren’t familiar, is the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. It’s an annual 5K run/walk that is held all over the country with the money raised benefiting local breast cancer support services and research projects nationally.)
For the next six months more pressing concerns filled my mind and I forgot about the race. But sometime around Christmas I began to feel like I needed to do something. Yes, I’d been a support for Karen but that was something I wanted to do, something I couldn’t not do. For this, I needed to extend myself in making a difference.
“Oh great. Now I suppose this means I’m going to have to run in that damn race!”
My words kept resurfacing in my mind.
I said it as a joke at the time, but to be honest, there was some fear behind it. What do I know about this? What impact was this going to have on my sister's life? And on my life? Would I be one of those race participants who would need the special t-shirt that said “In Memory of”?
But why was I even considering it? I don’t run! I haven’t run since it was required in gym class for the Presidential Fitness Test. I struggle to breathe and my shins hurt. So why would I intentionally choose to run when no one has asked me to? Because it’s important and necessary. Because you’d have to work at it. Because you’d want to quit. Because it isn’t fun. Because it is a challenge. Because you need to do it.
Because you watched your sister face the unknown. Because she didn’t have a choice but to run and finish the race. Because it sure as hell wasn’t fun for her. Because you watched her come to you with a little wicker waste basket filled with a nest of her hair and ask for your help in removing the rest of it. Because you watched her embrace her new look and not feel bad about it. Because she kept having to give things up but kept finding things to take. Because she was forced to be resilient and manage lots of change and ambiguity when she prefers consistency. Because you watched her push herself through physical therapy to gain back her range of motion after surgery. Because you watched her do all sorts of things she didn’t want to do, but did with grace nonetheless. Because she ran the race for her life and finished boldly. Because if she can take on all of the challenges, changes and unpleasantness of cancer treatment, I can surely find a way to run 3.1 miles in a lead vest.
I’ve been ‘training’ for about a month now by mostly walking on the treadmill and trying to run for five to seven minutes each time. I am confident I could walk the 3.1 miles with no issues, but every time I try running for much longer it feels like someone is standing on my chest. Perhaps I am just not built for running. I didn’t go to the gym once last week.
Tonight I had wanted to go to an antique auction to bid on an accordion I had my eye on (don’t laugh), but I decided instead to buy myself some proper running shoes. Later, at the gym, I am thrilled to say that I ran for a mile! No boa constrictor. No lead vest. No one standing on my chest.
I found my breath.
I believed for the first time that I could actually do this.
I will do this.
The Race for the Cure is an event for everyone. There is a 5K run/walk, 5K wheelchair race, 1K walk and a kids’ fun run. And, for those who don’t want to/are unable to physically participate there is even a “Sleep In for the Cure” event.
My intention had been to enter individually, but I’m wondering if any of you would be interested in forming a team with me (The Piranhas?!) . The team can be composed of anyone participating in any of the events – even the Sleep In! We can set a fundraising goal for ourselves and see our progress charted online. You would have exactly two months from today to train!
The Race is on Sunday, May 11th. (Oh crikey… the run starts at 7:30 a.m. That may be a bigger challenge for me than running 5K! Ugh.) The walk begins at 9:00 a.m. Registration is $25 if you sign up by April 19th. For more information, click here.
If you are not in Minnesota and would like to participate, please check with your local Komen chapter for event information. Click here for a link.
A Wurlitzer accordion…
who wouldn't want one?
My new Mizuno Wave Riders...
(Mom, watch how fast I run!)
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Valentine's Day
Here is a favorite quote that sums up my thoughts for the day:
"If you have love in your life it can make up for a great many things that you lack. If you don't have it, no matter what else there is, it's not enough." ~ Ann Landers
We each of us has the ability to share love abundantly. When we act in love and with love it's like oiling the Tin Man, what was frozen comes back to life. Be extravagant with love! Let today be the start of a year in which we lavish love on everyone, perhaps especially those folks that we feel least inclined to share it with.
I have learned by watching my friend Scott, who has a gift for connecting with people, that prickly people often just need a little extra kindness and love to open up. Now when I meet those folks I think of an artichoke and how in all those thick spiky outer leaves lies a tender heart to be discovered and I remind myself to give a little more.
"Kindness in the world creates confidence. Kindness in thinking creates profoundness. Kindness in giving creates love." ~ Lao Tsu
Sending you much kindness and love,
Karen
"If you have love in your life it can make up for a great many things that you lack. If you don't have it, no matter what else there is, it's not enough." ~ Ann Landers
We each of us has the ability to share love abundantly. When we act in love and with love it's like oiling the Tin Man, what was frozen comes back to life. Be extravagant with love! Let today be the start of a year in which we lavish love on everyone, perhaps especially those folks that we feel least inclined to share it with.
I have learned by watching my friend Scott, who has a gift for connecting with people, that prickly people often just need a little extra kindness and love to open up. Now when I meet those folks I think of an artichoke and how in all those thick spiky outer leaves lies a tender heart to be discovered and I remind myself to give a little more.
"Kindness in the world creates confidence. Kindness in thinking creates profoundness. Kindness in giving creates love." ~ Lao Tsu
Sending you much kindness and love,
Karen
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Last day photo
Here we are on the last day of radiation which was already two weeks ago now. Thanks to Wendy and Chuck for the beautiful sign and the balloons! Mom and Dad drove up for the event- they were there for the first treatment and wanted to be there for the last one as well. Janis and Kyle were there too, along with Wendy and Chuck (of the famed Casa del Ott) to complete the picture. It was really lovely to have my family there with me to mark this milestone.
I asked Mom to bring something for the staff, who had been so kind and helpful during this seven week daily gig, so she brought her delicious pumpkin bread with real butter to slather on it. Oh, tasty! The techs were all really excited to have fresh home-made baked goods for their afternoon break. It was a great way to say thank you to all those good folks and wrap up my time there.
Since the end of treatment it's been more challenging than I would've expected. There have been a number of entries I've started but haven't finished, though I will soon. I've been tired emotionally and spiritually and at times have been apprehensive about the future.
The 'treatment treadmill' has stopped, so now what? That's the million dollar question and boy could I put that money to good use. I'm doing the right things to take care of myself like connecting with friends, going to the gym, asking for help, continuing acupuncture and seeing my counselor. There are things to work through that I haven't had time to do yet... all part of the process.
It's like a tsunami, I think. The earthquake came in June, the tidal wave followed post-surgery and, now, there's the clean up to do. I've got my galoshes and slicker on and am ready with a shovel: I can do this.
A special thanks to Mom and Dad, Mark, Amy, Karen II, Lori, Shirley and Jim, Beck, Bethann and Laurie for their brilliant and buoyant messages this last week. Thank you for your good thoughts.
Look for an entry here soon about what radiation is like-
Only good things, Karen
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