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

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

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