My Agony in the Garden

It's ridiculous to compare the two really.  I'm not sweating drops of blood, and my torture is minuscule at it's worst compared to His of course, but still, this is my Agony in the Garden.  Waiting, always waiting and living in constant dread and fear.  Hating the sound of the phone ringing, knowing it could be another doctor with more bad news.  I finally understand this Mystery of the Rosary.  Waiting for the impending suffering, the human mind plays terrible tricks on you and the worst part is that they may even be based in reality.  Waiting.  Waiting for the results of tests and surgeries and biopsies.  Not knowing if it's stage 2 or stage 4,  not knowing if the chemo will kill it, not knowing if you'll survive the chemo,  not knowing if you can afford the time off, not knowing how you will take care of your little girl, not knowing what caused this in the first place, not knowing if you've just started the slow unstoppable descent into your death.

I keep thinking the waiting has got to be the worst part. . . but then it is only the first of five Mysteries about suffering, and death is only at the very end of them.  I keep thinking once I REALLY know what I'm fighting, well then I can dig my heels in the sand and fight it with all I've got.  But first of all you NEVER know what you're fighting.  All I seem to encounter are Dr. Vague's who can only, at best, give you an idea of what you're facing but not the precise parcel.  They thought it was in one breast - now it may be in two.  They thought it was only 1cm, now it may be 5cm, they thought it was confined to the breast, now it may have spread to other organs. . . .  All these tests and nobody knows anything.  .

But in the end knowing is not better.  Yesterday we had our "Chemo teaching" session at the oncologist office.  Basically they sit you down and list everything you're about to go through.  "You're going to lose your hair" is just the beginning.  By the time I left the office I was in tears because I was hunched over with brittle bones and no signs of youth or fertility anywhere.  My mouth was full of sores and my chest and other cavities were covered in rashes and boils, I was either constipated or diarreah or throwing up all the time.  I was lethargic and my heart was palpitating and unstable.  My fingertips and toes were numb and tingling, and I couldn't sleep.  Oh and I was bald.  Knowing is not better.  Waiting is better than knowing.

They inserted something called a "port" into my chest to save me feeling pricks every time I  go in for treatments and tests.  Well. . . they used the port for the first time this week and I was literally screaming in the treatment area while three technicians held my hand and pushed this searing-pain needle into my chest over and over and OVER.  "I don't know why it isn't working"  they'd say to each other, then they would go get someone else who would start jamming and pushing and poking all over again.  Thanks for the port. . . next time I'll just take the stinking IV!

Still, even though horror is horror, something in me has changed and accepted the cancer now.  I'm still crying three or four times a day, and certainly every time I talk to a doctor or technician, but something has accepted it in my mind.  This is my suffering, my horror, it's my turn.  And even though I hate to admit it, somewhere in the back of my mind there is a tiny voice that can be discerned  no matter how I try to squelch it.  It both terrifies and delights me.  It keeps saying "One day you will thank Me for this."

Impossible.  

Forgetting horror

Occasionally I forget I'm supposed to be terrified.  I'll be just enjoying some time with my husband and little girl laughing and having fun like we did before "You have breast cancer" and suddenly I'll get that weird feeling like I'm forgetting something.  Then I remember.  Oh yeah - I forgot the horror.  And in one sickening wave it all comes back to me violently - so much so that I think for a second I think I'm going to throw up.

Got more bad news.  I'm not posting it on my Carebridge website.  What's the point of depressing everybody further?  I know they are trying to help me, but I hate my doctors because none of the can give me a shred of good news or even hope.  Every time I talk to one of them the news gets worse.  First it was this itty-bitty teeny weeny thing they saw on the mammogram.  Then it was breast cancer.  Then it was just a tiny 1cm tumor.  Then it had spread to the lymph nodes.  Now another doctor thinks it has spread throughout both breasts and is not confined to the parameters of a tumor.  They don't even tell you what that means.  They just say things like "It will strongly affect your surgical options."  Which translated into civilian speak means "You're going to need to lob off both of your breasts."  At age 38.  With a new husband and baby.

I cut my hair.  I didn't want my baby to be scared when mommy showed up bald.  So I went to a salon and told them to cut it all off.  It's about an inch long now all around.  I look like a man.  I hate it, but it was definitely quicker in the shower this morning.  My husband is so sweet.  He says I look cute and he likes it.  I know he's being sincere. And it's funny I still feel like me.  Nothing has changed, except now when I look in the mirror I don't know who that person is.  I've spent so many years with long thick black curly hair that I see a stranger looking back at me.  I wonder if I will see a monster in a couple months when all the hair has fallen out and the other effects of chemo have set in.

I definitely turned a corner the other day when they told me about the double mastectomy.  I've gotten so in the habit of getting bad news that I'm convinced they will lob off both my breasts and when I wake up flat chested with two big scars on my chest, I'll see that disappointed look on my husband's face again and the surgeon will tell me they "found more cancer."  So I'm not dreading chemo anymore.  In fact I can't wait to start.  I want the stuff to go in and burn out the cancer and save my life for my little girl.  Probably won't be able to have any more children, but I've come to terms with that I think - at least for today.  I want to live - for my husband, for myself, and for my daughter.  I don't want to die.

Mad at God

Everyone says it's okay to be mad at God.  But I admit it feels a little ridiculous.  Sometimes  my baby girl will get put down in a seat when she wants to be held, and this low pitched cross between a squeal and a growl will come out of her.  It's her "I'm angry" sound.  And I admit.  I laugh when she does it.  Her little tiny body gets all red and her fists clench and her mouth and eyes clamp shut and she just shakes around growling.  It's the utmost extent of her anger - and it's ridiculous. Sometimes I wonder if that's what we look like to God.

I also have the brains to know I have no right to be angry.  Nobody gets through life without a little bodily damage, and I am well over due.  Suffering is a part of the package and I know that.  I guess I was hoping I could float by with relationship and other life lessons sufferings. . .But we all have to suffer right.  I mean does anybody out there know anyone who gets through unscathed?  And I asked for a happy marriage and I've got one.  So it's gotta be something else.

As a Christian there is always the indisputable sign of the Cross.  Suffering: Jesus did it.  I've always nobly said that Jesus was so pure He could have redeemed humanity with a pin-prick.  Now I know that He had to die a horrible death because we never would have believed in His Love if He hadn't.

I feel like there is a big heavy boulder hanging over my head.  Yesterday was terrible.  Not only did I have to be away from my little girl all day, but I had to go into surgery - something I've never done before.  I was terrified the whole time and I think I started bawling like five times, including when they put me on the table.  When I woke up I knew we had bad news because of the look on my husband's face.  He tried to put a positive spin on it, but I know him.  He was disappointed.  Then the surgeon came around the corner and said "Bummer."

I wish someone would say "Hey it could be a lot worse!"  But the doctors don't say that.  They just keep saying "We don't know everything and we'll have more information later."  Big heavy boulder swinging over my head. 

I keep getting emails from people telling me to have a positive attitude.  But I really think that's unfair.  I HAD a positive attitude about the results of the biopsy.  I was convinced it was not cancer.  I was totally wrong about that and hence didn't prepare myself for the worst.  At least now I know better - I should be a little negative so when the surgeons say "bummer"  I'm not so completely devastated.  Again.  If this survival thing is a lottery - I'm a dead woman. . .  

And as for positive attitudes and being "chipper all the time"  I find it immensely hard to believe that Christ carried that cross with a smile on His face.  No way.  All the artwork agrees with me.  He and everybody who loved Him look pretty miserable.  If He was allowed to be miserable so am I. 

We don't know the extent of the horrible yet - but the cancer is not confined to my breasts.  They found a spot on my lymph nodes.  Great.  Can't I get SOME good news here?  Isn't it enough that I can't have any more children?  Does EVERYTHING have to be so stinking bleak?  Will Annamarie be deprived of a mother?

Whenever I have that thought I hear all the voices in my head that say "God knows best"  and "One day we'll understand how His plan was for the best."  That means that if I am slotted to die, I must have been a terrible mother who would have messed her life up something awful.  So I don't find that consoling at all.

So I'm not mad at God.  But I'm not happy with Him either.  I don't want any of this.  And the worst part is I still have no idea the extent of the horrors that are about to befall me.  That boulder above my head remains horrifyingly anonymous.  

Leaving Baby

Going into minor surgery today.  Had to leave baby with a sitter.  First time for everything.  Had such a hard time putting her down.  Will I be back?  Will she cry and feel abandoned when she wakes and I am not there? Will she be scared?  I miss her already. I hate cancer.

Super Preferred

A little over a year ago my husband and I bought our first life insurance.  Our Statefarm rep told us someone would come out to the house to test our blood and ask us questions about our family history.  Our rates would be based on these results.  "The cheapest rate you could possibly get" we were told  "is 'Super Preferred.'  But nobody gets that one.  It's pretty much Olympic athlete rate."

I got Super Preferred.

I also got breast cancer.

My husband got 'High Risk.'  I've spent the last year making fun of him and telling "Super Preferred" jokes. . . needless to say I feel quite confident my life insurance rates will be going up soon.

Super preferred might be a frame of mind that was indoctrinated into me at a young age.  "We don't get cancer in our family"  are infamous words my mother spouted hundreds of times while we were growing up.  She had a case.  My grandmother had over 150 direct descendants when she died and not one of them had cancer (except for an aunt and her daughter who both smoked two packs a day for 20 years- no surprise they died of lung cancer. . . go figure).  

Sorry nana, I got breast cancer.

You may not know this - and will be horrified to hear it, but there are a whole bunch of people out there claiming that people get breast cancer because they took the "pill,"  took estrogen or had an abortion. . . I was a virgin when I married two years ago, and the strongest medication I've ever taken is Aleve. . . In fact "Super preferred" is not too far off the mark.  The first time I ever darkened the door of a hospital was to have a baby four months ago.

And I got breast cancer.

My whole life I've been a clean eater.  Never smoked, never did any kinds of drugs.  I won't drink soda, have alcohol maybe once a month.  For years I've cooked with whole grains and hormone free meats.  I was a juicer, a smoothie freak, and a fan of vitamins and exercise.  I mean I earned "Super Preferred."  My husband eats candy bars, soda and Taco Bell like it's going out of style.  My sister smoked for ten years.  And on the new reality show called "My Strange Addiction,"  there are people out there eating laundry detergent.

And I got breast cancer.

What the heck?!?  Where did this come from?  What did I possibly do that caused this?  One of my friends says "You did something-  but you'll never know what it is. . . "  What??  That's insane!  You mean I could still be doing it now and it will only bring this back down on me again in a couple years?  Where does this stuff come from and why did it pick me - the one who ISN'T EATING LAUNDRY DETERGENT?!?

I have been so baffled by this diagnosis I swear I am still walking around hoping that someone will call me up and say "Sorry we made a mistake."  They can't mean ME!  Not ME!!!  We don't get cancer in our family!  I'm super blooming preferred!  How did this happen?

I have breast cancer.

When I asked my doctor what could have caused this, she said "it's just bad luck."  Well, I've never been lucky.  The few times I went to the casinos I lost my meager bets almost immediately without a single win.  I've never won at contests or raffles or drawings. . . but I sure beat the 1 out of five odds didn't I?  (That's what they told me before the biopsy:  80% of the time it's not cancer.  Bad odds for someone so unlucky). 

Man.  I almost wish I could go back and spend the last 38 years eating Twinkies and burnt popcorn.    Heck mabey I'll even try some laundry detergent.  What a waste!  I'm going to Taco Bell this weekend and ordering a chalupa.  Obviously they don't cause cancer, because I never eat that stuff and I HAVE BREAST CANCER!!!

Barlines

In music when you come to the end you hit something called a double bar line.  It's a thick double black line that the music seems to crash right into.  When you get there you have to go on.  The song or piece is over.  Sometimes it's just the movement that is over.  Sometimes. . . it's time to applaud and go home.

What most people don't know is that before that barline is something called a cadence.  It's a resolution -  a series of sounds that combine to tell your ear, "its about to end."  Some music theorists would argue that the entire piece of music from beginning to bar line is all about setting up that cadence.  In general they have a point.  The cadence, or the "closing sounds" let's call them, don't just happen.  They are built up and built up and when the barline finally comes, you're all ready for it. 

Sometimes life is like music.  A wedding for example is a big old cadence; months of courtship and engagement and then a ceremony tell everyone that one stage of life is now over, and another is about to begin.

Sometimes life is not like music.  Sometimes, you're going along happy as a clam, three month old beautiful baby girl, happily married and dreams for the future when someone sits you down and says four little words  like "You have breast cancer" and you realize you've just slammed into the double bar line with the velocity of a 747 hitting a brick wall.

And there is no going back.  The last movement, the one I knew so well, the one I was so comfortable and happy in, is over.  There is no repeat sign or stop and rewind button.  No matter how hard I try I can't undo those stupid four little words that seem to have cast a dark shadow over every aspect of my life.  Everything is changed now.

At first when I heard the news I thought "okay no big deal - I can beat this."  Then, as the week progressed and all the doctors appointments and needle prickings began I got news after news. The words "You have breast cancer" are really just a summary it seems of the horror you're about to endure.
Pricks, pokes and probes.
Lots of meds.
They're going to put you in that tube.
Surgery is coming
Radiation is coming
Chemo is coming.
You're going to have to be on drugs - best case scenario for the next five years.
Stop nursing your baby right away.
You're going to get very very sick.
You probably won't be able to care for your baby.
Your hair is going to fall out.
You will never be completely free from cancer.
You will be testing and checking and worrying for the rest of your life.
And then the hardest one of them all-
Chemo burns up your eggs - you will probably never have another child.
Oh - and you might die. . .

I don't know exactly what the future holds for me and cancer.  But I know that I'm not in the same place I was a week ago.  What I wouldn't give to go back!  To make that doctor take back those four stupid words so I could go back to learning how to be a mommy, taking care of my house and teaching my students.  But I can't go back.  The barline has come and gone, and I am already reluctantly immersed in a new movement, the opening bars of which seem to be horror, terror, fear and doubt. 

I know no one wants to read that.  And believe me I wish I could put a better spin on it than that, but I intended this blog for an honest expression of my experiences and that is where cancer has begun.  Otherwise would just be to lie so everyone feels better.  I don't know if there are even more movements in this piece of music I call my life, or perhaps this is the last one and it will be time to go home at the end.  But for now, the ensuing darkenss has forced me to ask if there is a home to go to and question every dot and line I have lived in this symphony for the last 38 years.  I would say I hope, but perhaps that comes later. . .