The STUFF Sisters

Cancer. The word that stops your heart.

This Friday I will have a surgical procedure to remove cells that, left alone, could turn into cancer. These pesky cells were discovered during a routine yearly exam…

This Friday I will have a surgical procedure to remove cells that, left alone, could turn into cancer. These pesky cells were discovered during a routine yearly exam with my gynecologist, after which she called to let me know that my test results showed an abnormality and she wanted to take a closer look. During this second visit, after a look-see, she calmly said, “I am going to take a couple of quick biopsies.”

What happened next is a bit fuzzy, because when I heard “biopsy” my heart stopped beating and my head started to spin. My family doesn’t have great history with biopsy results. And, in my experience, biopsy spells CANCER.

I don’t have cancer. I may never develop cancer. And I am more than willing to have these cells cut from my body later this week.

I think I may even survive the heart stopping attacks I have suffered during this process. First, biopsies. Then, waiting for results. Then, being told I have high grade cancer-causing cells. Then, the call to let me know the amount I will owe the hospital Friday after my very expensive health insurance is done accounting for the 80/20-out-of-pocket-co-pay-deductible-not-covered-under-your-plan-matrix-of-go-screw-yourself-lady-coverage.

But talking about CANCER in relation to my body has changed me forever. I will learn to live with the reality that my body carries a virus that causes cancer sometimes. I will learn to forget about it for long periods of time. I will learn to not live in fear of cancer. I will re-read all the anti-cancer lifestyle books I have read because of my mother’s breast cancer and my father’s lymphoma. I will make more lifestyle changes. I will feel blessed that I had the resources to have preventative care. I will get more sleep. I will continue my journey to control my anxiety and my stress. I will eat my fruits and veggies. I will walk thousands of miles for my health. I will show up for all my exams and tests in the years to come. And soon I believe I will feel lucky that I don’t have cancer.

But I will never again walk into my doctor’s office with the same confidence I did before this happened.

This week, my father is travelling to MD Anderson in Houston for a battery of tests to find out if his 18+ months of chemotherapy is working to put his lymphoma into remission; my mother is at home without an ounce of breast tissue left on her body; and I am joining some of my friends that have been in my same situation.

I am writing this blog to continue the public conversation about cancer, and to help remind myself that we are finding treatments and strategies for prevention and that every day we are closer to a cure. To encourage everyone to get yearly exams, and to educate yourself on your own health.

And I am writing this blog to bolster my own strength in the fight against cancer. I know I should feel like one of the lucky ones, but I don’t yet. I believe I will soon.

A random act of kindness note from my daughter. — This week my daughter’s class is practicing “random acts of kindness”. This is one of her acts of kindness today. And it is exactly what I needed. I get a big smile out of her using “Mumsie”.

Good luck flowers. — These are the flowers my father and stepmother sent me on their way to Houston for my Dad’s lymphoma testing. I am deeply touched by their thoughtfulness.

Slow and Steady

I should have never cracked the car window. Dang this unseasonably warm weather. Sixty degrees in February. With time, being able to catch gulps of fresh air would be a blessing.

I watched the door of the ice cream shop as my husband ran in to get a coffee drink, and I watched a woman with a walker walk out.

I should have never cracked the car window. Dang this unseasonably warm weather. Sixty degrees in February. With time, being able to catch gulps of fresh air would be a blessing.

I watched the door of the ice cream shop as my husband ran in to get a coffee drink, and I watched a woman with a walker walk out. She was escorted by her son and his wife. She had all the makings of a woman who has come to terms with her older status and her condition. Bright, clean tennis balls adorned the front two supports, and sturdy sneakers held her in place. Her steps were slow and purposeful, bone and muscle clearly full of the memories of a few steps previously misplaced.

She was over 80, if she was a day. Well-groomed. Tidy. And the man, who I took to be her son, was my father’s age. 60s. Established. Comfortable in his life. The woman with them was his age, but he was the direct link to the walker, I surmised. All wore wedding rings, but the deep relationships ran beyond the binding of gold.

My grandmother at a great STUFF party in 2001. — My grandmother at a STUFF party in 2001.

I saw them coming towards the car next to mine, and I decided that pulling back a bit to give them room would be so helpful. The tail end of my sedan was pretty much protected by the monster SUV idling to my right. A distant memory reminded me that you need room to maneuver a car door, a human and a walker. You need space and time and patience.

When my dad’s mother was in the last few years of her life, she was relegated to a walker. She took to it pretty well. She was a joyous and happy woman most of her life, and what would be a set-back to many just kept her moving, which kept her happy. What I remember most about this time was the feeling in myself that it was time for me to slow down, too. Rushing through life needed to abate, and I needed to watch more and see more. I had to be missing things by not standing still a bit. By not waiting. My time with her was clearly running shorter, and I learned much from her final years about myself and my family. Some of us couldn’t wait to ditch her walker at the restaurant after getting her settled. Some of us would apologize to others in public for our speed, even if we weren’t impeding their progress. I noticed strangers would occasionally have trouble making eye contact with me, as if my grandmother’s limited ability was a freak show they shouldn’t be watching. On several occasions, my grandmother would start to make conversation with an able-bodied stranger, and they seemed shocked that she could speak clearly!

My grandmother holding my newborn niece in 2005. — My niece and her great grandmother in 2005.

Much came flooding back to me as I watched this group leave the ice cream store while adjusting my car’s position. Tears came to me slowly, and I was transported back to a cool, brisk day several years ago when I took my grandmother out for her last Coke and short walk. Within 24 hours, the beginning of her end would start, and she would soon take me on a journey that would eventually end at her graveside.

Birthday party hats on my son, my niece and my Grandma. — My son, niece and grandmother in 2007 at my grandmother’s birthday party.

When the stranger had his mother seated in the front seat of his car, he and his female companion walked toward the back of their car, and he said to me, through my open window, “Thank you very much. That was kind of you.” I was barely able to choke out the part about how it was the least that I could do.

“I remember it all so vividly,” is what I told them from behind my sunglasses. And I do.

The Face of HIV/AIDS

Last night she said to me, “I spend time speaking to people my age about being HIV positive.” Not for the full 10 hours a week that she volunteers, but it is part of what she does for Good Samaritan Project in my town. It has been part of what she’s done nationwide for over well over a decade.

Jane Fowler is the face of HIV/AIDS for me as I recognize World AIDS Day today. At an age “well over 50,” she contracted HIV from a partner. She knew the man, but clearly not everything about him.

She changed my life last night, and I told her so. She said, “sometimes I don’t know if I’m making a difference, but I speak up anyway.” I told her, fully choked up and with tears in my eyes, that she made a difference in me and I will never be the same. I barely got the words out.

We spoke about why I was involved with the AIDS fight in Kansas City. We spoke of my son and my wish for his children to live in an AIDS-free generation. We spoke of the holidays with her children. We spoke of mutual friends. We spoke of caring and of love.

Then I checked her out and wrapped her presents. All of this took place where I work. At the counter and in front of the Christmas tree. With people in clear hearing range.

When you hide from AIDS – when you whisper and turn your head – you give it power to make stigma and hate. But if you are like Jane, you speak up and you tell your story over and over until you fear you aren’t making a difference.

And that’s exactly when grace steps in and you change another life. Like mine was changed last night.

Power of Transference

I have never been one for morbid sensibilities. I don’t dwell in sadness, nor do I dabble in unwholesome thoughts. I am not gloomy.

Early this morning, before the sun was up, cancer consumed the life of a friend’s father. I had time last night to hold her and sway a bit in a hug that didn’t want to end. She was moving quickly towards the silences that would come with her father’s death, but we were taking a few more minutes to talk about things that had nothing to do with the tasks at hand. Several good laughs, a few inappropriate comments, a touch of bad behavior and moments of quiet in an overly-bright waiting room.

I have small town ways about me. They have to have come from the branches above me in my family tree, as I was not raised in a small town. One of those “ways” is that I stop for funeral processions. I pull over. No matter what. When they are coming toward me and when they are on my tail. I take these moments for contemplation about the people I have lost in my life. I remember myself in dark and quiet limos. I remember deep sadness and overwhelming relief. I give these moments time, because it’s what I have to give. Time. What can my hurry possibly be that I can’t stop to honor a family in pain? It’s minutes, really. Blinks of an eye.

So, this morning, I took a moment and spent time looking for pictures of my father. He is living with cancer and doing a bang-up job at it. It’s hard, and it will be his forever. My friend’s father has just ended a very short dance with a wicked disease.

I ache for my friend. I can never feel her pain, but, through the power of transference, I can weep for her loss and be there when the smiles return.

“Hold ’em tight,” I said to myself and others this morning. “Time is fleeting.”

p.s. Here are photos of my Dad and members of my family over the past year. Some of these I have used in previous blogs, and some I have not.

family portrait 2011 — Thanksgiving 2011

Spasmodic Claustrophobia

Years ago I saw a photograph of the Golden Gate Bridge on either its birthday or maybe the day of a marathon. Don’t know. Can’t remember.

What I do remember is that I was overcome with a touch of claustrophobia. Just sitting there holding the magazine. The photo was majestic and magnificent, but I felt like I was the tiny person in the center of the bridge. Needing help possibly. Panicking maybe.

Today I was waiting for my primary care doctor to enter the not-too-big-not-too-small room for my physical. I waited a while longer than I wanted, but I was holding in there because he is a wonderful doctor and we seem to be on the same wavelength in regards to my health. Besides, I’m not a quitter.

Then, all of a sudden – possibly at minute 27 of the waiting – I needed to get out of the little room. Or at least open the door a wee bit and listen to the hall noise more clearly. The sound of my own increasing heart rate was deafening and not really all that interesting.

So I did just that. I popped the hatch.

I may not be able to control my self-diagnosed “spasmodic claustrophobia” but that crack in the door did more than let in new air. It released my mind.

And the sweet man even knocked before he entered. Dang. I can pick ’em.

p.s. This is not the photo from my memory. But it is darn close.

p.p.s I’ve never been to California. The Golden Gate Bridge must be a sight to behold.

Turning Blue

Today I exhaled. It took a trip to Houston – and good news – to realize that I had been holding my breath for a year. And I had been turning blue.

Today I exhaled.

It took a trip to Houston – and the receipt of good news – to realize that I had been holding my breath for a year. And I had been turning blue.

Today we found out that my Dad finally has his lymphoma on the run. It’s not gone, and he’s not in remission. But it is being shown the door.

This past year I have been breathing, just not deeply. I had been taking shallow breaths and waiting for the good to arrive. I had been hoping that my life wouldn’t experience great loss. I had been holding my breath while moving forward and all the time wondering why I was winded. Why climbing the stairs was such a strain.