uncharted terrain

Settling into life after cancer, it is impossible not to think about cancer. A lot. At least that is the way it is for me these days. I have had a few episodes of feeling nauseous and just wrong in my abdominal area, and each one has prompted me to wonder if the cancer has returned. Only recently it dawned on me that these instances might be linked to the Tamoxifen. I had been informed of the most likely potential side effects. I looked up the full list recently, and was stunned by the length and breadth of it. This drug is messing with my hormones, and the results are predictably unpredictable. It's like throwing a tablespoon of oregano into your Szechuan-style stirfry; that relatively minor ingredient is going to make the whole thing different. Simply not quite right.

At least that's what I hope it is. I've been trying to make changes to head off any more cancer cells gone awry. The book I mentioned a while back, Anticancer, has been very important in the way I have come to view the disease and my response to it. Servan-Schreiber writes about making your body inhospitable to cancer cells in terms of caring for your "terrain," an image which jibes nicely with my visualization process, the one with the wooded hillside and bubbling brook. For Servan-Schreiber, maintaining a healthy terrain is achieved through a holistic approach, comprising diet, exercise, meditation and self-reflection, amongst other things. Some of the things he recommends I've been seeing for years. Eat less sugar, less refined flour, more vegetables. But I hadn't ever understood exactly why, and learning about how consuming sugar, refined flour, and grain-fed meat and dairy products makes cancer cells happy has made it much easier for me to avoid them. Not that doing so has been a piece of cake (quite the contrary), or that I've even been all that successful. But I like to believe I'm headed in the right direction.

Speaking of terrain, I spend a fair amount of time in some that is pretty mucky and wet. So here in the Material Girl section of my blog, I must tell you about my new wellies. I hesitated to spend the money on them, but I've had the same pair of wellies for 10 years or so now, and dread having to put them on, because they are so uncomfortable. I ordered these half thinking I'd be sending them right back, but they arrived and I was instantly taken. The purple is deep and subtle, the rubber is soft and squishy, and they are just so pretty. AND practical. What more could a girl ask for? I took them on a test run down to the creek in back of our house to look for cranberries. Here they are in action.

Also in the Material Girl section, here is a photo of a ring that I made for myself using 18 karat gold and a diamond that belonged to my friend Kristen.

It was a solo diamond earring from her jewelry box; in its new life it sits on my finger and reminds me of how much I loved her. And how much she loved me. That makes me happy, and that is one important way to take care of my terrain.

locks of youth

I went walking with some ghosts last week. It was a sweettart crisp apple of a day, clinging green and vibrant blue. I decided to take a walk in the national park here, on a trail that I have traversed regularly since my first summer here, 21 years ago. This time it was teeming with specters of my younger self. Running with my first dog, skiing with my second. Pushing Jacob in a stroller, carrying Claire in a backpack. Normally remembering these sorts of things makes me happy, but for some reason this day it made me sad.

I know that I am not that old. I know that I am still youthful and energetic. But I cannot help but feel aged, and I find that I am not moving forward as gracefully as I thought I would. In fact, sometimes it feels like I'm being dragged kicking and screaming. What exactly is it that I am clinging to? I am not actually a different person, though sometimes it feels like I am. Am I longing for the youthful limbs or the naivete? Do I want the younger physical being that I no longer have, or a time machine so that I can actually be one of those younger selves again? Why do I find it so hard to grow older? Why now, when I have all too clear a vision of the alternative?

Take my hair. Oops, too late, already gone. Actually, it's finally coming back, and as I expected, it is more gray than not. And I am somewhat ashamed of how hard it is for me to accept it. I have plenty of friends with gray hair, and I think they all look gorgeous. I know very well that my worth as a human being has absolutely nothing to do with the color of my hair. So why do I long to cover it up again? I'm not convinced that doing so will make me look any younger, and even if it did, what do I gain?

I've got a lot more questions than answers lately. When I haven't been mired in them, I have been making some things. Knitting a blanket, tying the baby quilt, and I made a collection of my Posers to send off to MiCA. Here are a couple of them.

I hope that you have been able to find at least one of those perfect apples that you can only get in the fall. I've had quite a few, and feel very lucky indeed.

just keep swimming

I've been away from posting for too long, but it's because I've been busy not having cancer. The end of August brought the usual transitions: frantic summer crowds to the mellower fall folks, day camp to school. And for me this year it brought the end of the chemotherapy cycles and the biweekly reminder that all is not quite right in my world. It did also bring the beginning of hormone therapy, in the form of a pill that I will take daily for five years, but this is a much kinder, gentler treatment, and now it's just another pill I take with my daily vitamins and supplements. Of course I still have my bald head to remind me of what has transpired over the past few months, but for the most part I am moving forward. With some important changes in my life, but at the moment I'd like to write about something other than cancer. 

Lisa, my generous and talented boss, took the Lisa Hall Jewelry crew to XYZ Restaurant in Manset last Saturday. The food is rustic Mexican, the margaritas are tasty and the atmosphere is always lively and sparkly. 

We had such fun, as we always do together. I feel so lucky to be able to work with Lisa, Julie and Carrie. I love the work, and I love each of them.

I'm working on getting my jewelry into a shop or two before the holidays. I don't know exactly what I'm doing, but luckily I have a friend from high school who has very graciously agreed to take some of my pieces in her gorgeous shop, MiCA, in Cincinnati. Thanks, Carolyn. In order to introduce myself and my jewelry to retailers I don't know, I've been putting together some photos and information about my work. I'm told that I need a bio, too. You might find this hard to believe, knowing me as you do, but I find it somewhat difficult to write about myself. Oh, sure, I can tell you all about the minutiae of being treated for breast cancer, every gory detail, but this is very different. I don't know if it is the self-promotional aspect, or if it's just hard to know what to focus on and what to drop. For example, does it matter to my work as a metalsmith that I have had breast cancer? Should I mention my formal education, which has little to do with my work now? My kids? What stays and what goes in a brief description of my life? What would you include in your short bio?  

I'll let you know how that goes, and I do have more to say about life with(out) cancer. In the meantime, I've been inspired to go write a real letter.  

sunny side of the street

It's been a good couple of weeks. That last post came on the heels of Hurricane Bill and the havoc it wreaked on our island. I can't blame my foul mood completely on the weather, but the pressure was palpable. Surely it didn't help.

Since then I had the last of my biweekly appointments in Boston, and made the last of the major treatment decisions. Doing so brought me a greater feeling of relief than I realized it would, and I feel like I am entering a new chapter. On the plane ride down to Boston, I started reading Anticancer, by David Servan-Schreiber and that, too, has helped me to feel optimistic and more in control than I have since I was diagnosed.

I've read quite a few books about cancer, and many of them have had helpful points. I've used all of them for one thing or another, from recommendations about treatment to ideas about relaxation techniques. But always there was something I didn't agree with or understand. This is the first book about cancer that has resonated with me completely. Or at least so far, 3/4 of the way through it. It has given me is a sense of my own involvement in the cancer and a belief that what I do can change the course of my recovery. So many of these books have insisted that I am not to blame, that it is not my fault that I got cancer. And I have been happy to hear it, and I certainly haven't thought of it as my fault, exactly. But denying that my choices or experiences had anything to do with it also left me feeling helpless. If nothing I had done or felt had caused the cancer, then what was there for me to do but follow the recommendations of the medical establishment and hope for the best? This was not very reassuring to me. Don't get me wrong. I am so very grateful for all of my excellent doctors, and I know that I have been in very good hands. But I wouldn't want all my eggs in that basket.

There is so much that I can write about the book and the changes I will make in my life because of it. Avoiding sugar and antiperspirant has been interesting (as well as stinky, figuratively and literally). But another reason that the past couple of weeks have been so pleasant is because I've had the chance to really enjoy the last of summer with my kids, and we're coming to a crescendo, with Jacob's 10th birthday on Labor Day. So I have cake to make, presents to wrap, and that letter to write. 

grumpy with a side of bitter

So. I'm done with chemotherapy. Chemotherapy isn't quite done with me; my acupuncturist tells me it could be a year before all the effects dissipate. I'm giving it until my hair grows back, then I'm considering that chapter over. The drugs' job accomplished, everything back to normal. Wouldn't that be grand?

Many people feel a kind of despair when their chemotherapy is over, especially those people who don't have another treatment option. There is nothing to do but wait and see and it is easy to see how that can make one feel helpless. I felt differently about chemo all along, never believing, completely, that it would be the cure. Just that it was an important stopgap. So I don't have quite that same feeling. But I do find myself in a strange place. I have more decisions to make about my treatment, and instead of finding that empowering, I'm feeling irritated and fed up with it all. I just want to get on with my life. Without cancer. There's a big part of me that still doesn't feel like this whole cancer ordeal could possibly be real. Despite major surgery, a torso that hardly feels like mine yet, chemotherapy treatments and plenty of writing (and complaining) about it all, I still can't quite believe it. Isn't that true for many of us? Before I got diagnosed with cancer, I thought it couldn't ever happen to me. I was sure I was doing everything right. I would look at cancer patients, even my best friend, and think "yes, but s/he smoked/didn't exercise/ate poorly/fill in the blank and I don't. I won't get cancer." And here I am. And I hate to say it, but you could be here, too. I hope not, fervently and sincerely. For all that my hope is worth. 

I haven't been feeling compelled to write lately, and I've been blaming it on the busy summer schedule. But that is only part of it. I don't want to whine or despair here. But sometimes, it is all that I have. I don't want to do any more research about cancer or try to guess what most likely to make it go away for good. I don't want to worry that every little cough means it is my lungs or every little cramp means it's in my abdomen. I don't want to live with this shadow over me for the rest of my life.  

The post that I meant to write was a good deal different from this. I haven't been keeping anyone except the people I see every day very well posted on how the past couple of months have gone for me. So I was going to do a post of little bits of information. Perhaps there is still time to salvage it? Or maybe not, and I should just have a good night's sleep and hope for a better attitude tomorrow.

the livin' is easy

It's August, and I can't get to all the things on my list. I have a post started that is full of bits and pieces I feel like I've been neglecting to mention. But it's only a start, and I don't know when I'll finish it. In the meantime, I had a lovely summery evening with my family tonight. Between the weather and the crazy schedule Greg and I have had, summer family fun has been in short supply. The kids are getting good doses of it at their day camps, but this evening was one of the first for the four of us together.

It was a hot summer day, my favorite kind. We were all busy for most of the day, but as the day wound down we converged at home and packed a suppertime picnic. Then we headed to Sand Beach.

It was gorgeously, gloriously summery. We ate sandwiches and played in the water and relaxed on the blanket. Claire and I were going to make a beach house for fairies to complement the forest fairy house we made last weekend. She, however, got distracted by some minnows, so I made it by myself. I never thought to make fairy houses when I was a kid, but I could easily while away the better part of a day doing it now as an adult.

 

That's it, tucked in under the dune. A lovely bit of real estate, I think you'll agree.

 

This is a closeup, showing the table, chairs and fireplace. A walkway and garden were planned, but construction got delayed. After making fairy houses and catching minnows and playing in the surf, we stopped by Mount Desert Island Ice Cream for yummy cones. If it weren't for the wig, I might have forgotten all about the cancer thing on this lovely evening. 

visualize this

I have written here before about being overwhelmed by all the advice about how to vanquish this cancer. I am finding, as I proceed along the treatment path, that some things are beginning to fall away, that they just don't make sense to me, for me, at this point in my life. And other things do make sense, and I'm giving them a try. And it's not just the easy stuff I'm keeping, or the hard stuff that I'm letting go. Okay, I'm not going to become a vegan, or eat all raw food, or give up gluten just yet. Those things would be hard for me. But more importantly, they just aren't resonating with me as part of my solution.

I am still in the process of discovering my solutions, but they are coming to me, as I guess I knew they would. Process is hard for me; I am impatient. I would rather know the answer right away, get to the end result quickly. But it is slowly dawning on me that life will be hard if I can't relax and let it all unfold. Because life is a process, and I don't actually want to know the whole answer, or worse, hurry to the end. 

So part of this healing process has been listening and reading and considering all the information and deciding what might work for me. A lower fat diet and a lot more exercise both make sense, though I'm cutting myself some slack on both those fronts until the worst of the chemo crud is behind me. And though I'm still struggling with it, meditating regularly makes sense to me. There have been many studies done on the changes that meditation and visualization can bring about in your brain and in your body. Changes to your heart rate, your immune system, the pain centers in your brain. These studies are comforting to me, I guess, but I'm staying with it because it feels good, despite the deep challenge. The calm that I feel, though fleeting so far, seems to be very valuable indeed. And along with the meditating is a second piece, visualizing. 

Just writing the word brings new age visions of gauzy glowing goddesses to my head.  Many write or speak about "the white light", sitting quietly and visualizing glowing light entering your body and clearing it of cancer cells. I really wasn't getting that. When I closed my eyes and pictured the process of being cured, I kept getting a vision of PacMan. You know, the good little gobbler cell racing around the maze of my blood and lymph vessels, munching up all the bad little ghosty cells. That is what I pictured, and I knew from what I had read that whatever worked for me was fine. But it wasn't actually working for me, wasn't bringing me much by way of belief or relief. Maybe it was the violence of it. Not that I've ever thought of PacMan as being particularly violent, but all along the idea of cells "attacking," and "doing battle," and of the struggle to be cured as being a "war" has been unsettling to me rather than comforting.

Then I was speaking with a very wise friend about the meditating and visualizing process. I didn't tell her about the PacMan, just that I was trying, but the visualization piece wasn't really working for me. And she shared many thoughts about meditation and visualization, but the word that stuck, the word that resonated, was "purify." That I should focus on imagining the chemotherapy and all my other attempts to cure myself as purifying. I'm not sure I've ever thought of myself and the word "pure" in the same sentence before, but the possibility was intriguing.

The next time I sat to visualize this disease leaving my body, a new image came to my head. It is of a stream that flowed behind my parents house, down to the ocean. I played beside it often growing up. It cascaded down out of the woods, crystal clear, over rocks and pine needles and moss and into the cove. And now I picture crystalline, sparkling water like that, flowing through my body, taking the black, slimy gobs of cancer (or is it rotting leaves?) out to sea. Out of me. And I don't know if it is leaving me pure, but I like to believe it is leaving me cancer free.