Happy Cancer-versary to me!

December 12th: A date that is now forever ingrained in my head. Last year, this day was filled with tears, fear, anger, self-pity and devastation. It was a day that forced me to call upon an inner strength that I wasn't sure I even possessed, a day that I renewed my faith in God and a day that set me on a new course in life that would change me forever. It was the day that I was diagnosed with cancer.

Let me tell you, it's been a hell of a long and tiresome journey since last December when those dreadful words, "you have cancer" fell upon my distraught ears. So it should come as no surprise to anyone that I'm not sorry to see this year come to an end. I have no fond memories of this past year undergoing treatment -- nor do I have any desire to recount the days of operating rooms and surgical drains or daily doses of radiation being zapped to my breast.

But, in all fairness, not everything about these last 366 days (yes, it was a leap year) were awful. There were some amazing things that happened as well. Like...oh, I don't know...destroying the cancer that was inside of me. Yeah, that was pretty awesome. And another thing -- believe it or not, was being diagnosed with this insidious disease. What? I know, it sounds crazy, but my sickness triggered a wake up call to a puffy-eyed, splotchy-faced woman who was down on her knees in a puddle of despair a year ago that life is a precious gift and I was given an incredible opportunity to fight for it. And, fight for it I did. So it's no wonder why on this day, my one year cancer-versary, I can't help but feel incredibly blessed and thankful for so many things, big and small. Here are just a few that are coming to mind...
 
The little things:

(1) Hair - I know, this one goes without saying. But, I have to add that I'm thankful to have enough of it that I'm able to lighten it and then curse myself for messing with it. No, seriously, to have "hair issues" again -- super cool.

(2) No longer needing super volume mascara to bring out the 3 remaining eyelashes on my lids.

(3) Eyebrows and tweezers -- I know, they seem to contradict each other, but let me explain. When I lost my eyebrows, I swore that when those bad boys grew back -- I would never pluck, tweeze or wax them again. The desire to put an end to all my eyebrow grooming was quickly dismissed when I began to look like this...

 

...even the usual "I have cancer" excuse couldn't explain away that one! Truthfully, I'm just happy that those beautiful, hairy arches decided to reappear -- even if some of them do require tweezing.
(4) Cooking an Eggo waffle and not wanting to hurl from the artificial blueberry smell that emanates from the toaster (holy artificialness!)
(5) Getting a paper cut and not fearing a night in the ER 
(6) Not needing 8 pillows propped up in various positions to be able to sleep at night.
(7) Being able to lift my arm over my head to adjust the shower head. Don't laugh -- after my mastectomy I thought that I would never be able to perform this simple task again.
(8) Being able to use mouthwash with alcohol. I HATED Biotene -- seriously, I never physically got sick the whole time during chemo, but the use of this mouthwash had me kissing the porcelain tile. So thank you, Listerine Alcohol-Free mouthwash -- you spared me many mornings, afternoons and nights hovered over the toilet.
(9) The tiny scar on my chest from where my chemotherapy port once resided -- Man, that thing was hideous. Truly, I would have been fine if the nurses at Hopkins yanked that thing out after my last chemical cocktail. 

This little device is surgically implanted under your skin...yuck!

(10) Super hold gel -- and a boatload of it. Lord knows what I would do with this mop of hair without it.
(11) The cup of coffee that I pour for myself after the kids get on the bus. What makes that particular cup of joe so special? I get to curl up on MY sofa and enjoy it. No longer do I need to choke down a mug or pour it into a to-go cup because I have a date with a chemo lounge chair, hospital bed or radiation couch.


The big things:

(1) Hair. Yes, I know that I mentioned it before -- but, it's a big deal.
(2) Marrying a man who turned out not to be a Newt Gingrich or John Edwards (of course, there's a whole lot more about my amazing husband that I'm grateful for -- but, that would require a whole separate post...so let's just leave it at that). Love you, sweetie!
(3) The smiles, kisses, hugs, laughter and snuggles from three awesome kids (yes, I'm talking about my own) who made it easier to have one more bag of poison pushed into my veins and one more zap of radiation to my breast. It's such a privilege and an honor to be your mom -- love you, monkeys!
(3) A mom who found a way to "show up" to offer her love, encouragement and support every Thursday during chemotherapy and every day during radiation...

You're the best, mom...love you!

 

(4) Girlfriends who have clear mammograms!!! Yes, this is triple exclamation point worthy...and this one is dedicated to you, Chris, my dear chemo buddy. xo
(5)  Friends who don't take "no" for an answer. Whether it was an insistence to bring a meal, or to drive me to the hospital or to stay with them on a last minute trip to California.

Love you, Cheryl Lvovsky!

 

(6) Family...moms, dads, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, nephews, nieces, cousins and more...I can't even begin to describe how much your love and support carried me through this difficult year.
(7) All of the courageous woman battling this terrible disease who share their stories and inspire us with their kick ass attitudes...you ladies rock!
(8) Chemotherapy ports. Yes, I know that I just mentioned how much I hated mine -- but that was aesthetically speaking. Practically speaking, my port spared me a great deal of pain and strife in the later months of chemotherapy when my veins would have inevitably crapped out.
(9) Doctors and technology. I think the reasons for both are pretty clear and it's getting late -- so let me just say, if it weren't for both of them, I wouldn't be celebrating too many more cancer-versaries.
(10) The Almighty (aka God) -- too much to list. But let me be clear, I don't know how I would have survived this past year without the Big Man on my side.

I suppose that I should also include today, 12/12/12, to the list and the fact that we're all still here. Thankfully all of you doom and gloom, end of the world, soothsayers were incorrect. Although, in a way, this day does mark the end -- the end of a life where each day begins and ends with the dark clouds of cancer hovering over my head.

So here are my cancer-versary wishes (yes, I do get to make them...hey, my cancer - my rules): a year free of drugs with names that I can barely pronounce let alone spell, radiated leftovers as opposed to body parts, mammograms that come back clear and plunging necklines to show off my new cancer-free girls...

Don't hate all my buxom friends with your complaints of sagging breasts -- you don't want to go through the year that I just did in order to get these lovelies.

Happy Cancer-versary to me!!!

Stick A Fork In Me...I'm Done.

After I've got the kids off to school, grabbed a quick bite to eat and jumped into the shower, my Monday morning routine begins:

10:17am:  Fill up Starbucks travel mug with coffee, grab keys and head out the door. 
10:19am: Make sure all necessities for the ride to the hospital are situated (coffee mug in the drink holder, cellphone within reach, etc.). Put on seat belt, turn on seat warmer and pull out of driveway.
10:20-10:55am: Scan radio through lots of crap-tacular music because I forgot my iPod...again.  
10:56-10:57am: Curse 2-3 elderly people for causing a back up in the parking garage, putting me a precious 1-2 minutes behind schedule.
10:58am: Park in one of the spots designated for 'Special Permit Passes Only'. Walk {very fast, now that I'm running late} down the ramp to the entrance of the DeCesaris Cancer Center. 
10:59:55am: Sign in and wait for name to be called.
11:00am: Doors to the treatment area swing open as the nurse appears and heads towards the front desk to grab my sign-in sticker. "Mrs. Minakowski, you can come on back."
11:01am: Most days, head straight back to the treatment room. Other days, wait in the "on deck" chair (this is the seat designated for the next in line to be zapped). Everyday while heading back to the treatment room, answer the question, "Any changes?" -- referring to (1) the treated area, (2) prescriptions and (3) insurance.
11:02am: Remove all clothing from the waist up, grab a towel, state my name/D.O.B. and lay down on the treatment couch (sounds comfy, eh? well, if you find laying on a cold, hard, narrow board comfortable -- then, yes...yes it is).
11:03am: Fred, the radiation therapist, makes a joke about how I don't have any fat on my ribs to move around in order to line-up my tattoos to the proper treatment coordinates.
11:05am: All machine adjustments have been made, the technician records all prep info and they're ready to treat. 
11:06am: The B-52's, Love Shack, which is the song on the hospital loop during my zap time, is cranked up on the overhead speakers just as the first low pitch "beeeeeeeep" begins.
11:15am: All five angles to my breast, chest and lymph areas have been radiated. Remove arms out of the holders above my head. Resume chewing gum that has been tucked into the side of my cheek for the past 10 minutes.
11:16am: Put bra and shirt back on and head out of the treatment room. Before exiting the room, engage in the the same exchange of pleasantries with the radiation therapist -- Me: "See you tomorrow." Fred: "Same time, same place. Have a good one."
11:20-11:57am: Drive home. Scan radio through more crap-tacular music -- make mental note to remember iPod tomorrow.

Repeat said schedule...

...Tuesday morning, Wednesday morning, Thursday morning  and Friday morning for six weeks. 

Daily routine? Sounds more like a prison sentence -- I guess you could call it my "cancer sentence". And the crime for which this sentence was handed down to me? Possession's charge. No, not for an illegal gun or a dime bag of marijuana --but, for possession of cancerous cells in my lymph nodes.  

There it is -- the 1cm mass in my armpit that upon its discovery had me on the phone with my doctor demanding a mammogram STAT

In all fairness, the cancerous mass in my right axilla wasn't the sole contributor to my cancer sentence, other factors were involved. But, it was that pea-sized mass that 'muddied' the picture, as my radiation oncologist explained, making radiation a necessary part of my active treatment.

And, it's that necessary part of my cancer sentence that potentially wreaks havoc on your body. You wouldn't believe the laundry list of complications that can occur from just a minute and a half of daily radiation. I won't bore you with the complete list -- even I started to zone out when my doctor started discussing the less than 1% chance of complications that could develop. But, when she started talking about the possibilities of ruining my reconstruction efforts - my ears perked up (did I mention how painful it was to pump this bad girl up? For those of you who missed my previous post -- let's just say, lots of muscle relaxers and narcotics were needed to ease that pain). 

Thankfully, I've only had to deal with some minor skin issues. Radiation causes the treated area to react much like it would from a bad sunburn -- redness, with itching, soreness and peeling. Sure, it's uncomfortable -- but coming from a girl who used baby oil as sunscreen back in her teenage years --it's nothing.

It's what's going on underneath the skin that causes the most agony. A little blistery skin pales in comparison to the discomfort that comes from the scarred tissue around my breast and armpit from these power zaps. To help ease the tightness and pain, I do my post-mastectomy exercises continuously throughout the day...at any given moment, I can be seen dropping to the floor into a praying position or "walking the wall" to stretch out the boobs and pits. Once a week, I go see Susan, my physical therapist, who makes me feel so good by the time she gets done with me. Not only do her massages and stretches help redirect the lymph fluid that sometimes gets confused which direction to go, but improves the blood flow to my breast and armpit as well. All this, in the hopes, that once treatment is complete, all the damage to my tissue will heal...and that my gift from Santa will be delivered on time:

Do you think it would be too much to ask Santa to throw in a couple inches of hair as well? (for my head, not my breasts, of course)

Anyway, despite all the negative impacts that radiotherapy can cause on your body. There are good things that come from this part of my treatment...really, really good things. Like when radiation is complete, I will have destroyed any lingering cancerous cells that haven't gotten the memo that the party is over. Even better, I get to begin living a life that is cancer-free. 

So, I continue to serve out my sentence -- although, I'll never live down this charge. Cancer goes on your permanent record. 

And then, stick a fork in me because I'm done. I've suffered through the chemical cocktails, had my breast hacked off and now, I am four zaps short of being sufficiently radiated. Well, at least I know what I will be for Halloween this year....

...Radioactive Kitty

Me-OW!

Nine months ago, I entered the ring with the big "C". On that day,  I claimed that I wouldn't leave the arena without a KO under my belt. Well, on November 1st, the coup de grâce (a right cross to the carcinoma) will be delivered and it's me who will be lifting the championship belt over my head declaring victory.

Cancer, you never stood a chance!