Nostalgia & Christmas Joy

Are there words adequate enough to describe the delight I have in my grandchildren? I doubt it.

Ava spent Thursday night with us (she'll be three in January). She slept in the room that was her bedroom from age 3 months to 18 months when my daughter and her husband moved back to New Hampshire from Los Angeles. Lately she and I haven't spent much time together because of my low energy levels. But I'm finally feeling like my old self. When my daughter told her she was spending the night, she said, "Is LeeLee feeling better?"

Ava helped me decorate our Christmas tree Friday morning. I admire people who have themed and coordinated Christmas decorations. They are very beautiful. It's just not my thing. I have every ornament ever given to me since I got married in 1971 and they come out every Christmas to adorn our Christmas tree! The first one Ava pulled out was a 26-year old paper plate with a faded green and red crepe paper wreath surrounding a picture of my son when he was six years old. He made it at school when he was in first grade. He's 32 now. Ava exclaimed, "That's Uncle Brian!" She's seen his childhood pictures on our dining room wall. She laughed, carefully opened its original red yarn loop and hooked it over a low branch. She stood back, smiled and clapped her hands, then turned back to the box and continued to inspect each ornament before hanging it and stopping to clap each time.

"Wow, look at this one, LeeLee," she said, "it's beautiful!" She held up a small, gold satin ball decorated with different sized white beads. Very ornate.

"My sister made that for me a long, long time ago," I said. I thought of my late-sister, Jo-Ann, and her various forays into artsy-craftsy things--macrame plant hangers, developing her own pictures, ornate Christmas ornaments, etc. These creations are dispersed throughout our family. My mom still uses some of those plant hangers. My photo albums have black & white pictures she took of her children and mine and developed in her dark room. And yesterday, that Christmas ornament resurfaced.

Ava continued carefully taking each ornament out of the box and, with a studied gaze, took in every detail. We had constant conversation as we took our time. I'll admit the placement is a little bottom heavy, but for me it's not about the asthetic, it's about the nostalgia; it's about creating memories for a new generation. In the process, the joy of Ava's and my time together was evident to both of us. I took great joy in seeing her inspect the deocrations and hang them on the tree and I have no doubt Ava knew I was delighting in our time together.

Ahhh, the joy of grandchildren!

PS. The face shot of Ava was taken last week when Ava helped my Mom, her great-grandmother, set up her Christmas village.

Shopping & the Elephant

It's really something in my world when I get excited about going grocery shopping. Normally, I avoid the grocery store as much as possible. But I looked forward to going this afternoon--all by myself. My biggest dilemma was how to keep my head warm going out in the cold. Winter weather arrived in New Hampshire with a vengeance yesterday and dropped 10 inches of snow where we live. Wind chills registered around 24 degrees this afternoon. I honestly don't know how men who shave their heads handle the cold. I contemplated wearing my wig for warmth, but the wind really messes it up and you can't just run your fingers through it and smooth it out. I opted for a head covering that ties in back with a furry, bell-shaped black hat over it. It actually looks pretty stylish, even if I do say so myself.

As I pushed the grocery cart around the store, I felt self-conscious. Like people who looked at me instantly knew I am a cancer patient. It's not necessarily a bad thing, I guess. Before I got cancer and saw people in the midst of chemotherapy, I didn't know what to say to them either and pretty much tried to ignore the obvious. I don't think I'll do that from now on. I'll probably ask them how they are doing and what they are being treated for. Like the woman in the waiting room when I took my Mom to the doctor a few weeks ago. I had a cancer hat on and she came right out and said, "How far along are you in your treatment?" We had a long conversation and it turned out she was a breast cancer survivor.

I had to take my broken Treo phone to the Verizon store last Friday. Again, I didn't have my wig on, just a cancer hat. A crackerjack salesman waited on me and talked me into replacing my outdated Treo with the brand new Droid, Motorala's answer to the iPhone. (I absolutely love it, by the way!) Right away I noticed a large scar on his scalp. He told me the whole story about falling down a flight of stairs when a door knob let go as he yanked the door shut. At one point, I told him I had been getting chemotherapy and he said, "Oh wow! I hope things are going well for you." I could tell he was a little uncomfortable with me, yet very sympathetic. It's gotta be hard for people who deal with the public and come face-to-face with people obviously dealing with heavy things. Like, what do you say? I'm leaning toward acknowledging the proverbial elephant in the room rather than ignoring the obvious.

Tuesday I took my niece, Mary, out for a couple of errands. She has survived a stem cell transplant for leukemia, is battling graft-vs.-host disease, and recently barely survived a bout with H1N1--3 weeks in the hospital, half of which was in ICU. She went home a little early (she simply had to have Thanksgiving with her husband and 3 teenagers) and is gaining her strength back, but requires a walker and wheelchair. I can't even imagine what the people in the post office and the town clerk's office thought when they saw us waltz in, me in my chemo hat pushing Mary in the wheel chair with her blue sterile gloves and "duck bill" face mask! Everyone was very nice, sympathetic and respectful. Strangers held doors open and offered a helping hand when I couldn't maneuver the wheel chair over thresholds.

I wouldn't have been offended if someone was curious about my obvious battle with cancer. Not at all. I am learning that I don't have to hold back and ignore what's in front of me when I encounter someone like me. I wonder if I speak for others in my situation? I wonder if someone with no legs in a wheelchair would be offended if I asked them how they ended up there? I'm not sure. But you MAY ask me if you see me out there somewhere.

Hours Days Months Years

I am amazed that my last entry was late October! Where has the time gone? And how is it that my ninth and final chemotherapy treatment was three weeks ago already? I suppose it's a good thing. If you had asked me during the long days of mid-September or early October if the treatments were going by quickly, I would have said, "Are you kidding?" It felt like time stood still as I spent countless hours on the couch unable to focus on anything. Hour after hour I listened to soothing music on my iPod and stared at the living room ceiling, or looked at the treetops sway in the breeze outside the window behind the couch. Those were the days when the loneliness of cancer crept up on me like the water that leaked into our basement on our 35th wedding anniversary. We didn't see it coming but the impact left us in despair as we scrambled to cope.

Actually, in retrospect I suspect I was lonely by choice. I think I preferred being alone over entertaining even my closest friends or relatives on my worst days. Not sure why. Perhaps I chose to suffer in solitude to protect them from the heartache of watching someone they love suffer.

But I've made it through the darkest days. I survived chemotherapy--the most frightening aspect of receiving a cancer diagnosis for me personally. I watched my sister suffer through chemotherapy when she got lung cancer in the early 1990s. I watched her daughter, my niece, endure unspeakable suffering during her induction phase of chemotherapy after her leukemia diagnosis in 2006. I honestly thought I would never be faced with the prospect of those toxic drugs pumping into my veins! But it happened and now I'm on the other side. Unbelievable!

In a mere eight days, I will drive to Boston very early in the morning (on December 17th) and be admitted to Mass General for a lumpectomy. Yup, the Avastin (clinical trial drug) coupled with the adriamyacin, cytoxin and taxol has successfully shrunk the tumor and, thankfully, made it possible for me to have a simple lumpectomy instead of a mastectomy. In all likelihood, I will go to sleep in my own bed that night. I've never had surgery before nor been under general anesthesia but I keep in mind that millions of people have surgery every day and I'll be just fine.

On Christmas Eve our children, their spouses, and our grandchildren will gather around our Christmas tree and create a new year of Christmas memories. After the first of the year, I begin my rounds of radiation. When we celebrate my third grandchild's (Anna Mae's) first birthday on July 14, 2010, and perhaps have welcomed our fourth grandchild, I will have passed the one year mark since my diagnosis. And if time keeps ticking as quickly as the past four months have passed by, before long I will be two, three, four, even five years out from my July 1, 2009 diagnosis. Breast cancer will be a memory but, from what I hear from other survivors, the thought that it can come back pops up nearly every single day.

Life is a Patchwork Quilt

Tomorrow John and I will get up at 4:45 and be on I-95 South heading toward Boston by 5:30 for my 7:00 AM appointment--treatment #8 out of 9. I know I'm facing five to seven days sapped of energy and feeling just plain lousy, but I also know those will be followed by seven days of feeling pretty much like my old self.

So today, I distracted myself and spent a few hours in my quilt room strip piecing a new quilt top I'm making for someone special. During breaks, I checked my email and logged onto Facebook a couple of times. An old friend I hadn't heard from in twenty years accepted my "Friend Request." On a whim, I had searched for him and there he was, staring back at me in his profile photo; twenty years older but the same warm smile and friendly eyes. Another friend I haven't seen in eleven years posted a reminder that today was the anniversary of her husband's death. I remember it well.

When I returned to the sewing machine and the rather mindless task of strip piecing, my thoughts carried me back twenty years and the memories of our old friend who is now a new "Friend" on Facebook. I thought about the circumstances that brought our families together. The laughter and fun our families shared together. I thought about the sorrowful circumstances that separated us too. Names and faces of people I haven't thought of in years came to mind.

As my sewing machine whirred on and stitched together the colorful pieces, images of our life eleven years ago filled my mind. Again, I thought about the friend on Facebook who reminded us today is the anniversary of her husband's death. I hadn't thought about the circumstances that caused our lives to intersect in a long time. Memories of fun get togethers and difficult hospital visits surfaced; the funeral of a father who died too young and left two young girls with no daddy.

Hmmmm, it seems life is a patchwork quilt--patches of happy, joyful times as well as patches of sorrows and regrets.

Pacing Myself

You can't tell from this picture I took a few minutes ago, but today there is a gentle breeze that makes the treetops full of dry, yellow and orange leaves say, "Shhhh." I know because I sauntered up and back on this road just before lunch. I've been daydreaming about feeling well enough to go out for walks so it felt like a dream come true.

Saunter, stroll, however you want to think of it, the pace was very slow. And there were moments that felt sacred. Like when I stopped to take in the myriad scents all around me, the most pronounced being the thick piles of wet leaves and pine needles. Ahhhh, it smelled so good! I also had to stop, close my eyes, and let the warm sun shower me in its brilliant light and breathe in deep breaths.

At the top of a rather long incline, I stopped for a moment's rest and noticed a small snake in the middle of the road. At first I thought it was roadkill until I got right on top of it and its head was lifted up. I took a wide berth around it and caught sight of a blue jay criss crossing the road in front of me, like a self-designated spy checking me out. It seems that slowing down has its benefits. I heard the hollow rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker echo through a stand of leafless trees. Unseen squirrels chirped off and on and I imagined them storing acorns for the cold weather that's just around the corner. The inevitable caw-caw of a crow punctured the serenity but I didn't mind. I even heard the gentle snorts of Ava's favorite horses off in the distance.

For that short half hour, I accomplished a few things. First, I actually took a walk! Second, I sucked in as much fresh air as I possibly could, while I could! Third, I discovered a new sense of hope that one day my life will no longer be focused on this interruption called breast cancer. Nope. One day, I will resume my brisk, two-mile walks on our dirt road and return to Curves to rebuild the strength in my muscles and bones. One day, I will feel healthy again. I know it. I look forward to it. I can get through these next few months. I can! I will! And just like I had to pace myself to go for this half-hour stroll, I will pace myself as I navigate the second half of my breast cancer journey.

Que Sera Sera

Before my diagnosis on July 1st, my life was ordered and predictable, just the way I like life to be. I worked three days a week and at least once a week, my grandaughter Ava would come spend the day with me or, more often than not, spend the night. We played her favorite music and danced around the kitchen. She climbed into the jogging stroller and we walked up our dirt road to see the chickens and horsies and picked daisies and black-eyed susans along the way. We ate breakfast in the living room. And before naptime and bedtime we read a couple of books of her choice and sang a song or two. She always requested "Que Sera Sera."

Now that I have few days that I feel close to normal, the days are few and far between for visits from Ava. Both of us miss the days before my diagnosis. In the days following my first treatments, Ava would ask, "Can I stay at your house, NeeLee?" I would have to tell her it wasn't a good time and as time has gone on, she doesn't ask anymore. When I do have a few good days, and one of them includes a day when my husband is home, Ava does come spend the night. Such precious times they are too.

Last night was one of them. She and I watched Charlotte's Web while Papa made dinner. She refused the booster seat and chose to sit in the dining room chair like a big girl (she'll be three in January). She gobbled up raspberry shortcake for dessert and there was just enough time for one episode of her favorite TV show, Calliou, before bedtime.

Ava gave Papa kisses and hugs. Papa said, "Sleep tight!" as Ava climbed the stairs. She called out, "Don't let the bed bugs bite!" and we all laughed. She and I settled into the rocking chair and after I read her two books, I said, "What song would you like to sing?" As usual, she said, "Que Sera Sera." She faced me and snuggled against my body, her head on my chest and I started the song: "When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, what will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be rich? Here's what she said to me. Que Sera Sera, whatever will be, will be. The future's not ours to see. Que Sera, Sera." Ava sang with me last night. She doesn't always sing it. I love it when she does. We sang it again, two more times, same verse.

I'm not sure whether Ava is drawn to the tune or the words. I suppose a little girl asking her mother questions might be part of it and the tune is certainly appealing. I've loved that song since I was a little girl actually. I remember hearing Doris Day singing it on the car radio. Last night the words of the chorus felt particularly poignant for me. "Whatever will be, will be. The future's not ours to see." I have three treatments left. A four-week wait, then surgery. It's still uncertain whether I'll have a lumpectomy or a mastectomy. It's still uncertain whether there'll be a recurrence in my future. What will be, will be.

From the Inside Out

My eight-hour long visit to the Dana Farber yesterday began in the basement level of the building where Nuclear Medicine is housed and where I reported for my second heart MUGA test to look at the function of my heart. First they removed a small vial of blood, made me wait 15 minutes while they injected it with a radioactive substance, and then reinjected it back into me. The MUGA machine is similar to an MRI but not so claustrophobic and it is noiseless. It requires being flat on your back for 45 minutes so I planned well and set my I-Pod to play my favorites list in random order. About 20 minutes into the test, a familiar contemporary Christian song titled "From the Inside Out" began to play. As the refrain crescendoed, the words jumped out at me and took on new meaning.

My heart and my soul

I give you control

Consume me from the inside out Lord

Let justice and faith

Become my embrace

To love you from the inside out

Everlasting, your light will shine

When all else fails

Never-ending, your glory goes

Beyond all faith

And the cry of my heart

Is to bring you grace

From the inside out Lord

My soul cries out

From the inside out Lord

My soul cries out to you

The MUGA machine was peering inside my body, looking at my heart beating. It occurred to me that God sees me inside out, God sees my heart beating and my tumor shrinking. The song plunged me into a heartfelt prayer like never before--a prayer to embrace the rest of this journey with a renewed sense of God's everlasting light and never-ending glory.

I've been on the lookout for God's provision since the early days after my diagnosis and have no doubt hearing this song from my random favorites list was not coincidence. I call it a God-incident and I am deeply grateful for the experience.