Day 6: Today I felt Normal

Today was a priceless, priceless gift. Today I felt normal.

 A perk of attending a wedding in an old duty station was the opportunity to see dear military friends. We spent the rest of our weekend in the Pacific Northwest finding respite. Soon enough, hospitals and doctors will return, but for this little sliver of peace, we have been able to laugh, smile, love, hug, share and be with friends away from the cancer. Sure, we have talked about it, but it didn't rule the weekend. For the first time in the last five days, I didn't feel defined by my diagnosis. 

We spent our day hiking in one of God's most precious creations: Mount Rainier. Both Treb and I have a special love for this mountain from out time spent at Fort Lewis. I climbed to Camp Muir when we lived here which was one of the most physically challenging feats I personally have accomplished in my life. I love that memory of climbing to Camp Muir. At 10,000+ feet in the air! your perception of everything changes. 

So going to Rainier for me was very healing. Hiking to Panorama point showed me that my body was still strong. I could still do this.  Each step affirmed me as a person. Each smell cleared my body--I felt as though I was breathing in the spirit of the world and the spirit of God. The sounds resonate with my heart. I smiled without feeling as though it was forced or as if I needed to show everyone that Iw as ok. I was ok. 

 I loved almost every moment of it, except the massive meltdown my little girl had half way up the trail. (Her scream was so piercing you could hear it at the end of the trail. One old gentleman walked back down the hill to give me chocolate she was screeching so loud). This moment reminded me that my sickness doesn't effect just me. It affects my babies. For that I am eternally regretfull. I would shield them from every moment of it if I could. Their world has been rocked as well. 

But as we settled down and found our calm, both of us continued on to make it to our final destination at panorama point. The view was completely obscured by fog. We had made it, but couldn't see the view. Such are many things in life. You can learn a lot from a mountain. 

But as we descended back, the clouds parted and there she was. If you've been to rainier, you know exactly what I am describing. If you have not, when the clouds part and Mount Rainier shows her magnificence, everything else seems smaller in comparison. I told  Treb that he needs to start praying as hard for me to get well as he prayed to see his mountain this weekend!  When Mount Rainier shows herself, you feel blessed. 

And I've been blessed this weekend. From being a part of a beautiful wedding, the hospitality of great friends and a wonderful day hiking on Rainier, I found a sense of balance and peace I sorely needed. I'm sure it won't last, but it was a greater reminder that there can still be great days even in the midst of darkness. 

Day 4: a Litany

10/10/2014. Day 4: A Litany of God bless

I actually woke up in a fairly good mood. I've been sleeping well since starting the Xanax. It's a blessing. I keep waking up expecting to feel sick. Although emotionally bruised and battered, I don't feel bad. I am strong ( burpees pay off), my energy level is over all good. I don't feel sick.  I'll randomly crack jokes.  I keep asking the doctors if they are sure they have diagnosed me right. I mean, cancer patients usually look and feel sick. I don't really look or feel different. At least not yet. I'm sure I'll feel differently when they start pumping my body full of poison. But for now, this really seems unreal. 

I tried to have a normal day today. I got up early to go to work. I usually enjoy work and it can be cathartic. I don't mind the mundane. Normal is good.  I did have a moment when I totally went off on someone for bringing up stupid in the middle of what I was trying to craft as a normal day. In my defense, I've been assured the person WAS being stupid, but I generally don't go off on people. My tolerance for stupid right now is low I guess. I digress, in the middle of trying to find normal, to work, to calculate survey results and provide an analysis on public health impacts, everything was working against me: time, my computer, my brain, technical upgrades to the software I use, people and red tape. I was a slow burning fuse. And then I got a call to go back to the hospital. 

I was called back to the hospital to fit my prep testing in today.  It wasn't going to wait until next week as planned.  Next Thursday I will get a CT guided bone marrow biopsy under sedation and a full appendectomy. I've just realized that running will be out for awhile. I am annoyed. To hell with burpees. Those are tabled too. My Christ walk goal is to get as many steps in each day as I am able. It's a one day at a time sort of life I live these days. 

Anyway, so I am back at the hospital. Third time in three days. I'm a nurse and I hate hospitals.  They bring back every memory of being a sickly kid.  I want to apologize to every patient I've ever had over the sheer indignity of the medical experience.  I like to think that I was a good nurse, but I still want to apologize. The medical environment is so hard. I mean seriously, as a staff member, you know your way around a building, as a patient, it's a maze just as foreign as Timbuktu. 

I've had amazing doctors, nurses and support staff, but I've also given my full medical history to about ten people. I've been poked, prodded, stripped down, examined and looked with pity as they read my age and diagnosis. "However did you think you had cancer?" they ask.

I never thought I had cancer. Some days, I still don't think I do; Except I have this pesky lump on my left clavicle that reminds me they are right. :(it's begun to hurt. I think it is my mind. 

I'm 38. Thirty year olds shouldn't have cancer ( for that matter NO ONE should have cancer--if I haven't said it before, I'll say it again, this cancer crap sucks. Let's not sugar coat it--this stuff doesn't belong in ANYONE's body).  This isn't just about me. This is for every single person that has it. We all have one heartfelt, longing thought: Go away and leave me and my family alone. Forever. 

Every time I've been at the hospital I've had at least six people ask me if I have an advanced directive or living will. I fell a part on the first lady who asked me. Poor lady--I made her cry. Thirty year olds shouldn't need advanced directives and living wills. That sort of question is just plain wrong. I mean it's right, but just wrong in the place where I am in life and so I bawled. And then they ask me if I'm an organ donor--which I am proudly--I'm just not ready to give them up yet--not that anyone is going to want them after this. *sigh*

This medical world we live in is so sterile. It's only made human by the kind people that work in this bureaucracy  of healthcare...they are the only things that bring a humanistic sense of something warm and friendly to an environment that strips you of all that you are. God bless humans for being a part of that sterile world. 

I don't miss working the clinical setting, but I know if I ever go back, my patients will never be just patients to me ever again. They are people. People in a situation that strips them of any sense of normal. Any sense of dignity. Any sense of feeling they are in control. Between the decor, the questions, the crap on TV, the waiting (waiting, waiting and waiting), the smell, the fake lights and technology-- everything screams that nothing natural goes on here. Except the people. The people give it some sense of I am not alone. 

God bless my nurse today Wendy as she let me put my head between my legs and breathe as she asked my questions and I almost hyperventilated. God bless Monique, the woman who joked with me about getting a tattoo as she looked me up in the computer. God bless Theresa who cried all over me as I cried all over her when she asked me for an advanced directive. God bless Dr. Jax who promised he wouldn't make any mistakes in my surgery. God bless Dr. Ludwig who called me in prescription for Xanax without making me feel weak for needing help. God bless Sherri who has arranged all my appointments. And God bless Dr. Johnson who showed me how to be objective about my cancer in the middle of the emotion. And y'all, pray for a good case manager for me who will help me seamlessly transition my care from Kansas to Virginia. 

God bless my friends--I cannot say enough. And God bless Treb and my kids and all my family. In the middle of this cancer crap--I am blessed. 

Day 3: coming out of the closet

10/9/2014. Day three: Yesterday I came out of the closet. The cancer closet. I wrote a pretty raw blog about my diagnosis. I wasn't sure how it would be received. I know sometimes that my Christ Walk posts can get to be too much for people. It's ok. I get that. But I find writing therapeutic and this was my time to chronical the good, the bad, the ugly and the beautiful. 

My aunt used to tell me I cried so prettily. If only she saw me yesterday as I scrolled through the overwhelming love and support sent to me via text, calls, emails, messages and posts. I couldn't catch my breath at times. I sobbed. I cried. I felt unworthy of the love that was being sent. I am overwhelmed. Those hot spots under my cheeks seem to have taken permanent residence. I do not feel deserving of such love. I am humbled that somehow I have touched so many people that they feel called to touch me and my family back. You all have done for me what I asked that I could not do myself. You have prayed for me with words I cannot articulate. I don't know how to say thank you in any possible way but thanks. I mean with all the crap in the world, there are so many awesome, loving people that make it an amazing place. There is hope for the world with all the amazing children of god who have touched me. The news shows can take their negative crap and shove it. Amazing, beautiful and miraculous people live around us far more than the crap that is highlighted on a daily basis. You all are the hope of the world. 

The most amazing thing happened from the messages I received. I finally found hope. I wasn't feeling hopeful before. I couldn't see past the shock, the misery, the anger or the despair. I was fueled yesterday. And that is an irreplaceable gift. I heard stories of those that have been through the same thing as I and have conquered their cancer. I have heard positive statistics and I have heard God's love. I'm still not happy with my lot. I would wish it away in a heartbeat and I still pray the doctors are wrong. But I'm wrapped in the loving care of my friends and family and for that, I cannot thank you all enough. 

Yesterday marked the first trip to the oncologist. The vampires descended on my veins. I was pumped with radioactive isotopes for a PET scan and learned that my cancer is further a long than I had hope. It has snuck into my neck, chest and abdomen. Next week I head in for two surgical procedures: one a bone marrow biopsy to see if it has invaded my bones and a second to remove my appendix. We are working details or figuring out my treatment plan and how to get care immediately upon arrival in DC. 

I do know the prayers and love make a difference. Please don't stop. God hears you even when my own prayers are feeble. I have not lost faith. I still believe fiercely in God. I am simply so angry at this that God is the only thing strong enough to withstand my anger and still tell me it will be ok. 

Thank you. From all that I am and all that I will be. Anna.