Humor

Walking Through Cancer/Part 16

Marilea C. RabasaLeave a comment

                              

                                         The Graveyard Shift

This is bizarre. It reminds me of when I had carpel tunnel syndrome last spring: I was in such burning pain that I couldn’t sleep. But that passed with time, and this insomnia will, too.

My new sleep schedule: I fall asleep between 7:00 and 9:00 at night; then I’m up at 11:30ish; I watch videos until my eyelids start drooping, usually a couple hours; then fall back to sleep until, if I’m lucky, 4:00 am, when my day begins. I drink a mocha, check emails, etc. At 5:00 I eat breakfast; at six I can start the work of the day: my writing. This consists of my daily gratitude journal and for the past six months my cancer diary. It’s pretty long, over twenty-five chapters, both before and after my diagnosis.

By 10:00, I start to fade and take a nap, about an hour. But before I nap, I eat a sizeable protein snack. After I wake up, I work on my computer until 12:00, lunchtime. Well, I guess some things coincide with real life! I go downstairs to watch Nicole Wallace, and even though the news is depressing, I love to listen to her  guests, especially Tim Miller.

Then I’m ready for another short nap, another snack, more writing, and then dinner with Gene. So, you see the routine is trying to glide into some semblance of normalcy. If I could just sleep through the night…

Why the insomnia? I only take prednisone for five mornings in a 3-week infusion cycle, so I’m not convinced it’s that, though it has a monstrous reputation. Then I read an article called “Why Do Cancer Patients Have Anxiety?” Geez, ya think?

Out of boredom, I started playing Dr. Google again. I read that my type of non-hodgkins lymphoma is not only incurable but has a very poor prognosis. Tell that to the lady who whizzed through 6 miles of Disneyland without getting tired!

The truth is that they are making huge strides in cancer research every day. Right now I’m undergoing my first line of treatment. My oncologist also has me in a clinical trial concurrent with my chemo. The theory is that if I go into remission, it might last a few years longer. Dr. Poh gave me a gold star when I saw her on Monday.

I believe in my heart that remission awaits me. I just don’t know. What I do know is that t-cell lymphoma is usually “refractory,” meaning it will come back with a vengeance, resisting the chemo I got before. This is when I’m glad it’s nearly 2025 and not twenty years ago. There are a number of new treatments they will surely try. But, as usual, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m only halfway through this first line of treatment. February 3 is my last infusion. We’ll see what the PET scan shows, if  Dr. Poh can claim me to be in remission or not.

Fingers crossed!

Walking Through Cancer/Part 15

Marilea C. RabasaLeave a comment

                                                 Reprieves and Vacays

Tickets to Disneyland had been purchased months ago, long before I started chemotherapy with a broken arm. But Dr. Poh assured me that she would try to work my infusions around the trip to California. And she did. I was determined to weather all the discomforts of airplane travel with a broken arm in a sling. My cancer team not only cleared me to go, they arranged the chemo cycles around it so that I would be feeling my best during that week. I’m just amazed by the humanity of the staff at Fred Hutch Cancer Center. I’m much more than just a cancer patient in need of a remission to enjoy a few more years. I also want to have fun with my family as often as possible, and they fully cooperated with my wishes.

We flew into Santa Ana Airport the Saturday before Thanksgiving and spent a whirlwind week in Los Angeles. Sunday we drove to Santa Monica to have lunch with Gene’s sister. That’s a lovely town. Tuesday we visited the La Brea Tarpits in downtown LA, where the remains of Ice Age animals had been found by paleontologists. On Wednesday, we returned to LA for a visit into Universal Studios. A bit overwhelming for two old fogies like us. We took a few rides, but really enjoyed the studio tour. I was amazed at my stamina after walking three miles. But my feet were starting to swell.

The next day was Thanksgiving when my family flew in from Seattle. We all met at a restaurant for turkey and all the fixings, which tasted great. We said our goodbyes and planned to meet the next morning at Disneyland.

Six hours of fun and frolic, I don’t remember when I’ve had so much fun. My son was especially solicitous and protective of me, particularly after he saw my feet. Not painful, just unsightly. By 6:00, we had walked six miles and I was still full of energy. My son was amazed at my stamina. But my feet were so swollen from edema that I had to put on some uncomfortable sandals just to keep walking. We all went out to dinner, and I surprised and delighted my grandkids by taking my hat off.

“Oh wow, Bela, you look amazing!”

“You look like Captain Picard!”

Cameras flashing, I had finally overcome my shyness at being bald. I proudly sent a picture around to my friends to see their reactions. I’m not ashamed or embarrassed. It’s my sign of hope that I may stay alive.

My feet required ice and elevation to return to normal. And flush out my kidneys with lots of water to shed the edema. I’m not sure what the lesson is for me. I can’t walk long distances?

A totally worthwhile trip. I’m so glad I made it. Life is too short to put things off. You never know when yours will end. And I’m nothing if not determined.

The Healing Power Of Humor

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From Hope for Today, April 6:

“…Today my sense of humor is a natural reflection of who I am. I experience the world through smiles and laughter rather than through bitter smirks. I share joy with others rather than seek company for my misery. I help others heal rather than attack them. I allow my sense of humor to unfold naturally, just the way it was meant, and I watch the wonderful results as my Higher Power works through me toward a higher good.”

Finding my sense of humor has been a reflection of how I’ve changed in recovery. I’ve worked through my grief around my daughter and continue to do so every day. But the darkness has receded. Somehow it’s not as heavy to carry as it used to be. It seems lighter. I’ve gained perspective from years of reading and writing, and listening to other peoples’ stories. Being able to laugh, and cease to take myself too seriously, has eased my journey through this frightening tunnel. I can see the light at the end of it.

At times I wondered if I would ever laugh again, but my Higher Power wanted me not only to survive but to do so joyfully. There are many other people in my world, and my recovery spills over onto them in countless ways.

Cultivating a healthy sense of humor keeps me right-sized; I stay small and HP stays big. Then I don’t get in my own way so much!

Walking Through Cancer/Part 11

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                                    My Blood Tells the Whole Story

I’m so glad that I had a chemo port surgically implanted in my right shoulder. It’s much simpler for everything: blood draws, transfusions, and chemo infusions. Most of the time I forget it’s even there: painless, just a little bump under my skin. Very convenient.

This week, my blood work showed great improvement in my numbers: white blood count is normal for the first time in a year; but still low red count and anemia. Yet I feel so much better after only one chemo infusion last week. No more fatigue in my legs and just a generally improved sense of wellness. Except for the pain in my left arm…

I asked my doctor on Monday to level with me: did they start with a low dose of chemo and will gradually increase it with five more infusions? She said no, they plan on giving me the same dosage every time. So I guess we’ll see. It’s out of my hands anyway. Just lean into it and be grateful that there are no side effects so far. Same story with the clinical trial, a randomized blind study. Maybe I’m getting a placebo. Time will tell.

Fred Hutch Cancer Alliance has offered me up to $2100 for participating in this clinical trial. I’m pleased about that. And if the trips down to the Hutch are more than twice a week, they offer cheap housing on their campus to the cancer patients. I’m getting a lot of support. Not to mention all the rides my friends are offering to get me to the Hutch for treatments. I am surrounded by love and support. No more room in the refrigerator for all the food people are bringing. It’s hard to cook with my arm in a sling!

I feel blessed as I walk through this journey. I’ve attempted to be proactive with all the needs that go along with chemotherapy: anti-nausea pills, which I haven’t needed at all. And since my doctor assured me that I would lose my hair, I have a box full of scarves and bandanas which I can’t put on with one hand! I think God is playing a joke on me by making this so difficult. But so far, no need for head covering: I still have my hair. Still, it’s early in treatment…

During my first infusion, I realized I forgot to put on my chemo cap (a desperate attempt to keep my hair). By then, though, it wasn’t even cold, so I said to myself, the hell with it. I don’t even care anymore. Women are vain creatures, yes we are, and I certainly am. But every day that passes, my vanity seems to be flying out the window. It’s all so superficial anyway. My spiritual health is what matters.

So this is where I am now, growing inwardly, and happy to see on MSNBC that bald ladies seem to be in fashion. A new trend!

Walking Through Cancer/Part 10

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One Tough Old Bird

Nearly three years ago, I tripped on a towel in our bathroom and fell, whacking my head against the porcelain tub. I broke six ribs, had a pneumothorax, and a teardrop fracture in my neck.

It was my fault, moving too fast in an unlit room, I made a promise to myself: I can never fall again. Period. Well, “Promises are like piecrusts…” Is that how it goes?

Five days before my first chemo infusion, I made the same mistake. I had a fall that resulted in a significant fracture of my humorous (upper arm). OMG, I can’t believe my timing! I’ve started out in a sling and the orthopedist saw me yesterday. Because of the cancer treatments, we’ve elected to avoid surgery for now and let it heal in the sling for six to eight weeks.

“Marilea, the human body is a remarkable machine. It will heal itself if we are patient and let it. If you use the sling for the next two months, slow down, and use the time to rest, it will eventually heal itself. You will need to do regular exercises and maybe work with a therapist regularly, but I think we can avoid surgery, which is problematic at your age, not to mention your cancer treatments.”

“Thanks, Doc. I’ll learn to be patient and let my arm heal on its own. See you next week for a checkup.”

Ladies, have you ever tried to get dressed, pull your pants down to go to the bathroom, floss your teeth, cut vegetables or an apple, just live your life the way two-handed people do? It’s damned inconvenient. And slows me down, probably a good thing.

So here’s another lemon in my life: the broken arm.

Lemonade? It could  have been SO much worse. I could have had a concussion, broken a hip, compromised my legs and ability to walk. Walking, oh wow, that’s number one on the gratitude list. If that were compromised I might have just had to put everything on the cancer side of the drama on hold until I could walk again! So lots of silver linings to pay attention to and deeply felt joy and gratitude that it’s just a broken arm. Oh, another glass of lemonade? My ability to see all the silver linings and allow them to elevate my spirit.

The spiritual part of this journey is absolutely essential to holistically healing my body. My alcoholism recovery is the basis, of course, for all this healing and has saved my life. Minimal whining, endless joy and gratitude, A deeply held faith that life is unfolding for me as it was meant to. I’m in God’s hands. And however much time I have left on this earth, I will live it to the best of my ability, and accept, gracefully accept, God’s will for me.

Amen, and stay tuned for the continued cancer part of my saga!

How Important Is It?

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I will ry to keep things in perspective in terms of importance. Keep a clear head and don’t get sidetracked by emotional drama.

For example, if closing the door to the microwave wakes someone up, how important is it? The person we woke up should ask him/herself, “Is it worth having a fight over?” The people most vulnerable to this slogan sometimes just thrive on the drama. Don’t buy into it.

Move on, distract, find a healthier and larger perspective. We can get so bogged down in pettiness that we stop seeing the larger picture. Today I will try to remember what’s most important in my life—getting along with my partner—and do what I must to protect that.

What Makes Rainbows?

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From Courage to Change, March 14:

“One beautiful day, a man sat down under a tree, not noticing it was full of pigeons. Shortly, the pigeons did what pigeons do best. The man shouted at the pigeons as he stormed away, resenting the pigeons as well as the offending material. But then he realized that the pigeons were merely doing what pigeons do, just because they’re pigeons and not because he was there.

Active alcoholics are people who drink. They don’t drink because of you or me, but because they are alcoholics. No matter what I do, I will not change this fact, not with guilt, shouting, begging, distracting, hiding money or bottles or keys, lying, threatening, or reasoning. I didn’t cause alcoholism. I can’t control it. And I can’t cure it. I can continue to struggle and lose. Or I can accept that I am powerless over alcohol and alcoholism, and let Al-Anon help me to redirect the energy I’ve spent on fighting this disease into recovering from its effects.

It’s not easy to watch someone I love continue to drink, but I can do nothing to stop them. If I can see how unmanageable my life has become, I can admit that I am powerless over this disease. Then I can really begin to make my life better.”

My recovery has been, among other things, about redirecting my energy into a positive force for my loved ones and me. Before I learned the tools of recovery, though I appeared to be content and doing well, I was deeply troubled and unhappy on the inside. Then, when my daughter  became a substance abuser, it all boiled to the surface. I love my daughter very much, and I would have done anything in my power to save her.

There’s that word “power” that we hear so much in the recovery rooms. And that’s good because power and ego so often go together, and I’ve had to learn to let go of both of them. I spent several years trying to save her, but I made many mistakes and in the end was not able to influence her choices. Just like the pigeons, she’s gonna do what she has to do. I can only love her and be strong for her if and when she goes into recovery. I am, therefore, concentrating on saving myself. And if it weren’t for my daughter, I probably wouldn’t even be doing that. Beauty is often born out of loss. I still have a heart that can love—and the eyes to enjoy the beautiful sunsets where I live in Puget Sound.

Loosen Your Grip!

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From Survival To Recovery, page 268:

“Living fully requires enough trust to release our manipulative, tight-fisted control of life, for only then can we accept the guidance of a Power greater than ourselves. For adult children of alcoholics, our damaged, devastated trust has to be healed and nurtured bit by bit until we feel safe enough to truly let go and let God. Trust does not come from reading a book, however inspired, but from experiencing new relationships in which we are trusted and we can learn to trust those around us…If we willingly surrender ourselves to the spiritual discipline of the Twelve Steps, our lives will be transformed…Though we may never be perfect, continued spiritual progress will reveal to us our enormous potential…We will laugh more. Fear will be replaced by faith, and gratitude will come naturally as we realize that our Higher Power is doing for us what we cannot do for ourselves…”

“We will laugh more.”  How can I, beset by depression and instability for many of my years, come to revisit my life now from another perspective? How have I learned how to laugh and see the comedy in things? What has enabled me at last to live well and be happy?

Being in the rooms.

But I hasten to add that we can learn the same tools elsewhere: the tools of letting go and accepting what we can’t change; the tool of gratitude; the tool of detachment and understanding our personal boundaries in relation to our substance user. There are many places where we can pick up these life skills: from our family, friends, church, from our own life experiences…

I might have been luckier, like many of you, and learned these tools in a happy, functioning family when I was growing up. But I learned them later.

And it’s never too late to learn how to be happy.

White knuckling it through life is exhausting. Different methods to relax work for different people. Yoga, prayer, knitting, running, reading, listening to music—the list is endless. The best thing for me to relax is the Serenity Prayer. It has become my mantra:

“God, grant me the serenity

To accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can,

And the wisdom to know the difference.”

I embrace this prayer in big and little ways every day. Its wisdom keeps me right-sized and humble, while at the same time encouraging me to make changes in my life that are within my reach.

We are all challenged, of course, by the last line. That’s why I keep going back to recovery meetings!


The Healing Power Of Humor

Marilea C. RabasaLeave a comment

From Hope for Today, April 6:

“…Today my sense of humor is a natural reflection of who I am. I experience the world through smiles and laughter rather than through bitter smirks. I share joy with others rather than seek company for my misery. I help others heal rather than attack them. I allow my sense of humor to unfold naturally, just the way it was meant, and I watch the wonderful results as my Higher Power works through me toward a higher good.”

Finding my sense of humor has been a reflection of how I’ve changed in recovery. I’ve worked through my grief around my daughter and continue to do so every day. But the darkness has receded. Somehow it’s not as heavy to carry as it used to be. It seems lighter. I’ve gained perspective from years of reading and writing, and listening to other peoples’ stories. Being able to laugh, and cease to take myself too seriously, has eased my journey through this frightening tunnel. I can see the light at the end of it.

At times I wondered if I would ever laugh again, but my Higher Power wanted me not only to survive but to do so joyfully. There are many other people in my world, and my recovery spills over onto them in countless ways.

Cultivating a healthy sense of humor keeps me right-sized; I stay small and HP stays big. Then I don’t get in my own way so much!