I Get By With a Little Help From My Friends

They cooked, they cleaned, they cared for children and drove them to and from school. They sent cards and called and hugged us through the worst winter of our lives. I can't say enough about the healing power of friendship when you are teetering on the edge of the abyss. Nothing says love like someone coming and cleaning your toilet.

Before I began treatment a group of women who I went to school with took me to dinner at a local restaurant. I arrived to find the table decorated for a pink princess party. We had crowns and cake pops with pink ribbons on them. Most of these gals had not been close friends in school, but we had reconnected by planning our class reunions over the last few years, and they showed up for me when I needed a boost.

Another dear friend met me for a retreat in the dead of winter and helped me to sort through some doubts that I had about how to proceed with treatment. Friends came and cleaned my house, brought casseroles and soup and cakes. I have a stack of cards six inches high that arrived in the mail on an almost daily basis, cheerful reminders of the love that I am so blessed to have in my life. Friends called to check on me just when I needed a lifeline the most and took me to lunch when I could drag myself out of the house. Complete strangers showed up at our door with gift cards and coupons because they heard about our plight through the amazing power of the internet. Through the months of chemotherapy, the hospitalizations and radiation treatments, we were continually lifted up by the kindness of others.

I learned that people truly want to help out in a crisis. When someone says "What can I do?" they usually really mean it, and are happy to have you give them a task. I learned to say "Yes, I do need help." I learned that it is a gift to others to allow them to make any small difference in a horrible situation.

One morning I was leaving the house and looked around at my family. My husband had hurt his back and he and my dad were both hobbling around with a cane. My daughter was on the couch recovering from her latest round of chemotherapy, and I was preparing for my next treatment. As I drove to town I was feeling sorry that my grandchildren were growing up in a damned nursing home. Then I went to a meeting and listened to someone talking about the chaos of growing up with alcoholism, and I realized how blessed my grandchildren are to be growing up in a home where ketchup bottles and cruelty are not flying across the dinner table. They live in a home where we are taking care of one another in the midst of our suffering. And most importantly they are experiencing the wonderful gift of community. They have witnessed the love and caring from others that many children do not have the opportunity to see.

We had a party this last weekend to try to thank all of those who have done so much for us. I was humbled by the shear number of people on the guest list. Only a fraction of the folks on that list were able to attend. I wonder every day what I have done to deserve such an outpouring of love from so many, and how I can ever repay them. I hope like hell that none of them ever need the kind of help that we have required, but you can bet if they do I will be there cleaning their toilets.

Survivor

My beautiful daughter Erin
Cancer Fighter Extraordinaire

My daughter and I attended Relay for life yesterday, an American Cancer Society event. A friend and her team were walking in memory of her husband who recently died from lymphoma. "Team Robert - Crashing for a Cure" was the name of their team. They had a race car theme with checkered flags, a pit stop area, bounce house and games for the kids. A "survivor lap" begins the relay. Cancer survivors lead the first lap around the track. As my daughter and I started walking, with my granddaughter between us holding our hands and my grandson walking along with us, I started to cry. I cried the whole way around that track. Not just a few tears silently running down my cheeks, either. I was practically sobbing. I thought about those who have not survived, and those who may not survive the bastard disease. And I thought about what it means to be a survivor.

There I was with one last radiation treatment to go before finishing my long ordeal. I have allowed myself to be carved up, poisoned and burned with the hope that I will live cancer free. I will now begin treatment for five years with a hormone suppressant drug that may cause more unpleasant side effects. I am assuming that I don't have cancer anymore, that the surgeries and chemotherapy and radiation have eliminated every last cancer cell in my body. There is no way to be sure, though. There is no scan or blood test to be taken, only the daily awareness of any changes or symptoms that might indicate that it has returned.

I have lost many loved ones to cancer. My daughter has cancer and will have for the rest of her life. I had cancer, and hopefully now I don't. My daughter does not like it when someone makes a statement such as "she lost her battle with cancer." Like that person wasn't smart enough or didn't fight hard enough or just plain gave up. I agree. Most of us do everything that we can to stay alive. We cross the street when the signal says "walk." We eat our vegetables. We take our medicine. Sooner or later no more can be done and death will take us all one way or another. So what exactly does it mean to be a cancer survivor?

I guess it is different for everyone. For me, just at the beginning of my survivorship, it means never taking one minute for granted. It means caring for my physical and emotional health in a whole new way. It means loving my family and friends more deeply. Cancer has changed me. I have no patience for petty bullshit. I have narrowed my focus from the multitude of things that I used to pursue. My priorities have changed.

Surviving means more than just being alive, more than taking whatever the medical professionals recommend even when you are nearly dead from the treatments. It means being true to yourself and living fully til the very last minute.

I am a survivor.

Radiation Treatments

I began radiation therapy several weeks ago. Before starting radiation I was tattooed and fitted for a form that I lie in for each treatment. The tattoos are very small black dots, and are used to line me up properly before I am zapped with cancer causing radiation to cure my cancer. My daughter calls them my prison tats. Very appropriate since I feel like I am a prisoner to this ordeal. I was told that I would receive a total of 30 or 32 treatments. The doctor took his sweet time deciding on the actual number. The radiology tech said the doc likes to think about it. I hoped it did not depend on his mood on a given day. Like if he has a fight with his wife he might give me some extra radiation as a sideways kind of passive aggressive behavior. He finally decided on thirty treatments; twenty-five regular doses and then five "boosts" to the spots where the tumors were.

I arrive at the cancer center each morning, five days a week, for an 8:45 appointment. I undress from the waist up and put on a lovely hospital gown. Who designs those things, anyway? The ties make no sense at all, and these gowns are big enough for two or three of me. Evidently the powers-that-be want to be sure that I am not tempted to steal the things to wear as a fashion statement when I am out and about shopping or having a cup of tea with a friend. I am quickly called into the radiation room where I lay on a table with my head and arms in the mold that was made for me. My arms are above my head and the lovely gown is pulled down to expose my chest. Two or three techs position me correctly as we comment on the weather and the state of the world. The table and the radiation machine, technically called a linear accelerator, move up, down and around. There are lots of clicks and humming, and random lights going on and off. The whole process takes about fifteen minutes. I lay there studying the ceiling, which is decorated with a mural of some sort of flowering tree. Do they think that I will forget what I am going through and come to believe that I am actually laying under this tree gazing up at the sky? Someone has put some cutesy stickers on the machine in another attempt to distract me from the reality of the situation. I especially like the pink one that says "Fight Like a Girl." Anyway, I lay there trying to meditate and imagine the beams of cancer causing radiation attacking any residual cancer cells in my chest and lymph nodes. Every six days the gals do some x-rays along with the treatments. The x-rays help them make sure that everything is lining up properly. Before I know it we are finished and I return to the dressing room where I apply a steroid cream to my entire chest, throw the gown into a hamper and put my own clothes back on. I also have a large tube of aloe gel that I apply every night before bed. The cream and gel are to ease the burning of my skin that is caused by the treatment. This seemed to be working pretty well until last week. Now I have severe radiation burns, especially in the lymph node areas.

Radiation makes me tired. They tell me that the fatigue is a result of my body trying to heal the burns. It is nothing like the fatigue from chemotherapy, but I do take a nap every day, and I can't do a whole lot without sitting down to rest. I have six more treatments to go. I am so ready for this process to be over. I want my life back.

Oh, wait. This is my life.