A Hairy Tale

So here it is. I absolutely, unequivocally do not want to lose my hair. (photo on left from 2005)

Call it my one vanity.

I am not one to wear much adornment. I have little jewelry in my possession. In fact, I was 40 before finally getting my ears pierced, and in the two years since then have found wearing earrings somewhat of a nuisance, dealing with ongoing infections in my left ear lobe.

Nor am I one to wear much make-up. I prefer the natural look, wearing a bit of foundation and some powder. Also a bit of eyeliner. Never wear lipstick, excepting the rarest of occasions.

And then there's my hair. Long, thick and straight. It's become somewhat wavy over the years, and that is noticeable when I let it air-dry.

I love my hair.

Some history. One of my earliest memories of childhood. I don't even know how old I was, possibly first or second grade. My family was eating out in a restaurant. The waiter came to the table and asked my parents "What would HE like." I was mortified at being mistaken for a boy. Indignant at the comparison. How could he not know I was a girl? I reasoned it was because my hair was too short. So I let it grow.

Except for a few years in high school, when stuffing hair under a marching band hat was a nuisance, I have kept my hair long. In college, I really let it go, and by my mid 20's my hair was past waist length. I cut it perhaps twice a year, each time taking off about 6 inches each time, yet even that was barely noticeable. When I graduated from seminary, I had to wear my hair in a long braid down my back because it was covering the red master's degree hood I had worked so hard to earn.

The past few years I have worn it shorter. A little below shoulder length, but still long.

And now I face chemotherapy. My hair will not be short. It will be gone altogether. Compared to my childhood self, I am not so worried about being labeled a boy. (though I will hold the label of "cancer patient") Well-meaning people say things like "it will grow back" - "it's worth it in the long run" - "what is hair compared to saving your life" - "you can wear a wig" - or I love this one "you might be one of the rare few who doesn't lose their hair." Maybe...but not counting on THAT. Please don't give me that one. Those odds just don't interest me.

Folks, let me just put it out there, I am not stupid. I know these things. And unless you've gone through it yourself, don't even try to understand. And even if you HAVE gone through it, for goodness sake, don't be patronizing. Empathy, yes. Patronizing, no.

Don't try to offer rationalizations. Don't try to offer fixes or substitutes. These things are not helpful when I am feeling very strong emotions. I may ask for suggestions about what I could do. THEN, you can offer your suggestions. Otherwise just say "I'm sorry."

My hair is one of my most recognizable features. I love my hair. It is an integral part of my identity. A year after my mom finished her treatment, her hair is still extremely short. Maybe I will look fine in short hair...but let's get through the 24 weeks of baldness first.

24 weeks. 168 days of looking in the mirror. (numbers are obviously approximate here) Being reminded each and every day that cancer cells have invaded your body. Never mind the other side effects...

I am pissed. So very pissed. And not just about the hair. But everything. I didn't ask to have cancer. Nobody does.

Cancer sucks. It really, really sucks.

Thoughts From a Dream

I just awoke from a troubling dream. In it I was walking across a bridge, and in the distance saw what appeared to be a lighting storm. The clouds obscured my view, yet the lightning seemed to be concentrated in one cluster, and it was drawing closer to me. I started to hurry. After I got over the bridge I was in a large open area, and suddenly what seemed to be lightning was actually a column of fire - sort of looked like a waterspout that you'd find over a body of water.

It was coming toward me, and I began running away from it. But it kept coming. I tried to judge its direction, but every time I went the opposite way, it seemed to follow me, getting closer and closer. I began to tire. The fatigue was incredible, but I kept dodging the fire. I felt myself panicking, wondering how I could keep the energy to save myself from being consumed by the fire. The fear was intense, and hopelessness was started to seep in. I finally was able to drag myself into a friend's home, and then that part of the dream was over.

When I awoke, it was not hard to see the correlation with my current circumstances. With everything that has been going on in my life the past several years, I had no trouble with the metaphor. I do feel relentlessly pursued by some destructive force. It seems no matter what direction I try to turn, it follows me anyway, getting closer and closer. I feel enormous fatigue. I am weary, and I wonder how I will get through this.

My friends, colleagues, and family have been wonderfully supportive throughout this. I know I have people to whom I can turn. Yet in the recesses of my own mind, I know that this is my battle. I have to go through it. I know I am not really alone, but I am tired - from everything that has gone on before - and I just don't know how I am going to get through this next year.

Joining the C Club - Part One

Okay. Most women know that every month they should be performing a breast self-exam. I never thought much about it, but did take some time every so often to poke around to make sure everything was normal. I mean, really, at 42 years old I never expected to actually find anything. I started getting mammograms at age 37 when my gynecologist lectured me on the need to establish a baseline. Fine. I went and got scrunched in the machine that was obviously designed by sadistic men. And a week later they called me back because of something shadowy. Turned out to be nothing. I learned that getting called back was relatively normal.

At age 40, the mammo's became an annual experience. Walk in to the little room and wonder aloud to the technician, "has it really been a year since this torture?" And this year I faithfully went in at the end of March. Exam by the doc, and then off to be squeezed in the machine. A few weeks later I got the form letter that stated my mammogram was fine and see you next year.

I had an appointment with my GP on August 5th. Just a routine wellness exam, to check all my blood levels and make sure my high blood pressure hadn't gotten any higher. The night before the exam I was sitting on the couch watching TV. I hadn't done a breast self exam in awhile, so I began to push and prod, not thinking much about it.

But then I stopped.

Something was there, right below the skin. It was hard and felt about the size of a grape. I poked around some more, and it hurt a bit. I checked the other breast in the same spot. Nothing there. Hmmmm.

I turned off the TV and turned to Google. You try typing in "lump in the breast" and see what kind of scary stuff pops up! But the thing I kept seeing was that most lumps are benign, nothing to worry about. Yet something kept nagging at me. I wanted it to be benign, but somehow already knew otherwise.

I went to Dr. R and told him about the lump. He did a breast exam and said that the wise thing to do would to get it checked out, but to try not to worry too much in the meantime.

Next step was to schedule a diagnostic mammogram and an ultrasound test. The diagnostic m'gram was not much different than the normal one except that they put a little bb type thing right above where the lump is and take pictures from different angles. The bb shows the radiologist where to look.

I went into the exam room for the ultrasound, and got up on the table. The tech was getting me ready as we waited for the radiologist. Dr. T came in, and said basically that there was nothing showing on the mammogram. I can't remember exactly what I said, but it sounded like he was not too concerned. I said, come over here and I'll point it out to you.

I watched as the ultrasound picked up the mass. A blob of black surrounded by wispy white tissue. It looked huge on the screen, but of course it was magnified. To my eyes it appeared smooth on top, with tendrils extending downward - it reminded me of a jellyfish. Dr. T was quiet as he took different images and recorded them. He supplied no answers to my unspoken questions. I was still under the impression that this could be a cyst, like all my friends told me it probably was. He also did an ultrasound under my arm. I guess I should have realized he was checking out the lymph nodes. But I didn't. He said that the tech would schedule me for a biopsy.

Now that was an experience. Dr. W was a very nice woman, but when she said I would only feel a bit of pressure I believed her. Pressure that felt like a very sharp pointy thing stabbing into my body, I guess is what she meant. Even with extra anesthetic, it hurt. Bad. I had asked her that if it were a cyst, could she just extract the fluid while she was in there. She looked at me with confusion and said, if this were a cyst, you wouldn't be here. I guess Dr. T forgot to inform me of that...she did say that some masses you can tell by looking that it is cancer. Mine was not one of those types, so there was still some hope.

Because it was Friday I would not hear anything until the following Tuesday. I told Dr. W that I would be out of town on a church staff retreat at a camp but to just call my cell phone.

At this point I had not really told anyone what was going on. My mom and a few friends and a colleague at church who dealt with breast cancer a few years before. Somehow I made it through Monday of the retreat, but Tuesday morning I was a bit jittery. It was August 24, 2010. During our morning break time, I grabbed my cell and saw that I had missed a call. It was the doc, and she gave the call back number. I called back and then had to wait for a return call as she was with a patient.

I walked down to the lake at the camp and sat out on the pier. One of my colleagues was already out there and I told her what was going on and asked if she would mind sitting with me as I awaited the call. I waited about fifteen minutes. I watched the calm water, the dragonflies flitting above the lily pads. The sun was still low in the eastern sky. The air was calm, the trees quiet. A beautiful late summer day. At approximately 11:20 a.m. my phone rang. I looked up at B and said to her, this is it. I answered the phone and in ten seconds my life changed.

Perhaps we all know that at some point in our lives we will eventually receive a diagnosis of cancer. After all, one in three women and one in two men will get cancer. But it's always some point in the future, after our bodies have worn down. You don't expect it at midlife. You hear of others getting it. I had just spent the past year and a half walking alongside my mother in her journey with lung cancer. Chemo, radiation, hair loss, more radiation on the brain, and bone loss that resulted in two broken hips. A long, scary journey. But hers, not mine.

Yet when Dr W said the words - I am sorry to have to tell you, you have breast cancer - my life turned a corner. And I was embarking on a journey that all at once seemed very frightening. No longer a bystander, I was now a member of the cancer club.

Beginning again

So...it's been over two years since I wrote a real post. When I first signed up for this blog, I really had the intention to keep up to date. But then, over the past few years, things got pretty rough. Maybe by not posting about them, I felt like they weren't real. Or maybe I didn't want the world to have access to my business! Of course, the likelihood of anyone actually reading this is probably pretty slim, so why not write about it?

I guess what prompted me to start back today is that I had to have Mulder euthanized on Thursday. When Scully died two years ago, I expected her brothers to outlive her by a decade. But in July, Mulder developed a coordination problem, that led the vet to believe he had some type of neurological disorder. Steroids helped at first, and we decided that once he started going downhill, I would show him mercy. On Wednesday he exhibited difficulty even moving, so the decision was an easy one (relatively speaking.)

Now, this loss of Mulder falls quickly on the heals of my surgery for breast cancer. Yep. You heard me. I was diagnosed with breast cancer on August 27 after having discovered the lump on August 4. More on all that in another post.

This diagnosis of cancer for me falls after a year and a half of walking alongside my mother in her fight against small cell lung cancer, two broken hips, and having to euthanize her dog while she was still in rehab following hip surgery.

Crazy couple of years. Much more than I could have ever anticipated.

My 30's were rough. Going through a divorce, losing my father, and the death of several childhood pets. Also some poor relationship choices. Then I got ordained, which was really good, and I figured that after surviving my tumultuous 30's, my 40's had to be better. Not so much.

So we'll see. Perhaps this blog will be helpful to get some of this stuff out of my head. I just spoke with my friend Dianne last week and she asked if I were writing. I said no. She wondered why not. And so with that, I ask myself. Why not?

Where has the time gone?

Okay, I am woefully behind on this thing. I will write soon. I promise!

Scully

Six days ago, Scully was fine.

At least she seemed fine to me. Still following me around the house, still perched in my lap every moment I sat at the computer, still crawling under the covers with me at night. Still eating, still playing, still swatting her brothers.

Then I noticed a change. She was sleeping more. And eating less. She began to slow down. Simple movements required several minutes of recoup time. I called the vet Friday morning. Of course they were booked until the following Wednesday. Was it an emergency? Hell, I didn't know. But Scully was still drinking, still using the litterbox, still purring.

But Saturday morning was no better. I called the emergency vet hospital and took her in. The vet took a blood and urine sample. She wasn't too concerned about Scully not eating, at least at this point, but suggested I give her pepcid tablets to quiet her stomach. Just pop it down her throat. Yeah...right. The vet was most concerned about her heart. She could hear both a murmur and a gallop. Not a good sign, but possibly controllable with heart medication. Though, see above about me giving pills.

We surmised that the heart was the cause of the lack of energy. Having to work too hard to pump the blood, thus Scully was needing more down time.

At the vet's office she roamed around, snooping in corners, walking across the computer keyboard. In retrospect I imagine that adrenaline kept her going there. But once back at home, she collapsed in my computer desk chair. I moved it over and brought in a dining room chair for myself.

No news Sunday. But less energy for Scully. Still drinking, still using the box. But no food, and needing lots of rest. Still in my desk chair.

Monday morning I called first thing. The vet was very quiet as she told me the news. The heart was secondary. It seems my little cat had very few red blood cells. The underlying causes were such that, even if we attempted drastic measures to find the source (ie, blood transfusion, multiple tests) the prognosis was still grim. The decision to make - delay the inevitable and subject my dear companion to multiple pokes and prods, or show mercy.

Show mercy and let her pass on while her existence was still relatively calm and (hopefully) painless. I agonized all morning with my thoughts, as I waited to hear from my regular vet. A new symptom appeared. Scully's eyes began to twitch horizontally, pupils dilated. Her whiskers also began twitching. My vet finally called at 11:00 am, having seen the blood work. Her prognosis mirrored that of the ER vet. And the darting eyes and twitching chin indicated neurological issues. Tearfully I gave my decision to let Scully go. The vet said she'd call back, once she made some time in her schedule.

I sat at my computer, mindlessly surfing. I e-mailed a few friends with the news. The vet finally called and we set the time for 2:30. I picked Scully up and put her in my lap. I wondered how comfortable she would be. But she was fine. For awhile she curled up in a little ball as I clicked through the web. Then she stretched out across my lap, still calm and relaxed. An hour and a half, she slept on my lap. Her warm body comforting me.

I called a colleague from church, who had responded to an e-mail. We talked for a long time, and Joan reassured me that showing mercy to my precious friend was a true gift. It was hard for me to believe, because Scully seemed so normal as she slept. But at 1:45, she awoke suddenly and slid from my lap. She began to dry heave. No food for six days leaves nothing to come up. I hung up the phone with Joan, and tried to comfort Scully. The heaving stopped, and she crawled under my desk. Wide-eyed, twitching again, now that she was awake. And then she let out a mournful squall. My little cat never meowed - she was not the vocal type. This outburst cemented my decision.

My mother was to come at 2:15 to drive us to the vet, but I called and told her to come now. She was there in less than five minutes. Scully was still under the desk, and seemed okay for the moment, but I was frantic. I feared repeating the scene from 9 years prior, watching my Nermal fighting for her last frantic breaths. Never again, I had promised myself and future furry friends. Scully howled again, and crawled from under the desk and straight into the cat carrier. I told mom to call the vet, to tell them we're on the way now. The clock became my enemy. I wanted to end her pain now.

We got in the car. My tears were flowing as I watched my cat struggle. Fortunately the episodes were short and not frequent. I told her to hang on, it would be over soon. I also begged her to just die, to let go. But she wouldn't.

At the vet's office, we were led into a dimly lit room. A thick blanket was laid out on the exam table. Candles were available. Figurines and pictures and a book decorated the scene. About as comforting as one could find in a situation like this. We had about 15 minutes to wait, as Dr. Sue made her way back to the office. I tried to comfort Scully as much as I could. I took the lid off the cat carrier, but she didn't move out of it.

Dr. Sue arrived, went over the procedure, and not wanting Scully to endure any more episodes, I hurried things along. I held Scully's head and talked to her, while the vet and her assistant found a vein. It took two attempts, as the blood disease had weakened Scully's veins. Using her stethoscope, the vet felt listened a moment and then said, "Her heart has stopped." And that was it. My precious Scully was gone.

And life as I knew and loved ended.

And I feel cheated.

Welcome to Middle Age

Not bad for 40. This photo was taken overlooking the Aegean Sea. The Temple of Poseidon at Sounion is in the background.

While in Mexico on a mission trip at the beginning of April, I got a message to call the senior pastor as soon as possible. This worried me. Two years prior, I had received a call like this, and one of the members at my little church had passed away.

Expecting the worst, I made the call. Lewis was surprised by my quick reply, and told me that one of the women who had signed up for the Footsteps of Faith trip to Greece and Turkey had to back out at the last minute and would I like to go. Of course I would, I said, but money is an issue and is why I wasn't going anyway. He countered, what if the church pays your way? $6000 - How could I say no to that? It was like winning the showcase on the Price Is Right. Two weeks in Greece/Turkey, and getting to celebrate my 40th birthday while there. Pretty nice!

Now, the ironic twist is this. The day before I had been speaking with Reggie, who is one of our residents at the church. Each year the senior residents lead the high school students on a Footsteps trip to Rome, Greece and Turkey. He wondered if I would ever get to go with them. I said, I was low on the totem pole and there were many associate pastors ahead of me. Later that day, with the conversation still on my mind, I wondered what if someone on the Adult Footsteps trip had to back out - could I possibly go. Then I dreamt about it. In my dream, a woman got ill and could not go. I was asked to go in her place.

Okay, spooky, I know. I shared this info with my Mexico mission trip partners after I got the message from Lewis, and they began to tease me, saying, don't let Rachel pray for you. Obviously I did not pray for anyone to get sick. Just an odd turn of events. Can I help it if my dream actually came true?

Anyway, the trip was incredible. More on that later. And I actually turned 40 without too much stress associated with that momentous occasion. I am not sure how I can top this trip at 50, but at least I have a few years to plan. Maybe if I start praying now...just kidding!