cancer patient | Derailing My Diagnosis

Posts Tagged ‘cancer patient’

27
Dec
2013

Cancerland

A place where chemo drips freely. Hair is a rare sight to be seen. Tubes, treatment, and trials are common occurrences. Hospital bands are shackles bound to the arms of warriors. And cancer is everywhere.

Welcome to Cancerland.

As I sit here receiving my fourth chemotherapy treatment this season (34th overall), I can’t help but look around, witnessing how cancer has affected the lives of so many. It’s everywhere. Rampant like a rabid monster ferociously feeding on the innocent. Moving its way through the nooks and crannies of both young and old generations. No care that it’s unwelcome. No fear of opposition. No worries in the world.

Once diagnosed, patients, including myself, are immediately propelled into Cancerland. Slingshotted into the abyss, with doctors accompanying us on all sides. Our medical knowledge, once novice, becomes an integral part of our vernacular, and soon we are spouting terms like “hemoglobin,” “neuropathy,” “large cell neuroendocrine carcinoma,” and “CBC.” We become aware what it feels like when our white cells are low, and we equate a shortness of breath to a lack of red blood cells. We become accustomed to aches and pains, leg spasms, and a variety of rare side effects. We ingest pills, supplements, and other magical potions as if they were candy.

This is life. If only we could watch fireworks, eat a chocolate covered frozen banana, and leave the park at the end of the day to crawl into bed outside the gates of Cancerland. However, this disease embeds itself into the pages of our story. It becomes a part of us. A part of our journey. Enveloped in our trials. Overcome in our triumphs. It never leaves us. The shadow of cancer follows us no matter how far we run and no matter how well we hide.

Yet as I am surrounded by my fellow patients, I sense a spirit of camaraderie. We are an army fighting against this horrendous beast. Gathering up arms and standing firm on the hope of success… On the hope of remission. Encouraging one another, exchanging tales of war from seasons past, and dreaming of a bright future. We are more than just patients. We are spouses, children, siblings, parents, and friends. We are people with dreams and goals. Praying to make it through the next year. Hoping for healing. Believing in salvation.

I am touched, moved, and honored to have such an inspiring army of survivors and fighters around me. Everyone who has ever heard the words, “You have cancer,” is immediately part of a unique fraternity. We can say, “nausea,” and as comrades we immediately understand this specific type of sickness. There is something special and deeply personal about the unsaid connection between those who have entered the gates of Cancerland. Some hold their ticket proudly. Some tuck their ticket deep into the crevasse of their pocket. Some try to throw their ticket away, only to find it reappearing every time. No matter if you are proud to be a survivor, in denial of the battle you are in, or not ready to face the fight ahead, we are all a part of this clandestine society.

As for me? I am proud. I have scars, wounds, physical reminders of what I have been through, and what awaits my future. I have aches and pains. I have neuropathy. My insides have been nuked more times than I can recall. My body no longer resembles its form prior to diagnosis. I have been bald, with hair, and bald again several times over. I have lost and gained friends. My life plans have been altered. I am infertile and menopausal. If given the choice on what I wanted my life to look like, cancer would be at the bottom of the list. However, I’m here. There’s no denying it. There’s no getting around it. I have been fighting cancer for the last two years of my life. But I have a choice. One of the largest decisions I have ever had to make and will have to make continuously over the course of my life. Do I want to be miserable? Or do I want to be joyful? Some may think this is not a choice, but I would adamantly challenge that stance. Though oftentimes we cannot choose our circumstances, we can choose our emotions.

I am proud to be a cancer patient…fighter…survivor. I am proud to say that no matter what, cancer will not win because I will never lose. I am proud to belong to this fraternity. My ticket to Cancerland will forever be displayed triumphantly in a frame over my life.

Romans 15:13 (ESV)

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.”

WARRIOR. (November 2013)

05
Dec
2013

The Question of Depression

I’ll admit it. I’ve been MIA for the past month. My absence was not intentional. I just couldn’t get the words out into my blog. However, it was nothing like writer’s block. It was much deeper. I couldn’t put a finger on it, but whatever it was, it was looming over me like a dark cloud.

Throughout these past few weeks, I have often felt the urge to sit down and write. To pour out my thoughts. To process. To purge. Yet, no matter how much I wanted to, I simply could not.

Recently I discovered the answer, the reason, and the explanation for this sudden halt. For this past month, and frankly since the day I learned of my enemy’s return, I had been carrying an extra burden of emotions. Emotions that lingered. That weighed me down. That tried hard to steal my joy, hope, and happiness. Call it depression. Call it a funk. Call it what you will, I was being buried by it.

Every season of my battle against cancer has contained different emotional responses and physical hurdles. For the better part of my two previous seasons, I had battled more physical hurdles. I had more days where I felt like crap. More days where I had been in pain. Yet, this season has been different from the start. Not a tumor, only microscopic cells. Praise God for that. Not as physically taxing as it has been emotionally. Yet, sometimes working through emotions is harder than working through pain.

“Do you ever get depressed having to go through all of this?”

A few weeks ago, I was asked this simple question. I actually laughed. Not at the friend asking the question, but at the thought. Depressed? “100% YES,” I said. However, not many people see that from me. Though I walk in the strength and grace that God has given me today, I still stumble into the pit of worry, fear, and despair from time to time. I have never lost faith nor hope. I cling tight to the belief that I will be healed here on Earth. But this season, this battle, this fight had brought with it a sadness that I hadn’t been able to shake off.

This question has been asked many times: “Do you ever get sad?” In fact, several people have inquired if I ever have low days. Many have shared that they always see a smile on my face. That if they had no idea about my diagnosis, they wouldn’t guess that I was fighting for my life every single day. I’m thankful that I don’t appear as a cancer patient. I’m thankful that I have beautiful wigs and that I am talented with a makeup brush. But, believe me… fighting cancer sucks. It’s hard. It’s exhausting. It’s hell. When I was initially diagnosed almost two years ago, some even thought I was in denial. Some thought that because I wasn’t crying every second of every day, the reality must not have hit me. The truth is, it hit me from the start. I did cry. A lot. I did grieve. I had to let go of the plans my husband and I had. At 25 years old, my whole world changed. Yet, from the beginning, I chose to not let cancer ruin me. It would take my health, my fertility, my plans, but I refused to let it steal my joy, my hope, and my faith.

This season I have shed more tears. After all, I was just getting used to a cancer-free life. My hair was gorgeous, growing, and curly! I hadn’t had treatment for seven months, and I was nearly a year cancer-free. I thought that was it. I thought Matt and I could begin to forge our way into our new “normal,” healthy, happy, and whole. And because I was living life free of this awful disease, it’s recurrence this time was harder. I cried every single day for a week straight. I, stupidly and regretfully, watched sappy romance movies by myself and went through boxes of tissues. I also noticed something else. Something far more concerning. I wasn’t in The Word as often as I should be. In fact, my emotions were beginning to interfere with my relationship with Jesus. And, now that I’m finding my way out of the dark cloud, I realize that was the enemy’s goal. To sadden me to the point that my focus was no longer on my Savior, but on my grief.

The struggle through cancer is the single hardest thing I have ever had to do. Fighting for my life every single day is exasperating. No matter how tired, weak, and sad that I get, I still put on my shit-kicker boots every day and head to war. The war against the enemy. Not only against the monster that has repeatedly tried to parasitically take my life from the inside out, but also the monsters that wage war inside my mind and spirit. But I am still human, and on my own am incapable of winning this war. Without help, I will surely die. I can’t head to the front lines without armor and supernatural strength. I can’t let my emotions cloud my sight to the Almighty: the One who can and will save me from this battle, the only One who is more than capable of healing me in a matter of seconds.

Often, we allow our emotions in a circumstance to control our reaction, response, and direction. We let the enemy slither his way inside our minds as he spits venom into our spirits. We become blind and deaf to the sight and voice of Jesus. Our victory becomes dull. Our joy is diminished. And that is why it is imperative to stay focused, with our eyes on the One who can offer us hope, freedom, peace, healing, strength, and joy. No matter how different and difficult the seasons may be… No matter the peaks and valleys of our emotions… No matter… God is never-changing. He is consistent. He is who He always has been. He is the same God when I was healthy. He is faithful, and continues to have my back. He wants the best for me. Therefore, I must seek Him first. I challenge you to do the same.

Let’s stand above our emotions, and let His promises, His goodness, and His power reign.

(October 2013)

1 Peter 8-11 (MSG)

“Keep a cool head. Stay alert. The Devil is poised to pounce, and would like nothing better than to catch you napping. Keep your guard up. You’re not the only ones plunged into these hard times. It’s the same with Christians all over the world. So keep a firm grip on the faith. The suffering won’t last forever. It won’t be long before this generous God who has great plans for us in Christ—eternal and glorious plans they are!—will have you put together and on your feet for good. He gets the last word; yes, he does.”

06
Nov
2013

Groundhog Day

The one with Bill Murray, not Punxsutawney Phil.

Getting cancer over, and over, and over again is comparable to the movie Groundhog Day. One season ends and I wake up expecting a new one to begin, only to find myself in the same season I have journeyed twice before. Over, and over, and over again. Much to my dismay, this battle is not complete yet.

As you know (or maybe you haven’t read the latest), surgery went better than we could have imagined. God has repeatedly displayed His power. The scan showed a two-inch tumor near my remaining ovary. However, during surgery, my doctor didn’t find a tumor at all, and in fact stated that I had one of the cleanest abdomens she had ever seen – pink and healthy. Just to be certain, she removed the ovary and sent it off for further review. Pathology reports came back showing microscopic cancerous cells… That, my friends, is a miracle… Did you not catch that? From the size of nearly a golf ball, to microscopic cells. Had there not been a tumor on my scan, my doctor would not have operated, and I would have continued believing that I was cancer-free, when in reality, this disease would have had three more months to grow and possibly travel elsewhere. God allowed a tumor to show up on my scan, in order for us to find the beginning stages of a recurrence. A golf ball size shrinking to microscopic cells. If you don’t call that a miracle, I don’t know what you would.

God calls us to focus on the praises and miracles He has performed in our lives and the lives of those around us. Yet, as humans, when another storm arises, we tend to forget those miracles. We often store them in the back of our minds, only occasionally pulling them forward in our memories. Life gets hard again, and we forget all the good He has done in and for us. By doing that, we aren’t fully recognizing God for who He is. His goodness doesn’t come and go. He is the single most consistent being in existence. We must remember the blessings He has poured over us. It’s as vital as breathing.

Since surgery one month ago, I have already received chemotherapy. About 12 days ago, in fact. It was my 31st chemo cocktail, yet familiarity doesn’t always bring comfort. I’ll never say fighting cancer is easy. No matter if it’s your first time, or your third, fighting cancer takes everything you have and more. Frankly, I can’t believe I’m doing this all over again. Twice… okay, that was hard enough. But three times? After being out of treatment for six months and nearly a year cancer-free. Seriously?

I’ve processed this recurrence different than my initial diagnosis and first recurrence. It’s been drastically more emotional for me. Being that so many of my girlfriends are pregnant now, I’d venture into comparing my emotions with those of an expectant mother. For real. This past week, I’ve cried over the silliest things. On one of my good days, Matt and I ventured into Ikea, and noticed a woman training a service dog. I had to keep walking, or I would have needed a box of tissues. I’ve cried to my husband and by myself. Over everything and over nothing. The tears have found their way out regardless of my will to keep them contained. I know that purging these emotions is a good thing, and a healthy cry session can help with the process.

No matter how much I’d love to say I’m always focusing on the positive, I am here to admit that I, too, am human. I have moments where I allow the blessings to easily slide to the back of my mind, allowing the storm to overwhelm my life. My tears are those of sadness, grief, and exhaustion. I loathe the fact that I am faced with this choice again. The choice to fight or die. Fighting cancer is just that… a choice. And it’s a choice that I must make. However, as always, I choose to fight.

Clinging to God’s blessings in the midst of the storm helps us build up our arsenal of tools to ward off the enemy. The enemy is a thief in the night who wants to steal our joy, hope, and positivity. He knows we are weak and preys on our vulnerabilities; doing whatever he can to push us further into the mud. It’s easy to fall into the pit of despair and continue drowning in the muck that tries to suffocate us.

Last week was full of emotions, sadness, shock, and defeat. I was living in a real-life Groundhog Day. But today, I am standing firm in the promises, miracles, and blessings that God has poured over me. I am calling forth every gift He has given me, and every promise He has spoken to me. I am remembering the moment I woke up from surgery to learn that there was no tumor. I am remembering the many times that God has scheduled divine appointments on my behalf. I am clinging to the goodness of my Savior, because I am blessed.

I’m fighting this again, which only means that I will soon be a three-time cancer survivor. This season will be different. I’m not waking up in the same place as I was twice before. Try as you may, cancer, but this chick is standing firm with spiritual armor so powerful, nothing can penetrate it.

Handling business as usual, chemo-style. (October 2013)

2 Corinthians 12:7-10 (MSG)

“Because of the extravagance of those revelations, and so I wouldn’t get a big head, I was given the gift of a handicap to keep me in constant touch with my limitations. Satan’s angel did his best to get me down; what he in fact did was push me to my knees. No danger then of walking around high and mighty! At first I didn’t think of it as a gift, and begged God to remove it. Three times I did that, and then he told me, ‘My grace is enough; it’s all you need. My strength comes into its own in your weakness.’ Once I heard that, I was glad to let it happen. I quit focusing on the handicap and began appreciating the gift. It was a case of Christ’s strength moving in on my weakness. Now I take limitations in stride, and with good cheer, these limitations that cut me down to size—abuse, accidents, opposition, bad breaks. I just let Christ take over! And so the weaker I get, the stronger I become.”

09
Oct
2013

Not So Fast

(Guest post by Matt)

Stephanie and I have spent a few days in the hospital, and she seems to have been progressing better than she has after previous surgeries. When they rolled her out of the post-op area, she was already sipping water. In prior surgeries, she wasn’t even allowed to touch but a few ice chips for about a day afterwards. Aside from a furious bout with itchiness last night (which we think was brought on by the hospital bedsheets, soon replaced by soft sheets from home), Stephanie has been able to do everything they want her to in order to go home.

But, as we have learned on multiple occasions during this journey, life can be unpredictable. I noted in the last post that they had to check the removed ovary for microscopic traces of the cancer. Well, the pathology report came back today and MJ gave us the news: there were microscopic cancer cells in the cystic walls of Stephanie’s ovary, nothing that could be seen with the human eye. That’s the thing with this or any other type of cancer. There’s an obvious battle against tumors and what shows up on scans, but there is also the microscopic battle.

So, there will be further treatment.

Stephanie will once again have to undergo chemotherapy treatments after all. She’ll start in a couple weeks after she heals up from her hospital stay. The good news is that these cells were found in the ovary that was taken out. There wasn’t a tumor, and there wasn’t any spreading to other areas of her body. So this chemo season will be an “insurance policy” to fight the microscopic battle. MJ is confident that it’s nowhere else and if there are still cancerous cells, the chemotherapy will prove effective against them. And, tomorrow morning, Stephanie is getting a PET scan, not a CT scan. That is good news.

In hindsight, we were a little spoiled with the immediate post-surgery news that no cancer was seen. Just because it wasn’t seen doesn’t mean that it still wasn’t present (obviously). It’s so small that the doctor who sees cancer every day couldn’t even see it. But we know that God is still good. He has orchestrated this whole story. Nothing about this is a surprise to Him. He is obviously still working in this story to bring glory to Him. Yes, it’s a bummer that Stephanie will lose her hair again and have to get chemo again. But, this is what we were planning before we even got to the hospital on Monday. We were prepared for another season of treatment and we still are.

Prayer-wise, we would appreciate prayers for emotional strength and endurance for the season ahead. Imagine the amount of stress and anxiety that is endured when you spend months and months growing your hair out just to find out you’re going to lose it again. This is difficult (especially for a woman). Just like everyone else, we have been expecting to be able to plan out our lives a little bit. Some people get further along than others before God reveals HIS plan for their lives. We are experiencing this in the time when we would otherwise be thinking about buying our first house and starting a family. Having to put those things “on hold” has been difficult for both of us, so prayers for understanding God’s will for our lives and being able to handle the “holding” gracefully would be especially appreciated. Also, very short-term, I am bouncing between home and the hospital not only to care for our pups, but it is moving week. So, we also request prayers for a smooth move. Big props to the fellas who will be helping us out this weekend with this task, it means more than you know.

We are praying that the “third time’s a charm” with this treatment. We’re keeping positive attitudes and we know that how people handle what comes their way reveals their true character. Thank you for praying with us and standing beside us.

Ecclesiastes 4:9-12 (MSG)

“It’s better to have a partner than go it alone. Share the work, share the wealth. And if one falls down, the other helps, but if there’s no one to help, tough! Two in a bed warm each other. Alone, you shiver all night. By yourself you’re unprotected. With a friend you can face the worst. Can you round up a third? A three-stranded rope isn’t easily snapped.”

01
Aug
2013

Life List

It’s been a while since I’ve poured words into this blog. I suppose I’ve gotten swept up in the seemingly never-ending voyage of rediscovering what life looks like now. I feel like this process could take longer than I expected, and I’m ready to finally feel settled with where I’m at… my life, my role, my identity, my relationships, my environment. Cancer throws everything off.

As I continue to climb my way out of the fog of the aftermath of this disease, I am embracing a new determination for accomplishments. Life changes us… trials, traumas, and tribulations. They change us permanently. I am a different woman today because of my battle for survival. I am embracing it. I view life through a different pair of eyes now, and I’m using it to my advantage.

Lately I’ve been pondering what I’ve accomplished in my life, and at 26 I don’t feel as if I’ve accomplished as much as I want. We’ve all heard of the term “bucket list,” but I’ve never liked it. Don’t get me wrong, I have an affinity for lists. I adore them. They make me happy. But to me, a bucket list implies an impending death (“kicking the bucket”), and while we will all die someday, I’d rather focus on living. Why must I have a bucket list? I’d rather have a life list. What do I want to do in my life? What are my dreams, goals, desires, and aspirations?

Out of nowhere, a new dream has been birthed in me. I think it’s absolutely crazy. Seriously, crazy. Nonsense. Ridiculous. Even laughable. Yet, this dream has now transformed into a goal, and I can’t ignore it. I tried my hardest to disregard it, but it’s relentlessly nagging at me.

Okay, fine. I give in. I’ll start running.

Yes, running. As in physically moving my body at a pace faster than walking. Sounds horrendous, right?! Before I continue, let me share some background with you. I have always led a very active life. I played volleyball for nine years, both through school and at a club level. I have found that I enjoy working out, going to the gym, and exercising. It’s not always been easy, but it’s always been rewarding. I can walk, bike, lift weights, and swim, yet running has always been my arch nemesis. I loathe even the thought of running. It makes me uncomfortable. It pains me. It makes me want to cry. Yet somehow, I find myself with a deep burning desire to overcome that discomfort. To accomplish something I never thought I could do. Because really, when I dive deep into the animosity I harbor towards running, I find that my fear is failure.

I don’t want to set myself up to lose. Isn’t that common with all of us? We often don’t start things because we think we’ll fail miserably. New years resolutions for example. How many of us really create resolutions, let alone commit to them? Failure is scary, but I’m learning that not trying is even worse. I’d rather try with the possibility of success, than not attempt the feat at all. So, while I despise running, I am learning to embrace the discomfort for the reward of an accomplishment. Because in the end, I want to accomplish as much as I can, and in order to do that, I must allow myself to forge through discomfort.

I first learned of the “Couch to 5k” program a couple of years ago. Of course, I chuckled at the notion, and continued on my merry way. Yet, just as running popped into my mind, this specific running plan did as well. Thus began my adventure. This specific plan is extremely feasible. It functions on interval training, so you aren’t consistently running yourself into the dirt. I have left these runs feeling energized and accomplished, and that’s what helps me continue the program. Of course it is difficult to some degree, and I definitely leave with ample sweat profusely pouring from my face, but I can do it. That’s part of the workout… believing I can do it, and pushing through that discomfort to attain the accomplishment of reaching a goal I never thought possible.

Through the painful side effects from treatment, subsequent fatigue, and aches and pain across my body, I will push through. I refuse to let cancer take away my accomplishments. I’m continuing to kick cancer’s ass and look forward to the many accomplishments I achieve in the future… like running a 5k.

1 Corinthians 9:24-27 (MSG)

“You’ve all been to the stadium and seen the athletes race. Everyone runs; one wins. Run to win. All good athletes train hard. They do it for a gold medal that tarnishes and fades. You’re after one that’s gold eternally. I don’t know about you, but I’m running hard for the finish line. I’m giving it everything I’ve got. No sloppy living for me! I’m staying alert and in top condition. I’m not going to get caught napping, telling everyone else all about it and then missing out myself.”

08
Jul
2013

Hello, My Name Is…

Stephanie. 26 years old. Christian. Woman. Wife. Daughter. Sister. Friend. This is who I was before my diagnosis. And, as I’m learning, this is who I still am.

(February 2012)

Cancer does a lot to a person. Physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. Any degree of trauma, battle, life experience… these events change and mold us. I’ve said it before, and I’m sure I’ll say it many times over, fighting against this disease is tough. Cancer has forever changed me. And I’m now on a path to rediscovering myself.

Today, as I was going through my typical routine and getting ready for the day, I looked in the mirror. As a woman, that’s not an unusual act. Whether I’m fixing my hair and makeup or making sure I have nothing in my teeth, mirrors are a part of my life. (Come on, don’t act like you don’t check yourself out everyday, too.) But today was different. Today I looked at the woman staring back at me. I asked her, “Who are you now?” and she responded, “Hello, my name is Stephanie.”

Pre-cancer, I was adventurous, organized, fun, and care-free. I enjoyed being a wife and loved married life. I loved to cook, bake, and host get-togethers. I exercised. I ate healthy. I was excited for the future. I dreamt of being a mother, and longed for the day when Matt and I would start trying to conceive. Cancer was the furthest thing from my mind.

In my battle against this disease, I began to identify as a cancer patient. Frankly, I was a cancer patient. I identified as a soldier in the throes of a civil war, fighting, quite literally, for my life. And in the midst of combat, I lost sight of who I was before the war began. I don’t suspect that’s uncommon. As someone fighting for their life, we tend not to focus on minuscule brainstorms such as what’s on the menu for dinner, or what movie we’ll see next, let alone complex questions of self identity. I was in the trenches, eye-to-eye with my enemy, attempting every maneuver to defeat the intruder. Warrior. Soldier. Fighter. Survivor. That’s who I was. And again, I’m learning, that’s who I still am.

Now that I’m climbing the hill to recovery and remission, I find myself pondering my identity. Am I the same woman before cancer as I am now? Do I still enjoy the same things? When I look into the mirror 18 months since diagnosis, I notice someone different. Not only am I physically different, but I, Stephanie, am different. I am not who I once was. I have been molded by the fire. I have been broken, reshaped, and sculpted, and have the scars to prove it. Coming to terms with this thought scared me at first. For, if I am different, who then am I now? My name is the same. My face shows some semblance of similarity from before, with the added wrinkles and tired appearance. But do I really know me?

As of this moment, I cannot confidently say I know all of who I am. But I’m beginning to understand that’s alright. Life events change us. And if we don’t change with the seasons, we might get buried in the past. Evolving, changing, and progressing into the future is healthy. As I am rediscovering myself, I know for certain that my foundation remains. My soul is untouched. I am still Stephanie: Christian. Woman. Wife. Daughter. Sister. Friend. But because of this season of torrential downpours, I am now more than that. I am more sensitive, aware, and compassionate. I am more brave and stronger than I ever thought I could be. A new passion for sharing my story and helping others has been birthed inside of me. Now that I’m coming out of the fog and haze of the battlefield, I find that I still love to cook. I am still adventurous, fun, and organized. I still enjoy spending time with friends.

If it weren’t for this diagnosis and subsequent fight for life, I would not live the way I am living today. I am living boldly and victoriously. I am soaking up every moment, no matter how big or small. I value and appreciate my husband more than I ever had before, for he is still faithfully standing beside me, when he could have easily jumped the next train to Georgia (or wherever!). My gratitude for my One, True God is greater and far more vast than it was many months ago. I woke up today with breath in my lungs, and for that I am immensely thankful.

Though I’m sure there will be moments where I have to recheck myself and shake my own hand in introduction, I can undoubtedly count on the identity I have in Christ. He has filled me with a spirit of love, power, and wisdom. I am His daughter and He is my friend. Through Him, I can do all things. Through Him, I have hope and a future. If my identity lies in the Lord my God, I will never be lost. So during these times of rediscovery, I cling to the knowledge that I am His creation and that my identity can always be found in Him.

John 15:5-7 (ESV)

“I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing.If anyone does not abide in me he is thrown away like a branch and withers; and the branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned. If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you.”

16
May
2013

No Hair, Don’t Care

Sometimes, as a cancer patient, you want to blend in with the crowd. Blend in with those around you who have hair. Because, after all, being bald attracts attention and unwanted stares. Being bald equates sickness. And no matter how sick I feel, I don’t always want to look it. Sometimes, it’s hard to feel like a woman when the features that amplify your femininity fade away.

No makeup. Little hair. (May 2013)

After being diagnosed with cancer in January of 2012 and learning I would lose all of my hair, I was devastated. I had just reached the point where I was obsessed with my locks, so facing the reality that they would be gone in a matter of weeks was calamitous. That was 14 months ago, and since then, I have lost my hair a few more times. But, never once had I grieved my eyebrows or eyelashes. In my second season of treatment, my hair loss became more of an inconvenience rather than devastation. I had gotten pretty used to it. However, this time around, chemo decided to take a little more hair with it. This time, I lost all of my locks… as usual, the new curls on my head and the hair on my legs and arms. But, this season, even my eyebrows and eyelashes disappeared. Everything. The only hairs I hadn’t been used to saying goodbye to were my brows and lashes, and boy did I realize what an adjustment that would be. I had never understood how much I had taken those short little hairs for granted.

What a difference brows and lashes make! (May 2013)

As a woman, I like to feel beautiful. I like being confident in the way I appear to the world. I had always thought if I were to lose my lashes and brows that I would look like an alien. Or even a hairless rat. Or maybe a hairless rat-like alien. Regardless, I had thought that if my brows and lashes were to fade away, my beauty would soon then follow. After all, I had never had to draw my brows on, and only wore false lashes on few occasions. What was I to do?

I have an aversion to having all eyes on me. I don’t like all the attention. And, I don’t like being the sick girl. The cancer patient. Because of this, I’ve become somewhat of a chameleon. Not many people have been able to see me without my “mask” on. And frankly, because I appear to be healthy, it’s hard for others to see the face of sickness. When I’m made-up, cancer doesn’t shine through. And while that’s the point, it’s necessary to see what the “before” looks like.

Many women share that they don’t feel femininely beautiful after hair loss. I get that. I feel that way, too. But there is hope. And thank the Lord for makeup! Gifted with cosmetic creativity, I have been able to gather my tools and tricks and go to work on the canvas of my face. I am here to testify that as a woman diagnosed with cancer or for those suffering hair loss for other reasons, you can still be beautiful! Losing your hair does not mean you have to look vastly different from your prior furry self. It’ll take effort and creativity, but it is possible.

Makeup complete and hair on! (May 2013)

Cancer tried to take away a lot. And even though it has tried to strip me of my appearance, I will not let it. No hair, don’t care. I’m beautiful, regardless.

And so are you.

Isaiah 40:8 (ESV)

“The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever.”

23
Apr
2013

Cancer Etiquette

Is there really such a thing as “cancer etiquette?” The answer is a booming “Yes!”

I have been asked frequently about what not to say to someone going through a cancer battle, and have decided to finally take the plunge and address the issue publicly. Fact is, although cancer is becoming more and more prevalent in our world, most people still don’t understand how to properly talk with someone facing this diagnosis. Do you say “You’ll be fine,” “That sucks,” or “How much longer do you have?” No. Yet, while there are many things you should avoid talking about with a cancer patient, there are also phrases that can be beneficial. Everyone handles a cancer diagnosis differently. Family, friends, acquaintances, strangers, and the patient themselves will have emotions greatly differing from one another. Though you may feel right in your feelings, always be mindful, respectful, and considerate for the one on the front lines in the fight for survival.

Disclaimer: While reading these, you might think, “Oh crap! I’ve said that!” but please don’t feel bad. We are all humans and make mistakes. I know that it’s not your intention to offend or hurt me (or fellow cancer warriors) when you say certain things. And personally, I don’t keep a tally when I hear something that rubs me the wrong way. Frankly, my brain is pretty liquified from all the chemo I’ve ingested, and I might not even remember your name, let alone something you might have said months ago! In addition, please hear my sarcasm in some of these tips. I’m not intending to be mean, but only trying to add a little twist of humor. And last but not least, please note that not all of the below “do’s and dont’s” may properly apply to everyone with a cancer diagnosis. When in doubt, use your sense. Before word-vomiting on the person, stop and think first. And, when all else fails, treat them as you would like to be treated…Unless you like pity. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Don’t offer to help unless you really mean it. Sometimes when you see someone close to you get the news that they have cancer, you think that by offering help, we (the patient) will automatically feel better. Think first. Do you really intend to step out on a limb, interrupt your own schedule, and put yourself aside to lend us a hand? If you are willing to help, by all means, tell us. If not, don’t even bring it up. We won’t be offended. If you would like to help in certain areas (providing meals, running errands, financial support) let us know. Being more specific will benefit everyone involved. And don’t expect us to let you know when we need something. Being sick and asking for help is tiring.
Is that a bad kind? Believe it or not, many people unknowingly ask this question. Unless you don’t know what cancer is, you can assume that all kinds of this disease are bad. Yes, there are diagnoses that have greater survival rates, while others have lower success, but the truth remains: cancer sucks no matter what the diagnosis or prognosis.
You’ll be fine. Do you know this for certain? If not, please don’t throw this into this mix. It will only leave us feeling guilty for being sad. Truth is, no one knows how our story will end…except God. And last time I checked, that wasn’t your name.
Don’t ignore us because we now have cancer. I promise, it’s not contagious. Ignoring us will make us feel diseased and isolated from all you healthy folks.
Know-It-All. Yes, there are numerous sources for information in our world today. But just because you have spent hours on the internet researching cancer does not mean you can now put an “MD” in front of your name. Unless you have gone through the same process as us, you don’t know what it’s like. When you uninvitingly share your vast knowledge, there’s a high likelihood we will feel more scared and alone.
Death Sentence. “Oh wow! My grandmother/uncle/sister died from cancer.” This is not helpful in any way, shape, or form.
I can imagine. Really? You must have a very creative imagination. Fact is, no, you can’t imagine what this is like. Have you ingested poison day after day in hopes that it won’t only kill the good cells but also the bad? Have you laid under laser beams that shoot fire into your body? Didn’t think so. Also, pneumonia/pregnancy/migraines are not even slightly comparable to cancer.
Don’t put pressure on us to change doctors or therapy. You may have good-intentions and you may actually be right, but suggesting that we switch doctors or treatment may cause us anxiety. Be mindful of how you offer input, and try not to push it on us. It’s our body and our decision. What worked for your friend may not work for us.
That sucks. Yes, we know it sucks. Please spare us the reminder.
How much longer do you have? Although you may be very curious about our life expectancy, we may not have the answer. And unless we offer this information willingly, assume that it’s a private subject. After all, how much longer do YOU have?
I don’t know how you do it! This statement is laughable. Sometimes, we don’t know how we do it, either. But when it comes down to it and you have to choose between life and death, I bet you would put your shit-kicker boots on and choose life as well.

Now that you know what NOT to say to us cancer patients… are you worried you have nothing left in your arsenal? While there are the obvious no-no’s, you still have options when conversing with us. Believe it or not, there are things you can say and do that are highly beneficial. And sometimes, it’s not always about offering your words, but rather, offering listening ears.

Reach out. While you’ve learned that ignoring us can be harmful, reaching out can do just the opposite. Sometimes we feel forgotten after a few months and years into our journey. Most people forget and move on with their own lives, leaving us feeling stuck and alone. Simply sending a text message, email, or phone call can change our day drastically.
Give us a pat on the back. It may sound weird, but most of us appreciate physical touch. A hug, handshake, or pat on the back shows us that you are concerned. No, ass-grabbing will not be received well.
Listening ears and strong shoulders. When asking us how we are doing, expect a long answer. Sometimes we might just respond with “I’m fine.” But other times, our responses may be long-winded. There are moments where words of wisdom are not necessary. Sometimes we just want to vent or cry or both. Offer to sit patiently and listen.
Encouragement! You like encouragement don’t you? We are no different, besides being bald, weak, and sick. Most likely we are feeling the worst we ever have in our lives. We could be sad, depressed, anxious, and upset. Though you may not see the emotions from the outside, an inner turmoil might be brewing. Simply sharing that you are excited for us to be a cancer survivor, that we still look so beautiful/handsome, and that you know we are strong enough to get through this will lift our spirits. Our physical bodies may be weak, so offering strength and encouragement can inspire us tremendously.
Ask about treatment with no agenda. Be prepared for scientific terms that you may not be aware of, extensive explanations, and confusing answers. Remember, you don’t have to respond. Sometimes we want to share what we are going through, because more than likely, treatment is at the forefront of our lives.
If you don’t know what to say, tell us. We understand, sometimes we don’t even know what to say about our current circumstance. Coming up with a counterfeit response will be noticed. Be authentic, sometimes words aren’t necessary.
Ask if you can pray for us. While some people may politely say “No thank you,” some of us appreciate and value a prayer…or two, or five, or one hundred.
Admiration. We are trying our hardest to hold on and keep fighting. It’s hard. Reminding us that we are brave, strong, and/or courageous (even though we may feel like none of the above) can help.
I’m sorry. This has potential to be slightly controversial. Sure we can say, “What are you sorry for? It’s not your fault.” But equally, I believe we all know that offering this statement is a generic condolence. Most of us will appreciate your concern.
You’re an inspiration. If we have inspired you or someone you know, please share that with us over and over again. Sometimes we feel like our battle means nothing, and simply knowing that our sufferings are helping others in similar circumstances fills our spirit with gratitude. To know that we are making a difference through our journey to help others through theirs is a blessing.
Sharing is caring. This compliments the previous point. If we have done something that has impacted your life for the better, tell us. If you have shared our story and offered hope to a fellow cancer patient, let us know. Not only will it inspire our fellow peers, but it inspires and motivates us to keep up the fight.
Boring and mundane topics are valuable, too. While, there are many times we do appreciate sharing about treatment, struggles, and the journey, we would also like you to remember that we are living life just like you. In most cases, we still go to the grocery store, travel, cook, and clean our homes. Asking us about daily life outside of our diagnosis helps us all remember we are more than a walking science experiment. Ask us what what our favorite foods are… unless we’re sick from chemo. But you get the idea.

1 Thessalonians 5:13-18 (MSG Version)

“Get along among yourselves, each of you doing your part. Our counsel is that you warn the freeloaders to get a move on. Gently encourage the stragglers, and reach out for the exhausted, pulling them to their feet. Be patient with each person, attentive to individual needs. And be careful that when you get on each other’s nerves you don’t snap at each other. Look for the best in each other, and always do your best to bring it out. Be cheerful no matter what; pray all the time; thank God no matter what happens. This is the way God wants you who belong to Christ Jesus to live.”

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