Day 19: Processing, A Mountain, and Fairy Cancer Godmothers

Last Thursday, I had an appointment for "chemo education." Here's what stood out: neuropathy of the hands and feet, mouth blisters, nausea, diarrhea and/or constipation, heart damage, and all the many other possible, but also may-not-happen symptoms. It was a 45 minute blitz of information.

Right after, Mike and I went to a meeting with my impeccable, powerful, and kind social worker, Katelyn. I know I didn't process anything last week. I had Bozeman appointments Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. I had every-other day ultrasounds and lab work for my egg harvest and new injections to give myself daily. I got my port Wednesday. I had an echocardiogram. I pack around a bag full of needles with a sharps container and different fertility injections. I am freezing my eggs. My eggs. Eggs.

I sat in the cancer center's waiting room. Everyone sits spaced out evenly so no one sits next to each other. The room is set up like an assisted living nursing home. There's a fire place, a central couch, and beige and gray wall colors. There is no waiting room music, and no one talks. There was an elderly woman named Eleanor. She shouldn't have been there--no one her age should have to fight cancer. Another woman wore a pink vest, pink long sleeve, and mauve pants (with a knitted gray and pink hat). She was pained and tender when she walked. Rightly so, everyone is in their own thoughts. It's sad. It's heavy. It makes the reality of cancer undeniably present. Each time a person in scrubs came out and called someone's name, I realized I was willing them to not call mine, even though I'd been called back before. For now, I am not going to wait in this waiting area. Maybe later I will find some peace or way to embrace it. But I cannot now.

Katelyn asked how I was doing. I said, "I feel like I am not processing anything." I get appointment times perhaps 48 hours in advance. I have grants to apply for to retroactively help with fertility payments. I need to submit FMLA paperwork for work. I want to stay engaged with work and I feel utterly disconnected. I wasn't sleeping because the port is painful. I still need to file my taxes. And I need to change the filter in the crawl space.

Katelyn responded, "Now is not the time to process. Don't create that expectation for yourself. There will be time, later, for processing." I still feel myself exhale reliving these words. Things just happen too quick. This past week was like being on a conveyor belt, and the week is not yet done. Tomorrow, I leave for Bozeman for early morning labs and then off to Billings for the night for a Monday morning egg retrieval. I could have had my appendix removed 96 hours ago and I may not even remember it.

Every 48 hours is a new focus or a new, pulsing hive of a singular emotion. Then, the next Event takes place.

Today is Saturday, and I am home. It's 10:06pm and I am staying up until 12:30 a.m. to give myself my "trigger shot" in preparation of Monday. I loved today. I loved being in my space. I did housework and listened to music Mary sent. I took Jake to his vet appointment, told the doc he is the dog of my lifetime and I would do whatever he recommended for his six-year-old arthritis. I ran errands to stores I don't know I will want to be in once I am post-chemo and immunocompromised. I called friends who I hadn't shared the news with. I left the windows open all day. I spoke with my Aunt Gina. I sent emails to my care team. I thought about doing my taxes and have not yet. I organized my bevvy of drugs for post-egg harvest and chemo. I called Mike every time I thought of another reminder of how I love him. Time flew.

At 4:00 p.m., I met up with a local Helenan named Erin. She has been fighting her HER-2 positive breast cancer battle for just over a year. She is through chemo and weeks out from being done and port-free. We hiked up Mount Helena at a steady pace. I met her serendipitously. Breast cancer women have a knack for finding each other. I have connected with Leah, Melissa, Becky, and now Erin in the past week.

She is the first HER2 cancer "sister" I have met and was an open book about her experiences. I learned:

• Track your chemo symptoms. These will become slightly predictable. Erin always planned her camp trips and family times during week 3, when she felt best.

• She did not have neuropathy and never needed the ice hand and feet mitts. Maybe I will. Maybe I will not.

• Almonds, broccoli, and grapefruit helped her avoid a painful shot that comes with low white blood cell counts and caused body aches.

• Accept the help offered, and say "thank you," because that is likely all you can offer back.

• Baking soda helps proactively with mouth blisters caused by chemo.

• Remember the lidocaine cream pre-chemo.

• Keep your mind busy and active.

• Stay active. Keep strong.

• A port becomes more comfortable around month two. I slept well last night. I can't imagine running right now and it is becoming less painful to laugh. Lifting anything remotely heavy feels risky. I have a "port pillow" for the car and that mini cushion is going to be well adored!

• Nails will change, rip, and be different.

What stood out to me is that even though we just met, I see her. She is vibrant and easily hiked the 1400 feet of elevation. Erin was not weary or defeated. She led and received every question and gave every answer with strength and compassion. She has walked cancer and is still herself. She is poignantly alive and living, even after 12 months of the battle. I have been worried about losing myself and identities. At the chemo education appointment, Mike, ever an anchor, said we can still have our summer goals of hikes, camping, huckleberry and mushroom harvests, and river time. We can adapt and make a new list.

I have been focused on what I was focused on before my diagnosis. Labor Day 2021 I ran the Rut's 28k in Big Sky. Eighteen miles and just under 8,000 feet of elevation. Hundreds of wonderful strangers on the same path. I felt the complete range of human emotions: joy, curiosity, strength, cramps (and blisters--these are both emotions!), weariness, determination, pride, freedom... I was reading a book, "Run Your Mind" to strengthen my mental game when I would wake up in the middle of the night, worrying about the mammogram, and then the biopsy results. So the Rut 28k likely won't happen in 2022. I wanted to be more pointed in my goals, avoid blisters after Lone Peak, and be blissfully aggressive in seeing how far and fast I could go. This day in 2021 was the day where I took the biggest risk on myself and I ran after my soul and up the mountains (EDIT: Walked. I mostly walked and sometimes crawled up the mountains because they warranted a talus-filled respect at 11,000 feet). I have never felt so much pride and peaceful satisfaction. I am still keeping the Rut 2022 on my schedule. Maybe I can hike the 12k. And if not, I'll volunteer. It will be difficult to not participate, but I will have some different sort of human experience.