To Everything There is a Season–Part 2

Has it been almost a year since I posted?  Holy Smokes!!  I found Seasons Part 2,  but if you need to get caught up a bit, here’s the link for Seasons Part 1:  http://wp.me/prf6k-eQ  Let me know if the link is messed up or I won’t know to fix it.  I promise it won’t be another year before Part 3 gets posted!  Lol!

May 20, 2011

Have you ever had a recurring dream?  It doesn’t even have to be a nightmare—just some mental illusion that visits you night after night starting and/or ending  the same way with perhaps a few details here and there added or omitted.  Has it woke you up or just caused you to question the meaning behind the embedded symbology?  I have had three recurring dreams in my life.  I remember them vividly.  The first came in my childhood.  It would haunt me each night with images of crossing a bridge in a car only to find that the bridge was out.  The car would drive off the end and begin to plummet.  I woke up shaking for nights and months on end.  I remember trying to turn my pillow over, searching for the cool side.  I would sleep on the other side of my full sized mattress.  I would even sleep at the foot of the bed figuring if I changed my position and thought of something happy, the dream would vanish for good. At the time, I knew nothing of dream analysis or what any of it meant, but I do know to this day it has changed me in a couple ways—I now carry one of those thing-a-ma-bobs in every car that would readily cut through a seatbelt while the other end applies enough pressure to the glass and allowing it to shatter should the vehicle become submerged and render the power windows useless.  The thought of not making it to the surface and ultimately drowning is a very real fear of mine.

I know now that if you dream of a bridge it usually symbolizes a solution to a problem  If it is impassable you need to choose a different path because the one you’re on isn’t giving you positive results.  So, I researched falling dreams.  They are among the most common and tend to symbolize a loss of control (there it is again—CONTROL—something I have issues with).  According to one source, if your dream resembles a fall from some dramatic place, you are “anxious about who you are , where you’re going in life, and what it all means”.  As a young girl, I could see that being a plausible explanation.  This source also goes on to state that falling into water means fearing your passions may get the best of you.  What are passions anyway—just really strong emotions, so when I looked up just water—that;s exactly what it meant, but in various forms.  To dream of a river (which is what my dream back then showed), it was a symbol of emotional communication.  And since rivers flow in one direction or another and sometimes change course—it all seemed somewhat understandable.  In a nutshell, I think I may have been increasingly anxious about crossing into puberty—growing up.  The key to the dream was that I never died.  I always woke up.  Maybe my way of telling myself that this too shall pass, that if you able to keep your wits about you—you’ll manage somehow to make it out of this.

The second recurrence was in my early 20’s when I was pregnant with my first daughter.  I dreamt each night that I was going grocery shopping with my newborn. In the dream, I would place one of those cloth protectors in the shopping cart before letting my baby sit in the front position.  Each time I unwrapped my swaddled child, I would discover I had given birth to a frog.  I would wake up horrified.  I knew then that it was just anxiety about me having a baby, a momentous change in a woman’s life and the worry about all those things mothers worry about—would I be a good mom, would I be able to take care of the child, give it everything it needed, and would I love it even if it wasn’t perfect.  Something that has been tested over and over again in the past three years.

This third dream, though, was unlike the others.  It was rich in color and details.  I could smell the blossoms in the dream!  I could feel the grass beneath my bare feet.  I could hear myself giggling and squealing with delight as well as hear the “voice” which spoke to my childhood image.  I dreamt this dream every single night for 6 months following my mastectomy.  At first, I chalked it up to coincidence.  Then, over time, I told myself that since I was falling asleep wondering if I would dream about it again, I surely had it in my subconscious, and therefore, DID dream about it again.  Each night, though, a new clue would appear in the dream (or, maybe they were always there and I was picking and choosing which detail to focus on that particular night). I spent a great deal of time researching all the elements of this dream and trying to connect the dots.

Picture this…

It’s a beautiful spring day.  There was a slight breeze even though there wasn’t a cloud in the bright blue sky.  The sun is shining bright and warm on a little girl with the face of my youth.

I have long, ash colored hair with traces of bleached white highlights framing my face left over from the very light blonde wisps of my toddler days.  It was tousled with a crown of fly-aways—the kind you get from waking up and immediately running outside to play instead of combing your hair first.

I was wearing a pale, lemon-yellow sundress.  It had a gingham checked pattern that was rouched in through the bodice.  My skin was already sunkissed a bit and a faint tan line over the shoulders could be detected if you looked hard enough.

I was running barefooted through the grass in between two endless rows of orchard trees.   If you looked up you would see the petals from the spring blossoms giving way to gravity and drifting through the air as they all began to fall.

My head was turned back over my right shoulder and I was laughing with delight.  Why was I running, though?  Was I running to something?  Away from something?  I couldn’t quite tell, but I could see that  I wasn’t scared.

Something or someone is behind me and was taunting me, “I’m gonna getcha”, it said over and over.  It was a male voice…a deep voice…not the thick Belgian brogue of my father’s dialect, but something familiar and yet foreign.  I can’t explain it.  In the dream, I’m obviously not scared of it.  I am delighted to be playing the game.  Yet, the voice never lets up.

And…that’s it.  Over and over again…night after night.  For six months.  What did it all mean?  It would take another surgery to find out…

To be continued…

May 8, 2012

Now—I need you to bear with me.  I realize it has been close to a year since I last posted. I have been under the most unbearable stress, all of which I will attempt to purge as I am emotionally ready to do so.  I am busy hunting up supportive photographs, former thoughts scribbled on notebook pages, and half finished posts that have sat in que for quite some time.  I would like to give as chronological of an account of what happened even though many might jump back and forth a bit.  My son was commenting on the fact that I hadn’t blogged in a long time.  We used to talk about where all the readers and hits to my blog would come from around the world.  We can see it in some of the monitors I have in place and we would talk about that a lot and get excited about it also.  I was explaining how I felt like I didn’t know where to start up again.  He said, “mom, you know how much I love flashbacks in movies?  Your readers will too.  Just do it.  You’ll feel better”.  So, I am taking his now 8yr old advice.  I hate setting up specific posting dates becuz if you’ve ever followed me, you’ll know something always pulls me away.  I won’t put it out to the universe, but if you want to re-follow, begin following, or make sure you don’t miss posts, be sure to sign up along the side for RSS feeds and let me know if that thing isn’t working—I have put it on there, but don’t know if it works.  There’s always Networked Blogs on here too which will come to your facebook alerts notifying you of a new post.  I have many things to tweak around here since I was last on and so check back for new videos and pics.  I am re-dedicating myself to writing again–here anyway–I never really stop.  Wish me luck and leave me some feedback!

To Everything There is a Season–PART 1

SEEING RED

Written on 5/8/11

(flashback)

Summer ’09 was the worst summer of my life—to date. The diagnosis of Ductal Carcinoma In Situ and subsequent mastectomy had left me angry at the world and seriously depressed. So much, in fact, that it was all I could do to get through my days with all the children in care and then shut the world out when the last child left each evening. I tried to make the most of moments when they would come my way, but I can say, matter-of-factly, that I was not someone you’d want to socialize with that year. Bitter resentment along with despair were the facial expressions of choice. I didn’t want to hear words of encouragement. I didn’t want to pray. I didn’t want to find the humor in things (although I tried hard to each day and it just came out biting, sarcastic, and crass sounding). I didn’t want to do anything but cry, or scream, or punch something or someone. I had to hold it all in, though. I had to maintain so I could just get through each day and holding it in just made me an even hotter mess. If you were to ask me now if I ever exhaled that summer, I would honestly tell you no.

I know NOW that was the most unhealthy way I could have lived. Hell, I knew it then, too, but chose to ignore the signs–Defeat-est mentality at its finest and those of you who know the Type A that I am probably can’t ever imagine me getting that low. But that Type A began working overtime on my self-destruction. For example,

Why should I worry about my grades anymore– is God really gonna care that I was on the President’s List or made it into the National Honor Society?

Why should I bother turning in any paperwork for any agencies I’m accountable to for my business, like they really give a damn what I’m fighting here anyway.

Why should I bother fighting for my oldest daughter, after all, so many others had given up on her.

Why should I care what I look like, I’m just gonna lose my hair anyway… I’m just gonna look ridiculous wearing makeup…I’m just gonna have to find shirts covered with such loud prints that it will distract anyone from noticing I don’t have a chest anymore…

Why should I bother with anything…I’m just gonna be 6 feet under by the end of the year.

Why should I bother with reconstruction—I’ll finally get the boob job I always wanted just to have the best looking chest standing at attention from my coffin as everyone passes it by during the visitation.

I was feeding the beast inside me by continuing such inner destructive self-talk. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t get out of the quick sand that kept pulling me back into that pit of despair. Each time a friend would throw me a lifeline, I’d only hang on half-heartedly. I was giving up–giving in. It was all too much. I didn’t know how to process all of the stimuli attacking me. It was just easier to retreat into a comfortable cocoon of anger. I was prescribed medication after medication from anti-depressants, to anti-anxiety, to sleeping pills so I could just shut off my brain at night–all of them addictive. At least I had enough sense about me to avoid filling any of those Rx’s. My doctor wasn’t happy about that. I argued that–I drive children to schools and I won’t drive under the influence of something. I won’t take something that would make me feel loopy or jittery. I won’t take something I would only later have to fight to get off of. I knew that it was up to me to pull myself out. I just didn’t have a clue how I would go about doing that.

I know there are some women that handle such extreme stress with grace. I wish I could say I was one of them. There were times—fleeting nanoseconds that would allow me the courage to hold my head up high as I walked into a room, but they vanished as quickly as they appeared. I’ll give you a glimpse back at who I was that summer. It’s written all over my face and my body language screams, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU LOOKING AT—HAVEN’T YOU EVER SEEN SOMEONE WITH ONE boob!.” Yes, for me to bring about a change…it would probably take more courage then for me to walk into a hospital and have my chest cut off–and since that had already happened, the fight was only just beginning. Not a physical one, though—a purely mental knock-down, drag out fight that Mr. Miagi wouldn’t be able to help me get out of.

As you can see, I had truly succumbed to the anger. It overrode most of my emotions. It had itself manifested into a type of cancer that was once again invading every area of my life. The problem was that I breathed life into this type and it was by far Stage 10. By summer, it had become a comfortable friend. Letting go of the anger would have been just too easy. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know if I was ever going to be ready. I held tight to it and slammed the door on anyone trying to get in including my family. There were times when I I would look out that door’s peephole to view the world that was still going on without me. That made me angrier, still!

Then there was the crippling events surrounding my oldest daughter who had gone missing. We were dealing with the loss of a child we weren’t sure was even alive or dead at this point, and I was going through the painstaking process of supplying dental records to the police in case remains were found. The stress of just the cancer would have been enough to anyone but combine it with the stress of losing a child and the infuriating lack of help I received in trying to find her along with the judgmental advice I was getting at all turns was enough to push me into a spiraling depression. “No…I’ll hold onto this anger just a while longer,” I thought.

As if things weren’t bad enough… I was told once again our family would be losing insurance. My husband’s job of 17 yrs. was coming to an explosive brink. The business was trying to function with a severely alcoholic boss. My husband was the only one keeping it afloat. The boss was his childhood and lifelong friend, best man in our wedding, and Godfather to our oldest daughter. If you have ever dealt with alcoholism, you may be able to appreciate the horrific strain it can put on relationships. So, as I dealt with my cancer, Jeff dealt with his friend/boss/job and the fact he knew he was losing all three to a self-destructive personality who had also begun an affair with my former best friend of 17 years and maid of honor in our wedding. It was all too much.

Then, the insurance—this bastard—this corporate structure we had paid money into our whole lives decides to begin cutting our benefits and raising our premiums. It began a vicious cycle where the teasing thought of a couple more months worth of benefits dangled in front of me like carrots–causing complete panic on my part–how will I get the rest of my surgeries?  How will I pay for medicine?  What if this metastasizes and I can’t pay for treatment?  What do I do?  I braced for the worst–complete denial altogether once Jeff had been fired from his job. Denial in mid-treatment. What kind of insurance company does this? Mind you, this was before Obama’s healthcare reform where pre-existing conditions would be grandfathered in (or so I thought at the time).  I realized I better get a game plan…and fast.

With all that, my mental state really started nose diving. I was becoming scatterbrained–unable to focus–very attention deficit disorder–without a doubt. The strain on our marriage, our family, our lives had become nothing short of catastrophic. No amount of counseling could help. There was no way to sort it all out. Prayers were offered up just to get drowned out by the yelling—whether my own or a chorus of frustrated cries by everyone under the same roof. I stopped writing because I could no longer process any stimuli coming in or going out.

In the midst of it all, I began having a recurring dream. It continued every night for 6 months straight. I began to realize it was a sign…and once that sign revealed itself and what it meant to my life…it was the catalyst for all things that followed…

SEASONS PART 2 will be posted on Monday morning 5/23/11. Don’t miss what the dream reveals! You can do that by subscribing to this blog through RSS feeds, the subscribe by email feature, or the Networked Blogs link in the side bar (the easiest way)!  Cya soon!

Race For the Cure

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Throughout this past year, with all the ups and downs and major family crisis, there is one event that really sticks out in my mind–a moment where we ALL came together (including Jasmine)–The Race For the Cure. I am going to be completely honest here, I had always heard of it, but had never participated before. I had always read about it in the paper, but had never witnessed it. I had always seen news clips of our local race, but I had never been touched personally by breast cancer up until this year. I take that back, as I’ve stated before in my post Strapped In Tight , my oldest daughter’s daycare provider was affected by the disease and yet, after she got remarried and moved, we lost touch. We weren’t thinking about it daily anymore and therefore, details and extra curricular activities once again busied our lives.

I have spent a great deal of time flip-flopping between being on the outside looking in (even though I was very “IN”) or “owning it”. I have said openly–“I DON’T WANT TO BELONG TO THIS CLUB”! I don’t. A big part of me really just doesn’t want to ever have to worry about cancer, statistics, prosthesis, chemotherapy, metastasis, reconstruction, wigs, mastectomy swimwear, etc. etc. etc. It’s like this…when you are pregnant for the first time, you are hyper tuned to all the strollers you see passing you in the mall, all the laughter of a preschooler playing in a park, a toddler crying for a piece of candy in the checkout lanes of the grocery store, or a baby and its mother conveying their love for each other through their eyes. If you aren’t pregnant or trying to conceive, you are busy with many other routines of life. Same goes for cancer. I am now, on alert when I read things in the newspaper regarding cancer treatments. I am more aware of (young and old alike) women that have lost their hair and whether they are wearing a head covering of some sort. I am more aware of the anguish some women are feeling as they are sitting in the Center for Breast Health. I know what they are feeling now. I have been there. I have walked a mile in their shoes. I have deep compassion and respect for these individuals who are facing their own mortality.

So, it goes without too much saying that when all the buzz about our local Susan G. Komen’s Race For the Cure was getting underway, that I found myself drawn to signing up. What an experience that was! I couldn’t believe how many people were at the sign up. I couldn’t believe how much pink was being proudly worn. I couldn’t believe how huge this was. The signup happened on a weekday and since I provide childcare during the day, I thought I’d just take them down with me–no big deal–we’d sign up–they would be my sign up supporters and we’d high five a good job done for Tina and we’d go grab a pizza somewhere. Little did I know that it would turn into a huge nightmare.

It was COLD and windy that day. The parking lot was jam packed and we had to park all the way to the back of the lot and run up. Once inside the convention center, I had to navigate through lines of women all the while continuously counting heads even though the kids are all knowledgeable about the rules I have while in public–hands on the stroller at all times, listen carefully for instructions, etc. We made it to the line where the applicants who hadn’t pre-registered were asked to stand. I waited approximately 20 minutes only to get to the front of the line when I remembered I left my debit card in the van. We turned around and headed back out into the cold to retrieve it. Once we returned the line had grown. We waited again for approximately another 30 minutes and once I reached the head of the row, the lady explained that they do not accept debit cards. I couldn’t believe it. I was so angry! She knew that was what I was going to get. It was the same lady. She heard me! Couldn’t she have told me then and saved me the trouble? Yes–but she didn’t. I turned everyone around and out we went to the van yet again. I loaded all the children, the double stroller and away we went looking for an ATM.

We ended up at a bank and after getting the exact amount of money we would need–plus a little extra to spend at the mini pink ribbon store that was there–we went back for a third time to the convention center. Pulling into the parking lot, I pulled out the snacks and had everyone finish up those before going in. I knew if I attempted it again, I would ultimately hear, “I’m hungry”. So, I crossed that one off the chesklist, first, and made my way through the throngs of women who were now standing in long lines. I found the same lady’s line that I had already stood in twice before. I know, you’re all probably wondering why I chose her again, afterall, she had already failed to give me pertinent information that would have made my life easier given the fact that I was trying to get through this process with 6 children by my side. It was a matter of principle at that point. I was going to prove to her that I was not easily deterred. That I was determined to sign up for this event–and really, if I left now without signing up after going through all the hassle, I would have been more mad at myself!

I thought that if we went and looked through the store, killed some time while picking out some bumper stickers, the lines would diminish some. I kept my eyes on their status and when I realized they were only getting longer, I figured I better go and grab a place. As we stood there, we played Simon Says and amused all the women around us. We also played I Spy until I was sick of it. I was getting hot and so were the kids. I started to peel coats off and pray the line would move faster. I finally get to the front after another 40 minutes only to have her smile sickeningly at me and ask me where all the registration forms were. That was it! I was about to blow and I knew I couldn’t because I’d have 6 children watching me. It’s moments like these when you know they are watching you. This is a teachable moment in patience, tolerance, and keeping my mouth shut firmly. I tried. I really did. I couldn’t help it, though and so I leaned over the table and got very close to her and as I smiled sweetly to her I told her through clenched teeth that this was my first time here. I had no knowledge of the process, the order to get that process done, or that I needed to bring cash or check. I told her that it was her duty as a volunteer to be trained adequately so that when someone shows up and looks lost, they are given ALL the information they need to produce the items necessary to register”. I then asked her where in the hell are the forms. She pointed to the back of the line where a table was set up. AAAAGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!!

“Calm Down”, I told myself. “Breathe”. So, I did. The sound in the convention center was becoming deafening with all the chatter and women’s laughter. I was totally over stimulated. The kids, although satiated for the time being, were bored. What was supposed to take me 15 minutes had now taken me over two hours and I was still no closer to getting my race badges. Here is where the crucial mistake was made. Recall, I had given the children snacks in the van? What goes in must come out, right? Yeah–I never thought about that in all my frustration. So, after spending 10 minutes filling out all the information on front and back of 5 forms and standing in line for another 20 minutes, I hear that familiar sound, “Tiiinnnnaaa–I have to go potty!!!!!” That prompted the next one to grab themselves and start dancing–and the next one and the next one–etc. etc. etc. I looked at the front of the line–I was second in line. The women all behind me were secretly happy. I could tell. They were tired of listening to the umpteenth repetition of “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush”. “Can you hold it just a little longer?” I begged. “NOOOOOO! They all cried”. I should have pottied them when we were filling out the registrations. Hindsight. Crap. “I give up”, I dismally said out loud.

I took them all to the potty but the women’s line was out the door. Double crap. I can’t go in the men’s bathroom, especially with a double stroller so, I am going to let the 4 preschool boys go in as a buddy system and I would be standing right at the door listening for them. The first sign of trouble, I was coming in. Note to self: Never let 4 boys go into a public restroom with urinals hanging from the wall because 1.) they are not preschool sized or hung at a preschool height; 2). They can’t reach the sinks or the soap hanging from the wall; and 3.) the toilets are usually plugged and not flushed and no one will want to go. I could hear the laughter. I knew something was going on. It was just a matter of time, really. They all were bored and it was more fun to be playing in a big boys bathroom then to stand in a line waiting to be helped. I asked a man coming out how it was going in there. He was in there and I know not only had he heard me, but many, many women all around me heard the ongoing conversations I was having loudly with the boys. The man told me they were the only ones in there–noone else if I needed to go in and check on them. I thanked him and started maneuvering the stroller into the narrow opening.

What I saw was comical to say the least. On the one hand, it completely helped break the tension that had been building in me from our disastrous morning and on the other showed me how ingenuitive these boys really were. There they were–still buddied–only not hand in hand as I sent them in there. They had collectively figured out a way to use the urinals so they could all have a chance of peeing on the blue urinal cake. One buddy hoisted his partner up by holding onto his legs. Boy being hoisted was leaning with both hands on the wall on either side of the urinal and the forward lean was helping point the arc in the correct downward spiral. Once done, they switched spots and the hoisters now became the urinators. I do wish I could have taken a picture of that–although highly inappropriate–it was hysterical. My boy was heard throughout the immediate vicinity to say very loudly–“Just don’t pee in my mouth–ok?” I laughed and helped the boys all up to wash hands. I congratulated them on their use of logistical thinking skills and their cooperative teamwork, but asked them kindly to just use the normal potty from now on–even if it means you have to pee on someone’s poo (that was the overwhelming concern they all voiced).

As we emerged from the men’s room, I realized how odd that statement probably sounded coming from my son for those who had not witnessed what was going on. I couldn’t help but openly smile. I re-entered the line to register with all my applications and noticed the lady I had dealt with was now gone. “Probably out to lunch”, I thought. The lines were starting to dwindle and as I approached the front and got all the applications turned in and paid for, I mentioned to the lady as briefly as I could how unprofessional I felt the woman she replaced was. She asked me if the woman had shown or pointed to where the ATM machines were located there within the facility. I was horrified and speachless and as I turned around and looked down a dark corridor, I saw it. AAAAGGGGHHH!!! I turned and told her “Absolutely Not”. She shook her head and apologized. She finished up and told me to take my badges over to the T-shirt table to pick up our groups shirts. I thanked her and headed over there hoping we were close to being done. It was there that the gentleman helping me shorted me one shirt. He swore he had only received 4 vouchers. I swore I gave him 5. He went back through a giant stack of vouchers and began to check. I looked to see if I had dropped one somewhere. Then I saw it. One application that had gotten shoved down by the coats in the cargo bin of the stroller while I was in the restroom with the boys. It was Jasmine’s application. Triple Crap.

You know what that meant. I had to return to line to pay for hers and get her voucher. At that point I was wondering if I should just forget about it. I mean, she was, at that time, MIA and Lord knows when she was going to be back. I went with my gut and decided to wear her badge along with mine should she not show up. Knowing that if she were in her RIGHT mind, she would not miss this and if she did, she would walk in spirit with me. When I got to the front, the first lady was back. I glared at her. She asked me for the money and I handed it over. She said I was $5 dollars short. WHAT??!!!!! I was FURIOUS!!! I had no more money, time, or patience left. I began to replay the events of my entire morning to her including the part where she failed to tell me there was an ATM ON SITE!! Her supervisor came over and it was waived. I was not trying to get out of donating to a worthy cause, mind you, I had spent upwards of $100 that day and knew I would spend more at the race as I perused the vendors, so it’s not like the organization wasn’t going to be making any money off of me, that’s for sure. I snatched the voucher out of her hand, marched over to the T-shirt table and had the man bag up all my shirts. I was relieved to be done, finally. The kids were relieved to be done, finally. Finally, we were going home.

We left the center and it was so nice to hear the quietness of that cold morning. We went to the van, loaded everyone up, loaded the stroller, and began to exit the parking lot. QUADRUPLE CRAP!!!! This sickening feeling washed over me as I looked in between the seats for the bag of shirts. “Oh God, please tell me I didn’t forget them all in there!” I kept muttering “Please, Please, Please” as I pulled over to check the cargo bin of the stroller. Not there. I looked up at the convention center and realized I had to make one more trip inside. I was about to say “Forget It” and take off without them, but I had paid for them. I wanted my family to all wear theirs with me. I pulled back into the parking lot and for the last time, I unloaded all the kids and walked into the center. Now–I just hope someone hasn’t stolen them. We waded through the sea of women and came to the table. There, all bagged up and sitting on top a pile of t-shirts were mine. I opened the bag, counted the shirts, made sure the sizes were all right, and left for the last time.

This would be my first Race For the Cure. I prayed that my children would walk it every year in memory of me and not because they had been affected themselves by the disease. I prayed that I would be a more willing participant of the “Club” once I could see visually how many people are affected by breast cancer. I prayed Jasmine would come home. I prayed that I would have the strength of an army to get through the rest of this year. I was just happy I had made it out of the damn convention center without killing someone!

The morning of, it was chilly and rainy. Not bad, very spitting conditions, yet not my ideal forcast for my first race. We didn’t let it get to us. We donned our shirts, our race badges, and peeled Jasmine out of bed–she had made it. I’m not sure how with us she really was, but she was physically there and she was willing to participate–so that spoke volumes to me at least. I was overwhelmed and found my eyes tearing up on more than one occassion. I had never seen so many people! I even knew some of them–more members of this club of women–some I had even remembered seeing in the Center for Breast Health’s waiting rooms. We walked that day–all 5 of us. Jasmine pretty much walked ahead of us and at times I wondered if she were looking for an escape route somewhere along the way. We posed for pictures and I secretly wondered if I would be around for next year’s. I began to notice the little patch on the survivor caps that delineated how many years cancer free they had been.

I didn’t wear a wig and I was trying to own my baldness on that day. I had a baseball cap and a smile and my family. That was all that mattered to me. We walked the long route. We saw all sorts of crazy and funny things from t-shirts to dogs decked out in pink ribbons and booties. We saw memorials emblazoned across the backs of countless idividuals walking for loved ones they had lost or were battling their dragons. It’s hard to explain, but the whole time I walked, I had a lump in my throat. It was hard to swallow. Just as it is hard to swallow the fact that 1 in 8 women will be diagnosed. Seeing that many women walking, and watching more intently to the chatter on Twitter regarding similar walks all around the country has prompted me to really think that statistic is not correct. “It just has to be lower than that”, I kept saying to myself as we walked.

One of my all time favorite movies is Superstar featuring Mary Katherine Gallagher, a clumsy parochial student who is just looking for acceptance. She always strikes a pose and cries, “Superstar” as an affirmation to her awesome-ness. When I passed the finish line I pulled my signature Superstar move. Everyone there laughed and cheered! The news crew came down and asked me to give my name so they could give a shout out to me on the radio. I told them I was Christina Heald, 3 month survivor so far, and I was a Superstar!

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Superstar!

Moral of the story: Always pre-register for the damn race!!!

Sick and Tired

I have been under the weather for almost two weeks now. This past weekend I spent almost all of it in bed sleeping off this crud. I don’t know what it is and it tends to worry me. As much as I hate to see other family members ill, I’m really glad they all have what I have–it means, in a way, that this is probably not cancer related. It is just kicking me in the butt much harder than everyone else. Then Justin came home with a letter from his school saying that there was a confirmed case of H1N1 Flu present in his school. It really wigged me out. Lots of disinfecting, sanitizing, and handwashing going on here.

I had my yearly physical last night. I sat face to face with the woman who didn’t listen to my moans and groans for a year and just thought I was in need of Xanax or Prozac or both. I know she felt bad, but instead of rubbing it in, I just filled her in on how the year has gone. I wish I wouldn’t have been overtired and wiped out from my huge cold. It makes me more emotional and when she was asking me big questions, I just couldn’t help it, I started crying. God, I wish I wouldn’t have done that. Then, she thought she was right in her initial assessment of what kinds of medications I should be taking. That made me even more upset because why can’t someone just cry anymore without someone thinking they need to be in a doped up state just to relate to what’s going on in their lives. She has put me off to the nurse practitioner all year–since my diagnosis. I’ve been mad at this doctor for a year. Last night I was just too tired and feeling like crud to tell her how I felt about that. The one thing I was really hoping she would help me out on was my request to have an ultrasound done. She wouldn’t. I cried. Again.

Do I think I need an ultrasound? I don’t know. Do I want an ultrasound. Yes. I worry constantly about this metastasizing to my ovaries or my uterus. Pap smears only detect cervical cancer and I will admit–that as unpleasant as those exams are, there are worse things and usually they never bothered me much. Last night–my first one since all this has happened to me–was more anxiety-ridden than any other I had ever had. I had to sit on my hands so she wouldn’t see them shaking. What if? What if something comes back on that? It’s been 7 months since my initial diagnosis–what could happen in that time frame? I know the tumor that was found was said to be a grade three–most severe–even for as tiny as it was and that it was multiplying very rapidly. Could other radicals have found a host by now and be multiplying elsewhere?

Could it be that this is the reason why I am soooooo exhausted anymore? I just can’t believe that a few months ago I had been working and studying 20 hours a day and getting 4 hours of sleep–if I was lucky–every night for three years. Now I can barely see straight come 7pm.

Is my body once again growing and feeding some dragon inside me? Without anyone willing to let me have an ultrasound or pet scan–how will I ever know? I would just like ONE of each–a baseline–to know where I started and that way if I was feeling symptoms of something they would have a marker of where it has come from. Especially now–when Jeff may be losing his job and that will result in a loss of insurance benefits–which makes me pre-existing almost everywhere else. While I have the insurance–just let me do it! Why can’t the doctors code it so it doesn’t look like it was routine? Why does it have to be assumed to be–especially when the initial cancer diagnosis is the underlying reason for wanting one in the first place. I just don’t get it. It makes me so angry. It makes me cry, because I just don’t feel like I’m being heard or that I am just another cancer patient. Trying to “live my life” as my first oncologist told me to do is nearly impossible at times. Its not the same. I don’t think it ever will be no matter how hard I try to carry on with a smile on my face. It just masks the deep pain I feel over the unknown.

Then again–would I really want to know? What if the scans came back and I was glowing like a fire cracker? Would I really want to see that? Would that make me even more overemotional? Probably. But–why wait until you have symptoms–then it’s too late. Wouldn’t you want to know if you have a huge brain tumor or spots on your lungs, or tentacles wrapped around your ovaries? The quicker you can have surgery and cut it out–the better your chances–right? I know it all sounds irratic, but these are the thoughts that keep me awake at night. It’s hard at times to forget, and I make it harder on myself when I don’t follow my nutrition regimine that my nutritionist has worked with me on all summer. Or when I forget to take my Tamoxifin. Major guilt trip. I feel like I have some sort of control with those things or with the exercising, but I am still partly in denial and not being consistent. I have not fully jumped on the bandwagon–I did early on, but now I am falling off and being drug by the cart. I know I need to recommit. I know.

Could it be the Tamoxifin that’s wiping me out? I know it has played a part in my early menopause and with that–could that be making me so tired? Speaking of the Tamoxifin, I tried to see if I could have the doctor’s office prescribe all 5 yrs. worth of meds. in advance. I am terrified that we won’t have insurance and I will not be able to even afford the cost of my prescriptions each month. I have no idea what the cost is, but it doesn’t hurt to ask, right? So, I called there and I didn’t even think about the shelf life factor until the nurse pointed it out. She also really sounded odd and then she told me that they could only refill the Rx monthly so that individuals would be less inclined to sell the drugs elsewhere. Oh my gosh, great, now my oncologist’s office thinks I’m a pill pusher on the black market somewhere and I will be watched for that. It made me laugh in a way and then I realized that there are probably thousands of women in just the same boat I’m in–if not worse. Think about all the women in third world countries who don’t get the Tamoxifin. Then, I think about how I live in America and I will be considered pre-existing here pretty soon–unless an insurance miracle happens and Jeff gets a new job without a pre-existing condition clause.

Is it that it takes a very long time for your body to recover from chemo–(even though I only had one full treatment before becoming severely allergic and going into respiratory arrest)? how long does it take before your energy levels return? Do they?

Is my body fighting against something or just trying to still heal? I know 6 months later, my body is still not draining the lymphatic fluid correctly. Only two lymph nodes were taken out in surgery and my body should have, by now, compensated and learned how to move the fluid through my body. But it still pools under the scar tissue in my chest and it is painful. Weirdly–the whole top of my chest is numb–all the nerves severed, but deeper–around the muscle–it’s still terribly painful. How long will that last? Will it last forever? Is it my body trying to tell me to lay down and get vertical so the fluid can move better? Is my body just working overtime? I do worry about that lymphedema every day and knowing how its pooling in my chest doesn’t help my worries. The surgeon doesn’t seem too worried although in my 2nd followup with him two weeks ago, he was concerned about the continued pain factor I’m having. He didn’t suggest anything, though–so I guess I just live with it.

Will I ever feel the same?

Will my psoriasis ever go away? It seems to be worse these days and that was one of the first indications that I found that alerted me to something being wrong. I know stress exacerbates psoriasis and I am truly amazed I am not covered head to toe in the stuff. Be thankful its just on my elbows, right?

Is the constant stress of the cancer, my self-image, my oldest daughter, how everything is affecting my younger children, my husband’s impending job loss, the uncertainty that will bring to us financially, the loss of benefits, the mounting medical bills for me and for Jasmine, the stress on our marriage and all of our relationships just taking its toll and no amount of counseling can really fix ALL the triggers at this point?

Once this metastasizes–it is really hard to detect if it goes to the ovaries or to the uterus. Why can’t we just schedule a hysterectomy at this point. I’m really inwardly wigging out about this and even though my new oncologist doesn’t want to start “butchering” for no good reason especially when the genetic tests have all come back fairly positive–I can’t help but think–Isn’t cancer a good enough reason? I suppose if I wanted it done badly enough and threw a big enough temper tantrum–I’d get my way–but am I just being over reactional about it? If I’m no longer using the stuff–take it out. That’s three less places for this to land and I will know that I am not going to die from those associated cancers.

Sigh. Sometimes my brain gets so ramped up with these thoughts that they just spew out onto the page. I have to keep coming back to my bible to try to help quiet myself. My goal of self-quieting has been a hard one to tackle this year. I think it also gets revved up as my doctor visits start coming. I will go see the plastic surgeon tomorrow to talk about reconstruction–something I totally didn’t think I was ready for, but with the possibility of losing insurance and the fact that they will now pay for a boob job–I’m going to talk about the options. It may not even be an option, but I have to go and check it out or I will be mad at myself if I let the opportunity slip away. Next week, I see my oncologist for a 3 month check up. I hope we will look at bloodwork and see if anything shows up there. I don’t know what I should be asking him at this point because I just feel like everyone wants me to “live my life”. If any of you have any questions I should be mulling over for him, please let me know. I would welcome them whole heartedly.

I received my long awaited call from NAFCC (National Assoc. for Family Child Care) that my long overdue national accreditation observation is about to happen. I have been working on it for two years. I applied for the observation the end of December 2008. Normally, you should get a call between 4-6 weeks to schedule the observation. Here we are 9 months later and I will finally undergo this on October 6, 2009. They have been swamped since revising their re-accreditation standards and since I am a newbie, I guess, I was not a priority. I often think of what that would have been like should I have gotten that call within the normal time period. I was just getting diagnosed with breast cancer. I would not have been ready for that at all. Looking back, I really am surprised I made it through the summer and really glad that this observation is coming while the house is quieter. I guess I should be grateful that it is happening after my mastectomy, after all the big rowdy boys went off to school, after a regular naptime had been re-established for the little ones, and after my head came back from Bizarro World.

Since this call came through, I haven’t been able to think about too much else in the past week–including the cancer stuff and I have truly welcomed the break. It makes me realize that when I am working on something I’m passionate about, I get a lot accomplished————(Why can’t I get truly passionate about my cancer?)———- I’ve been going through all my checklists making sure all my T’s have been crossed and my i’s have been dotted. I have a book that takes me a few hours to get through each time because I am really focusing on doing my best. I have been through it several times and plan on several more read throughs. I spent all last week working on my parent teacher conferences and getting those in order. I was glad to get them all done so I could move on to more paperwork that has been lagging. I screwed up my classes this year, but I am not going to screw up this. I have worked too hard. I want to be able to look back on 2009 and know that despite the huge setback, I was able to accomplish this major accomplishment. Usually centers or schools or colleges are accredited. It isn’t that often that in-home providers become accredited. So, I am working day in and day out right now and everyone in my family has their very own honey-do lists. I’ll get there slowly, but surely and quite honestly, I’m ready–its just the details I’m going back for. Tons of details, but it will all come together.

I’ve also been allowing several college students studying at St. Ambrose Univ. to come tour my environment. This is good practice for me as they are able to give me fresh eyes. They are students studying to be teachers–how I wish I could go back to school–but I am not ready yet. Maybe next year. Maybe this is why I was supposed to ultimately take the break from my college courses this year. To ready myself for accreditation. To make sure my head was still in the game. I can honestly say that I was in a perfect position to give up on everything I had worked for professionally. Just chuck it and spend my days playing with my family. It was a summer where I was re-evaluating everything in my life and trying to figure out if things were still working or if they needed changing in some way or another. When I look at my chosen profession, I can’t imagine doing anything else. I love working with kids. I love where I work. I love the tools I get to work with! Some people provide child care as a means to an end, a temporary job while their own kids are young, but me–it really drives me. I absolutely love what I do and when I had really looked at all the reasons why I do what I do, I realized my head was ready to take on the observer that would come spend the day with me. If I could just shake this illness now…

We celebrated my son’s 6th birthday this past week. Time flies. I asked him what the best present he got was and he looked at me and told me it was me and that he was super happy I wasn’t dead. “Gee, thanks, babe–I love you too” is what I responded with. 🙂 I’m grateful I got to see him turn 6 and I am glad I’m not dead yet. Lord knows how I’ve worried over that all summer. So, I’m grateful I’m alive. I’ve survived my diagnosis for 7 months now. Almost a year. That’s an accomplishment in and of itself.

I have begun a Wellness class at the YMCA. It is 12 weeks of free personal training–2X/wk. for 1 1/2 hrs. each eve. The best part–its free! I get to work with a personal trainer for free for 12 weeks! I missed the first class because I was sick two weeks ago. I went to both classes last week and thought I was going to die each night. I began working on my WII fit on the off nights, but this cold/flu is really pulling me down. I am so happy for the outlet and MAKING ME a priority. I have met a handful of other breast cancer survivors that are in various stages of their disease or treatment and I just know that will be instrumental in my mental comeback. I think being able to dedicate time to working out will also help me release those endorphins I haven’t seen in a very long time which will help relax me, help me sleep better, make me feel like WANTING to recommit to my nutrition plan again, making me WANT to be more consistent with my med taking, and maybe inthe process, I will lose the 30 pounds I’ve tacked on. UUUGGGHHH! I am bigger than I was when I was pregnant with Jordan (she was the biggest baby)! Could it be the Tamoxifin that is helping me pack on the weight? I know that stress will pack on the weight also and I am surprised I’m not morbidly obese. The added weight make me more sluggish so, I have to lose it.

My other major concern is that I’ve been told that estrogen is stored in fat and since I’m sporting my own personal flotation device around my mid section these days–I need to find something to help me deflate it. I have to lose the weight–I worry every day that the hormone that is feeding my cancer is setting up shop and getting comfy in my fat. Ok–who am I kidding–I also want to lose the weight before my next class reunion next summer–I was so worried what everyone was going to think about my hair–now I just want to walk in and have everyone think, “wow, she looks great for having cancer”. I know. I know. Completely immature and shallow, but who wants to come back after 25 years looking like crap? Yes, I know all the stuff about the inner beauty, outer beauty, lasting beauty stuff, but when it comes right down to it, I really just hope that all my beauties are playing on a level field by then (and I really hope I drop 30 pounds!) :). I’ve run into a few friends from high school, they all happen to be nurses. They have all said I look good–my color is good and since they work with sick people all the time, they can tell when a person is sick. I guess I’ve got that going for me. Problem with that is–I’d rather have hair and a boob–omg–I just did it–I said something very generically–I take that back–let me be specific…

I’d rather have a headful of healthy, blonde, soft, stylishly coiffed hair that I could seductively whip around should I be in the mood for some lovin’, be able to pull it back when I’m feeling playful, and be able to run my fingers through it to tousle it and have that wind blown look that most women dream of. And–I’d rather have two boobs–the same size–preferably a little lifted and energized looking with a natural looking nipple tattooed on the new one. I used to wonder about having bigger boobs and although I wouldn’t mind them a tad larger, I’d now just be happy to look like I did. So a perky 34B would be great. Afterall, it’s not the size–it’s how you package them! I think that’s it–have I forgotten anything? Please feel free to let me know if that wish needs a little more something something. I will be checking out the silicone stockroom tomorrow. Wish me luck!

A Work In Progress

“Get your shoes on–you need to come with me” I stated matter of factly as I walked in the house. My husband, who was playing the new Tiger Woods WII golf game I gave him for Father’s Day looked up and wondered what was going on. I moved directly toward the cupboard above the kitchen sink where I kept all my meds and as I opened the door, I knew exactly what I was going to need–Vicadin and Ibuprofen–And a lot of it. I figured with what I was about to do, I needed to get a jumpstart on curbing the pain factor.

I have never been a big “taker” of things. I am a lightweight. I admit it. I never liked that feeling of the room spinning, dry heaving from drinking too much, or the next day’s hangover. I hated not being in control–(there we go again). However, after my mastectomy, I found that my pain tolerance was off the charts. I was also in extreme emotional distress and I was very glad for those pills which helped keep me out of it for two weeks straight. I had a few Vicadin pills left over from my mastectomy and decided I was going to take advantage of them on this evening. I popped two of them and 4 Ibuprofen, grabbed my debit card, my camera, my hubby and away we went.

I wasn’t nervous at all as we drove. Jeff asked, “what’s going on?”.

I simply stated, “I’m going to get a tattoo”. He couldn’t believe it. Me. The pain wimp.

“You’re joking, right?” he said.

“Nope”, I replied.

“Where are you putting it?” he came back with.

“On the nape of my neck”, I said.

“Geez, that’s gonna hurt like Hell. I’ve heard that’s a really painful place to put it”, Jeff said.

“I’m not worried about it.” I smiled.

“You’re never gonna go through with it”, he looked at me smirking.

“Watch me”, I retorted.

We drove into the parking lot of the Scorpion’s Den, a local tattoo parlor. Ironically, the building that houses the business actually used to be my husband’s late grandmother’s house. He can remember playing in the house when he was a little boy. He was amazed at the changes and began to talk to the owner about which room used to be used for what. The owner asked him to bring in a picture of the house or the rooms and he was very interested in framing them and hanging them in his business.

While the men were talking, I went over to the scariest looking guy there that night. I struck up a conversation with him and showed him on the computer the image I wanted. As he sized up the image and traced it out on the transfer paper, I took a few minutes to look through some of the artwork. I couldn’t believe I was about to do this. I had always been against tattoos–personally. I am all for freedom of expression and didn’t care what anyone else did, but for me–it wasn’t a statement I wanted to make. I had never felt like “owning” anything like that before, but what that girl said to me in the wig boutique changed my mind. I was also beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, I had grown up a little too much. Its hard for me to explain because anyone that knows me–knows I live in a kid’s wonderland–literally. I play with kids, teach kids, hang with kids, laugh with kids, chase kids, swing with kids, paint with kids, etc. How could I be ‘too’ grown up?

Since I am entrusted with kids each day, I maintain a very high quality childcare in my home–one of the top in Scott County, IA. Since my business is kids, I’m not just asked to play with the kids, I am also obligated to teach them and to guide them in making good choices. I have to be an example to them–a good role model. So, in almost 14 years of providing care and having a ball doing it–had I essentially grown up and forgotten what it was like to really just have fun and let loose–lose control–personally–on a leisurely level? Maybe if I did drink a small glass of wine each evening I wouldn’t be wound so tight. Maybe if I made it a point to spend time laughing with girlfriends instead of pouring myself into my classes I would remember how it feels to loosen up. Maybe if I just went and got a tattoo, I could say to myself that I hadn’t forgotten the rebel inside of me.

There were a few other justifications, as well, for getting the tattoo.

1. It was a symbolic outward representation of the disease I was fighting.

2. It was a daily reminder that I needed to live life fully because we never know what is going to be thrown in our path.

3. It was my acceptance into the club–the one I had been fighting against for months. My VIP stamp of sorts that bound me to other women that had gone before me and would come after me.

4. It was going to be in a place that would be out of sight when my hair grew back so it wouldn’t be a nuisance should I ever be interviewed for something that might affect future endeavors.

5. The place I was going to put it–ahhh–the nape of the neck–during chemo–while I was bald or my hair was very short–it would serve as a sort of spiteful gesture to those that would look at me and question or whisper behind my back why I looked the way I did. Yes, this one is completely childish, but it also gives me the biggest laugh. It was a fact–I was going to lose my hair–something I was fiendishly upset about. The kicker–I would lose it right at the start of this summer’s pool season. I had counted up the days on the calendar. I had circled the day the pool opened. It was always circled each year–my family lives for that day. The thought that I was going to be a uniboob mom this summer was excruciating enough but to think I would also be bald was enough to leave me sobbing for days on end. I pictured in my mind people at the pool looking at me from the front and averting their eyes, or staring disgustingly at me. I pictured them pointing and whispering to their friends to look at me.

I also pictured turning around so they could see a large pink ribbon tattooed to the back of my neck and without having to turn around to see their expressions, I could see their faces melt into sorrow and then they would feel bad for pointing and staring or laughing at me. They would get it. Instant guilt trip. I win. 🙂 My childish mind had come up with the perfect solution to combat what was about to be my toughest summer on record and I loved the idea!

6. I knew that things were aligned perfectly for me to get the tattoo on that day. In two days, I would be sitting in my new dentist’s chair as he put me under for my root canal and to also fix the 5 cavities. I knew I would go home from that with a lot of antibiotics and so if the tattoo should become infected over the course of 48 hours, I would have enough penicillin to help put that back into submission. I also knew the antibiotics would help everything heal faster and so–if ever there was a time to get a tattoo–today was the day.

7. Most importantly, my chemo was going to start that upcoming Thursday. In 5 days I would be sitting in a chair while poison was being infused throughout my body. I knew my oncologist would not allow me to have a tattoo after I started treatment. My white cells would be shot from the drugs and if I developed an infection from the tattoo, then I would be in big trouble. So, it was now or never.

8. Last, but not least, I had been told that if I would ever consider a reconstruction, the new boob would have the areola tattooed on. That’s how they do it. Wow. I never knew that. I decided I certainly didn’t want my first tattoo to be that of a nipple!

When it was time to go back to my room with Jesse, I gave my hubby the camera and told him to take a ton of pictures. I wanted to remember this rite of passage. I never wanted to forget this moment in my life. I felt like it was a very visual way of me “owning it” and that it was also a way of me being able to move forward. Jesse’s appearance complete with tattoes and body piercings didn’t scare me. I was a bartender for 15 years and I was able to comfortably joke around with him. I think that surprised him from the woman he probably mistook for being conservative and sheltered.

We talked about the ribbon itself. I told him I didn’t want it to look perfect. I didn’t want it to have clean lines or neatly trimmed edges. I wanted it to look “Torn and Tattered”, “Worn and Weary”, and I also wanted it to look like a “Work in Progress”–because that’s exactly how I felt. I told him, “I’m a Work in Progress” also and I hoped someday in the future, when I truly feel in my heart that I have beaten this cancer that I would come back and write the word “Survivor” underneath the ribbon. Jesse looked at me and said, “Awesome”.

He shaved the back of my neck, placed the transfer on it, and gave me a mirror to check it out. I was so excited. He showed me where to sit and he went to work. With my head bent forward over a cushion I joked with him about life while Jeff captured it all on film. I listened to the buzzing of his tool and could feel the oddest sensations–some of which were slightly painful, but tolerable. I could visualize how he was outlining the ribbon and where he was filling it in. I could feel him going over certain areas repeatedly for extra shading. I could feel him trail off the ends of my ribbon to make them look frayed. It was so meditative for me and I won’t lie–I was so glad I took those Vicadin beforehand!

I knew we were getting to the end and I was glad because I was beginning to grit my teeth each time he rounded over the top of the ribbon. I was also making a low, gutteral sound each time the vibrating needle came close to the base of my skull. You know what it feels like if you put a massager on the top of your head? That’s what it felt like in a weird way only with pain involved. The vibrations from his needle would come up the back of my skull and travel all the way across the top. I couldn’t help but think what it must feel like for some people who get their whole skull tattooed–wait–I don’t want to know about that–I was ready to be done. And just like that–we were. I stood up and looked at it in the mirror. I couldn’t believe it. Jeff came and told me, “Good Job” and gave me a quick kiss. I was in awe. I loved it. I absolutely loved it. It was a part of me now. There was no escaping it. I was branded for life.

A Work In Progress

A Work In Progress

There are new pics over in Flickr Photos. I spent way too long trying to get them in chronological order–it just wouldn’t work. They are going from last to first?? Click on more pictures and you’ll see the album sitting to the right–that is in order. I am letting go of it so I can move forward. Enjoy.

Heartfelt Thanks…

I am overwhelmed.  I can’t think straight.  My world seems to be spinning into outer space.  I have so much to write.  So little time.  I have so many demands on me right now, I can’t breathe.  I can’t sleep.  I can’t eat.  I have so much to say, so much to purge, so much to vomit up onto my computer screen, but the countdown is on.  I want so badly to catch up and make sense of what is happening to me and around me.  I want to wake up from this nightmare and know that this is not really happening.  But that will never happen.

What I want to do more than anything is thank everyone for all their prayers.  All the kind words, the encouraging remarks, the laughter, the hugs, the hand holding-in spirit and in person.  I have wanted to respond to each and everyone one of you that has posted comments.  If I make it out of this, I will–I promise.  I can’t tell you how much it has meant in my darkest moments to come back and know that there is goodness and kindness in this world that will come from complete strangers and those that have been there the whole way with me.  I want you all to know that I am deeply humbled and grateful to have this outlet to release my frustration, fears, newfound wisdom, and if for some reason, someone out there should find it helpful in anyway, or can relate to my story in any way, or it provokes someone out there to go get a mammogram–then it was worth the hours of writing through blurred and tear filled eyes to get my thoughts out. 

The story has continued, it is still compelling, it is still heartwrenching, it is still worth me telling.  However, my life has become filled with distractions along the way and has caused me even greater heartache.  My oldest daughter has run away from home again.  This time, I fear for good.  The subject is so intertwined with what is happening to me, I have not been able to seperate one from the other and since this was a blog about my journey with cancer, I have found it difficult to concentrate on even this because all my energy has been going to her.  It has torn my family apart, it has caused so much sorrow and I have had deep flashbacks to my childhood when my own sister ran away.  Those feelings are much a part of me all over again, and the pain is raw and real.  I force through my days right now, carrying out my cheery duties of  “Tina”, daycare provider and Mom–of a runaway, a daughter who will turn 13 (a teenager) on this Wed., March 18, 2009, and a 5 yr. old that is having trouble dealing with what is happening to his mommy.  I have a limited relationship with my husband at the moment, and have decided it was time for me to grab the life raft my pastor has thrown out to me.  I have joined a bible study, bought a new bible, and have been overwhelmed at the messages and signs that have been coming at me lately.

I have been honored this past Wednesday at our state capitol for community excellence in my profession and I could not be more thrilled to be at the top of my game in that aspect.  The price of that is taking its toll, on my family, my education, and my health, however.  I am trying, but as hard as I try, more demands keep cropping up despite my attempts to delegate them off somewhere else.  I feel as though many are just as secretly terrified that something is going to go wrong and heaven forbid I don’t get everything all done before I should kick the bucket or be incapacitated for several weeks.  My accountant is one of those people.  She got really upset when I said I would need an extension for taxes.  I just don’t have the time or energy to put into it right now.  Isn’t there a joke about how there’s only two things you are guaranteed in life–taxes, and death…well, my accountant must swear by that rule of thumb and wants to make sure I pay mine, if necessary, just in case…

I also have a class I can’t keep up with no matter how hard I try and I think I just need to withdraw instead of screwing up my GPA.  I have one teacher who is also not friendly at all and is unsympathetic to the fact that I will be having surgery or that I will be unable to do anything for about a week.  I have checked into voice recognition software, but its EXPENSIVE and I just can’t afford it, so maybe I could get a friend to type while I dictate.  More than anything, I just want to sit and write.  I need to relieve myself of this burden I’ve been carrying.  I’ve been swamped with midterms, doctor appointments, and information overload.  Even though, I pray there will be more time in the future to really lay out my chronological account of events, what it all boils down to is this…

I am having a radical mastectomy on Thursday, March, 19, 2009. 

This has all come up as of today.  I knew it was a card on the table.  I prayed someone would call the surgeon’s bluff.  I prayed I would see some hint that his poker face was just a bunch of B.S.  I was wrong. I will have the full story I hope and pray soon.  Right now, I can’t think, I am emotionally spent and physically exhausted.  This is happening.  There is no ace up my sleeve.  There is no trump card.  I can’t throw my cards in and ask for all new ones.  I have to play this hand out.  I would rather be playing strip poker in front of thousands then have to undergo this process, though.  Maybe….that is what I am doing by writing this blog, now that I think about it.  I am stripping off the layers…that have covered up all sorts of yucky character traits…in a way that would leave me exposed to thousands…of strangers as well as friends…and strangers that may become my friends.  How I wish I could explore this concept fully in my mind and round out my thoughts right now.  I am just too scared and tired to do that right now.  I just can’t believe this is happening.

I don’t know if I will be able to check in for some time.  I don’t know what will happen on Thursday.  I don’t know if  things will all go well.  I pray it does.  I am asking for you to stop and say a prayer, for me and for my family–I’m not picky–any denomination will do.  If you would all say a prayer for my daughter, Jasmine, that she may see the light and run toward it and away from those that have pulled her down;  for my daughter, Jordan, who is terrified that she will lose her mom the day after her birthday; for my little boy, Justin, that he won’t be so scared and worried that God is coming to get me; and for Jeff, that he has the strength and stamina to keep up with these kids and sees to it they are well taken care of should something happen or while I am laid up.  If I don’t ever make it back on, thanks for listening, caring, praying, loving, and thinking of me and my family.  Thanks for stopping in–for a long time, or just for a peak.  Thanks for commenting–I’ll leave my husband the password to get in–maybe words of encouragement would help them all get through what lies ahead.  And if I do make it out of this, be sure to check back, you’ll be in for one hell of a read.  You’ll never believe what has transpired in the past couple weeks while I’ve been away.  I can’t believe it myself.

I pray that God will see me through this safely and that I shall be called truly, in time, Mrs. Heald.  How prophetic that seems now, looking back.  Little did I know 20 years ago, that my husband’s name would be my biggest sign.  Its funny, I have such a low voice that whenever someone would ask me my name over the phone, they would never be able to quite catch the pronunciation.  I would have to spell it out–“H as in Harry, E as in elephant, A as in Alice, L as in Larry, and D as in David–like I was HURT but now I am HEALD”  I have actually said that thousands of times.  What a huge misguided sign that was.  I have been hurt, but I haven’t been healed–YET.  I married a man that would be all I should ever hope to become, in body, mind, and spirit.  Jeff, I love you.  Jasmine, Jordan, Justin…I love you more than you will ever know, forever and ever, with all my heart and soul…Mommy

Started Tracking on 12-1-09

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