tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26554166854874294972024-02-20T08:26:59.077-08:00Eye Got Cancer...and all you got was this lousy blog.Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-68369006837739365002018-05-08T08:30:00.005-07:002018-05-08T08:30:57.243-07:00I'm Still StandingI've read a lot of cancer blogs over the years, and it's always an issue of concern to me when a blog stops abruptly. Because you wonder...you know what you wonder.<br />
<br />
I don't know if anyone ever stumbles upon this blog. But in case it comes up when somebody is searching about their own cancer, or a loved one's ocular melanoma, I don't want them to find a big nothing at the end and think the worst.<br />
<br />
It's been 5 1/2 years. I'm still standing. I still have visual symptoms and my vision in my right eye is lousy. But I'm here. The reason I haven't written is...life. (And, if we're going to be honest, Candy Crush.)<br />
<br />
Since I've last written, I've had a kid graduate high school and complete a year of college. My husband and I celebrated our 20 year anniversary. I turned fifty. I've gotten two great-nephews and a great-niece. And yes, I've lost a couple of family members, one to cancer.<br />
<br />
In my <a href="http://eyegotcancer.blogspot.com/2015/01/seven-days-in.html" target="_blank">last post</a>, I probably sounded a little bitter. That's because the husband of one of my best friends died too young suddenly a few days after the start of the year. The memory of that is still painful (much more so for my friend), but in the intervening three-plus years she met a different, equally wonderful man and married him. In other words: searing loss happens and we are never the same, but we can be happy again.<br />
<br />
If you've found this little blog because we have that cancer thing in common, I'm so sorry. But know that there is cause for hope, and although it may seem hard to believe now, cause for joy.Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-80157203041660704532015-01-07T04:37:00.001-08:002015-01-07T07:49:54.737-08:00Seven Days InSo far, the baby new year has not been as darling as hoped, more like the love child of Ann Coulter and Idi Amin, with colic and a blistering diaper rash. If you prefer to stick with the <a href="http://eyegotcancer.blogspot.com/2015/01/keep-on-truckin.html" target="_blank">vehicle metaphor</a>, so far it's been like a souped-up El Camino driven by a paranoid meth addict. It's already veered out of control and taken out a couple of innocent bystanders. <br />
<br />
I really do hope, when we get to heaven, that there's an orientation session where all these things will be explained: why the wicked prosper, and good, loving people are cut down in their prime. Sometimes, in flashes, I think I understand, from an intellectual standpoint--but it still makes me want to throw up. I try to remember my five-word New Year's resolution: "Wait. More will be revealed." But waiting does not come easy to me. I want answers, and restitution for those who have lost things that cannot be compensated for.<br />
<br />
I know I am a child of God, but not one of the docile ones that sits quietly at Jesus' knee in the pictures. I'm the foot-stamping toddler throwing a tantrum right outside the frame. My vocabulary is equal parts "NO!" and "WHY?" I believe with all my heart that God loves me, but I also believe He is a little relieved when I fall asleep and finally shut up for the day.<br />
<br />
When my own kids were toddlers, they were by turns frustrating and frustrated. The only saving grace was that I knew, as they matured, they would understand and master the things that infuriated their baby selves. I hope the same is true for me. I hope someday this world makes more sense, is more orderly and less of a howling wilderness. I hope I develop more patience, and kindness, and a better attitude. I hope I grow up, and mellow. <br />
<br />
And I really hope this squalling, sputtering, shit-spewing baby of a new year does, too. Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-43150542957206048202015-01-05T15:15:00.000-08:002015-01-05T15:15:42.690-08:00Stay StrongBoy, if there are two words I can't stand hearing together, it's "Stay strong." People say it all the time to cancer patients, but they say it to other people facing awful circumstances, too. It's almost always said with the very best of intentions, and when the speaker doesn't know what else to say in the face of the immense struggle the listener is facing.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, what the speaker means is, "I wish you strength. I know you have to deal with something terrible, and I want to help you, but I have no idea how, because this is so huge. I'm hoping that my love, and the love of others, will help you tap some secret well of strength you didn't know you had, and you'll come through this awful time intact."<br />
<br />
Sometimes, the speaker means, "Something huge and terrifying has happened to you, and it terrifies me, too. I don't know how I'll react if you fall apart. I'm afraid I'll fall apart as well. I need you to stay strong so I don't have to face that possibility."<br />
<br />
Sometimes, people who say, "Stay strong," mean both of those things without realizing it.<br />
<br />
Many hearers can take the phrase in the best possible light, and that's great, but I worry about the other people. What if they <i>can't</i> stay strong? What if they have used up all their strength just surviving to this moment and they desperately need to know it's safe to break down, that someone else will patiently wait and help them figure out how to put things back together again? What if you say, "Stay strong," and they hear, "Don't break down. Not here. I can't take it?"<br />
<br />
Here is what I'd rather say: I'm here for you. I'll cry with you. Don't feel like you have to be strong for me, or for anyone. The only way out is through, and I know it will be hard. But I promise, no matter what, you'll never be alone.Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-36705377332360585412015-01-01T09:50:00.000-08:002015-01-01T09:50:08.427-08:00Keep on Truckin'Some years back, a friend of mine recounted to me the New Year's Eve tradition of burning the old year's calendar in the fireplace after a particularly bad year. The idea sat uneasy with me, though I could never quite articulate why. I suppose the closest I can come to an explanation is, "Don't tempt fate." Those noises from the fireplace might just sound like the crackle of pages curling and burning, but if you listen closely, you can hear the whisper of the old year saying, "You think <i>I</i> was bad? Wait until you meet my bitch of a little sister."<br />
<br />
So I never burned a calendar.<br />
<br />
Lately, it occurs to me that there's a second reason for not burning the calendar: because it's unfair to the old year. Let me explain.<br />
<br />
We have such high hopes for new years. After 365 days that, as an aggregate, did not go quite as hoped, a new year is a positive relief. So bright. So shiny. So un-messed up.<br />
<br />
Until, of course, it is. Sooner, usually, rather than later, and then you're stuck with this clunky, nearly-new year that lost much of its value as soon as you drove it off the lot. And you can't sell it on Craigslist, can't trade it, can't get an upgrade for, say, 361 days. No one can. Only cell-phone companies, and possibly Satan, have more airtight contracts than Father Time.<br />
<br />
What are you going to do? You can't very well say, "Crap, I dented my new year! I'm just going to sit right here until another one gets delivered." You can't. You have to keep going with the one you have. Maybe you can buff out the scratches a little bit, maybe the damage is so huge that everyone around you can see how badly your year's been dented. They might wonder how you can keep rolling in the face of such a wreck, and you might wonder, too. But on you roll, even if slowly and with much grinding of gears. Through day 89, and 111, and 235. Onward.<br />
<br />
There's only one way to get out of your crappy, banged-up dented ride early, and you don't want to take it. If your year gets totaled, so do you.<br />
<br />
So if your wreck of a year lurched into the garage last night at 11:59, exhaled a toxic cloud of smoke, and expired, don't kick it and curse it. Be grateful. It got you here, and now you've got a sweet new ride. Make the most of it. <br />
<br />
<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-61861906193807415352014-12-31T04:45:00.001-08:002014-12-31T04:45:08.043-08:00ResolvedWell, here we are again, folks. The threshold of another year. And while "here we are again" sounds weary, it's anything but for me. I've got a charming reminder that new years aren't promised, so each one is, if not an achievement, at least a gift.<br />
<br />
I haven't blogged much this year, and that's a good thing; it means there hasn't been much to report. My vision remains much the same, and the tumor has even continued to shrink a bit. I still get regular injections in my eye, which still make me feel a little badass, but less so since my company in the waiting room is usually a bunch of eighty year olds in floral prints and track suits. I'm sure they're totally badass on the INside, though.<br />
<br />
Recently, some mild and diffuse symptoms in my left eye (the good one) made me paranoid that I was going to lose my ability to write and read and drive, which made me a tiny bit hysterical. Dr. M., bless his heart, arranged for me to be seen yesterday to make sure everything was okay, which it was. So I also get the gift of starting the new year with an extra assurance of good eye health.<br />
<br />
As one does, I've been thinking of resolutions. In recent years, I've been keeping the resolutions simple, often just one word. "Ask" has been a recent favorite, and it's been upgraded to an operating principle. I'm branching out a bit this year to longer, but low-pressure resolutions, like "wear more colored socks." Almost all my socks are black because it's just more work than I can bear in the morning to match my top to what's on my feet. But I'm going to really put myself out there this year, fashionwise, with blue and red and green and pink. Perhaps the occasional stripe. I'll let you know when my Vogue cover is scheduled to hit newsstands.<br />
<br />
Other resolutions will be, perhaps, less visible on a day to day basis, but more important:<br />
In six words: Open mind, close mouth, reserve judgment.<br />
In five words: Wait. More will be revealed.<br />
In four words: Sit down and write.<br />
In three words: Walk every day.<br />
In two words: Fear not.<br />
In one word. Connect.<br />
<br />
Happy New Year, y'all. And many more. Let's make it count. Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-83799119561688724662014-07-23T18:11:00.000-07:002014-07-23T18:14:34.050-07:00Fellow TravelersIt's been a while since I updated, and I always feel bad when I go a long time between posts; I feel that if people are going to be kind enough to travel along on my cancer journey, the least I owe them is to call out the signposts as we pass.<br />
<br />
The latest signpost was very encouraging. It's been twenty months since I spent five days in the hospital, with a radioactive plaque behind my eye, aiming its angry vibes at the tumor. Initially, everything was progressing just as it was supposed to. The tumor was shrinking as fast as the doctor could have hoped. Eventually, the rate of shrinkage slowed, but that was expected. Then came the scary day in the spring of this year when it looked like maybe, just maybe, the tumor had grown a minuscule amount.<br />
<br />
I had to wait six weeks before it could be checked again. Mercifully, the news at that time was good. The tumor was back on the regression track the doctor would have expected, and he couldn't say for sure why it had looked bigger at the previous appointment. It did not actually occur to me that the tumor shrinking at the later appointment could have been the fluke, and not the apparent earlier growth.<br />
<br />
It must have occurred to Dr. M., though. When I saw him Tuesday, there was unmistakable tumor shrinkage. He actually said, "I'm thrilled." When I said, "Were you worried?" he responded, "I'm not going to answer that." Which led to my inquiry about the likelihood of a recurrence of the cancer in my eye--something I had never asked before. He said that he couldn't say the likelihood was zero, but that it was low, perhaps five percent or less. He also said that the longer I go without a recurrence, the less likely one is. (Sadly, that is not true of metastasis--with this particular disease, mets show up any time they damn please. And then they trash the joint.)<br />
<br />
The other good news is that the fluid buildup in my eye as a side effect of the radiation has gone down dramatically, thanks to the injections I've been getting in my eyeball. So we're going to keep doing the injections, but not as often, which is nice, because there's a reason for the expression, "It's better than a sharp stick in the eye." And I don't have to go for another checkup for six months, which is the longest I've gone. It makes me feel happy, and also a little nervous. Like roller skating without holding onto the wall.<br />
<br />
The whole appointment, from vision test to pressure check to eyeball photos to eyeball ultrasounds to consult with Dr. M. to eyeball injections took longer than usual--about five hours. Ordinarily, I'd while away the hours in a doctor's office reading, but that's a bit of a challenge with your eyes dilated. So I wound up talking to people. Like a mom I met in the ladies' room who was refreshing her mascara. It had gotten smeared when her eyes had teared up. Not from eye drops--she wasn't the patient. Her nine year old daughter is. She has ocular melanoma and another kind of eye cancer so rare that fewer than thirty people in the country have it.<br />
<br />
"Is Dr. M. good?" she asked me. "The best," I assured her. I asked if I could put her daughter's name on my prayer list. She agreed, and put me on hers. I wanted to hug her before we left the ladies' room, but I didn't want her to start crying again. <br />
<br />
These are my fellow travelers, too. Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-26448108801118386262014-04-29T17:48:00.001-07:002014-04-29T18:10:33.185-07:00ScanxietySo, it's that time again.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow, I head up to Durham for my biennial labs, CT scan and meeting with the oncologist. I have no reason to believe that anything's wrong, and the odds are that everything's all right, but still.<br />
<br />
I'm remembering the last appointment, when the oncologist's perky new assistant said, "Preliminarily, everything looks okay, but the radiologist hasn't reviewed the scan yet, so we'll call you tomorrow if anything's wrong."<br />
<br />
Then she called me the next day.<br />
<br />
And talked for about thirty seconds before she got to the buried lead:<i> no evidence of cancer</i>. I had to have her go back and repeat what she had said before that, because I had been so paralyzed by fear, since she said she would call if anything was wrong, and here she was calling and talking about low-attenuation lesions. What the hell are low-attenuation lesions? I will tell you: they are boring cysts which mostly go away on their own (and did). But I did not know this at the time, because I am not a medical person, and lesions sound like disease to me.<br />
<br />
So after Count Perkula finished assuring me that the cysts were no big deal, and that there was no evidence of cancer, I allowed as how she was new at her job and so she might not know this yet, but most people who have scans to see if their cancer has returned to kill them would like to know the very first thing that everything's okay. In other words, <i>do not bury the fucking lead.</i> I did not intimate to her that if she ever pulled that crap again I would become <i>her</i> life-threatening condition.. But only because I was too shaken at the time to form threats. Or, you know, coherent thoughts.<br />
<br />
And now here we are again. I've done a really good job of containing my anxiety until now, but the workday is done and my appointment is tomorrow, and I am scared that this is my last night of being an ordinary crabby housewife, mother and writer, and that tomorrow night will be my first night of being terminally ill.<br />
<br />
It probably won't. But it could.<br />
<br />
One of my friends once posted a rallying cry on Facebook for her "prayer worriers," and I wondered what that was for a moment until I realized it had probably autocorrected from "prayer warriors." And then it hit me. I don't think my poor, thin little prayers qualify me as a warrior. But prayer worrier? I am all <i>over</i> that.<br />
<br />
Whichever category you fit into, I'd appreciate your prayers for a good outcome tomorrow. I'll let you know how it goes. Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-82014400201363420492014-04-03T08:57:00.000-07:002014-04-03T09:01:54.591-07:00Of Two MindsIt occurs to me since my post last week that many people think I'm closer to death than we have any reason to believe I am in fact. I can tell because some brave folks actually come up to me, hug me, and ask what they can do for me, instead of just gazing dolefully at me from a distance with Sad Cancer Eyes. I want to clear a few things up so that people neither think I'm being attention-seeking (more than usual) nor that they need to organize me a spaghetti dinner fundraiser.<br />
<br />
<b>Thing #1: The tumor may have grown a little bit, but then again, it may not have. </b><br />
When I pressed Dr. M. for details, he said the increase in tumor height appeared to be 0.1-0.2 mm. That could represent something other than active tumor growth, like a measurement error or non-cancery swelling.<br />
<br />
<b>Thing #2: If the tumor has grown, there are treatment options.</b><br />
The most likely first option would be transpupillary thermotherapy, or a laser beam aimed into my eye to incinerate the tumor growth. This is an outpatient procedure. I would not especially enjoy having to have it, but it would make me feel a little badass, so there's that.<br />
<br />
<b>Thing #3: You can still feel a little sorry for me if you want, because I will probably have to have a needle full of expensive cancer drug injected DIRECTLY INTO MY EYEBALL.</b><br />
That would also make me feel a little badass, but it's expensive medicine, and, hello, NEEDLE IN EYE. Also with upsetting, and non-glamorous side effects. If it made my eye glow, that would be cool.<br />
<br />
<b>Thing #4: Even if the tumor has grown, it doesn't necessarily affect my chances of metastasis, which are based on the genetic makeup of the tumor.</b><br />
This is according to Dr. M. He said this development does not increase the chances of metastasis, which are roughly 21%. So, if you want to believe someone who's been practicing medicine at a world-renowned hospital for less than two decades instead of someone who's been an experienced hypochondriac all her life, you go with that.<br />
<br />
<b>Thing #5: I'm still going to talk about death and grief and anxiety and fear up in here, because 21% > 0%.</b><br />
It's just how I process things. While the chance of death from metastasis of this tumor is about 21%, the chance of death from life is 100%, so I'd be foolish to ignore it entirely. I am, necessarily, of two minds. It is likely that I still have a good bit of life ahead of me, I must live it, or else I waste however long I have. But there also exists a reasonable possibility my life will be significantly shortened, and if I ignore that, I risk avoiding the planning and processing that will make things easier and better for me and my family. I'll be doing some of that pondering in this space, so if it freaks you out, I'll understand if you don't want to read it. If it makes you feel any better, I wish I didn't have to write it. <br />
<h4>
</h4>
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-67876955741986137222014-04-01T15:17:00.003-07:002014-04-01T21:31:41.682-07:00How I Met My Favorite TV Show (and How it Broke My Heart)Back in November of 2012, when I had my five-day inpatient radiation for my ocular melanoma, there wasn't a lot I could do for entertainment. I couldn't have visitors for very long for fear I'd irradiate them. I could and did read with my good eye, but you can't do that all day, every day. So I went for the occasional stroll around the unit with the rest of my eye patch posse, and I watched a lot of TV. In the process, I discovered two shows I'd heard a lot about but never seen before: The Big Bang Theory and How I Met Your Mother. I fell in love with Big Bang because I love me some quirky smart boys. But I grew to love HIMYM even more.<br />
<br />
Part of it was that the gang on the show seemed to get along so well, you wanted to be friends with them, too, to be in on the inside jokes, to have a special bar and a special booth and people waiting for you there who just <i>got</i> you. But as I realized some little while later, the show also appealed to me for a different reason.<br />
<br />
At that point in time, so much in my life was uncertain. I didn't know if the radiation would shrink the tumor. I didn't know if my vision would return. I had no idea what lay ahead. And here was this TV show from the <i>future</i>. No matter what happened in the episode I was watching, whether Ted had a horrible blind date or got left at the altar, I knew things would turn out okay for him. Because the episode was being told from the vantage point of Ted in 2030, speaking to his children. Who could not exist if he hadn't met "The One" and gotten his happy ending. So as I lay there in my hospital bed, surrounded by scratchy, wadded-up hospital tissues and my uncertainties, I knew one thing Ted didn't while he looked for love: everything was going to be just fine in the end. When I got out of the hospital, I watched reruns of the show on my lunch hour until I'd seen them all. Every Monday I waited eagerly for the next new episode. And I clung to the certainty of that happy ending like a life raft. <br />
<br />
Here's the thing about life rafts: there's never room for everybody to fit on them.<br />
<br />
(In case your TV and internet are broken except for the eye tumor channel, here's your spoiler alert.)<br />
<br />
The Mother is dead, of some unspecified "sickness." She's been dead for years. Ted got ten wonderful years and two beautiful kids with her. But then she died. And it looks like Ted finds happiness again, with his children's encouragement, with the girl he fell in love with in the first episode of the show. They didn't work then. But time moves on, and people and circumstances change. So now, maybe they do.<br />
<br />
I'm not going to lie to you: I was not pleased last night when I watched the series finale, even though I predicted something fairly close to this. But I was hoping for a sitcom happy ending: Marshall and Lily stay happy, and so do Barney and Robin. Ted meets Tracey, the Mother, and they stay happy too, and everyone is happy together.<br />
<br />
That's how it works in sitcoms. But that is not how it works in life. So the writers of the show did something brave. Everyone in the show got their happily ever after, even if for most of them, it didn't look like they imagined. But they did not get their perfectly ever after. Because in life, really, who ever does?<br />
<br />
I don't attach any predictive value to what happened in the show as regards my own situation. I might die, because cancer. Also, I might not. But the show gave me faith in happy endings when I needed it. And when I needed to be reminded that happy doesn't equal easy or trouble-free, it gave me that, too. Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-2954231353100703622014-03-28T07:45:00.000-07:002014-03-28T08:03:16.753-07:00On a Lighter Note...Almost exactly six years ago, I traveled to Pittsburgh to meet with two wonderful women, Cooper and Emily, who founded a <a href="http://themotherhood.com/" target="_blank">website</a> for which I was working. One of the other editors for the site was at the meeting as well, and like me, she received a bag of gifts upon her arrival--a nice surprise. There were lots of cool things, but I remember two in particular.<br />
<br />
One was a pair of silver ballet slippers, custom decorated with handwritten words about me, so that every time I looked down at my feet, I would be reminded that I was funny and creative and brilliant. Despite the fact that I have a hard time picking out shoes for myself, these shoes that were surreptitiously bought and created for me fit perfectly. I called them my princess shoes and wore them constantly until they started to show signs of wear. I now reserve them for state occasions, royal weddings, that sort of thing.<br />
<br />
The second thing I remember was a book co-written by Emily and two friends of hers, called "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Practical-Checklist-Fullest-Embracing-Mortality/dp/0609803816" target="_blank">Living with the End in Mind.</a>" Even though I realized that the book was a labor of love for Emily (one of her co-authors was a beloved friend who died of breast cancer), I have to admit it felt a little weird to receive it. I felt like Pollyanna, who was hoping to receive a doll for Christmas, only to get a pair of crutches instead. As Pollyanna did with her crutches, I tucked my book away in case it should be needed. Unlike Pollyanna, I was not as cheerful when I discovered it was. <br />
<br />
However, it's a great book. At least I think so, because I can only bear to read it for about twelve seconds at a time. But every time I pick it up, I randomly flip it open to a page that is helpful right at that very minute. And now I wish I had read it earlier when it didn't seem so <i>fraught</i>. But no matter. It is a good book, it reminds me of the person who gave it to me, and it is giving me what I need as I need it.<br />
<br />
In a somewhat bizarre twist, both I and the other friend who were given the book were diagnosed with cancer within a few years of receiving it. So I would like to propose that Emily's next book be titled, "How to Manage Your Lottery Winnings and Still Have Time for a Daily Massage." I promise, I'll be first in line at the book signing. Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-46932243994070388552014-03-27T06:00:00.001-07:002014-03-27T06:00:02.678-07:00The Universe DeliversSometimes the universe delivers exactly what you need to hear. Or, more likely, it was always there, but you managed to wiggle the knob on the old radio in your head just so the station comes in, maybe a little staticky, but well enough to hear.<br />
<br />
Yesterday I heard two references to grief that were so spot on. The first, an author discussing her book and talking about "the cue-ball break of grief, where everyone goes into their own pocket," was so true, because grief, no matter if shared, is still so private and must be dealt with in one's own way. And this, from Anne Lamott: "The only cure for grief is grieving."<br />
<br />
For reasons passing understanding, yesterday I realized that I have cancer, and that it might kill me. I know it might not, and that most of you would prefer that I hang on to that. But it might, it really might. There's a decent chance that this is not a drill, though it's too early to tell. And so what I am grieving right now is not my life or my general good health, both of which I still have, but the ability to take those things for granted.<br />
<br />
Up until now, even after my doctor appointment a month ago, I have kept the cancer in a box. I have had lots of work to do, and other obligations, and I have just dealt with them and been grateful for them. But yesterday all hell broke loose.<br />
<br />
I called the social worker at the Eye Center, who is a lovely woman and who did not try to jolly me out of the realization that I might die far earlier than I would prefer. On the other hand, I'm not ready to pick out my shroud yet, and she was a little <i>too</i> willing to browse the aisles at Shrouds R Us with me. So that conversation lasted a couple minutes longer than I needed. <br />
<br />
My husband called me from work as he often does, to check in and to make sure I haven't gone too batty from sitting at a keyboard alone all day, like Jack Nicholson in the Shining. He heard something weird in my voice, darling fella that he is, and I told him that I was scared and that I need to be able to acknowledge that with him because he is my person. That I did not want to freak him out or make him think I was conceding defeat, but that I need to acknowledge reality and take care of some of what the funeral people call "pre-planning." I asked if he thought I should get a plot for just myself or if we should pick out a doublewide, generously allowing as how his next wife might not want him shacking up with me after death. He quietly said, "There's not going to be a next wife." (Total lie, BTW, he's such a catch the ladies will be lining up on the porch with casseroles before I'm cold. He's not going to have a chance against that, but that will be his problem.) "Doublewide it is," I said grimly.<br />
<br />
I really do hope all this is irrelevant for decades, but I so appreciated his willingness to neither give up on my life nor ignore the prospect of my death. I hate it SO MUCH when people say to "stay strong," because what it means is, "I have no idea what to do with your weakness, so please hide it." He doesn't ask that of me, which is one reason he's such a catch. He lets me grieve, so I have the chance to be happy again, for as long as I have. And I hope it's a really long time. Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-10273690556172919182014-03-01T12:16:00.001-08:002014-03-01T12:16:38.758-08:00Mr. Kobayashi's MailboxSo, the part that I left out of the last post is that I almost killed myself after the bad news from Tuesday's doctor appointment.<br />
<br />
No, not on purpose. That is NOT how we roll.<br />
<br />
How we do roll, however, is down the highway for an hour, with tears streaming down our face the whole time. After a night of fitful sleep, and half an antianxiety pill taken because we had to go to the doctor appointment alone.<br />
<br />
Accordingly, I fell asleep at the wheel. <br />
<br />
Not, mercifully, on the highway or a main road. Somewhat embarrassingly, I fell asleep at the wheel <i>of my husband's brand new car</i> around the corner from my house. Within easy walking distance. <br />
<br />
I remember feeling like I might like to relax for a bit when I got home. I don't remember feeling especially sleepy. I very vividly remember jerking awake as my vehicle drifted to the right, and swerving rapidly to the left. Mercifully (again), I did not make contact with any cars, humans, strollers, or animals. <br />
<br />
What I did make contact with, because I swerved a split-second too late, was Mr. Kobayashi's mailbox.<br />
<br />
The mailbox, with mail still inside, landed squarely in the middle of Mr. Kobayashi's tidy lawn. I stopped my car, inspected it for damage (of which there was, thankfully, very little), and turned around, pulling into the driveway of the house with an intact mailbox post, but no mailbox. I had no idea whose house it was, but there was a truck in the driveway, so picked up the mailbox in my arms like it was a baby, and knocked.<br />
<br />
It took him a while to get to the door, almost long enough for me to give up, except I didn't give up because I had an armload full of mailbox and no idea what to do with it. So I stood there until the door opened.<br />
<br />
Which it eventually did, to reveal an older Japanese man who spoke English, but obviously not as a first language.<br />
<br />
I do not know why Mr. Kobayashi came to this country, or when, or what he expected when he did. But I am certain it was not for an incoherent middle-aged woman to ring his doorbell, weeping hysterically, and bearing his deceased mailbox like a temple sacrifice.<br />
<br />
At the moment in question, neither of us had an excellent command of the English language, so he kept asking if I was okay, and I kept saying yes (um, obvious lie, but the truth was too complicated). I kept apologizing and said I would get him a new mailbox. He said he would attach it to the post. He asked again if I was okay. I said yes again. We exchanged names and phone numbers like it was a normal traffic accident, with, you know, a normal driver.<br />
<br />
The car, miraculously, had only a crack in the casing of the side mirror and some white paint on the door handle. I drove it home and called my husband to ask if, on the way home from work, he would mind picking up a standard white mailbox for me. And then, I explained why I needed it.<br />
<br />
To the man's credit, he did not once ask about the condition of his vehicle. (Although, being a good engineer, he did want more specs on the mailbox.)<br />
<br />
The next morning, I somewhat sheepishly carried the new mailbox over to Mr. Kobayashi's house. He opened the door a little quicker this time, obviously cheered by the fact that I no longer appeared to be a recently furloughed patient from the state hospital. He bowed repeatedly, smiling and saying, "I'm glad you're okay!" He accepted the new mailbox as if it were a surprise gift that turned out to be exactly what he had wanted all along. <br />
<br />
Now, this is the time of year when my people are thinking more than usual about forgiveness--asking for it and giving it. This story involves two men who had every right to be angry with me, because I broke their stuff, and could have broken it much worse. But neither one of them so much as betrayed a moment's irritation. Only concern for my well-being. I didn't even have to ask for forgiveness. It was just there.<br />
<br />
And perhaps this is the best part of the story, aside from the fact that I didn't plow into a tree or another car: just when angry, grouchy, pinched-up little me could use an earthly model for how to forgive, I actually get two.Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-49213973678738938622014-02-26T04:05:00.000-08:002014-02-26T04:05:10.279-08:00In Which Eye Get Disturbing NewsWent back to Dr. M. for my quarterly eye check yesterday. I was a little anxious, but not terribly so. I'd been feeling pretty good. I had been having some funky symptoms several weeks back, but they had abated. The news so far had all been good, so I was less worried about my checkup than I'd ever been before.<br />
<br />
So I was really not expecting anything other than favorable news. Or at least neutral.<br />
<br />
You can see where this is going, right?<br />
<br />
The good news is my eye pressure is normal after a spike in the fall. The bad news is that the tumor looks a weensy bit bigger than it was last time, when it had continued to shrink so beautifully. The increase is small enough that the doctor thinks it could even be a measurement error. He says the visual characteristics of the tumor suggest that it is not active. I asked if any of this affected my prognosis and he said no.<br />
<br />
Nonetheless: bigger.<br />
<br />
The next step is a recheck in six weeks, an injection directly into my eyeball, and possible laser therapy. I'll keep you posted. Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-16028937252058072722013-10-05T12:36:00.000-07:002013-10-05T14:34:07.315-07:00What I Did On My Summer Vacation, and What's NextIt occurs to me that if you're going to write a blog about your cancer, you should probably update it periodically so that people don't think you died.<br />
<br />
I haven't died.<br />
<br />
The good news is that I've mostly been busy with good stuff. Lots of work, and traveling with my family from one end of the state to the other this summer. We spent an evening in Asheville with one of my fellow "one-eyed jacks" from my hospital stay and his wife. I won't say that having cancer was worth it just to have met them, but they are pretty awesome. I'd say they're easily worth a torn ACL or a bad kidney stone.<br />
<br />
I also spent a day in July with Dr. M., during which he proclaimed the shrinkage of my tumor "Fabulous--on a scale of one to ten, it's nine-plus." The best part was how pleased with himself he looked, like a little leaguer who always thought he could hit a home run, but just found out for sure. <br />
<br />
I've got another appointment in three weeks. I'm a little worried, because the eye's been a little funky. Not terribly so, not enough to try to get the appointment moved up. But enough to e-mail the doctor and say, "You know what would be really helpful in the week leading up to this appointment? Anti-anxiety meds." By the time I realized that would be helpful last time, I was already IN the appointment, waiting to see the doctor, and his staff kept helpfully saying, "No, I'm sorry, I can't get you anything, you'll have to wait to see the doctor." It was almost as if they didn't realize that the interminable wait to see the doctor was the reason my fingernails were firmly embedded in the acoustic ceiling tiles in the first place.<br />
<br />
This is going to be my first solo eye appointment since my diagnosis. My poor husband's got to work sometime. And while he could theoretically take a vacation day to accompany me, he's taking one six days later for my CT scan. I don't want him to have to tell the kids we can't go away for spring break because Daddy spent all his vacation days in Cancerville.<br />
<br />
Nobody likes to spend all their vacation days in Cancerville. There's not even a pool bar. <br />
<br />
So, here's hoping I can be a brave buckaroo and that Dr. M. is willing to write me a week's worth of chemical serenity. If not, I'll just have to write out my anxieties. Which means you'll probably be seeing a lot more of me. Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-55233343825764894552013-05-15T13:00:00.005-07:002013-05-15T13:07:38.671-07:00After Forty, Everybody Wakes Up BrokenA few years ago, a friend of mine, listening to me bemoan some ache or pain, said one of the truest things I've ever heard: After forty, everybody wakes up broken.<br />
<br />
Not completely broken, of course, and not necessarily physically. And as too many of my friends know, some of the brokenness shows up well before forty. But if you are lucky enough to see your fifth decade dawn, you have got some dents and dings. If you're really lucky, they're all on the outside.<br />
<br />
Mine, of course, is the gimpy eye. A couple of months after my surgery I started to notice that in pictures, it doesn't as open as wide as the other one. I started to look more closely in the mirror. Sure enough, it doesn't. If both of my eyes looked that way, I might look sultry. As it is, I look a little drunk. Sometimes I try to make the eyes match by squinting the one or opening the other as wide as I can, but then I just look either deeply suspicious or highly alarmed. So I just let it be. The price of this year, and the next, and what I hope are decades to come, is a gimpy eye. I'll take it.<br />
<br />
My husband woke up the day before his forty-fourth birthday in the middle of the night and promptly passed out. Turns out he has a great heart with a lousy electrical system. I still think the cardiologist who saw him moonlights as a mechanic at his brother-in-law's garage. He didn't look like a cardiologist. He looked like someone's mechanic brother-in-law who walked into the hospital and borrowed a white coat on a dare. But he correctly diagnosed that my husband needed a pacemaker, which he now has. My husband is going to write a book about the experience someday, presumably in much the same way I am going to clean the house someday.<br />
<br />
And so, here we are. Gimpy eye, funky heart. All we need is Toto and a couple of flying monkeys and it's practically the Wizard of Oz around here.<br />
<br />
We joke that we're stuck with each other, because who the hell else would want us? But really, we'd want each other anyway, busted or not. And the beautiful thing my friend didn't tell me, or else didn't know: if your luck is really good, you find someone whose broken places fit with yours like two puzzle pieces. Straight edges look nice. But it's the bumps and dents that help you stick together. Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-11475103840675252642013-04-30T05:29:00.001-07:002013-04-30T05:30:56.944-07:00The Secret Reason We Got the DogThere is a story to tell here, and I will give you the short and long versions:<br />
<br />
<b>The Short Version:</b> I went to Durham yesterday for my semi-annual CT scan, and it was clean--no spread of cancer--and I don't have to have another one until right before Halloween. Although I have to get a steroid shot in my EYE in July, and won't <i>that</i> make a jolly blog post!<br />
<br />
<b>The Long Version:</b> So, we got this dog. Her name is Juno and she's a beautiful black Lab mix. We don't know what the Lab is mixed with, but it was obviously smaller than a Lab. Our girl is a dainty 60 pounds.<br />
<br />
We started looking for a dog with the kids last March in Georgia. We were about a week away from getting one when Greg lost his job. All non-essential spending went out the window, including pets (and we had no idea then how expensive a pet could be). We decided to hold off until Greg got a new job.<br />
<br />
In October we moved here to North Carolina, and barely had time to revive our doggie dreams before I was diagnosed with <a href="http://www.kellogg.umich.edu/patientcare/conditions/ocular.melanoma.html" target="_blank">choroidal ocular melanoma</a> less than three weeks after we moved into our house. Obviously I was going to have to go through my five-day radiation treatment in the hospital, and then recovery from surgery, before we could think about a dog. And, of course, then it was the holidays, and things were just too hectic to introduce a dog into the household then.<br />
<br />
So it was that on January 6, we found ourselves at the local shelter. We'd looked at the online dating profiles of some of the dogs and had a few in mind, but just as in actual dating, the profiles didn't tell the whole story, and none of our prospects were right for us. But as we had walked up, we'd seen a volunteer walking a black dog she'd proclaimed to be a "real snuggler." We'd smiled politely, intent on meeting the dogs we'd identified online, but now we decided to give the snuggler a second look, and we fell in love.<br />
<br />
We'd wanted a dog for a lot of reasons. Walking a dog in a new neighborhood is a great way to make friends, for grownups and kids, not to mention good exercise. We were big believers in "pet therapy," and felt a dog would be good company and spur my recovery. Dogs are fun and cute and lovable. And we knew that if we adopted a shelter dog, we'd be saving it from a bad fate, and making room for one more dog in the shelter so that dog could find a home.<br />
<br />
And then there was the reason I didn't tell anybody. My cancer reason.<br />
<br />
I figured, if anything happened to me, the dog would comfort Greg and the kids. And also maybe help Greg find somebody new, because women stop to talk to guys with dogs. He's a handsome fella, he doesn't really need a dog as a wingman, but it's a litmus test: a woman who is drawn to a black Lab is not the same as a woman who is drawn to a little fluffy dog. And my husband doesn't need a little-fluffy-dog type. <br />
<br />
There was another cancer reason, too.<br />
<br />
About twenty years ago, my aunt and uncle's faithful dog died suddenly. Three days later, my uncle also died suddenly. There was conjecture that the dog knew somehow, and wanted to be ready at the door to greet him. A few years later, the same thing happened with the grandmother of a friend. I started to hear of other stories.<br />
<br />
So, I thought to myself: I really don't want to go, but if I had to, it would be nice to have a dog there waiting. And I picked a young dog, because, hey, I'm not in any hurry.<br />
<br />
(The thing with this cancer: it's not like other cancers. It's not like if you get to five years post treatment, you're considered cured. It apparently decides to spread whenever the hell it feels like it. Three years, five years, twelve, whatever. That's why the scans every six months. There's a roughly 80% chance that it won't come back by five years. The stats after that are a little fuzzy. I'm probably going to be okay, but maybe not. And if it comes back, it's pretty much incurable. Maybe that will change with more research, but right now--not good.)<br />
<br />
So, as I said, I picked a young dog. I'd like to stick around.<br />
<br />
And then I discovered the angry red-and-white growth on her toe.<br />
<br />
Ordinarily, I would not have been too alarmed, but I know that black Labs are prone to tumors, especially on their feet. I immediately pictured us together in a pet-friendly hospice, with matching morphine drips. (You may have noticed I am <a href="http://eyegotcancer.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-stories-we-tell-ourselves.html" target="_blank">a little prone to jumping to disastrous conclusions</a>.) I thought, well, maybe I picked the right dog after all. Maybe she knew something was wrong with me, and developed a tumor in sympathy. In my head, I began referring to the two of us as "Tumors R Us."<br />
<br />
But it turned out her growth wasn't a tumor at all; it was a rather unpleasant abscess caused by something she stepped on, probably a sliver of wood. It felt like a good sign, even if she did have to wear the Cone of Shame for a week while it started to heal. And then I had my scan, and the doctor, who probably remembers my meltdown of a few months back, was barely in the door before she said, "Your scans look great."<br />
<br />
Nobody knows what the future brings, of course. I'll have what my friend Chris calls "scanxiety" in the weeks leading up to every scan for the rest of my life. But for right now, I've got an extension for another six months, and I'll take it. <br />
<br />
Also, I won't be letting my husband walk the dog by himself. I don't need some neighborhood hussy moving in on my man. Or my pet. I'm still here, and planning to stay.<br />
<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-15385280807582166352013-04-26T15:32:00.002-07:002013-04-26T15:32:30.009-07:00RenewalWow, it's been almost three months since I've posted on this blog.<br />
<br />
Two very good things have been keeping me busy since my last post: my lovely dog, Juno, and a new job. To make a long story short, the guy whose company did my law firm website needed a writer, and he happened to notice my LinkedIn profile mentioning that I'm writing instead of lawyering now. He asked if I would like to write and edit copy for his clients and I said that I would, and it keeps me busy most days, in between jaunts to the neighborhood pond to chase geese. Sometimes I even take Juno along. <br />
<br />
I love my job. My boss and my clients are generally very pleased with my writing, which gives me an ego boost. It's also nice to be able to contribute to the household purse by doing something that I love, something that also gives me the flexibility to take my kids to the amusement park, or myself to the doctor. <br />
<br />
I've been so busy, mostly with work, that I never wrote about my visit to see Dr. M. in March. Leading up to the visit, I was too nervous to write. I was convinced that the tumor in my eye had not shrunk, and that the next step was going to be the removal of the eye. After the visit, during which the doctor said the tumor "showed significant regression," and that "he couldn't be more pleased," I was so relieved that the impulse to write evaporated. And then I buried my nose in work, which felt so wonderful and normal and un-cancery. I <i>love</i> that feeling. If you yourself don't have cancer, take a moment to revel in the sheer un-canceriness of it all. Go ahead, I'll wait. <br />
<br />
Okay. But now it's time to go back to Dr. S., the general oncologist again. It's time, on Monday, for my semi-annual CT scan, which hopefully will indicate no evidence that the cancer has spread. I tend to review such a report in the light of a six-month renewal on the lease of this body. That's what I'm hoping for: renewal, doled out in six month doses, ideally for decades. The alternative is the equivalent of an eviction notice, because the place is being torn down. Condemned, if you will. <br />
<br />
Renewal = good. Condemnation = bad. I realize that, spiritually speaking, there's another way to look at this all, but for now I'm rooting for a renewal of, as Anne Lamott calls it, this old flesh suit. I'll let you know how it goes.Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-27095177265925184992013-02-05T05:53:00.002-08:002013-02-05T05:53:43.955-08:00The Stories We Tell OurselvesThis past weekend my daughter's friend cancelled two playdates in a row. I suspect she made the dates in the first place without consulting her mother about the family's plans, but still. The end result was that my daughter was crushed. She would not allow herself to be consoled by the prospect of making brownies, or playing a board game, or any of the other things dorky moms try to do to cheer up their glum children. Her weekend was ruined. Her LIFE was ruined. She had no friends, and obviously would not ever have friends. There was clearly little point in going on.<br />
<br />
I tried to walk her back by reminding her that we only knew one thing: that Malia was not able to come over to play. Everything else was a spindly castle of doom she had constructed on that one small point of fact. The castle of doom was the story she had chosen to tell herself. I argued that she was free to tell herself many other stories, all equally true--such as that Malia wasn't coming over because she impulsively made plans without checking with her mom first, that she really wanted to come over, and would come over at the first opportunity. I told my kid that the longer we sit inside the stories we tell ourselves, the more true they become for us, until we're no longer able to see the truth of other possible stories, and we are trapped.<br />
<br />
My wisdom would be a lot more impressive if I listened to it myself. Yesterday I went to Duke Cancer Center to meet my oncologist. Not my ocular oncologist, but my regular oncologist, the one I will work with on an ongoing basis, because I am a Person With Cancer. I hadn't been thinking about that too much because I was too busy packing lunches and walking dogs and <strike>leaving the laundry in the dryer to wrinkle</strike> folding laundry, but there, in the Duke Cancer Center waiting area, it was indisputable: I was a Person With Cancer. Furthermore, so were most of the other people sitting there, and there were a lot of them. It was a perfectly attractive waiting room, with nicely upholstered chairs and couches, and tables with magazines. Apparently, I alone could see the slimy dripping stalactites and the bubbling pools of tar that indicated that we were in the anteroom to Hades, that we were citizens of the Valley of the Damned. Everyone else sat around nicely, chatting with their companions and eating the complimentary snacks.<br />
<br />
I held it together until a nurse ushered me into an exam room, but when she shut the door I lost it, I absolutely LOST it, because I was sitting in a <i>cancer center</i>, and I was obviously there to die painfully and alone while horrible people like Wayne LaPierre and certain of my ex-boyfriends were bounding about out in the sunshine, perfectly healthy and probably immortal. I wept bitterly.<br />
<br />
All of which is to say: I had worked myself into a bit of a state.<br />
<br />
The lovely physician's assistant discovered me in this condition, patted my hand and told me what I was feeling was totally normal and quite okay, but also that there was an overwhelming likelihood that I would walk out of the office under my own steam that day. She promised to send the clinic's wonderful<br />
counselor to say hello if he wasn't too busy. He was, but he stopped by anyway and acted as if I was the only person in the clinic that day, and also as if he didn't believe that I belonged in either the morgue or the state hospital. <br />
<br />
The person who really snapped me out of my carefully-crafted castle of doom was the doctor, who very calmly looked at pitiful, soggy me, and said, "You know, there's about an 80% chance that you will never need any more treatment for this cancer."<br />
<br />
Oh. <br />
<br />
I still hate being a Person With Cancer, I hate that I have to think about it at all, ever. I hate that there are other people who have to think about it a lot more, a lot more often. But I think the story I have to tell myself is that 80%. I think I just have to forget about cancer as much as it will let me, which mercifully is most of the time. I have to focus on other stories. Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-31160711799471880622013-01-30T04:55:00.001-08:002013-01-30T04:55:10.784-08:00The Dog Ate My BlogSo...how is that "writing every day" thing working out for you?<br />
<br />
The truth is, I have not written anything longer than a status update since January 3. Part of it has been the mistake of thinking that inspiration needs to precede action. Part of it has been the unwillingness to be bossed around, even by myself. Probably the biggest part has been that I've just been very depressed.<br />
<br />
And then there's the dog.<br />
<br />
On January 6, we adopted the lovely Juno Xenia from our local shelter. She's a black lab mix, lean and elegant and glossy, something like a canine Audrey Hepburn. If Audrey Hepburn wanted constant belly rubs, had massive separation anxiety, and was afraid to pee in the yard (thank you, electric fence).<br />
<br />
I knew having a dog was going to be a lot of work. We'd been thinking about it for a year. We read, talked, and studied about it beforehand (although apparently not enough). I had a rosy vision--we would whisk our raggedy pup away from the gloom of the dog version of a Dickensian orphanage. She would be our pet therapy, entree into society (everybody stops to talk to you when you're walking a dog) and beloved baby. I had ulterior motives: I figured if something happened to me, she would either stick around to comfort the family, or race through the Pearly Gates first to greet me on the other side. That happens more often than you think.<br />
<br />
But it's been more of an adjustment than any of us anticipated, and by "any of us," I mean, "me." Her separation anxiety makes it hard to leave her. She won't go into a crate, at least not willingly, and she will not stay there. She has her comfy bed, her food bowls, and a full length mirror in our master bath, so that is where we <strike>imprison</strike> leave her when we do go out. But it's an increasing pain in the ass to get her in there, because she now knows what it means.<br />
<br />
Then there's the whole pee in the yard thing. She got zapped by the electric fence and now she will barely go in the yard, much less do her business there. I suppose if I got a shock when I sat down on the can, I'd be a little reluctant to go there, too. Fortunately, she knows that when we go through the garage, get into the car, and pull out on the street, she has made it safely across the barrier and can pee and poop with abandon. So every time I want to get her to go, or even just to exercise her, it's like smuggling the damn Von Trapp family across the border into Switzerland. If the Von Trapps had muddy paws and liked shitting on their neighbor's lawn. Which, if their neighbors were Nazis, I couldn't blame them for. But I digress.<br />
<br />
So it has been a little bit of an adjustment here. Juno is 90% delightful, but the other 10% is kicking my ass. I am trying to remember when my son was three weeks old, and I was trying to nurse him. He chomped down on his food source, which happened to be attached to me, from the corner of his mouth. Picture Popeye with his pipe. Then he swung his head back and forth. Picture a dog trying to rip open the corner of a garbage bag. It <i>hurt</i>. I looked down at that tiny, precious being, and hissed, "Why do you <i>hate</i> me?"<br />
<br />
Of course, he didn't. And things got better--he now eats much more tidily and efficiently, although I literally no longer have skin in the game. I can only hope things will get better with Juno, too. Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-78765297190194369712013-01-01T11:25:00.001-08:002013-01-01T11:25:39.011-08:00Eye Survived 2012!Happy New Year, everyone! Did you enjoy all the brilliant, witty, incisive posts I wrote over the holidays? No? That is because I wrote them all in my head, and only the people who live in there got to see them, but they would like to assure you that they were fabulous. Oh, and also to ask you to send a care package of Xanax.<br />
<br />
Anyhow. I'm back. I have two New Year's resolutions. The first is to live, in both the strict literal sense, but also the more enthusiastic sense. To go out when I could have stayed in. To take the call instead of screening it, or make the call instead of putting it off. To reach out more, even when I'm not sure of a good reception. To stand out when it would be safer to blend in. I will not be attempting to skydive or ride a rodeo bull. Or ski. I will, however, eat potato chips more, and with french onion dip, the real kind, not the kind made with organic dried minced onions and Greek yogurt. I will not pass up dessert.<br />
<br />
The other resolution is to write every single day. Even Sundays, even vacations, even when I have a streaming cold. Even if it's just a paragraph, even if it's just a blog post.<br />
<br />
Aren't <i>you</i> all lucky. <br />
<br />
One of the blog posts I wrote in my head was the other day while I was out doing some post-Christmas shopping. I'm not a big shopper, because I'm not good at fashion and also because I have almost everything I need. But I was shopping, because my husband had done some of his Christmas shopping at a store that offers "Cash" as a bonus for making purchases. His annual shopping done, my husband handed over his store cash to me, and I noticed it had to be spent between Christmas and New Year's. So off I went.<br />
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It was my intention to buy either black pants or black shoes. With the exception of jeans and underwear, almost everything I wear below the waist is black. Because it matches everything, and because they don't make <a href="http://www.garanimals.com/about.php" target="_blank">Garanimals</a> for adults. Like I said: I'm not good at fashion.<br />
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I learned a few things. First, even if a pair of pants looks like black jeans, if the tag describes them as leggings, you should believe the tag. The second is that Jennifer Lopez does not have my picture pinned to the bulletin board above her desk as inspiration when she is designing clothes. <br />
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So, I did not find pants. I meandered over to the shoe section, which, like much of the store, was teeming with shoppers and looked like zombies had torn through it on their way to an apocalypse party. The clearance section was curiously untouched, and I am <strike>cheap</strike> a frugal shopper, so I headed over there. <br />
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I was in the market for some semi-dressy shoes that I could wear with pants or skirts. My (black) pumps gave up the ghost over a year ago, and I've been making do with wearing pants and flats. But I have several (black) skirts that I would like to wear to church, and the church I attend has long services that involve a lot of standing. I don't mind this, but I'm reasonably confident that I would mind it much more in stiletto heels. Jesus did not wear stiletto heels and I don't think he expects me to. So: semi-dressy, not quite flat, but not towering. Not boring, but not overly embellished. This was a challenge: in the clearance section, the cute shoes are all in a size 5, and the shoes that might actually fit you look like they were designed for burly cross-dressers who idolize Liberace. <br />
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Yet there, like a beacon shining from the next-to-bottom row, was a pair of <a href="http://www.kohls.com/product/prd-974518/dana-buchman-peep-toe-wedges-women.jsp" target="_blank">Dana Buchman shoes</a> in a size 9. Black patent leather, low wedge heel, criss-cross straps across a peep-toe. Cute. Perfect. And on clearance for just two dollars more than the amount of store-cash I had. I tried them on. They looked darling. They fit. But they weren't totally...comfortable. They fit <i>okay</i>. But not like a dream.<br />
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This was when I wrote the blog post in my head. It was about life being too short to wear uncomfortable shoes. No matter how cute, or how low the price. I walked virtuously away from the shoes, ignoring their pitiful, squeaky patent-leather voices crying out to me. I walked around the store some more, looking for something else to blow my bonus cash on. A percolator. A gravy separator. A tabletop foosball game. Anything.<br />
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But there was nothing I wanted. I wanted the shoes. The heart wants what it wants, people, even if it's not what the feet want. And even the feet <i>kind of</i> wanted them. I ambled slowly back to the shoe clearance rack. What if they weren't there? What if someone else snatched up what I had failed to appreciate? But as I approached, I saw the zebra striped box sitting demurely, unnoticed, on its low shelf. I grabbed it and sped to the checkout as if my shoes and I were on the lam.<br />
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So, what's the lesson in all this? There's supposed to be a lesson. "Life is too short for uncomfortable shoes" is a good lesson, but it no longer applies here, since I bought the shoes. Maybe the lesson is, "Answer the things that call you." Or, "Embrace the things you love, even if they're not perfect." Maybe the lesson is to extract your own lesson, or that reading this post consumed five minutes of your life you'll never get back, and what, exactly, are you going to do about <i>that</i>? I don't know. I hope there is some meaning in this post, and I hope you find it, and then walk away thinking about it. Preferably in adorable shoes that fit you just right--or at least well enough to keep you moving forward. <br />
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<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-47045458315980997892012-12-07T12:21:00.001-08:002012-12-07T12:21:55.659-08:00The Good Kind (Mostly)Was feeling good this morning, so I ran out to get some Christmas decorations and the makings of Christmas cookies. Aside from the fact that I was wearing my sunglasses, inside and out, on a rainy day, I felt...normal. I pretty much forgot about you-know-what.<br />
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Then I came home. The answering machine light was flashing, and caller ID revealed three recent calls, the second of which was from Dr. M. I would like to report at this juncture that my adrenal glands are capable of producing a full complement of adrenaline on demand.<br />
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Heart pounding, I listened to the messages. Dr. M, in his lovely way, spoke calmly and clearly and said that he had some information he'd like to discuss with me, and could I please call him back at such-and-such number, which happened to be different from the number on the Caller ID. It was very difficult to hear the number over the pounding of my heart, but he thoughtfully repeated it before the message ended. One gets the sense he's done this before.<br />
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I called. The phone rang and rang, and I was sure it was going to voice mail. Then Dr. M. said hello. He must have given me his cell number. Because, in case I haven't mentioned it, he's the kind of doctor who doesn't leave his patients a scary message on Friday afternoon, leaving them to simmer in their own anxieties all weekend.<br />
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Remember when I said there were essentially <a href="http://eyegotcancer.blogspot.com/2012/12/the-dichotomy.html" target="_blank">two kinds of ocular melanoma</a>? They're called Class 1 and Class 2. Class 1 is the better kind to have; Class 2 is more likely to metastasize. Turns out Class 1 is subdivided into 1a and 1b. Class 1a is less likely to metastasize than 1b, but 1b is a lot closer to 1a than to Class 2.<br />
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I have Class 1b. What that means, as the doctor explained: survival rates at three years out are 93% (vs. 98% for 1a). At five years, survival rates are 79%. Not "there's nothing to worry about," but, as the doctor put it, certainly better than the flip of a coin. And way better than, "You're doomed."<br />
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I don't, apparently, have the laziest tumor known to man. But also, I don't have the most aggressive one. To put it in layman's terms, this tumor might be just ambitious enough to think about looking for a job, but it's going to be a job where it wears a plastic apron and a paper hat. A job, in short, that isn't going anywhere.<br />
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I can live with that. At least, dear God, I hope so. Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-19463934727198991332012-12-06T11:02:00.001-08:002012-12-06T11:15:48.450-08:00You Get What You GetThe nice thing about self-pity is that it gets boring for the person wallowing in it almost as quickly as for the people who have to listen to it. So, I'm back. I'm sure I'll slide into the Pit O' Self-Pity at some point, especially if I get bad news. But there's no point in wasting today.<br />
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As my son's preschool teacher often (oh, so often) said: "You get what you get, and you don't throw a fit." Not everyone can have the blue M&M or the piece of pizza with the most pepperoni. Life throws random stuff our way. Sometimes awesome, sometimes shitty. There's always someone better off and someone worse off. Always. It's not worth pondering for too long. It is what it is. Many people find that an annoying expression, but I find it honest, and useful. It's a polite way of saying, "There are some things you can't change, so don't mindf*ck them to death. Just move on."<br />
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So, today I paid some bills, did some laundry, finished stamping and mailing all the Christmas cards. I went shopping and planned a nice dinner featuring one of my favorite entrees, "le poulet rotisserie de Costco." Everything sounds fancier in made-up French. Also, did you hear me? <i>I sent all the Christmas cards. </i>On December 6. Because I am awesome. And also because last week I could do nothing but watch endless reruns of Little House on the Prairie and address Christmas cards. But mostly because of the awesome part. <br />
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Yes, I'd say I'm feeling a little more like myself today. Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-32771252795139432542012-12-05T05:59:00.002-08:002012-12-05T05:59:38.182-08:00The DichotomyI have been a little extra-rattled since I decided to educate myself about the genetic analysis of the type of cancer we're dealing with here.<br />
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In a nutshell: if the tumor has both copies of Chromosome 3, it's pretty unlikely to metastasize. This means, with the exception of scans a couple of times a year, life pretty much proceeds as normal. If it has one copy (monosomy 13), it's got about a 66% chance of metastasizing. If it metastasizes, it will kill me. Not may. Will.<br />
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That's a pretty stark dichotomy we've got there. It's either really good news, or really bad news. And it's coming.<br />
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As an Orthodox Christian, my prayer is, of course, "Thy will be done." But look, God's no dummy. He knows what's in our hearts and minds. He knows how I want this to play out. Heck, <i>you </i>know how I want this to play out, and "all-knowing, all-seeing" isn't even on your resume, am I right?<br />
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Hence, the spiritual dilemma: I am trying to accept whatever my fate will be, trusting that it is God's will, that, even if painful or difficult, it will work out for the best. But my heart is screaming and raging: please, God, don't take me away from my family. I want to see my kids grow up, marry, have kids of their own. I want to hold my husband's hand as we grow old together. I'm not ready. I know, even in the worst case scenario, I would probably have a few years left. My heart says that's not enough (is it ever enough?). I don't want to make my kids, as young teenagers, watch me die. I don't want to break my husband's heart and leave him alone. I'm not afraid of where I'm going, but I can't help grieve for what I'd be leaving.<br />
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The news is coming. Today, tomorrow, in a week, in two weeks. It will be good, or it will be bad.<br />
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If it's bad, how do I make the most of the time I have left?<br />
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If it's good, how do I make the most of the time I've been given? Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-81585842827918257092012-12-04T11:02:00.001-08:002012-12-04T11:02:34.763-08:00A Little Good NewsI went for my one-week follow-up appointment with Dr. M. today. I love Dr. M., in case I have not mentioned that. He's confident, competent, and compassionate, the sort of guy you feel you could trust with your life. Which is excellent, as that's exactly what I have to do.<br />
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The appointment went as well as it possibly could. The doctor says the eye is "healing beautifully," and he's also very pleased with my vision. I'm cleared to drive whenever I feel like it, and I'm cleared to return to my normal activities like housework <strike>at the end of the week</strike> in April, 2036.<br />
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We are still waiting on the genetic analysis of the tumor, which will tell us more about how aggressive it is, and thus how likely it is that it would show up somewhere else. That would be very, very bad. So, while rejoicing with me about today's good news, please continue to pray with me that the tumor is lazy and not terribly interested in making anything of itself. Perhaps its mother is calling it from some petri dish somewhere, comparing my tumor unfavorably to the cousin who graduated at the top of his class and made all the medical journals. I'm hoping my tumor is too lazy to even pick up the phone, and lets its sniping mother fill its answering machine tape. Maybe my tumor is too baked to even care. I hope so.<br />
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2655416685487429497.post-8180340564875378102012-12-03T05:07:00.003-08:002012-12-03T05:07:49.407-08:00The Nicest Thing Anyone's Ever Done for MeMy neighbor Annie came over Friday morning and brought bagels and kept me company for an hour. She's really been incredible, especially considering she's only known me for a couple of months. She's brought meals, watched my kids, offered to drive me to appointments and clean my house. She's been there for me in a way I had no right to expect, but for which I'm incredibly grateful.<br />
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There are friends who are there for you.<br />
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And then there are friends who will <i>go there</i> for you. Wherever "there" happens to be. Even if it requires a two-day drive.<br />
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Annie noticed toward the end of our bagel date that I looked a little tired, and urged me to take a nap. So when she left, I dutifully trudged to the bedroom to relax. Deciding to check Facebook first, because it had been almost a whole hour, I sat down at the computer, when the doorbell rang. I figured that Annie had forgotten something, or that the Jehovah's witnesses were back. I peered out the window next to the door. The face looked familiar: not Annie, but definitely not a Jehovah's witness. I opened the door.<br />
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And there stood two of my friends from Michigan.<br />
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At first it was like when you're a little kid and you see your schoolteacher in the grocery store. You don't recognize them, because the context, to your little brain, is so totally wrong. But it was undeniable: there was Sharon, and there was Chris. And they were <i>at my house.</i><br />
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My initial thought was that they had just spontaneously decided to road trip, which would have been cool enough. But it turns out that this was a carefully orchestrated caper, that my husband was in on it, and that it had been planned for weeks. Other friends, who had wanted to come but had other obligations, put together gift baskets filled with Michigan delicacies: Vernors ginger ale, BetterMade potato chips, Sanders fudge sauce, Tim Horton's coffee. Specially made t-shirts, candles, homemade cookies. A few mildly obscene items, because these are not the ladies from the church auxiliary. Lots of wine. Rum and a pirate costume. A pie, with a vent hole in the shape of an eye. <i> </i><br />
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After ascertaining that they had not come to visit because my death was imminent, I relaxed and enjoyed the best surprise of my life. We didn't do much of anything special: ordered takeout, went to the farmers' market, played cards, made inappropriate comments every few minutes. Nobody gave me the double hand-clasp and stage-whispered that they knew I was going to be <i>just fine</i>, while looking like they were trying to decide internally what to wear to my funeral. I just had the best time all weekend.<br />
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When they left Sunday morning, they left quickly, so I didn't have time to get all teary-eyed. Having them around made me realize how much I had missed them these past 18 months. The only thing to do at this point is to make sure this tumor is eradicated and my vision is restored as fully as possible.<br />
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Then, I roadtrip. Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16261436575594375081noreply@blogger.com1