No big long note tonight. Just a quick request for prayers for an easy and effective chemo session on Tuesday. Thank you so much - your prayers make a huge difference in my life.
Love,
Marie
Monday, March 12, 2012
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Pechet Family News
To everyone who has been so amazing during this whole cancer journey and just great partners in life in general....
I share the news below, about my father-in-law. He was truly an amazing man and I feel so lucky to have had him in my life.
Thank you for being there, always, for all of us. I apologize if you are getting this twice.
Marie
Dear Friends and Family,
We write to let you know that Dr. Maurice Pechet, beloved father, husband, physician and teacher, died in his sleep on Monday night, March 5.
There will be a memorial gathering of friends, colleagues and family this coming Friday, March 9, from 5-7 p.m., to which everyone is invited. The gathering will be held at: Lowell House Junior Common Room, 10 Holyoke Place, Cambridge, MA 02138.
There will be tea, sherry, refreshments, and an opportunity for us to celebrate Maurice in the House that has meant so much to him for nearly 70 years.
For those who wish to send something, in lieu of flowers we would ask you to make a donation to the Maurice Pechet Fund for Lowell House, made out to Harvard University, and sent to: Lowell House Office, Lowell A22, 10 Holyoke Street, Cambridge, MA 02138
We hope to see you this Friday.
- The Pechet Family
We write to let you know that Dr. Maurice Pechet, beloved father, husband, physician and teacher, died in his sleep on Monday night, March 5.
There will be a memorial gathering of friends, colleagues and family this coming Friday, March 9, from 5-7 p.m., to which everyone is invited. The gathering will be held at: Lowell House Junior Common Room, 10 Holyoke Place, Cambridge, MA 02138.
There will be tea, sherry, refreshments, and an opportunity for us to celebrate Maurice in the House that has meant so much to him for nearly 70 years.
For those who wish to send something, in lieu of flowers we would ask you to make a donation to the Maurice Pechet Fund for Lowell House, made out to Harvard University, and sent to: Lowell House Office, Lowell A22, 10 Holyoke Street, Cambridge, MA 02138
We hope to see you this Friday.
- The Pechet Family
Monday, February 27, 2012
Light in the darkness
Once again, I want to say thank you for your prayers and good wishes. We got to take a 10-day ski vacation last week, and I know I would not have had the energy to enjoy this wonderful trip without you sharing your energy so generously.
I am going into chemo tomorrow (Tuesday), so if you don't mind, would you say a quick prayer for a relatively easy and very effective chemo session? Thank you!
Lately, when I wake up in the morning, I immediately thank God that I am awake. I am not kidding. And then, when I can get up and move around, I give thanks for that. There have been plenty of days when I could not, so I'm trying to remember that even that seemingly little thing is a gift, not to be taken for granted.
I feel like I know so many people either dealing with or affected by cancer. This week alone, two of our friends with advanced disease got bad news, and another went in for surgery to try and get off his feeding tube. This is nasty crap.
Also, a couple of weeks ago, Jeffrey Zaslow died in a car accident. He was a columnist for the Wall Street Journal, and he wrote several books, including The Last Lecture with Randy Pausch. Jeff impacted the direction of my life on three separate occasions, and we were in occasional email contact that was always uplifting to me. He was concerned for my health; I don't think that either of us suspected that he would go first.
Why I get to still be walking around is a mystery to me. Life feels more and more random. As it does, I do find peace by trusting that Someone Else is in charge. Frankly, when I try to put myself in charge, I don't always make the best choices. So now, when I am worried and can't sleep, I literally hand over my worries to God and tell him that He is to hold them for me overnight. I usually add that it would be great if He solved them, but, if He didn't, I would take them off HIs hands in the morning.
Often, I forget to take them back. Whoops. When I do take them back, I ask for guidance on getting through them. Sometimes I wonder if He thinks about me the way I do my kids: Can't she do this on her own? Does she need help from me for every little thing?
Yes, i do.
Then I go about my day. I literally look for tiny miracles. Here is one: I called my friend on Sunday to say Happy Birthday. I'm horrible at remembering birthdays but working on that. Anyway, I happened to step outside with the phone. The crescent moon shone brightly, along with two bright "stars" nearby. I'm not a regular stargazer, a nature-lover or an outdoors person, but this was breathtaking to me.
She told me that it was Venus and Jupiter lined up with this very cool and bright crescent moon. Amazing. The number of things that had to come together to make that happen - for me to even step outside, notice the sky, and be talking with someone who knew what it was - just made my day, and best of all, I got to share it with an old and dear friend.
Those stars were so bright that everything dark just faded into the background.
Your support is like that. It is bright and shiny and breathtaking. It makes all the darkness fade into the background, and it feels like a miracle to me that you are there, hanging in there with me, staying on this path. Thank you for sharing your light and love.
I hope you se light in your life, and many blessings in your week.
Marie
I am going into chemo tomorrow (Tuesday), so if you don't mind, would you say a quick prayer for a relatively easy and very effective chemo session? Thank you!
Lately, when I wake up in the morning, I immediately thank God that I am awake. I am not kidding. And then, when I can get up and move around, I give thanks for that. There have been plenty of days when I could not, so I'm trying to remember that even that seemingly little thing is a gift, not to be taken for granted.
I feel like I know so many people either dealing with or affected by cancer. This week alone, two of our friends with advanced disease got bad news, and another went in for surgery to try and get off his feeding tube. This is nasty crap.
Also, a couple of weeks ago, Jeffrey Zaslow died in a car accident. He was a columnist for the Wall Street Journal, and he wrote several books, including The Last Lecture with Randy Pausch. Jeff impacted the direction of my life on three separate occasions, and we were in occasional email contact that was always uplifting to me. He was concerned for my health; I don't think that either of us suspected that he would go first.
Why I get to still be walking around is a mystery to me. Life feels more and more random. As it does, I do find peace by trusting that Someone Else is in charge. Frankly, when I try to put myself in charge, I don't always make the best choices. So now, when I am worried and can't sleep, I literally hand over my worries to God and tell him that He is to hold them for me overnight. I usually add that it would be great if He solved them, but, if He didn't, I would take them off HIs hands in the morning.
Often, I forget to take them back. Whoops. When I do take them back, I ask for guidance on getting through them. Sometimes I wonder if He thinks about me the way I do my kids: Can't she do this on her own? Does she need help from me for every little thing?
Yes, i do.
Then I go about my day. I literally look for tiny miracles. Here is one: I called my friend on Sunday to say Happy Birthday. I'm horrible at remembering birthdays but working on that. Anyway, I happened to step outside with the phone. The crescent moon shone brightly, along with two bright "stars" nearby. I'm not a regular stargazer, a nature-lover or an outdoors person, but this was breathtaking to me.
She told me that it was Venus and Jupiter lined up with this very cool and bright crescent moon. Amazing. The number of things that had to come together to make that happen - for me to even step outside, notice the sky, and be talking with someone who knew what it was - just made my day, and best of all, I got to share it with an old and dear friend.
Those stars were so bright that everything dark just faded into the background.
Your support is like that. It is bright and shiny and breathtaking. It makes all the darkness fade into the background, and it feels like a miracle to me that you are there, hanging in there with me, staying on this path. Thank you for sharing your light and love.
I hope you se light in your life, and many blessings in your week.
Marie
Monday, February 13, 2012
Mind-body connections
Once again, I send my deep gratitude for your prayers and good thoughts. They make a huge difference in my life.
I can be even more specific. When I started doing chemo four years ago, I was frequently exhausted. Not initially, but the effects of chemotherapy are cumulative, so over time, I felt chronically exhausted. Each day, I would seem to be fine, then hit a wall and need to sleep immediately. My energy levels were generally low, and I never felt like myself.
With your prayers, and with your sharing your energy, I now find that I have full, good days! Quite a few of them, strung end to end. Sure, there are some yukky days in there. Chemo is a rough road. But your prayers and your positive energy truly makes it so much different for me. Thank you. And if my kids knew, they would say thank you, too. It helps to make me a more present mom, and an easier person to live with.
At my last treatment (two weeks ago), I got to see two friends who are also patients. One is a friend who was diagnosed at the same time that I was, and the other is a new friend. She is actually a friend of a friend. She was newly back to treatments - this is her fourth diagnosis, all different cancers. No matter how long I do this, so many stories make me say, "Oh, CRAP" inside. She was bravely and barely holding it together; I recognized in her eyes that she was in that dark scary place we all went at one time or another. I hate that I know that place. I hate that she had to be there. I am lucky to know that there is light on the other side, and hope that somehow, I can shine that for her.
As we pulled our chairs into a circle to chat, I thought, there has got to be a better place to socialize than Dana Farber. But, we do the best with what we have.
Eventually, we were each called to get weighed, see our doctors, or enter the infusion room, and we went our own ways.
Because my chemo session prior to this one went so well, I decided to duplicate my actions from that day. I even ate the same thing for breakfast, though that was a waste. While I was sitting in the infusion chair, before my bags of chemo even arrived, I started to feel sick. I used every technique I know to avert it. I tried telling myself that nothing was even happening yet, which was true. I told myself that I was fine. I closed my eyes and envisioned myself outside Dana Farber.
But my body decided to protest anyway, and I finally gave in. Good-bye breakfast. A few times over. As soon as I could swallow, I took a couple of anti-nausea pills and the nurse knocked me out with an injection of some other drugs.
Before I went unconscious, my friends Lisa and Marilyn were visting. I could tell I wasn't thinking clearly, but had no control over myself, and little memory of it later. I'm told that I said things like, "Don't worry, the flight attendant will heat that up." What????
I am constantly amazed by our mind-body connections and realize there is so power that we, or I, don't yet tap into. For me to get so sick without even any drugs, without a physical reason - it is almost as if there are cues that do this that lie outside of the physical impact. I would love to enter the realm where we can manage that energy.
In the meantime, I do need to rely on the antinausea drugs. Then again, also at that appointment, I learned that they will no longer be giving me Emend, one of the drugs that is KEY to helping manage my nausea. If I want it, I need to get a prescription, pick it up myself and bring it to my appointment. Has to do with insurance coverage. Not mine specifically, but most, so they are just changing the way they do it for everyone.
So for now, I need to make sure that I remember to bring that pill, at least until I can manage to avert that anticipatory nausea with the powers of my mind.
Although I myself cannot seem to connect my mind and body in some ways, I remain in awe that you can channel your thoughts, feelings and prayers and help to make life not only more bearable, but more enjoyable. Thank you.
The chemo party starts at 1:15 on Tuesday (the 14th) with a blood draw, and infusion around 3:00.
Happy Valentine's Day!
Lots of love,
Marie
Monday, January 30, 2012
Living stories
Thank you for your continued prayers and positive thoughts. It really is amazing to feel their impact, and I feel so blessed to have your support. I go into chemo again tomorrow (Tuesday) morning. The ball starts rolling around 7:30 a.m. and I should be hooked up around 9:45 - I would love your prayers for a good chemo session, successfully treating the tumors and no nausea or other side effects.
There were a few great things in this two-week block.
During chemo, I get a drug called Irinotecan. Some people, including me, have a reaction to that drug. Shortly after they give it to me, I become panicky and want to pace and crawl out of my skin. Soon after that, I get intense vomiting. So, there is an drug they can inject (called Atropine) that is supposed to counteract that response. However, Atropine makes my heart race and it, too, makes me vomit. The trick, it seems, is in the timing. If we can time it so that they two hit each other at the right time, no vomiting.
This last chemo cycle, we got the timing right and they gave me an additional anti-nausea drug that knocks me out. Being out of it doesn't help me when I need to leave the building, but, hey, everything has its price. I was so glad not to get sick.
AND, I didn't throw up for the next few days. I did spend those days in bed, but not by the toilet. Woo hoo!
I rebounded well enough to be able to travel with Tiron and the kids (and a friend) to Disney World, which was a real upper.
And, best of all, I didn't get my usual debilitating stomach pains. THAT was awesome!!!
So, two whole weeks with no vomiting and no hospitalizations. I cannot tell you how thrilled I am. And because those stomach pains are so regular, and no one can figure out what causes them, I have to assume that all your positive energy and prayers are helping enormously. Thank you.
Tonight, I will participate in a panel discussion, sponsored by the WBUR CommonHealth blog, focusing on patient stories. For a long time now, I've thought about the stories that I hold of our children, like their birth stories, the kinds of babies they were, the cute things they did as they grew. I worry how they will know those stories if I am not around. There must be a way to keep those stories alive and vibrant. I considered videotaping them, but that just isn't my style, plus I can't imagine doing it without crying. I try to write them down, but the words feel two-dimensional on paper.
Noodling on all this, I started to notice the stories around me.
For example, we recently had dinner with a group of seven couples and their 20 children. At one point, I sat back and watched the dynamic among all the people there, and listened to several conversations.
In one group, a couple told a funny story about their day and connected it back to how they originally met. Clearly, their friends were already familiar with the story of how they met, and everyone laughed at the connection between the stories.
In another group, one friend asked a husband and wife about their weight-loss challenge. Apparently, everyone there already knew that the challenge started with the wife wanting to lose weight, and the husband joining to support her, then actually losing more.
In another circle, a mom settled an upset among a group of the kids by saying, "Ben is just like that. Go and play with Phoebe instead."
All these interactions showed how they were familiar with each others' stories and used that knowledge in their interactions. These folks live in the same community, their children go to the same schools, and they participate together in sports and other activities. The families carpool and the children have sleepovers and are as comfortable at their friends' homes as they are in their own. They all vacation together as well. This is a tight-knit group.
As I listened, I thought that if something (God forbid) happened to one of the parents in that group, any of the others could fill in the stories for the children in a way that would keep it alive and give it depth. Even without that, they are keeping each others' stories alive.
I don't exactly live in that kind of community. But I do encounter people every day, and am suddenly aware that, every time I interact with someone, they are telling me a piece of their story, through their words and actions. As I look at the communities I am part of, I am struck by the bonds of our shared stories: the parties we hold in our own little neighborhood; school events; the births, deaths and celebrations through our church; the annual celebrations of our families; regular dinners with friends. The list goes on.
It is an incredible privilege to hold these stories. I hope that when I re-tell their stories, it is with warmth, love and good humor.
And then, I have to trust that, when someone tells my story, or my children's stories, they will do the same.
Many blessings for your week ahead, as your personal stories unfold. Thank you for sharing them with me, and for being part of mine.
With love,
Marie
There were a few great things in this two-week block.
During chemo, I get a drug called Irinotecan. Some people, including me, have a reaction to that drug. Shortly after they give it to me, I become panicky and want to pace and crawl out of my skin. Soon after that, I get intense vomiting. So, there is an drug they can inject (called Atropine) that is supposed to counteract that response. However, Atropine makes my heart race and it, too, makes me vomit. The trick, it seems, is in the timing. If we can time it so that they two hit each other at the right time, no vomiting.
This last chemo cycle, we got the timing right and they gave me an additional anti-nausea drug that knocks me out. Being out of it doesn't help me when I need to leave the building, but, hey, everything has its price. I was so glad not to get sick.
AND, I didn't throw up for the next few days. I did spend those days in bed, but not by the toilet. Woo hoo!
I rebounded well enough to be able to travel with Tiron and the kids (and a friend) to Disney World, which was a real upper.
And, best of all, I didn't get my usual debilitating stomach pains. THAT was awesome!!!
So, two whole weeks with no vomiting and no hospitalizations. I cannot tell you how thrilled I am. And because those stomach pains are so regular, and no one can figure out what causes them, I have to assume that all your positive energy and prayers are helping enormously. Thank you.
Tonight, I will participate in a panel discussion, sponsored by the WBUR CommonHealth blog, focusing on patient stories. For a long time now, I've thought about the stories that I hold of our children, like their birth stories, the kinds of babies they were, the cute things they did as they grew. I worry how they will know those stories if I am not around. There must be a way to keep those stories alive and vibrant. I considered videotaping them, but that just isn't my style, plus I can't imagine doing it without crying. I try to write them down, but the words feel two-dimensional on paper.
Noodling on all this, I started to notice the stories around me.
For example, we recently had dinner with a group of seven couples and their 20 children. At one point, I sat back and watched the dynamic among all the people there, and listened to several conversations.
In one group, a couple told a funny story about their day and connected it back to how they originally met. Clearly, their friends were already familiar with the story of how they met, and everyone laughed at the connection between the stories.
In another group, one friend asked a husband and wife about their weight-loss challenge. Apparently, everyone there already knew that the challenge started with the wife wanting to lose weight, and the husband joining to support her, then actually losing more.
In another circle, a mom settled an upset among a group of the kids by saying, "Ben is just like that. Go and play with Phoebe instead."
All these interactions showed how they were familiar with each others' stories and used that knowledge in their interactions. These folks live in the same community, their children go to the same schools, and they participate together in sports and other activities. The families carpool and the children have sleepovers and are as comfortable at their friends' homes as they are in their own. They all vacation together as well. This is a tight-knit group.
As I listened, I thought that if something (God forbid) happened to one of the parents in that group, any of the others could fill in the stories for the children in a way that would keep it alive and give it depth. Even without that, they are keeping each others' stories alive.
I don't exactly live in that kind of community. But I do encounter people every day, and am suddenly aware that, every time I interact with someone, they are telling me a piece of their story, through their words and actions. As I look at the communities I am part of, I am struck by the bonds of our shared stories: the parties we hold in our own little neighborhood; school events; the births, deaths and celebrations through our church; the annual celebrations of our families; regular dinners with friends. The list goes on.
It is an incredible privilege to hold these stories. I hope that when I re-tell their stories, it is with warmth, love and good humor.
And then, I have to trust that, when someone tells my story, or my children's stories, they will do the same.
Many blessings for your week ahead, as your personal stories unfold. Thank you for sharing them with me, and for being part of mine.
With love,
Marie
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
CT scan shows tumors shrinking and other answers to prayer
Thank you for your prayers today, and all the power of the FB prayers as well (and thank you for keeping me anonymous!). They definitely did something because...
1. for the first time in recent memory, I did not vomit during chemo and
2. though I was wheeled out of the hospital, I am currently, actually able to be sitting up on our sofa.
And, your prayers directed toward a good CT scan made an impact - both my tumors are smaller, with no new ones showing, either! I was bracing myself for any news and very happy to hear that. Thank you for all the energy you sent that helps to shrink these. I do believe that our energies can work together to make something happen, both intended and unintended.
---------------------
Other news: On January 30 at 5:30, I will participate in a panel discussion following a short film called Outside In. The film is about a woman who was diagnosed with advanced cancer and not given long to live. It is now 10 years later - she will be there, too. Her journey is quite interesting!
The event will start at 5:30 at WBUR on Monday, January 30. It’s free, but seats are limited. Please RSVP to events@wbur.org.
It would be wonderful to see you if you can make it.
---------------------
Now, for another miracle story. I can't remember if I shared this with you went it happened. It felt so surreal that I wasn't sure how to to talk about it.
Today, between appointments at Dana Farber, I wanted to download some songs onto my iPhone. I couldn't get anything to download, so I asked my techie husband to help me either do that or help me to find the songs that were already on there.
"There are no songs on there," he said, looking through my phone. "Not even one."
I typically use my phone for calling, texting, doing email and taking fuzzy photos. But I knew I listened to music on it once before, and I decided that that music had to be on here.
So - I reminded my husband of a particularly challenging week in the summer. I was lined up to have this big surgery, kept getting hospitalized, and had unexplained bleeding. I prayed to God to thank Him for His presence but I could use a little reminder that He is there. And I went to get an ultrasound, followed immediately by a visit to a gynecologist. The sign in their office said no cell phones, so I turned my off.
Leaving the doctor's office, i took my cellphone out of my purse, turned it on and put the earpiece in my ear. I heard voices in the earpiece, and assumed it was just interference. I fished in my purse for my keys, zipped up my handbag, and then repositioned the earpiece for my walk to the car. I intended to make a couple of phone calls.
But the chatter was still there, and when I stopped to listen, more closely, I heard James Taylor's You've Got a Friend. Well, that was interesting. I looked at my phone - nothing was playing or accidentally hit. I looked at the music list - nothing there. Well, the song was making me feel good so I stood there and listened through to the end. That was nice. Then, before I could even move to make my phone call, another song came on, equally as engaging and feel-good.
After this second song, I walked to the car, listening to the third. I sat in the car, still listening, and decided to drive home. I continued to listen the entire way to what appeared to be a playlist made just for me.
No one was home when I arrived, so I relaxed on the sofa and continued listening. The "busy" piece of me wondered when this would end. But I knew that I couldn't recreate it, so I stayed. And sure enough, after exactly one hour of play, the music stopped.
I walked around feeling slightly puzzled and mostly blessed. I figured that Tiron could solve it. I didn't want him to burst my bubble, but the scientific side of me wondered how this playlist might happen. He couldn't figure it out, and I haven't downloaded tunes since.
Until today. I really wanted to listen to music. But it wouldn't download, and my husband confirmed that none were there.
I feel like I got that little miracle when I need it, and the reminder when I needed it.
This is one of the many reasons that I believe in the power of prayer, and that simple miracles appear when we need them. I am still awe-struck by this, and, it makes me happy. And I want you to know that these kinds of things are possible.
Love to you,
Marie
Monday, January 16, 2012
Focusing on the good
Thank you so much for your messages and support. During chemo week, I was up for reading messages but it was typically difficult for me to write back. Reading them helped me so much, and I apologize if I haven't gotten back to you. I so appreciate the notes, sentiments, support and prayers. I ask for them again as I go into chemo tomorrow (Tuesday) and as I get the results of my latest CT scan.
On Mondays before chemo, I get a bit crazed as I try to plan ahead for the week. I can't predict when I will be up and about again, so I try to make sure that the whole week is covered, for meals, kid activities, errands, etc. I feel like so many days are not my own. My month looks like this:
- Six days when I am getting chemo (one day in the hospital, and two with the mobile pump, every other week).
- One to two extra recovery days that are sometimes needed (she says optimistically)
So, for roughly two weeks each month, I make no plans, because I have no clue how things will go. Each month, I try to squeeze four weeks of activities into my two good weeks, and I hope for more "bonus" days.
But then, I can't even always count on those.
For example, I have been operating at a lower level since December 31. When we went skiing over New Year's weekend, one of the women in our group bruised her toe. It appears that I am more competitive than I like to admit, because, soon after, I also bruised the same toe. Not on purpose, not a big deal, but still.
Later that night, I got a blocked intestine accompanied by lots of pain and vomiting, so my husband threw everything and everyone into our minivan and essentially flew home from Vermont. That ran its course, and all ended well.
Two days later, I had chemo, which was, well, chemo. As a bonus, it knocks out my white cells, so my bruised toe became an infected toe. I would normally let this run its course as well, but a friend of mine died, not from his cancer, but from an infection that set in. So I sent a mental thank you to him for again helping me out with that warning, and as soon as I could drag myself out of bed (three days after chemo), I showed that toe to a very kind and smart doctor (resident). He then showed it to the attending physician and - BONUS - a friend of ours happened to be working there that day! He is also very smart and kind (obviously, two traits I value in doctors). Greater than even his wise counsel, his very presence was uplifting and enriching for my soul.
I walked away with the infection drained, a prescription for antibiotics, an appointment to see a podiatrist, and a much brighter outlook on life.
But wait - the action doesn't stop here!
I had a few good days (woo hoo!), then the intestinal pain returned, along with 12 hours of vomiting. I work hard to make it through these episodes without medical intervention, but that night was not a pretty sight. I was in too much pain to move, and the kids were terrified. My husband was very concerned. There were moments, even hours, when I would have done almost anything to end that pain, including go to the hospital, but I couldn't move my body to the car. I could barely drag it to the bathroom.
Besides, I knew that the price of those painkillers would be a few days in the hospital. Those would be more lost days. Another incentive to stick it out at home.
Usually, to ride through the pain, I rely on brief, painless moments that arise spontaneously. Those breathers remind me that it is possible to be pain-free, and they help me to regroup so that I can indeed ride out the pain if and when it returns. I focus on those pain-free moments, and love it when those moments turn into one minute, then several minutes...it starts to feel like a trend line on my way to feeling completely better. I also find that if I focus on the pain, it feels worse and longer. If I focus on the pain-free spaces, I feel even a bit better.
Days after this attack, I was able to get up and around for longer periods of time, although the pain continued. We planned to return skiing for Martin Luther King weekend. My husband was now hesitant to go. I couldn't help to pack or prepare for the trip. Who knows how I would ski, manage at the mountain, take care of the kids, or whether I would get sicker. But I insisted that we all go.
Given all this, you might think I am a hard-core skier. I am not. I am an adequate skier. I do love it more now that it is such a challenge to even do, and, when I think of the stuffy hospital air, I deeply appreciate the fresh, cool, mountain air. I adore the social aspects of skiing, having everyone all together for a full weekend. And I want the boys to become good skiers, especially since skiing and ice skating helps to provide a happy winter existence in New England.
So, we went. My stomach issues were getting better but still present, so I was unable to ski at all. We truly enjoyed our time with our friends (we are sharing a ski house), and the kids had fun skiing and tubing with their dad and the gang, and ordering hot chocolate at a bar.
Our friends are part of a large, tight-knit community who generously welcomed us, and we went to 40-person party where everyone knew each other so well that it actually felt smaller and more intimate. I had to leave the party partway through (just to manage the pain in another room) but it was great just to be among everyone.
I think I dragged us all skiing because we could go. In the midst of all this craziness, I want the kids to know that we can still follow though on at least some plans, and that there is joy and activity in the world if you make the slightest effort to look for it. Even if I am hobbled over the entire weekend and searching for every small bit of time without pain, it makes me feel alive to be among friends, doing normal things to whatever extent that I can. Sometimes, I even find that I can do more than I expected or enjoy it more than I anticipated. And when everyone was getting ready to go skiing each morning, even if I wasn't going, I could feel that rush of anticipation just as I did when I first started going on ski trips with friends in my early twenties.
We are now at home, my stomach is still cramping but I have more and more moments of good, and I'm really hoping it recovers well enough to handle chemo tomorrow!
I hope that, when you feel moments of frustration, sadness, anger, despair, etc., you are also able to look between and beneath those feelings to unearth and feel the peace, joy, love, laughter, calm and blessings that can co-exist with them.
Much love,
Marie
On Mondays before chemo, I get a bit crazed as I try to plan ahead for the week. I can't predict when I will be up and about again, so I try to make sure that the whole week is covered, for meals, kid activities, errands, etc. I feel like so many days are not my own. My month looks like this:
- Six days when I am getting chemo (one day in the hospital, and two with the mobile pump, every other week).
- One to two extra recovery days that are sometimes needed (she says optimistically)
So, for roughly two weeks each month, I make no plans, because I have no clue how things will go. Each month, I try to squeeze four weeks of activities into my two good weeks, and I hope for more "bonus" days.
But then, I can't even always count on those.
For example, I have been operating at a lower level since December 31. When we went skiing over New Year's weekend, one of the women in our group bruised her toe. It appears that I am more competitive than I like to admit, because, soon after, I also bruised the same toe. Not on purpose, not a big deal, but still.
Later that night, I got a blocked intestine accompanied by lots of pain and vomiting, so my husband threw everything and everyone into our minivan and essentially flew home from Vermont. That ran its course, and all ended well.
Two days later, I had chemo, which was, well, chemo. As a bonus, it knocks out my white cells, so my bruised toe became an infected toe. I would normally let this run its course as well, but a friend of mine died, not from his cancer, but from an infection that set in. So I sent a mental thank you to him for again helping me out with that warning, and as soon as I could drag myself out of bed (three days after chemo), I showed that toe to a very kind and smart doctor (resident). He then showed it to the attending physician and - BONUS - a friend of ours happened to be working there that day! He is also very smart and kind (obviously, two traits I value in doctors). Greater than even his wise counsel, his very presence was uplifting and enriching for my soul.
I walked away with the infection drained, a prescription for antibiotics, an appointment to see a podiatrist, and a much brighter outlook on life.
But wait - the action doesn't stop here!
I had a few good days (woo hoo!), then the intestinal pain returned, along with 12 hours of vomiting. I work hard to make it through these episodes without medical intervention, but that night was not a pretty sight. I was in too much pain to move, and the kids were terrified. My husband was very concerned. There were moments, even hours, when I would have done almost anything to end that pain, including go to the hospital, but I couldn't move my body to the car. I could barely drag it to the bathroom.
Besides, I knew that the price of those painkillers would be a few days in the hospital. Those would be more lost days. Another incentive to stick it out at home.
Usually, to ride through the pain, I rely on brief, painless moments that arise spontaneously. Those breathers remind me that it is possible to be pain-free, and they help me to regroup so that I can indeed ride out the pain if and when it returns. I focus on those pain-free moments, and love it when those moments turn into one minute, then several minutes...it starts to feel like a trend line on my way to feeling completely better. I also find that if I focus on the pain, it feels worse and longer. If I focus on the pain-free spaces, I feel even a bit better.
Days after this attack, I was able to get up and around for longer periods of time, although the pain continued. We planned to return skiing for Martin Luther King weekend. My husband was now hesitant to go. I couldn't help to pack or prepare for the trip. Who knows how I would ski, manage at the mountain, take care of the kids, or whether I would get sicker. But I insisted that we all go.
Given all this, you might think I am a hard-core skier. I am not. I am an adequate skier. I do love it more now that it is such a challenge to even do, and, when I think of the stuffy hospital air, I deeply appreciate the fresh, cool, mountain air. I adore the social aspects of skiing, having everyone all together for a full weekend. And I want the boys to become good skiers, especially since skiing and ice skating helps to provide a happy winter existence in New England.
So, we went. My stomach issues were getting better but still present, so I was unable to ski at all. We truly enjoyed our time with our friends (we are sharing a ski house), and the kids had fun skiing and tubing with their dad and the gang, and ordering hot chocolate at a bar.
Our friends are part of a large, tight-knit community who generously welcomed us, and we went to 40-person party where everyone knew each other so well that it actually felt smaller and more intimate. I had to leave the party partway through (just to manage the pain in another room) but it was great just to be among everyone.
I think I dragged us all skiing because we could go. In the midst of all this craziness, I want the kids to know that we can still follow though on at least some plans, and that there is joy and activity in the world if you make the slightest effort to look for it. Even if I am hobbled over the entire weekend and searching for every small bit of time without pain, it makes me feel alive to be among friends, doing normal things to whatever extent that I can. Sometimes, I even find that I can do more than I expected or enjoy it more than I anticipated. And when everyone was getting ready to go skiing each morning, even if I wasn't going, I could feel that rush of anticipation just as I did when I first started going on ski trips with friends in my early twenties.
We are now at home, my stomach is still cramping but I have more and more moments of good, and I'm really hoping it recovers well enough to handle chemo tomorrow!
I hope that, when you feel moments of frustration, sadness, anger, despair, etc., you are also able to look between and beneath those feelings to unearth and feel the peace, joy, love, laughter, calm and blessings that can co-exist with them.
Much love,
Marie
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
