Live Life!

I don’t come here much anymore.

More so than in the past I am finding it very hard to find the words to express what it is I feel and think in a way that does not make me sound like a neanderthal.  “Me good.  Me happy.  Me eat pizza” …Though I am not sure if neanderthal’s actually had the capability of such language…or pizza for that matter.  Well, I definitely know they didn’t have pizza, but I digress.

My thoughts get lost along the way to the tips of my fingers that long to type them out and breathe them into some sort of physical existence.

Life is good.  Really good.

I am in remission.  Finally.

Well, let me go back.   I’ve been in remission since after my first round of Hyper CVAD, however, as of this past June, I am officially OFFICIALLY….In remission.  Meaning no more chemo in whatever form.  No maintenance, no nothing.

My last bone marrow biopsy came back clean.  My Oncology team was super happy.  I’ve done extremely well.  I only have to come see them now every three months.

I have spent this past summer really trying to “live life”.   This has been my new mantra.  I like to yell it and throw my hands up in the air like I’m on a roller coaster.  Very metaphorical.

I’ve gone on trips, attended events, spent time with loved ones and appreciated every…single…moment.

Because folks, it’s all about the NOW.  and GRATITUDE.

I jumped into Burlesque with a fire and determination to, well, not suck at it.  I’ve had quite a few ladies in my town really light the fire under my ass too really be creative, to really let go, and to really just own it.  I don’t want to be another faceless burlesquer in this city, (though I have a feeling that I still probably am.)  However, I know that when I leave the stage after performing, I have put on one hell of a number and the audience has really enjoyed it.  They may not remember my name per se, but they will remember that girl who threw out the tootsie rolls or had the giant googly eyes on her ass.

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I’m letting go of hooping.  Meaning, that I don’t feel it has a purpose in my life anymore. I have such conflicting feelings about this, but at this time, the feeling of disappointment, frustration and exhaustion that I feel inside the hoop outweighs the feels of freedom, connection and spirituality.  (I mean, I had felt enough of that going through cancer.) I just feel like I can’t keep up with all that is happening in the hooping community.  My body feels like it will never be able to re-learn what it once knew yet alone learn all these flippity doo’s, escalators, and off body spastic spinny spins. It’s such a shift in mindset, because I never hooped to “impress”, yet it seems like there is such pressure for there to be.   It’s a new generation of Look at Me!

Where’s the flow?

Ehhh, whatever.  Maybe I’m just old.  Get off my lawn!

I’m sure at some point I’ll probably pick it up again.   Cause that’s what I do.  I hardly ever just quit something.  Entirely.

So that’s basically it.  For now.

Doing my thing.

Living life.

 

 

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A Matter of Time.

The thing about cancer is that it always looms.  Even when you beat it to it’s core, there is still that worry that it will spring forth new life and wreck havoc again.

I feel anxious and jittery these days.   For many reasons actually.  But this has been one that sits with me, compelling me to do so much more with the time I have been given, because you never know.  You just never know.

Time.

It is something that has become acutely aware within me.  I fear that there is not much left.

Everyone else sits calmly.   I can not.   They seem content with the motions.  Or in no hurry.  Priorities elsewhere.  Meanwhile, time…life, is slipping by.

If not now then when?

 

A Burdence

Most my life has been spent feeling as though I am a burden to someone.

Having gone through cancer….hasn’t lessen that feeling.

I don’t know when I will return to full capacity.  Yet I feel that there are expectations and assumptions about my return to “normalcy”.

I don’t even know what is normal anymore.  Not that I ever really believed in a “normal”.

Truth be told, I just don’t know what to do with myself now.

I don’t feel as though I am ready to jump back in full swing.  One, my energy wanes from time to time.  I get sick on occasion.  My immune system is weak causing me to pick up a cold every other week.

I know during my treatment all I bitched about was getting back to my life and the things I loved to do.  Yet now, my life…those things I loved to do have become tiresome.  Difficult.

This rant is nothing new.  Just the same old blah blah blah that plagues me from time to time.  Yet, when it comes to others, and their sense of time, It just feels like more is expected of me.

And I just don’t know what to expect of myself just yet.

And I don’t want to expect anything really.

Because I just don’t know.

I just don’t know where to go after all of this.

And it’s the scariest, most depressing part of this journey thus far.

Jackyl

A lot of time has passed since I’ve last posted (Does anyone read this anyways?)

So much time in fact, that I am nearing the one year anniversary of my “D” day.

The day I was diagnosed with cancer.

 

It’s a strange feeling.

There are times when I am at the cancer center for a check up or blood work, and I am transported back in time when my life revolved around those hospital stays.

It makes me almost feel lost again.

The thought of me getting back to “life” somehow feels adrift.  There is this feeling that I should be on my way back up to the third floor for another round of treatment.  Another week of lasix, heavy chemo, and major fatigue.

Funny what you get used to when you bitch about not wanting to get used to something.

Maintenance has been slow going.  Every two weeks I am pulled off of something due to my white blood cell count being to low still, or my liver enzymes being to elevated.  At the present moment I am on nothing.  Which worries me slightly that I will have to stay on maintenance longer than anticipated, but my Oncologist assures me that I am doing just fine and not to worry.

And really, I’m not all that worried.  But it does sit in the back of my mind.  That all the progress I’ve made in the past few months, could be taken away from me once again.  Just like that.  One day I will wake up and there will be the petechiae all over my legs.  The incredible fatigue that was once so encapsulating.  The ache in my joints that left me immobile.  Being dumped on death’s doorstep once again.

Ok.  So I was never on the doorstep.  More like on the block.  But I got the fuck out of there, and I know I would get the fuck out of there again if I had to.  But I’m not going back there.

Ever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Move Your Feet

 

Not much has been going on since my last treatment of Hyper Cvad.  Well nothing medical.

I started maintenance and everything seems to be ok.  Though I do still feel tired at times, but not the extent of what it once was. ( Go Hemoglobin!)

Other than the fatigue and my liver enzymes being slightly elevated from the oral chemo, (which I was told to stop for a few days to see if they level out or if they need to adjust the dosage.) I’ve been doing pretty good.

Actually really pretty good.

As per previous bitch and whine fests, I am still “cleaning up” cancer’s shit fest, and expect I will be cleaning up for some time.

As fleeting as it is, time is all I have these days.

I’ve been trying to incorporate some work out activity, but I’ve noticed that my legs feel stiffer when I move.  I walk with the gait of a 80 year old who has just had a hip replacement.  The backs of my ankles just feel tight and strained and unwilling to bend to the fluidity that is needed to put one foot in front of the other and walk.  It’s as if all of a sudden I am living out my nightmares of not being able to move.  More specifically, to walk.  Those dreams of feeling like my feet are cemented to the ground and it takes every ounce of will to lift them.  However, in real life I push those damn legs to do what they were evolved to do.  Move.

Because of the intensity and severity of the chemo, lack of bone density and osteoporosis has began to show in my femurs.  A regiment of Vitamin D has been added to my cache of pills I have to take on the daily.

I have been trying to incorporate more physical activities to my day.  Working out specifically or walking, though the dedication and discipline of the work outs are not sticking.  Some days I’m on it….other days I’m just too tired and would much rather lay on the couch reading and eating a box of Milk Duds.

And Milk Duds aren’t doing anything for my ass and thighs.

I’ve been hooping here and there, but nothing of great extent.  My body still feels heavy when I try to perform certain moves.  My legs especially.

Even though I have grown quite distasteful towards my physical appearance, I have decided to join in my troupe’s upcoming burlesque show.  I won’t be doing a hooping number, as I am no where up to par with my hoop abilities, so I will be doing a traditional bumps and grinds number.  I’m actually quite excited about the idea of the number, so I hope I can execute it in a fun, silly and flirty way.

Now if I could just get excited about my stomach, butt & thigh ripples, that would be even awesomer.

 

 

 

Enterococcus faecium

 

It was the wind down to Memorial weekend.  I had been quite busy, pushing myself a bit physically.  I had just assumed my tiredness was due to my over exertion and the probability that my hemoglobin had dropped, but as I sat there with everyone, trying to stay in the moment, something felt off for me.  Just not right.

At first I thought it was the pizza I ate.  It didn’t seem to be agreeing with my stomach.  I got up to use the bathroom and then went and laid down hoping that I could recharge a bit. After a few minutes I rejoined the group, but noticed I felt very, chilled.  I thought it was sort of odd that I kept having continuous shivers, sending my skin into explosions of tiny goosebumps.  No one else looked or seemed to be chilled.

But I have always been sensitive to the slightest movement of air dancing across my skin.

Maybe that was all it was, but the longer I sat there, the more the chill was sinking deeper into my body.

I headed back to the safety of my bed and curled underneath the blankets, trying to trap any heat that may escape.  In my head, I tried to ration all the possibilities to why my body was reacting the way it was.  Was it just shock from pushing myself too much the past three days?  Was this just my body’s way of saying enough?  Was the effects of the pizza the last straw and sending my body into shut down mode?

I took my temperature.  It’s a little high.  Half hour later, it’s still climbing.  I’m praying it doesn’t shoot above 100.3.  Anything over that and it’s a necessary trip to the hospital. I still can’t get warm.

One last check and the thermometer goes off with urgent beeping, informing me that I have crossed the threshold into the range of the 100’s.  101.8 to be exact.

Not good for someone with a compromised immune system.

We are on our way to the ER.

They start me on some generic antibiotic in the Emergency Room, which they kept me on for a few days after being admitted back onto the third floor of the Seidman cancer center. Sending me back to the Cancer floor is typical protocol for anyone in my position.  I had to be monitored and watched.  Make sure the infection didn’t spread or get worse.  It was determined that I had caught some sort of bacterial infection that was in my blood. What it was exactly, they weren’t sure of.  They had to wait for results and run more tests.

For the most part I felt fine.  Fatigued, but that is nothing new for me. However, I could not escape the chills that would grip me in the early morning for the first few days I was there.  It was almost clockwork. Every morning around four in the morning, it would start.  I would shiver and my teeth would chatter.  I would turn the heat of my room up into the 80’s, crawl under all the blankets and shake violently.  I’d contort my body as much as possible, trying to absorb any body heat I was losing back into myself.  Burrowing under the blankets.   Waiting for the cold to pass so I could once again drift off to sleep.

By the time the nurse came in for my morning meds, it felt like a sauna in my room.

In my head, I figured I would be in the hospital five days at the most.  Get the antibiotic, and get out.   But the bacteria couldn’t be so easily identified.  They knew what family it belonged to, but couldn’t pinpoint which strand it was and what it’s particular sensitivities were.  So until they could figure that out and what to send me home on, I was stuck in the hospital.  For most of my stay, I either napped or walked around the floor and grounds.  I can tell you that by day five, I was becoming incredibly bored.  There’s only so much day time T.V. one can stand.

In the meantime, because the infection was in my blood, my PICC line had been compromised.  They felt best that they just pull it out and stick an IV in until they could figure out what to do with me.  I was never so glad to see it gone, but also was quite appreciative of the ease the PICC offered.  Now instead of just effortlessly pulling blood from the PICC, I had to be poked and prodded every time someone needed blood samples.  Which was pretty often.

The first IV blew.  The second one had to be placed near the crook of my arm because no other veins seemed viable or accessible.  Any time I bent my right arm in the slightest it would pinch and burn, so I would have to try and keep it straight as possible.  This made doing some activities cumbersome, mostly because I am right hand dominate.

It turned out that whatever strain of bacteria I had only had a sensitivity to a specific type of antibiotic that had to be administered through IV.   It was decided that I would need to get another PICC line to go home with so I could administer the antibiotic.

Of course the thought of having to get another PICC wasn’t pleasing.  The nurse had a hell of a time getting the damn thing in.  My veins were too small.  The one she did find, closed up.  It’s hard to relax when you have someone poking at you and trying to shove a tube up your arm.  Another one she tried was wrapped in nerves which sent a jolting electric pain down my arm into my fingertips.  The stinging and burning of the lidacain for every attempt.  It wasn’t fun.

I was sent home with my new PICC and home health care came out to show me how to administer the antibiotic.  It really wasn’t that hard.  All you had to do was make sure that you didn’t push all the liquid through at once, timing the plunges with in a two minute span.  By the time I was finished with the antibiotic 9 days later, I began to feel a lot more peppy.   The Dr. even pulled the second PICC out on my last visit.  So as of today, I am PICC free.

I have to say that even though it was a sucky experience in the grand scheme of a sucky event, I have been quite lucky in regards to the lack of infections that could have over taken my body during this whole ordeal.  Too often I read stories of others going through what I am going through, and they seem to be afflicted with some bacteria or another on a continuing basis.  Or the bacteria isn’t responding to the treatment.  Considering that this was only my second time really coming down with anything, I’d have to say that I did pretty good through out this whole shit show that cancer has tried to drag me down into.

I almost feel that cancer was like “Hey!  This girl isn’t going down!”  and tried  sending it’s goons out to scare me into submission.  Break my knee caps so to speak so I’d pay up and give in to it’s whims.

Silly cancer.  It obviously doesn’t know who it’s messing with.  It’s gonna take a lot more than some bacterias to bring this girl down….and even then, I’m not going down with out a fight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s Just the Drugs Talking…..Right?

 

I have steroids wrecking havoc on my system.  I can’t seem to get away from them.

I would be all done with them except they are the only thing at the moment keeping a tedious and excruciating pain away.

Days later I feel the emotional effects.  Which are just as worse as the pain.

Lose Lose.

I’m tired of the disgust towards my body I am carrying.  It’s becoming obsessive.  And scary.

I thought working out was suppose to help you fee better?  Instead I just feel more depressed and unsure.  I don’t know what the hell I am doing.  How do I know if what I am doing is effective?  How many times do I need to do this?

I just want pizza.

Either way I look at it, restriction comes from somewhere, and some part of my being suffers regardless.  (though typing that and thinking about how I am “suffering” from lack of pizza is quite ludicrous.) But my relationship with food is dangerously close to becoming unhealthy.  Every time I eat, I want to cry and the shame just washes over me.  I feel every calorie turn to fat and settle into the blubbery recesses of my ass.

This is what cancer has done to me.

 

And I hate it’s fucking face.

 

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