I have found it interesting that even three years later, October 9 looms. I’ve been all-consumed with what the date has been for the last many days, even into the last few weeks. “Are we there yet?” “Are we there yet?” “Are we there yet?” The words have been on repeat in my head.
“Nope, not there yet. It’s still not even October.”
“It’s only October 2.”
“It’s only October 3. You still have time.”
“Amber, take a deep breath, it’s only October 4. There are still many hours and a few days to go.”
October 9, the first day of chemo, was such a surreal day (but more on that tomorrow). The day before…well, that was surreal, too. It was a Sunday. I was exactly a month post bilateral mastectomy, my port [the medical device buried under my skin with a catheter threaded directly into my heart via my jugular] had been in place for only 2 weeks, and I knew before chemo even started what day my hair was going to die. The countdown was brutal—and that Sunday before, the hours seemed like eons and with each tick of the second hand, my stomach grew more anxious and my heart…it vacillated between deep grief and steely fortitude. Chemo was going to kill the cancer cells that were trying to kill me and at the same time, it was going to destroy living, healthy cells that were simply innocent bystanders. The unknowns were at their most intense levels as the early morning hours of October 9 grew closer in range. Alarms were set to take pre-chemo meds, meds that I’d learn all too soon how dreadful they’d make me feel. I remember eating dinner that night wondering how I’d feel about eating dinner the next night…when was the nausea supposed to hit? When would I feel dead inside? What will it feel like to have my port accessed. Did I even just think that thought? “Port.” “Accessed.” Eww. That just sounds dreadful. How does it even work?
I didn’t. Even. Know. That. How will it all go down?
Yesterday, as I was posting for October 7, I read the years’ past posts. Last nights, “36 hours away” brought a knot to my gut. I read it smelling the smells, hearing the sounds, tasting the tastes and feeling the feels of that evening, a mere 36 hours away. It was so interesting to me how close it felt last night. And it’s interesting today that it has felt so close today. How I’ve been so preoccupied by the date these past several weeks. How 10/9 looms just after 9/8’s surgery which followed 8/7’s very first breast exam appointment.
My heart is heavy tonight as heavy as it was 3 years ago; instead of weighty unknowns, it’s with weighty memories—memories of realities that took me to the end of myself and brutally beyond. And tonight, I hold a weighty both+and: I hold a deep gratitude that I walked that road and am here now. I also hold a deep determination to let the road continue to transform me. I will never be the same and that is both beautiful and tragic. October 9 looms. . .
*Post 917
The Next Page :: 10/8/17 :: Post 41
The tears have come easily today. The weight of tomorrow is heavy. The inevitability of this next step is mere hours away. My checklist of meds to take tonight and tomorrow in preparation for toxins being flushed through my veins is here. My last thing to do is pack my Chemo Survival Kit before I go to bed.
Accepting this has been and will continue to be one of the most difficult things in my story. Wrapping my mind around the inescapable place I am in, sitting in the unavoidable tensions, walking through more dark unknowns…
Tomorrow morning Chris and I will drop off our girls at school and head to Rose Medical Center where I will check in at the Rocky Mountain Cancer Center at 9:40am. A nurse will come get me and take my vitals….blood pressure, temperature, pulse and oxygen saturation in my blood. Then I’ll be taken to the lab area where a lab tech will access my port site and take 3-4 vials of blood. They will then send me back out to the waiting room while they test my blood and while I wait for my oncologist to meet with us. Then a nurse will call me back into an exam room where my oncologist will meet with Chris and I about the appointment ahead and whatever else we will talk about (I don’t actually fully know). Then from there I will be taken to the Infusion Area and the process of chemotherapy will begin. (They told me to expect around an hour after check-in for chemo to start. So….maybe around 10:30, 10:45 or so, things will get going.) I will have 4 drugs given to me via IV into my port. Each drug will be infused one at a time and each will take at least an hour if not an hour and a half. I was told they go extra slow the first day because they have to monitor my body’s reaction. The drugs I have coming tomorrow will begin with Perjeta – an antibody chemotherapy drug that will target specific cancer cells that have a specific protein receptor on it and disrupt the cell division of it. After the Perjeta, then I will have Herceptin which is another antibody chemotherapy drug that targets the same cancer cells that Perjeta does, but Herceptin binds to a different part of the cell and essentially starves it to death. After Herceptin, then I will get Taxotere. This is a chemotherapy drug that is plant based and is designed to attack any cell that has specific rapidly-dividing tendencies. Taxotere will find those cells and kill them. This type of chemotherapy does not know the difference between a normal rapidly-dividing cell or a rapidly-dividing cancer cell…which means that the normal cells in my body that rapidly divide (blood cells, mouth cells, stomach and GI tract cells, and hair cells) will also die along with any cancer cells. After Taxotere, I will then get Carboplatin. This drug, similar to Taxotere, will target any cell in my body that is rapidly-dividing (normal or cancer) and destroy it. It has different components, but together with Taxotere, the cancer cells will theoretically be killed off in their entirety. That completes the IV infusions. Then, before I leave, they put a patch on my skin – this is my fifth drug Neulasta. This patch has a self-injecting mechanism that will inject me with a drug 27 hours after application that activates my bone marrow to grow white blood cells, red blood cells and platelets (the things that are destroyed during chemo).
So….all together, we will be there tomorrow for 6-7 hours. Once done, then we come home…and I will spend the rest of the week documenting how my body reacts, what side effects happen and when, managing any side effects, flushing my system with tons of water, doing a foot detox, and taking it day by day .….and waiting for my hair to start falling out.
All of this is happening because I am the one. I have to experience chemotherapy. I have stage 3 breast cancer. Whoa.
Even on the eve of this next page of this chapter of my story, I still sit in some disbelief that tomorrow will come. As I said yesterday, I know the logical and factual side of what it will look like…I can expect these things to transpire. But I have no idea how it will feel to walk it. I know tonight – I’m scared. Anxious. Nervous. Ready. Dreading. Curious. Angry. Stuck. Depressed. Fiery. Grieving. Grateful.
The fog is dense and I cannot see the next step. I pray I can sleep. I pray I can rest.
Realist :: 10/8/18 :: Post 390
This side of heaven is just hard….there doesn’t seem to be relief.
Around every corner there is difficulty. Every turn brings challenge.
If it’s not one thing, it’s another.
And good gracious is it wearisome.
This is not the cynic in me. This is the realist.
But, once again, even in the hard that life will inevitably continue to bring, gratitude can still be interwoven into every bit of the hard.
October 8 of 31 :: 10/8/19 :: Post 753
Volleyball in October means Dig Pink Nights…where volleyball teams across the country honor those who have battled and are battling breast cancer. It’s really amazing.
As a volleyball coach since 2005, Dig Pink Nights have always affected my heart and there was a slight heaviness to the night because of the purpose behind the pink balloons and pink signs and pink roses and pink streamers. Inherently I knew the depth of the honor for those that had to struggle through cancer, but at no point throughout the years did I ever think the pink would end up being for me.
Tonight, at Caty’s volleyball game across the city, the opponent was hosting their Dig Pink Night and 95% of the gym was pink. The crowd came in donning their best pink, the streamers and balloons and uniforms, all pink. I think even the cords that held the referees’ whistles were pink.
Tonight, it kicked me in the teeth. The emotions were difficult to hold back. The pink was overwhelming. And the purpose behind the night – much deeper. Tears welled up and my heart pounded as I held the difficult memories of my battle, a war that I’m still waging. My spirit aching with exhaustion because it takes massive endurance to fight this fight.
“We invite anyone who has been affected by breast cancer to come to the middle of the court.”
As I walked to the middle of the court to receive my rose, my volleyball kid holding my hand, tears streamed down my face. This was way harder than I expected.
Breast Cancer Awareness Month…
…Day eight – Battling can look a lot of ways, sometimes it’s obvious on the surface – baldness or the gray complexion of chemo or the radiation burns, but other times the battle is deeply internal where endurance is waning and resilience feels impossible.