Mr. Finian goes to Pre-K

Anyone that knows Finian knows that he can be... a lot. He has big, big feelings. He lets you know about these big feelings - and it's usually your fault. 

He has been so happy this summer with outdoor time, smashing things with hammers, searching for bugs, swimming in the pool (yelling "1, 2, 3 applesauce and jumping in) and learning how to ride a bike without training wheels. 

Finian is our COVID quarantine child. He was shy of a year when we locked down and I stopped leaving the house for work. It's hard to know whether it's his personality or the circumstances - but it's fair to say he's been the most challenging. Lots of separation anxiety when he was in the nursery at the school where I teach. Lots of stranger danger. Lots of general mayhem!!! He has very little patience for us as parents and like I said, his feelings are big. 

Big feelings can also be positive, though. We always thought he was a touch angry before he could talk - simply because he really wanted to express himself. He cries deeply when his feelings are hurt and often needs to mend with a hug before he can carry on. He wants personal connection for every minute of the day. 

All of these things made us feel really apprehensive about preschool. We imagined tearful tantrums in the parking lot and constant dread about the next school day. Part of it was my own making because I signed him up (excitedly) for the full day program. A lot of our friends said, "oh man, how's he going to do?!?" 

I am happy to report that now, in our third week of school, he's doing wonderfully. His teacher is fantastic and engaging - it takes a special skill of distraction to get those nervous 4 year olds in the door. We have had a few mornings where Finian says, "I'm nervous" or "it's going to be a long day". I've also bribed him with the promises of bubble gum and the Dollar store after school. I'm at that point of parenting where I don't care if that's the right approach - it's what works. 

The best part has been some pretty epic stories about school. Straight up lies. 😂 First, he had a friend named Drip Dropp (which is an awesome hip hop name) - but now if we ask about Drip... he gets mad that we mention it. Because DUH, that wasn't real. He also supposedly has a friend named Jake in his class that can also drive. And someone named Grim... who I think is really Graham. 

My friend Sharon can bear witness to the true Finian when he is let out of school at 2:35. First, he was nice and said hello. Then asked if I had watermelon gum. (I did not.) He then threw his backpack on the ground, said "I'm not leaving. Go get me gum." I was able to drag him to the car where Sharon was waiting. Somehow, magically, in sync with the universe, she had watermelon gum!!! And he was happy again until he got annoyed with us for "making him smile". 

So, we can't really win for long - but we're winning in the school department for now. 

And we're really in his best season. This little guy loves Halloween and we're making the rounds to every retail establishment to press buttons, look at creepy spiders and buy costume accessories. 

The Before, The After and Now

It's been a little over two weeks since my double mastectomy and I'm feeling ok. The day of surgery -  I was nearly hyperventilating as we checked in at our arrival time, I didn't think the "after" would be anything close to ok. I was in full mourning mode and couldn't believe this was real life. Couldn't believe I was willingly walking into a hospital and signing papers that said yes, I'd like my breasts removed. 

I think I said this about chemotherapy before - that the high volume of people being treated is a little shocking. SO so busy. And the same can be said for the surgical wing at Roswell Cancer center. My surgeon, I believe, had at least three big procedures and I was the last of the day. We saw her talking to the family of a woman getting a lumpectomy and then sat with our nerves firing for the next couple of hours. They call you back to get you changed into a gown, talk to a nurse, pee in a cup (to make sure you're not pregnant!) And then lie there, listening to rows of people talking with their families and their doctors. 

It's a bit much to sit there for a few extra hours, waiting with dread. Looking at the familiar shape of my body under clothes... Not really knowing how to officially say goodbye. 

(Because we're nosy and because we had no choice for privacy - we listened intently as the woman one curtain over was talking with her sons about recovery. She wanted to know if she could have her nightly beer and to eat the leftovers of her anchovy pizza. Gregory may or may not have called her Grouchella... Which gave us some levity in such a depressing situation. I do hope that woman was able to get her beer, at least maybe a day later.) 

Unfortunately for them but fortunately for me, I have several friends that have gone through this surgery or one like it. I asked lots of questions about how they prepared mentally and how they said goodbye to a part of themselves. These women had such good advice and are on the horizon, over this terrible hurdle and that gives me hope. I wrote two letters to my breasts - one that I kept and one that I burned in our firepit. I talked to them about the approximate 30 years we've been together and how I'm sorry they had to be sacrificed for the greater good. I said thank you for the years of service they provided as I breastfed 5 children. Thank you for all of those hours spent cradling my children close to me. 

I was tearful as we waited for my turn to be wheeled into the surgical room and be put out of consciousness. My surgeon drew a photo of where my incisions would be and made sure I was content with my decision to remove both breasts. I believe Gregory had the harder day, sitting there, waiting for updates.

My surgery went as well as possible. They removed all breast tissue and only 3 lymph nodes. They do an immediate test for evidence of cancer and there was none in my sentinal nodes - so my surgeon only took ones that looked suspect. My later pathology confirmed that there was no remaining cancer so I can breathe a sigh of relief. 

My surgeon gave these updates to Gregory around 5 pm but I didn't get transferred to a room until about 9 pm. My memory is very hazy, but I do know I was crying A LOT coming out of anesthesia. The nurse was handing me tissue after tissue and every time she said, "We'll get you upstairs and to see your husband"... I would break down again and say "...sob...my husband...sob". I was like a little kid who just wanted to see someone familiar. 

As for recovery: the pain is not as bad as one would expect. The most annoying part of the process is the drains put in to help alleviate pressure. They sting and are very uncomfortable. I'm sure the swelling and risk of seromas were worse before the common practice of putting in drains... But it sure as hell isn't pleasant having open wounds on your chest with drainage tubes that you end up wearing in the world's worst fanny pack. (They are pictured below.) 

About five days after surgery, the bulb at the end of one of my drains was no longer holding suction and I could hear the whistling sound nurses had warned us about. I must have dislodged it during sleep because (1) I was sleeping like C-3PO and (2) I haven't slept successfully on my back in about a million years. We went into the weekend clinic where one of the surgeons was able to ummm, push it back in (🤮) and give me another stitch to help hold it in place. 

The drain on my left side was removed last week and I should get the last one removed at my next appointment on the 11th. I thought it would be horrible to have it removed - but they basically pull it out with your exhale of breath and the site closes up as a scab. 

I've been using these pink microbead pillows to stay comfortable as I can feel my nerve endings working again. Most of my chest area is numb, which sucks for the future, but is helpful in recovering from major trauma. My muscles are tight and while I'll work this out with some physical therapy, it's unknown how this will feel going forward. Most of my right underarm is completely numb and while my skin feels like it's chafing, it's not - I think that's just a side effect of my skin trying to heal itself. 

Here I am, with a new shape to my body, tingling nerves and about a quarter inch of hair on my head - trying to face a new reality. I honestly feel better than I expected. What's done is done - I can't turn the decision over and over in my head because it's, well, over. I did it. I'm still me. 

My chest certainly doesn't look the same, with some long dark scars - but it's still my skin. If you can imagine two deflated balloons... Well, that's me right now. All of this skin has been saved to give me options for reconstruction later. Unfortunately I have to look at a work-in-progress for maybe the next six months - but I trust my medical team when they say this is the best course. I still need radiation which causes big changes to your skin. They can't "fix" me and risk my skin changing or devices like implants or expanders being damaged or rejected by my body. Everything needs to heal before I can move into my next surgery. 

I'm sure I'll write another post about my research into what I think I'll do next. Some surgeries are quicker than others and while I'm still healing, I am not in the best place to make good decisions about the next time I want to be cut open. It's still hard to see the accurate "after", that comes after all of the bruises and scars fade. All I have is now, where every day - I get a little bit more movement, a little more distance from the emotional pain and I can still write this blog and express my feelings. 

Mother of the Year

 When I have a less than stellar moment of parenting, I always hear the lyrics to "Little Girls" from Annie circling in my head. Miss Hannigan sings, "...I'm an ordinary woman, with feelings...So how come I'm mother of the year?" (Serious Annie fans, I hope you are also singing along right now!) I might as well be wearing silk pajamas, ten dangly necklaces and letting my frizzed out bedhead hair catch the string hanging from a solitary lightbulb. Because sometimes I feel no better than dear Miss Hannigan.

 If you are super-judgey and living under the pretense that you are an awesome parent 110% of the time, feel free to read no further and continue on with your amazing life. 

 Whilst on our vacation in Minnesota - we were in the early preparations of bedtime, a process that can sometimes last for hours. I was down in the basement with Ayla and Jackson. Teeth were brushed, nails were clipped and general messiness was being wiped away. We came back upstairs and I asked, "Where is Elliot?"

 Then: DING DONG, the doorbell rang.

 Where was Elliot, indeed?

 Only walking across the street, pushing an empty stroller, sporting a bloody toe. And a poopy diaper. Not to mention he was the happiest toddler in the world.

 A kind neighbor saw him strolling along and thought we might want him back.

 Elliot managed to slip past three older cousins, two aunts and one uncle. He let himself out the back kitchen door, down the deck stairs, around the house and was apparently ready to explore the neighborhood. Cue music: "... Someday I'll land in the nuthouse, with all the nuts and the squirrels!"

 Luckily, it wasn't dark yet and Elliot hadn't made it further away from the house. Luckily, I still have custody for God's sake! I am lucky for a thousand and one reasons and don't think for a second that I don't realize this could have been a much scarier situation.

This is where I would like to keep this guy all day long!

 I share this story to hopefully lower the bar of expectations for parents of young children. They are insanely curious and always two steps ahead of us! Don't beat yourself up if you sometimes look at your life and wonder if you would be better suited as an evil ward of an orphanage, stirring gin in your bathtub.

Why a Boudoir Photo Session Is Good for the Soul

 In the midst of recovering from surgery and making appointments and trying to fulfill summer wishes for a family of 7... I realized it's been six months since my initial diagnosis. I know chemo felt like a lifetime, but has it really been six months? The hardest (or most helpful, honestly) part of life is that it just keeps MOVING. Kids have deadlines for school. We are fundraising for dance. We are trying to travel as normal and not miss *everything* just because my treatments are one hit after another. 

I think back to how I felt in those first weeks and how fearful I was of (1) straight up dying and (2) that my body was going to be completely ruined. I was ready to have major surgery to "solve" my cancer problem. So tearfully, I googled boudoir photographers in the area. Might seem stupid or vain to some - but I wanted photographic evidence of who I was in February 2023. Little did I know that I'd get chemotherapy first and then the surgery I was so trying to avoid. 

First, let me give all of the credit to Elizabeth Snyder photography. I knew she was the one I needed when she returned my initial inquiry with a call stating that she also has had cancer and a bilateral mastectomy. Who else could understand my concerns more? I drove to her house in early March ready for a full makeup and hair session, several outfit changes and the mental preparation to take photos in my underwear! During that time, any drive in the car involved tears and I cried the entire way there, wondering if I was going to look like the wreck I felt inside. 

She made me feel so comfortable and safe and beautiful. It was more than an emotional oasis. Even in the most normal circumstances - I recommend everyone take the time for themselves. I haven't taken photos of just myself since senior year 1998! 

Elizabeth's mission is to empower women and her expertise was very impressive. She took hundreds of photos - so when it came time to choose which images I wanted for my photo book, it was tough. My timeline with her is so oddly connected to steps along this cancer treatment. I chose the photos after chemo was completed - looking at myself with all that hair! Feels like yesterday and a million years ago. I picked up my photo book on the day my doctor confirmed that a mastectomy was the final surgical recommendation. How strange to look at my pictures, where I look normal and healthy, when I was about to basically shred my self image to pieces. 

I could write an entire post about how I'm feeling post-mastectomy. The emotional connection I had to my natural body; the mental gymnastics I am doing to witness what I see in the mirror now - knowing I can't go back, but the future does have options. I will write that post... but for now, I'm just expressing gratitude that my body IS resilient and I took the time/money to memorialize how I looked (and felt) at a very serious crossroads in my life. 

 

The Kindness Factor

 My experiences with mammography has been short lived, but intense. Over the past six months I have had five mammograms and two breast MRIs. The mammogram area at Roswell Park is like a depressing spa. They try to make your wait time minimal and usher you into two types of waiting areas. First is a locker room where you change into a gown and wait to be called. A TV is usually blaring some sort of daytime talk show and women are pleasant to one another. I talked about the Barbie movie and paper dolls with a sweet woman. Then you are called back to either get your mammogram or biopsy, you are either squished or poked and then wait in another area for radiology to check on the images. 

At the end of July, when I was in full SCANXIETY mode, I was sitting in this second waiting room because the radiologist wanted to get a more detailed image. Every woman is either sitting or standing in their blue robes, some make eye contact and some are in their own world. I talked with another woman about how she thought radiation was the worst part of her treatment, the scary stories of skin peeling off or burning. We share half smiles and I wonder about each persons' story. Are they five years out of treatment? Have they just gotten a diagnosis? Are they only at the cancer center because they are high risk? 

 I don't know if it's my headscarf that draws people to talk to me, or reach out - but I've been stopped by more strangers recently than while I was actively in chemotherapy treatment. While I was sitting, ignorant of the next news I was going to be thrown into, a woman walked by me and stopped. She put her hand on my shoulder, kind of from behind my back. 

"It will be OK."

Because she was still touching me, it was hard to turn around and face her completely. But she continued to tell me, "It's going to be okay. I saw you in the waiting room and I'm praying for you."

"I promise, it will be ok."

Then she said, "I hope you don't mind that I talked to you" and I muttered something like, "Of course, I appreciate it." Then she was on her way. I hadn't seen her in the waiting room or come out of any of the offices - she really could have been a mirage. But her kindness broke me for the day. It wasn't until a stranger started to comfort me that I started to cry. All of the worry, the anticipation, the underlying current of misery. The thoughts of mortality, of all I cannot control. 

Sometimes the bad news gets me. I got through the news of my diagnosis until the word "Chemo" was stated. I got through most of my first appointment at Roswell until they talked about putting the port in my chest. I got through chemo without crying until the halfway point. I am generally holding it together... that is, until someone is kind. I've cried more over nice packages sent to my house than anything else. 

Whoever that stranger was, she found a way to burrow into my deep fears. Will any of this be okay? We certainly don't know that for sure. But I know that time will continue to unfold and I'll continue to work through every hurdle and setback and new information. 

All of this circles around the ideas of strength or bravery or "warrior" status. I am only trying to hold it together for the sake of sanity and for the sake of my family. I will be honest that most cancer patients do not enjoy this metaphor that we are fighting on a journey or that we are SO STRONG. I personally hate crying and feeling sad and will try any sort of mental rationale to tell myself why whatever fresh hell I'm in the middle of will sort itself out. I've been through a lot of garbage situations in my life and I think the concept of "strength" is a coping mechanism. I don't know how to not be calm or resolute because the alternative just feels like throwing more fuel into the chaos fire. 

That is, until someone goes out of their way to be kind. A kind word, an authentic show of compassion, acknowledgement of my fears. Then I'm a bit of mess. So just a warning: Please bring Kleenex if you are going to be nice to me. 

The Beach Week that Giveth & Giveth

"It was as if my eyes were a camera and I was photographing the moment, knowing that I would keep that photograph forever."

Holden Beach Week 2023 - time holds still. 

The Good News, Explained

Yes I'm finished with chemo and all scans have shown that my tumors are "essentially resolved". 

No, I haven't beaten cancer. I completed step one out of about six and every bit of good news has come with not-so-awesome news. 

On my last day of chemotherapy - one of the doctors felt the need to remind me that hormone blocking therapy AND a chemo pill would definitely be in my future. I don't know if they mean to stress people out or temper expectations or if they just sometimes put their medical foot in their medical mouth. I've researched the shit out of breast cancer, so I knew this already. But do you have to remind me, like on my bell ringing day?!? 

Anyways, on the day of my most recent mammogram - the radiologist broke the news that my tumors had shrunk down to nothing AND that there were still suspicious areas to biopsy... All in about 30 seconds. Good news and not-so-awesome news. 

I know that any medical diagnosis is full of twists and turns, and while I appreciate everyone's curiosity - I can't predict what steps are next and how long they will take. I'm still unsure exactly what my surgery will entail and they cannot predict the length of radiation until pathology from surgery comes back. So it's just decision after decision, and changing my expectations. 

My surgeon seemed to be the best at explaining my scans and giving us a moment to celebrate and express relief that chemotherapy was very effective. 

This information was really clarifying to me - it shows how doctors rate the effectiveness of chemotherapy. They had warned me a few times that estrogen-receptive cancer does not always respond well. And that was my biggest fear going in - I just wanted chemo to work. I am a 5! 

No invasive cancer cells are present. BUT, and this brought me down until I understood it... I still have "ductal carcinoma in situ". There were several calcifications and a 1 cm mass that needed to be biopsied. I had that procedure last week and it was extremely nerve wracking. If anyone wants to talk in detail about stereotactic biopsy - I can now add that to my cancer resume. 

That was me, not looking so cute, as the radiologist said "I tried to use enough lidocaine, tell me if it starts to pinch". This is while a 9 gauge needle is deep in my breast. 😱

So while I do have cancer "in situ", it doesn't respond to chemo because it's not yet invasive. The cell makeup is different. It's still in there and it's been added to list of items/areas that need to be removed during surgery. 

A lot of advice is given to stay away from Google... But it's been helpful for me to keep gathering data. Even if it's scary. The medical reports make much more sense. I had a scary grade 3 tumor and will need years of hormone therapy. I Google symptoms and read comments from women in cancer support groups, and sometimes I need to put the phone down and slow my heart rate. But it's still better than just winging it. I want to have the potential questions in my head before meeting with doctors. It makes me a better patient. 

Before all of this, my knowledge of cancer was pretty much non existent. I thought that the end of chemo or the end of radiation marked a type of victory. It really doesn't. I will forever be unsure of whether this will come back - I am going to treat my body like a ticking time bomb and will have to manage my symptoms and hormones as if this was a chronic illness. I share this because I hope we can all become better informed and be better support to anyone with a cancer diagnosis. A lot of the work goes on *after* treatment. 

I'm going to take this temporary win and keep Googling and keep making the best decisions I can.