HIKING IS THE BALM, DAYS 20 & 21

I'm a bit behind in my WEGO Challenge writing — which is appropriate since the topic I stalled on is burnout! With today being Earth Day and all, I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone (pardon the nature idiom).

DAY 20 of the #HAWMC asks: What gets me OUT of burnout, or OUT of the pit of despair when nothing is going my way? I get thee to the wide-open spaces. 

Copyright TheBigCandMe blog

Hiking up a hill that spills out onto a breathtaking vista is the surest way for me to
put my problems into perspective. The sight of nature acts like a vacuum for my worries, sucking them into the wild, spewing them out across the valley floor, rendering them too infinitesimal to take me down.

I love to hike in the morning when the light is bright and the breeze still chill, before the air drifts up between the canyons and gets toasted by the sun. 
 

I also love to hike when there is a threat of an approaching storm. Weather of any kind is a reminder that nature is in charge — and I am not alone.

Because it isn't just me up on that mountain; there is a pulsing world of wildlife living in the chaparral and the bunchgrass. 

Bees and insects alight on dainty blossoms, ants aim for the lily leaves, flies feast on coyote scat. Rabbits run through sage scrub; deer disappear beneath the protective cloak of an evergreen, a sycamore, a bay laurel or a black walnut tree. The mountain sings with the sparrows and wrens, swoons with the red-tailed hawks, swoops with the eagles and falcons. 

Lazy lizards with amputated tails stop to sunbathe, while ground squirrels appear like popcorn out of holes in the earth. Rattlesnakes and tarantulas co-exist — it's us that must make our peace with them.

I often encounter the unexpected when hiking, and I look for (and embrace) these moments. 

It's always a good day when I spot a horse being worked out much like me on the trail. Or when I hear the roar of half a dozen cops on motorbikes who stop to shoo a king cobra off the trail and warn me of others farther down the hill.
I also know if I hike too close to sunset, I risk entering "Beauty and the Beast" zone. That's when nature puts on her technicolor light show, while hungry coyotes with their haunting howls hide stage left and right. 

It's also when I see the evening birds fluttering above me in a quickly darkening sky and I recognize them for what they really are: These are the imposter birds. I pick up my pace and pull my hat a little lower over my brow, hoping to make it to my car before the bats drive-bomb my hair.
 

Despite my sundown dance with the Princes of Darkness, no matter when I take my leave of the mountain, I make sure to leave my troubles there too. Let the wildlife have at my worry; I've got some livin' to do.

DAY 21 of the #HAWMC asked me to ponder this quote: "The flower that blooms in adversity is the rarest and most beautiful of all," then write about where I bloom best. I believe I just did. Two challenges in one post, two birds with one stone. Whew who!

HOW I HANDLED THE BIG C NEWS, DAY 12

On DAY 12 of the Wego Health Activist Writer's Month Challenge, I'm asked a simple question: "If you could go back in time and talk to yourself on the day of diagnosis, what would you say?" Well, I probably wouldn't stop talking if I had it to do over again. The way it went down, I hardly talked at all that day. Here's why.

I waited about five days between biopsy and phone call. When the phone finally rang at lunchtime on December 8, 2011, I heard Dr. S. (my primary physician) say in a very upbeat voice, "Well, I have your test results!" 

And I thought: Oh good! In the nanosecond between his comment and mine, I really (no, really) thought he was going to give me good news, that the biopsy revealed nothing. I to this day can remember how my body suddenly relaxed.

But then he dropped the C-bomb...

SOLO SOJOURN

Each time I am about to have surgery, I make a solo sojourn into the mountains. I take no prisoners, no compadres. I have to do this alone. (Just like surgery.)

It's my attempt to quiet my chattering mind, but it also gives me a calming memory from which to draw upon during the various periods of anxious waiting, waiting, waiting that I experience on surgery day.

First, there's the waiting for water I cannot swallow because it's after midnight. Or the cup of joe I smell in the morning as my husband sips it while reading the paper before we leave. I am too nervous to focus on words.

Then there's the waiting in the passenger seat of our car as we drive to the hospital in the inky pre-dawn light...

CELEBRATING THE ORDINARY: Day 3

It is Day 3 of Marie's Challenge.

I haven't been hiking in several weeks because it's just been too damn hot. But this morning, I brave the sun and head out early — with an umbrella. (Something I have never done before.) A biker passes me and asks if I am expecting rain, which is pretty funny since I live in a desert-like climate and we won't see rain in these parts for several more months. (Certainly not like the rain Isaac is about to usher in to the Southeast U.S.). I simply reply that I am ever hopeful.

(Copyright © 2012 The Big C and Me)

Just as I am ever hopeful about seeing flora and wildlife when I go hiking. And today I was not disappointed. I came upon a few sunflowers — the last vestiges of summer in an otherwise stark and arid landscape. I move in closer for a better shot, and am surprised (just as I was yesterday) by the tiny creature I find ... this one hard at work (dare I say it?) busy as a little bee.

I continue hiking for another 20 minutes, then turn around. (Too hot.) As I round one of the final bends, BAM! There they are: A family of deer crossing the trail directly in front of me. (I love when this happens and have written about this before here, but they are always such a treat to see!) I count six of them as they make their way gingerly down the steep hill, across the dusty trail and down into the forested gully. My little camera doesn't zoom so well, but you can make out four of them before they disappear into the thick, dry brush:

(Copyright © 2012 The Big C and Me)

At the top of the ridge, I take a moment to look out over the landscape of this place that I know and love (and have written about before). Next week, I head into my sixth (count 'um, 6!) surgery, the one I have been looking forward to since this breast cancer journey began, the prize at the end of the struggle. Though my path hit several snags (whose hasn't?) and my surgery was shelved for a year while my body took its time healing, the day is finally arriving. A full 19 months and two days after my bilateral mastectomy, I will have my tissue expanders finally removed and exchanged for implants. My left expander has been in since February 2011; my right since December 2011. That is a long time in the life of a tissue expander.

(Copyright © 2012 The Big C and Me)

The loss of freedom is indescribable, so hell yeah, I can't wait to experience the "feeling" of having implants. And getting a semblance of my former self back. Though my chest will forever be a "no feeling" zone, at least I can rid myself of the unpleasant sensation of carrying around bricks. (And you ladies who have been through this know what I am talking about.) The sensation is akin to wearing a very tight bra that is holding, well, bricks, that you can never take off. Ever.

For now, I take my hike and drink in the view so that I have a pretty mental picture in my head before my friendly anesthesiologist sends me off to slumberland next week.

This is me this morning, all Mary Poppins-like.

Just another ordinary day.

SURVIVING AN MRI

Whew! Been a busy June. I've squeezed doctor, hair and nail appointments, cross-country travel (my first flight since my diagnosis and yes I overcame a lotta fear that I might swell up which thankfully I did not and I also did not set off any TSA alarms with these freakishly old tissue expanders I still have, thank you very much), a high school graduation, lots of time with family, and meeting wonderful new (and old) friends — all while providing my mother with a lot more care than she has required as of late. Problems with her upper spine have her in pain and unable to lift anything heavier than a paper plate.

(Copyright © 2012 The Big C and Me)

So this week, I took her for an open MRI (she is terribly claustrophobic.) Afterwards, the technician asked if she had been in a car wreck. WTF? She's never had blunt trauma of any kind; her doctor suspects degenerative disk disease. We find out on Tuesday — that's when my sister and I take my mom (along with a copy of her MRI and radiology report) to see her immensely handsome neurosurgeon, Dr. H. (What a pleasure it is to rest one's eye on a good-looking man while stuck in a medical office. I'm just sayin'.)

I'm also just sayin' that's why I haven't had time for The Blog. Back in April, when I was posting daily as part of the WEGO Health Activist Writer's Challenge, I had ideas aplenty (despite only a smidgeon more time). This month? Lots of thoughts are fighting for space in my cerebral cortex — but nothin' is jellin', Magellen. 

Back to the MRI. Like my mother, I am terribly claustrophobic. But I have tricked myself into thinking I am somewhere else when I have an MRI and am able to breeze through it with less anxiety. You can, too! I'm re-posting some tips I wrote last August on how to make it through an MRI. Maybe it can help you, or someone you know. 

HOW TO SURVIVE AN MRI

You can survive an MRI (or any other uncomfortable procedure) while feeling calm and cool and even collected. I've got it down to a few simple steps:

1) Breath deeply while you're waiting (after changing into that cute little gown) and then waiting some more. Don't let your mind wander into the worry zone.

2) Don't be overly ambitious when you walk into the MRI room. Keep your eyes and mind focused on walking towards the machine. Try not to think of anything else in that moment. Do not look around the room.

3) Lay down as instructed and close your eyes immediately. This is key. Get comfortable. Listen to the tech's instructions, but whatever you do, do not open your eyes. If they will let you, wear a fabric eye mask without metal. Or tie a bandana around you as a blindfold (that way there's less pressure to keep your eyes shut).

4) Think about your favorite place that is relaxing and joyful to you. For me, it's being at the top of a hill I regularly hike to. I imagine how it feels to stand, feet firmly on the ground, arms stretched out to touch the wind. I notice the sun and how warm it feels on my face. With the breeze comes the fragrance of eucalyptus. I listen for the sound of birds and hawks above. BTW, while you are imagining the many details of your favorite place, the MRI will commence. Whatever you do, no matter how many times they ask you to move or they move the machine to reposition you, keep your eyes tightly shut! Focus on your breathing; it should be slow and rhythmic as you relax into whatever pleasant experience your mind is conjuring up for you. (I used this same technique as a pre-surgery meditation here.) 

5) Sing a song in your head. This helps to counteract the banging and clanking of the MRI machine. Imagine being in your favorite place and singing a great song to the wind. Sing it over and over again. Before you know it, the technician will be telling you it's over — the MRI, that is. 

Remember: If you can't see that you are closed in,

you can tell your mind you're anywhere!

SURGERY DAZE

We’ve been up since 4:15 AM, Husband and I, and by 6 AM I’m laying comfortably in a bed on the second floor of the hospital, with an IV taped to the top of my hand (and yes, it hurt going in). My surgery is scheduled to begin in 90 minutes.

I feel very relaxed, considering. For the past four nights before bed, I have been listening to a meditation CD provided by Blue Shield (believe it or not) specifically designed to calm my pre-surgery jitters. It’s working. I employ the visualization techniques I’ve learned as I lay still —  in between the mind-numbing, repetitious medical questioning that’s been going on since I arrived this morning. 

Every person I encounter asks the same questions. What medications are you currently taking? Have you had any surgeries in the past? What are you allergic to? This gets annoying. Really annoying. It messes with my "relaxed" mindset. So I ask: Why the barrage of queries over and over and over again?

“Patients forget to tell us vital information,” the nurse explains. “And sometimes the info you give us gets entered incorrectly into the computer." Oh. So asking each time ensures everything is accurate? "Yes." OK, I get it. This labyrinth of cross checking and questioning is ultimately for my own good. But I don't have to like it. (This surgery is for my own good too; that doesn't mean I have to like that either.)

My anesthesiologist introduces himself. I let him know that Demerol and I are definitely not simpatico (it makes me terribly nauseous and dizzy). He says they don’t use Demerol anymore, but makes note of it anyway.

Finally, I’m wheeled down to a prep area on the surgical floor, where my husband and I wait in a large square queue of sorts with a dozen other patients having surgery this morning. All that is separating us is a thin curtain (like in an emergency room). You can’t see through the curtain, but you sure can hear through it! My hubby and I amuse ourselves by listening to the litany of complaints and problems and conversations on either side of our curtain.

My surgeon, Dr. A., stops by; he’s dressed in his blue scrubs. I make sure he knows how important it is that he take all of my breast tissue, on both sides. (The point in my choosing a bilateral mastectomy is to reduce my recurrence risk as much as possible; I don't want any tissue left behind that could house stray cancer cells.) He tells me not to worry. I like him and I trust him. He reminds me he is doing the sentinel node biopsy — he'll inject a blue dye near my tumor. The first (or sentinel) lymph node that absorbs the dye is removed and examined for cancer cells. If cancer is found, more nodes will be removed. If no cancer is found in the sentinel node, he likely won't remove any others. (In the not-so-distant past, women undergoing mastectomy were stripped of dozens of their lymph nodes, putting a heavier burden on the ones remaining and increasing the risk of complications like lymphedema.)

Major mental note to self: If I wake up from anesthesia and feel pain under my arm, my cancer has probably spread. (Little do I know that I won't be able to even feel my underarm; it will be completely numb — as will my entire chest and part of my back. Maybe for forever.)

As I am filing this shattering thought away, The Prince of Surgery (AKA my plastic surgeon, Dr. C.) arrives. It’s 7 AM and he’s wearing a dark blue suit, a crisp white shirt and a perfectly knotted tie. My initial reaction is to tell him how fabulous he looks. But I’ve got something else I need to get off of my, umm, chest.

  

I want to go a little bigger.

I know my breast cancer sistahs will howl with laughter when they read this; they are the only ones who can truly understand the phenomenon we have dubbed “boob greed.” But I need Dr. C. to know, in case going just "a little bit bigger” will alter what he is about to do right now. He assures me it will not. “There is plenty of time for that later,” he says. “Today, let’s get the cancer out and the tissue expanders in.” 

And on that note, he pulls out his black Sharpe and proceeds to mark up my entire upper torso, tracing the outline of my boobs and marking their position in great detail. When he's done, I look like a grade school art project gone haywire. (Makes me wish I had my camera.)

Dr. C. leaves my bedside and my anesthesiologist reappears. It's time. I kiss my hubby goodbye with tears in my eyes and leave him standing alone in the hallway as they whisk me away on my soon-to-be magic carpet ride.

But I’m not feeling it — the happy juice, I mean. I am completely, 100% lucid. I make idol chitchat with the nurse guiding my gurney as he makes a sharp left and then an immediate right, wheeling me straight into the operating room.

It’s bright, and very cold. A nurse asks me to slide myself off the gurney and onto the (quite narrow, I might add) operating table. This isn’t easy to do, especially since my arm is attached to an IV; then I realize they haven’t yet given me the “juice” — or they wouldn’t be asking me to “scooch.”

They place my arms on narrow extenders that swing out from the sides of the operating table. I close my eyes and visualize myself standing at the top of the hill where I love to hike. I breath deeply. I can hear voices around me. Then all falls silent.

OPERATION WIG-OUT

Couldn’t fall asleep last night. Can’t shut off my mind. I started reading Living Through Breast Cancer (Carolyn M. Kaelin, M.D.); wish I'd been leafing through it from the moment I got my diagnosis (rather than waiting an entire month). But I guess I wasn’t ready. There is so much to know, to remember — and it all falls to me to figure out.

It's been five days since my meeting with the surgeon when the phone rings. It's Dr. A.'s nurse; she is absolutely thrilled to tell me that she has scheduled me for surgery on Wednesday. She starts rattling off the details when I interrupt her. 

         What? Wednesday when? 
         "THIS Wednesday." 
         You mean two-days-from-now Wednesday? As in the day after tomorrow? Like in 48 hours? WHOA. This is way too fast.
         The nurse is so not happy. "Do you know what I just went through to get you on the schedule this soon?" 
         But what about seeing my internist to get cleared for surgery? What about my blood work? My EKG? My chest X-ray? How can I get all that done in two days? 
          The pitch in my voice is crescendoing, and this catches the attention of my husband. I look up to find him standing in the doorway of my office. He can see the utter terror in my eyes. He calmly takes the cell phone away from me, tells the nurse that, in fact, this week is definitely not good for us, and we would like to reschedule for next Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday please.

Amazing. He is my hero. The nurse says she will get back to us. I hope against hope that she can change the surgery date.

I should be relieved, right? But no, I'm wigging out. I'm absolutely not mentally prepared to have surgery in two days — especially since NO ONE IN MY FAMILY KNOWS I HAVE BREAST CANCER YET!! Oy. I am amped up; I need to calm down. I go for a 90-minute hike with a dear friend I've known since grade school and tell her all the dirty details before the sun goes down.

The following morning, I decide it's finally time to 'fess up. I take my mother to get our nails done. When we return home, I sit her down at the kitchen table and over a glass of iced tea casually mention that I have a “health issue.” And then I tell her my story (just the highlights, not the scary parts), focusing on the positives (the cancer is slow growing, estrogen/progesterone positive, HER-2 negative). She is upset, of course, and tears well up, but she doesn't cry. She is strong. I only choke up when I tell her how the doctor broke the news to me — he did it over the phone.

I had put off this conversation for so long because I was afraid she wouldn't be able to handle it. But in all honesty, I was afraid I couldn't handle it. The funny thing is, my mother really would have been OK if I had waited to tell her until after I had my surgery. I had to tell her for me. I am just so relieved she finally knows the truth. Keeping this secret has been sapping my energy. And I can't afford to give any of it away.

Next up: Family History.

HIKE THERAPY

After I hear the "C" word from Dr. S., there are two friends that I need to tell — the only two people besides my husband who are even aware I have had a biopsy. I reach both of their voice mails. Hmmm. I know P.  will call me back when she sees I didn't leave a message — she knows I'm on pins and needles waiting for "the news." But my gut tells me to leave K. a message, a light-hearted one. So I do. Then I sit down on the couch in the living room and wait. (I guess I don't want to get too comfortable by sitting in the den; after all, cancer is a very uncomfortable topic.)

I can't cry, though I try; I'm too terror-stricken. I just sit there, completely dazed and confused, and wait for the phone to ring. The hours tick by: first One. Then Two. Then Two-and-a-Half. For 2 1/2 hours I sit on the couch, waiting, as though by freezing myself I can alter the course my life is about to take.

The phone rings — once. It's my husband, not P or K. We talk about dinner and I hang up fast.

Then I call P. again. Still no answer. Why aren't they calling me back? Are they afraid to talk to me? Do they not know what to say? They couldn't have forgotten I had a biopsy, could they have? 

My mind is conjuring up all kinds of crazy scenarios. But I'll explode if I keep this news to myself much longer. So I lace up my sneakers, throw on a sweatshirt and do the only thing I know will clear my head: I take a hike. And I can't believe I have cancer.

I know I'll run into other hikers soon on this popular trail, but for now I am grateful to be alone. I walk up a series of steep inclines that take me to the top of a magnificent hill. The view is amazing... mountains and mountains for miles and miles. The warm breeze and late-afternoon sun feels so good against my skin. I stop and gaze into the distance, trying to etch the visual image into my brain. I can't believe I have cancer. 

Then I hear voices. Really. Loud ones. I turn to see three women yakkity-yakking as they climb the hill behind me. They are with a black and white dog. They say hiello, then continue down a trail I've never taken before. Oh, what the hell, I might as well see where they're headed. I'm in a risk-taking mood. After all, I have cancer. 

These are the actual hikers, on the actual day, that I actually learn I have cancer.

They're walking much faster than me, so I really have to pick up the pace, which breaks my concentration. This is good. I decide that if I catch up to them, I'll tell these three strangers my news: It's been three hours since I found out I have breast cancer, and guess what? You three are the first to know. 

I'm deep in this thought when I hear someone call out, "On your left!" Just a guy on a mountain bike. I let him pass me, and watch as he speeds down the long, narrow trail behind the women and the dog. They can't hear him coming because they are still yakkity-yakking, but thankfully he notices this. He makes a wide turn and passes on their left so he won't startle them or their dog. But something goes awry. Suddenly I see his bike fly up in the air; there's commotion, displaced dirt and plumes of dust. The women quickly form a huddle around him. Though I can't see much from this distance, I can tell he is bleeding.

I jog toward them and as I approach, I see the gash in his forehead. He keeps saying he is OK, although when he tries to stand up he's too dizzy to do so. One of the women gives him her water bottle. I hand him the wad of Kleenex I had stuffed in my pocket when I left the house, in case I started crying. (Who knew someone would need it before I did?)

Then we, the three ladies and I, decide we will walk this man back down the mountain. All hands are on deck: One gal walks the dog. One gal walks the bike. One gal calls 911 so an ambulance can meet us at the trailhead. (She then calls the man's wife so she can do the same.) I carry his backpack, which must be stuffed with bricks because it is so dang heavy. Our little caravan slowly makes its way down the trail. 

We walk, he talks. He tells us he bikes these trails regularly, several times a week in fact, but has never crashed before. (Well, except for that one time when he busted up his knee.) As we reach the bottom of the hill, we tell him it's not such a good idea to go biking alone, 'cause what if he wiped out and we hadn't been there? Blood and coyotes and rattlesnakes do not a happy hiker (or biker) make.

We round the final bend to find his wife and daughter rushing towards us. We also see an EMT truck waiting in the parking lot. We hand off his accoutrements to his anxious family and say goodbye. He thanks us profusely. The ladies and their dog turn around and head back up into the hills to finish their hike. I contemplate following them as I watch them disappear on the trail, but decide maybe it's best not to hike alone twice in one day. 

Then I realize I never did tell them my news. Hiking is strange that way. I have cancer and have already forgotten that I do. This is good.

(See Telling Hubby to continue with my story.)