The day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
Anaïs Nin

Cancer, a catalyst for change.

My house has sold and I’m moving to the bay area. I’m not sure of where, but somehow, this move will work out. Davis, and my home, are too comfortable and completely uncomfortable. Life here has become too small, static and familiar. I want movement forward and I have the distinct feeling that can’t happen without stepping off the edge, or jumping without a parachute.
The house I live in was my parent’s home for years. It was a safe place to land and raise my kids at a time when we needed it. Now, with the two oldest boys gone, we have outgrown the need for this safe haven. I’m packing light and leaving behind things from my past—physically and metaphorically. Cheney is rolling with this as well as any 16-year-old can. He is more adaptable than he knows and change, exposure to something new, will be good for him.

Completion.

Today is the last day of radiation. I am truly grateful for the care I have had, and the people I have met during this last 7 weeks. It's been a wild ride...

Your crisis is the initiation into the fullness of your SELF.
Marianne Williamson

Advice.

Take it or leave it, it's free. Just a few things I wanted to pass along (from my experience) to those who are about to start chemo, have just begun, or have a friend/family heading down this road. Please, if you have things to add from your experience, let's keep this list going for future reference.
Chemo survival products:
Tom’s Baking Soda Toothpaste and a really soft toothbrush
-The baking soda seems to help with the sore mouth and funky-tongue taste.
Lip balm and Sunscreen (really, duh!)
Annie's Organic Mac and Cheese
-Few things taste good, trust me, I tasted everything. But the texture of this seems to be soothing and the flavor is mild
Don't even attempt salad dressing (vinegar) or tomato-based products--blech!
SOFT kleenex and T.P
-Have I gone too far here? Chemo can make for sore orifice's--'nuf said.

Hat or Scarf?
My preference was a wig plus hat, but summer is coming and the wig is going to be nasty! I'm not a scarf-person, never could pull off that look, and when I did, I felt like chemo-girl...always yanking it back in place on that slippery noggin. Hats—love 'em. Have one by Sungard, 100% cotton and cool newsboy style, it's my daily cover of choice. We must maintain style, right? Baseball hats and sunglasses are always good, and a good brim will save you.

Hair...personal preference.
Buzz it short—you are having chemo, not suffering from mange. That scraggly, falling stuff will only depress you and others. Bald is beautiful.

Radiation
This $5 product tested better (really, my doctor told me) than the expensive prescription stuff for radiation-burned skin. Keeps the itching and discomfort under control.
-Calendula ointment, lotion or gel by Boiron (get it at your local health food store-yeh!)

Healers.

I was recently asked about the healers I have listed on my blog, or more specifically, Teresa and Meghan Bowen.
Teresa owns The Bo Tree, a yoga studio in Davis where I practice yoga. She is encouraging, generous, and committed to the elimination of cancer in my body. Teresa, a disciple of alternative healing, is a practitioner of Color puncture. Colorpuncture involves focusing colored light on acupuncture (and other) points on the skin using a hand-held light tool with specially designed, interchangeable glass rods which emit different colors of light through a focused tip. Each color consists of different wavelength frequencies of light, which communicates different energetic information. Apparently, scientists are now discovering that light is actually the medium by which cells communicate and it is at the very basis of many body functions. This system is believed to energize powerful healing impulses in our physical and energy bodies. Teresa has not only opened my eyes in educating me on this practice, she has generously given me many colorpuncture sessions over the course of my cancer treatments to facilitate healing.
Meghan, Teresa’s daughter, is a teacher at The Bo Tree. I am not even sure she is aware of the affect she has had on me as a healer. There have been numerous times when I would drag myself to class without the energy level to participate fully, though my commitment to the practice was present. During vinyasa flow, I could not always finish the sequences as my energy level was compromised. As well, my mind can wander and (rather than being present) I get stuck on an array of emotionally draining topics. Perhaps sensing my physical or emotional state (and possibly not even conscious of it), Meghan has placed her hands on me as I retreated to child's pose or savasana, causing my tears to flow. This is usually quite surprising to me having had little indication I was holding on to the stuff that has poured out in this healing release.
It's all good and I am grateful to both of them.

Metamorphosis.

met·a·mor·pho·sis [met-uh-mawr-fuh-sis]
–noun, plural -ses [-seez]
Pronunciation.
1. Biology. a profound change in form from one stage to the next in the life history of an organism, as from the caterpillar to the pupa and from the pupa to the adult butterfly.
2. a complete change of form, structure, or substance, as transformation by magic or witchcraft.
3. any complete change in appearance, character, circumstances, etc.
4. a form resulting from any such change.

Life belongs to the living, and he who lives must be prepared for changes.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Rebirth.

Cheney says, “you look like a newborn, but hella big.”
My hair is rapidly returning, everywhere. I am obsessing over the new hair growth, like waiting for new plants to bloom. I spot new eyebrow hairs daily and it excites the hell out of me. Seriously soft peach fuzz in varying shades now covers my head—the surprise will be the color and texture of the new growth for this incarnation. My skin is pale and clear, and soft. Chemo has its unexpected benefits. My breast is irritated from the radiation and my chest has a scaly, angry rash but my mind is no longer clouded by the chemo and my energy level is great. Yes siree, I am back.

Healing.

There is little to say about the treatment at this point. Radiation is daily, and the people that treat me are warm and wonderful. It's a quick process, much like an x-ray, plus a weekly check-in with the radiation oncologist. Fatigue is expected and may be present, though I generally choose to ignore this (if I don't allow it, it can't be there, right?) I have maintained my routine of yoga and Pilates classes (no excuses), I eat vitamins and primarily organic foods—I am focused on taking care of this body.
But, there’s something more happening here. Beyond the physical aspects of healing there is personal and spiritual growth (which I disassociate with “religious” growth—if that exists). I am learning to be alone. Really alone. In fact, I am choosing “alone.” There are plenty of friends, old and new, whose loving notes, and actions, are daily reminders of how rich my life is with quality people. But no parent, lover, or baby to unconditionally love me, touch me, and envelope me. There is a protectiveness I feel toward myself and my body, an ownership of personal space that is new. Part of this is the healing, and the privacy created from an altered sense of self: scant hair, new and tender scars, sensitive skin, and a knowing that I am vulnerable (I have been touched by cancer).
To be honest, my focus did wander to those that have chosen to not be available, or able to show support, yes, ex’s in particular. Ah ha, my personal torture chamber? Recently, I have questioned why I made those choices and have (thankfully) chosen to let those ghosts go. The peace here is beautiful.

Note: I will admit this blog has transformed to a "journal" at this point, that seems to be where the writing is taking me. Rest assured, I haven’t lost my sense of humor. I feel like I am in one of those dreams where you find yourself naked at school—here it is, the kimono is off, take it or leave it. I’ve arrived at a new place, or I AM arriving. In retrospect of the last eight months, my life is altered and will never be the same.

Maybe not...

“Maybe not” is an emerging theme for me. Maybe I’ll go to the store, maybe I’ll make my bed, maybe I’ll dine with friends tonight, maybe I’ll get some work accomplished….and, maybe not. For the first time, I am learning to let it be. Screw guilt, I’ll get out of bed when my body is ready and finish reading the newspaper before checking email, loading the dishwasher, returning calls, raking the yard. I check in with my body and check in with my needs. On my bad days, I have MY permission to retreat, rest, and heal. On my good days, I simply do not want to work (completing jobs for others for billable hours), to move at my “usual” erratic, unfocused, frenzied, deadline-oriented pace. When I feel good I want to organize my house, garden, do laundry, cook and exercise—to create order and to handle the mundane but necessary chores of everyday life. These are the necessities I have considered a luxury in the past—the things that provide me with a calm, sane home and body. Oddly, on these good days, I can hardly bring myself to sit at the computer and complete jobs I have promised, face bills that must be paid, attempt the “to dos” that I have created on a never-ending list. Spring is here, the sun is shining and blooms are everywhere, and THIS, is really important stuff to absorb and enjoy.

I am done with chemotherapy.

I arrived at my last treatment session with my posse feeling positively celebratory—I wore a dress, my party wig and baked goodies for the other patients. The treatment session went as expected. As I was leaving I shared pleasantries with two women (one a patient, the other her support friend) and asked the usual question “how long are you in for?” The response from the patient was a sobering, “indefinitely.” It rang in my head for days. I can’t imagine knowing there is no end in sight for this strong, often debilitating drug treatment. The side effects linger longer each time, and vary with the particular chemo drug. Common side effects I have had include; fatigue, a metallic taste in the mouth and mouth sores, very tender fingernails, heart burn, runny eyes and nose, fluid retention, bleeding of the gums and nose, skin rash, and this time an unexpected "chemical" peel (dry and peeling face) my dermatologist will marvel at. But, I am done and I am again thankful that this is an unexpected side trip and not a permanent detour in life. I will now start healing.
Good news. I was led to believe I would have to wait 6 weeks between chemo and radiation but have now learned it’s only a four-week gap. I start down radiation road for 33 treatments (everyday except weekends) on April 2. The appointment is about 10 minutes (mostly getting me in position), with the actual radiation under two minutes. A week ago was a "mapping" session with a scan of some sort and a mold fitted to hold my arm and me in a consistent position. Also, I’ve been discretely tattooed (no flowers or butterflies) with two small dots for laser markers. The “mapping” allows the doctor to design the path of the radiation—deep enough to hit the area where the tumor was while curving up to avoid my heart and lung. I have to trust my doctor and this maneuver of precision. All is well.

Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature.
Helen Keller

Cumulative effects.

Hold the phone! Here I was thinking I was dealing with this chemo business just fine—all miss sass-mama about how well I was tolerating the first two treatments. Minor down-time and back to business, that's right. Well, Monday ushered in chemo treatment number three—an ass–kicking has occurred. I am dragging: fatigued, light-headed, my mouth is sore and my taste buds off. I look in the mirror and see a sorry, pale-faced, scrawny hairless breed that looks in need of a home. And, despite this, I am clear that I am damn lucky I am having only four; count ‘em F-O-U-R, treatments. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, or will see the light as the last one approaches.
And, like feeling shitty isn’t quite enough…it’s Valentine’s Day. Oh, why not just throw me down a flight of stairs?

Impostor

We become actors without realizing it, and actors without wanting to.
Henri Frederic Amiel

I am leaving for NYC tomorrow as Eva Cheval. I have long red hair, and I am sassy.

I’m molting, molllting.

I once had a dear friend say to me, “let your freak flag fly.” I never considered that a challenge but have found it a fitting phrase of late. Judging from my comrades in the photos, age must be everything to pulling off this look. Well, age and good genes, a handful of stylists and perhaps a plastic surgeon or two.
“Holy hair follicles bat man, she’s bald!” Days 13 and 14 (after the first chemo treatment) the shedding began. By days 17 and 18 hair was dropping like leaves in November. I’d get in the shower and scrub my itchy head, then clean the drain. My yoga mat was dusted with hair and I struggled with a scarf to contain the drift—after class a friend gently offered to shave my head. It was smooth, cold and my hat struggled to stay on the slick surface. Though I was quickly sporting soft gray stubble, the wig has taken on a practical nature because of the weather. As well, I sleep in a cotton cap to keep my head warm and wear a hat indoors.
I’ve never been one to get too attached to a hairstyle, so the lack of hair hasn’t rocked my world. I still have the same eyes, smile, boobs, hips, legs, skin and soul. My kids smile and shrug, its no big deal 'round here.
I’m thinking of getting a tattoo on my head, something to tie into the cool, cancer-assassin theme. Ok, maybe not.

We must change in order to survive. – Pearl Bailey

Liberation Army

I had been forewarned that it would be best to cut my hair very short before the hair started to fall out from the chemotherapy. The head can be pink and tender at this time; a short cut is less irritating than shaving. Ten days after chemo, it felt the like time was right to liberate my head.
That said, there has been a shearing and it was a joyous celebration of an evening. Friends Lynne and Scott, Rosalie, Kim, and my son Cheney were present. Lynne made her excellent lentil soup, Rosalie poured champagne, Scott mixed music for the evening, “Hot Wig mix”, and we cranked it. Kim offered love, support, and a good deal of floor sweeping. The camera changed hands throughout the evening to provide a visual record.
Scott had grown his hair over the last year and a half and had made the decision, without coercion on anyone’s part, to show his support by cutting his hair and donating it to Locks of Love. Locks of Love is an organization that provides hairpieces to financially disadvantaged children under age 18 suffering from long-term medical hair loss from any diagnosis. A humbling inclusion to the evening and an altruistic statement we could all embrace as a distraction to cutting for chemo.
I had decided that Cheney would clip my hair. I wanted this to be a family ceremony and opportunity for him to contribute at a time when cancer had hijacked his mom. Cheney, like all my boys, prefers a good buzz cut to a manicured style and is nearly an expert with shears. I trusted my head in his hands.
I think the photos best reveal the mood of the evening and hope you enjoy the visuals as much as we enjoy our new styles.

I’m Bringing Sexy Back.

(Apologies to Mr. Timberlake). Or, how about Stevie Wonder? “Put on your red dress baby and that wig hat on your head.” Sorry, the hits just keep popping up.
Wig shopping…whoa, there’s some fun. All in preparation for later this week. The hair falls out, in clumps, about 10-12 days after the first chemo treatment. Yea, pretty much forget everything you knew about bad hair days... 
Note to self: cancel bikini wax.

Cocktails anyone?

Ok, truth. I broke down crying on Day Four after chemo when I couldn’t find the information on where to buy a wig. Generally, I would have chuckled at myself, and cursed with frustration as I tore through the recycling (twice) and every paper on my desk. However, when reduced to tears over a piece of paper I had merely placed elsewhere, I had to wonder, is this what fatigue looks like?
But let’s back up to chemo-day. I arrived with my entourage who took over all mundane decisions for me—parking, elevator buttons, bathroom directions, and where to have lunch after treatment. The parking staff, perplexed as to what our purpose was given the playful mood, was assured on my next trip they would recognize (by my oncologists hairstyling technique) where I was headed. Blood was drawn, and I was cleared for take off. A quick meeting with the ever-sunny Dr. Rahatgi for last minute orders of the day and we were escorted to the chemo room for the hook-up. There are about 18 recliners in this room and nearly all were full. The chemo business is booming. Entourages are welcome here, the nurses are animated, and the snacks are plentiful. It was New Year’s Eve and the mood was light…or was it just the first cocktail drip? The mix started with Benedryl, while keeping an eye out for allergic reactions with the first cocktail. Ativan was added, which keeps nausea at bay, and left me without a care in the world (and memory lapse) over the next 8 hours. No pain, nausea, fatigue or creepy feelings from the chemo. In fact, I went out that night with my Ativan buzz (no champagne needed here).
Felt great Day Two and Three, though, it’s been rumored, a bit of an air-head. Days Five and Six, I feel unscathed.