I'm pretty excited about the coming 6 weeks of blogging. I've thought of some new features and I've been storing up some topics over the weeks of my web silence.
But first, the medical details.
1. I feel great. I don't remember if this is how great I felt physically before I was diagnosed. But now. Man. I feel like I am flying. I have energy that seems boundless. I am functioning fully on a mere 8 hours of sleep, with no thought of wanting a nap. (For months there, I was getting a good 10-11 hours at night and could have napped at any given moment.)
It's just terrific to be well.
2. My skin has healed beautifully following the radiation. There's actually not much of a scar left from the breast removal because they burned it off. So I got that going for me.
I do have a deep tan, and the radiation field made a rectangle on my upper right torso. So certain evening wear would be ill-advised for a while. Dang. Just when I was thinking about showing some cleavage.
Heh heh heh. . . Breast cancer humor. . .
3. The lymphedema has reversed a great deal. Thank you for your prayers for this. More lymphedema details to come, as I've been promising. . . But it's not a problem that will ever go away completely, so I feel like I have time to get around to it.
"And you've sure been usin' it!" said the hippo.
4. As for my remaining treatment, I will still get Herceptin every 3rd week until August.
I started taking Tomaxicin this week. More on that drug later. I will take it every day for 5 years.
I'll have an EKG every 3 months until I'm done with Herceptin.
I'll see Dr. Science every 6 weeks or so. In a few months, if he hasn't had reason to do so by then, he'll run a scan to check for glowing masses of cancer.
But I'm utterly confident there won't be any to find. It's not that I'm just hopeful. Or wishful. I'm really convinced that this cancer is gone, or will be by the time my treatment is completed. I might be wrong. If I am, I will be the most shocked of all.
After the Herceptin is finished in August, I'll go 4 more years with the Tomaxicin and sparse visits to Dr. Science. And at the 5 year mark, he'll pronounce me "cured."
But I'm living like that pronouncement has already been made.
5. I'll tell you what could much all this up: if my remaining breast cells turned cancerous. If even just one of them mutated, that'd be it. I would be right back at the starting line again.
There's only one way to be certain it doesn't happen. That surgery is scheduled for 25 March. With Mayfield, of course. Plenty more to write about relating to this point.
6. Bryan is doing so well, too. It's transition time for him in terms of his career, but he has some pretty good prospects for jobs to transition into. More on that later.
7. And the children! I have lots of B, G and J stories to share.
It's great to be back, and it's great to know you all are with me.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
A Blogger Promise + Prayer Request
I've been behaving badly.
While in the midst of a trial, I was quick to share the details. I reflected, I pondered, I noted, I reported, and you all humored me.
Now that we are near the end of this race and our days are full of sweetness, I've carried on my merry way. Oh fickle Blogger that I am!! How could I treat you so?
So here's my promise: I will post every day between now and 31 March. Not only do I have some medical news and updates to share, not only do I have another major surgery scheduled for 25 March, but I now have a life post-big-treatment. I'll write about it.
Whether you find it interesting--this regular life of mine--is another matter entirely. If you don't, that's kind of your problem, though. Right? I mean, I'm just happy to have one. . .
As for the prayer request:
You remember my neighbor, Stefanie, the cancer survivor who moved in this summer. She's been suffering for months from side effects/damage from her treatment and Monday morning, she'll undergo major, major surgery. They expect a 6 week recovery, the first week of which must be spent in the hospital. And the procedure itself is very complicated--I almost want to call it "creative" as they'll be redirecting her intestines.
Please pray for her, her doctors, her children (3 daughters ages 5, 9 and 11) and her husband, who is active duty Army away at a mandatory school right now. Pray for wisdom and skill amidst the doctors, peace over all, no complications and, of course, complete healing.
While in the midst of a trial, I was quick to share the details. I reflected, I pondered, I noted, I reported, and you all humored me.
Now that we are near the end of this race and our days are full of sweetness, I've carried on my merry way. Oh fickle Blogger that I am!! How could I treat you so?
So here's my promise: I will post every day between now and 31 March. Not only do I have some medical news and updates to share, not only do I have another major surgery scheduled for 25 March, but I now have a life post-big-treatment. I'll write about it.
Whether you find it interesting--this regular life of mine--is another matter entirely. If you don't, that's kind of your problem, though. Right? I mean, I'm just happy to have one. . .
As for the prayer request:
You remember my neighbor, Stefanie, the cancer survivor who moved in this summer. She's been suffering for months from side effects/damage from her treatment and Monday morning, she'll undergo major, major surgery. They expect a 6 week recovery, the first week of which must be spent in the hospital. And the procedure itself is very complicated--I almost want to call it "creative" as they'll be redirecting her intestines.
Please pray for her, her doctors, her children (3 daughters ages 5, 9 and 11) and her husband, who is active duty Army away at a mandatory school right now. Pray for wisdom and skill amidst the doctors, peace over all, no complications and, of course, complete healing.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Surfacing
It's been a while, hasn't it? Thanks for checking back to this blog. I still owe you a lymphedema post. It's not ready yet, but what I have so far is pretty rockin', though I say it myself.
My last post was from Tuesday 26 January. Let's back up to that time. . .
On 25 January, I finished radiation. Joshua threw up all night long following our family's post-radiation celebration. So ended the Year of Peyton, my 34th, because on 26 January, I turned 35.
The day of my birthday, we didn't do much at all because we were all exhausted from Joshua's travails.
The next night, 27 January, Gemma, Bryan and I all suffered whatever Josh had, to the power of 5, it seemed. All night long. 3 very miserable people.
I thought repeatedly--whenever I approached the commode--
#1: This feels rotten right now, but it will get better.
#2: This isn't even that bad. It's a lot better than it is in, say, Haiti.
#3: 7 months of chemotherapy and radiation and a suppressed immune system and I didn't get sick one single time. But 2 days after it all ended. . .
The next day, we tried to recover. The day after that, Friday, we prepared for our vacation. Early Saturday morning, we left for lovely Sanibel Island, to visit Bryan's parents, for 10 days.
We had a terrific trip. The kids are great travelers. Our time was relaxing and fun. Some days were warm enough to go to the beach. Some were pretty cold, so we found some indoor activities. All around, it was an A+ trip.
I think the "plus" was because it came after we knew we were finished with treatment. And I thought often during our time there--
#1: I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive.
My last post was from Tuesday 26 January. Let's back up to that time. . .
On 25 January, I finished radiation. Joshua threw up all night long following our family's post-radiation celebration. So ended the Year of Peyton, my 34th, because on 26 January, I turned 35.
The day of my birthday, we didn't do much at all because we were all exhausted from Joshua's travails.
The next night, 27 January, Gemma, Bryan and I all suffered whatever Josh had, to the power of 5, it seemed. All night long. 3 very miserable people.
I thought repeatedly--whenever I approached the commode--
#1: This feels rotten right now, but it will get better.
#2: This isn't even that bad. It's a lot better than it is in, say, Haiti.
#3: 7 months of chemotherapy and radiation and a suppressed immune system and I didn't get sick one single time. But 2 days after it all ended. . .
The next day, we tried to recover. The day after that, Friday, we prepared for our vacation. Early Saturday morning, we left for lovely Sanibel Island, to visit Bryan's parents, for 10 days.
We had a terrific trip. The kids are great travelers. Our time was relaxing and fun. Some days were warm enough to go to the beach. Some were pretty cold, so we found some indoor activities. All around, it was an A+ trip.
I think the "plus" was because it came after we knew we were finished with treatment. And I thought often during our time there--
#1: I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Courage
I originally wrote this as part of the first post about my last radiation treatment. But the post was too long, and I don't want you to miss this story.
On the last day of treatment, the radiation techs gave me a certificate before I left. Congratulations on finishing your treatment, that kind of thing. And then: "We Salute Your Courage!"
This stuck with me as we drove to the restaurant, and again as we drove home. I realized something I hadn't been able to piece together before. What were all these tears about? At the end of chemo? And now?
It's not relief. Maybe it is a little. But I can tell you that mostly, I'm not feeling relief.
But that certificate. . . Yes. This was it. There's the thought out there that doing chemo and doing radiation took courage. It didn't. I mean, what was my option? You do what you got to do, right?
There's nothing brave in that. Maybe if the option was a fast, painless death, then choosing a bummer treatment to live instead would have been a little courageous. But dying from an untreated cancer? In my mid-30's? That would have been a ton worse than anything I lived with the past few months.
No. I realized that the courage starts now. At least, I need it to. How to go forward without the cancer? After these several months and the tidal wave of love that has poured through our lives, I'm a changed person. There's no going back to my old life. But what does my life look like now? How do I go on without this giant circumstance?
I think all the crying has more to do with the grief over the end of that circumstance, over a changed life.
Don't get me wrong: Life will go on. And it will be far superior to what it would have been if we had not run this race. (Well, it's not quite over, is it?) But going on, and being willing to go into a new life, as a new person--this is what takes courage.
At least, this is what I came to believe and feel in that deep place as we approached our home. I prayed right then, that God would give me all the guidance and courage I would need.
Then Bryan picked up the mail from our box. In it was a package from my friend, Sarah. I thought 2 things:
1. "Oh! I keep forgetting to call her back!" and
2. "She mentioned wanting to send something earlier, but not quite getting around to it yet. I guess this is it!"
We pulled in. Piled out. Got inside. I opened the package. In it was a sweet note wishing me a year of--I am not making this up--"Hope and Courage."
She sent a pad of paper with "Hope" written on top.
And a pearl bracelet with a clasp that says "courage."
I tell you. . . it's almost too much love for one life to hold.
On the last day of treatment, the radiation techs gave me a certificate before I left. Congratulations on finishing your treatment, that kind of thing. And then: "We Salute Your Courage!"
This stuck with me as we drove to the restaurant, and again as we drove home. I realized something I hadn't been able to piece together before. What were all these tears about? At the end of chemo? And now?
It's not relief. Maybe it is a little. But I can tell you that mostly, I'm not feeling relief.
But that certificate. . . Yes. This was it. There's the thought out there that doing chemo and doing radiation took courage. It didn't. I mean, what was my option? You do what you got to do, right?
There's nothing brave in that. Maybe if the option was a fast, painless death, then choosing a bummer treatment to live instead would have been a little courageous. But dying from an untreated cancer? In my mid-30's? That would have been a ton worse than anything I lived with the past few months.
No. I realized that the courage starts now. At least, I need it to. How to go forward without the cancer? After these several months and the tidal wave of love that has poured through our lives, I'm a changed person. There's no going back to my old life. But what does my life look like now? How do I go on without this giant circumstance?
I think all the crying has more to do with the grief over the end of that circumstance, over a changed life.
Don't get me wrong: Life will go on. And it will be far superior to what it would have been if we had not run this race. (Well, it's not quite over, is it?) But going on, and being willing to go into a new life, as a new person--this is what takes courage.
At least, this is what I came to believe and feel in that deep place as we approached our home. I prayed right then, that God would give me all the guidance and courage I would need.
Then Bryan picked up the mail from our box. In it was a package from my friend, Sarah. I thought 2 things:
1. "Oh! I keep forgetting to call her back!" and
2. "She mentioned wanting to send something earlier, but not quite getting around to it yet. I guess this is it!"
We pulled in. Piled out. Got inside. I opened the package. In it was a sweet note wishing me a year of--I am not making this up--"Hope and Courage."
She sent a pad of paper with "Hope" written on top.
And a pearl bracelet with a clasp that says "courage."
I tell you. . . it's almost too much love for one life to hold.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Radiation: End of a Road
These last 5 treatments of radiation have been different. I mentioned this already--about the electrons and it being focused on the scar line.
I didn't tell you yet about my appointment 2 weeks ago, when they needed to prepare for this last 5 day extravaganza. Dr. Tanner came in to the treatment room, and using the $12 surgical marker with my name on it, traced an oval around the scar. A general outline about 2 inches around it on all sides. He didn't use any special instrument for this--just his eye and his hand and a $12 marker.
They took a photo of it.
They made a tracing of his marker line.
And a week later, I went into the treatment room to find an extension hooked onto the radiation machine. It was basically a frame of a cube. Inserted into the bottom plane of that cube was a square slab of lead with a hole cut out of it that fit the exact shape of Dr. Tanner's drawing. This was to shield the rest of me and let the radiation hit only that concentrated area.
Yeah, yeah, I got that. But it amazed me that they'd pour a mold based on the marker outline that my 6 year old could have drawn. "Amazed," because it had to be Dr. Tanner who drew it. The techs couldn't do it, nooooo, it had to be the bigshot radiologist.
Every time, for those last 5 treatments, this cracked me up. I asked what they did with the slab after I was done. If they were going to throw it out, I'd have asked to keep it. Now that would have been a conversation piece.
But they melt it down for use with the next patient.
Speaking of other patients, I did indeed outlast all the others who had dates before mine. And I outlasted all the others added right up to January 11.
I brought the kids with me all of last week. I told them On Friday that this was their last treatment--Mommy still had one more, but they would be with Betsy that day--so they needed to celebrate the last one with me on Friday.
After I got dressed (out of my gown, of which Joshua said each day, "That dress looks cute,") I brought them into the hallway outside the treatment room where a ship's bell hangs. Next to it is a brass plaque with a poem engraved,
I ring this bell
Three times to say
I've finished my course well
And I am on my way
I lifted Gemma up, and then Joshua, and let them ring the bell. They did it with great joy, free of concern, oblivious to the meaning of it. And they rang it loudly and a lot, a lot more than 3 times, because it is fun to ring a bell.
I cried and cried. Mostly because I can look at them and see that they don't get it. And I'm glad about that. Thankful. They have no idea what this year has been for me and Bryan. What they know and care about right now is that Mommy won't have a rigorous treatment schedule anymore, and the appointments she will have won't make her tired.
Today, it was supposed to be just Bryan and I, but then Betsy's son got sick, sick, sick with the flu, and those are germs the Ponce family doesn't need right now. So the kids came again.
They didn't ring the bell this time, and neither did I, because a patient went in for treatment right after me and I didn't want to risk disturbing her. My version of the bell, I think, was tossing my gown into the hamper, and leaving behind my very own cubby hole at the radiation unit.
I cried and cried again. I'm crying now as I tell you all about it.
We went to dinner together at Fargoe's, a very fun pizza place, and it was our first time, so it felt extra festive. At the table, we played 20 questions, a game Gemma loves, and Josh, too, though he has his own little version of it. . .
They have a little game room, too, where Bryan tried his hand at PacMan. Just seeing that was worth the trip. The picture I'm making is that we had a fun evening as a family. It was a simple delight just to be together. A delight to see my children enjoy themselves.
A delight I hope to enjoy for a long time coming.
Will you bear with me for a story
The radiation techs gave me a certificate before I left. Congratulations on finishing your treatment, that kind of thing. And then: "We Salute Your Courage!"
This stuck with me as we drove to the restaraunt, and again as we drove home. I realized something I hadn't been able to piece together before. What were all these tears about? At the end of chemo? And now?
It's not relief. Maybe it is a little. But I can tell you that mostly, I'm not feeling relief.
But that certificate. . . Yes. This was it. There's the thought out there that doing chemo and doing radiation took courage. It didn't. I mean, what was my option? You do what you got to do, right? There's nothing brave it that. Maybe if the option was a fast, painless death, then choosing a bummer treatment to live instead would have been a little courageous. But dying from an untreated cancer? In my mid-30's? That would have been a ton worse than anything I lived with the past few months.
No. I realized that the courage starts now. At least, I need it to. How to go forward without the cancer? After these several months and the tidal wave of love that has poured through our lives, I'm a changed person. There's no going back to my old life. But what does my life look like now? How do I go on without this giant circumstance?
I think all the crying has more to do with the grief over the end of that circumstance, over a changed life.
Don't get me wrong: Life will go on. And it will be far superior to what it would have been if we had not run this race. (Well, it's not quite over, is it?) But going on, and being willing to go into a new life, as a new person, is what takes courage.
At least, this is what I realized and felt in that deep place as we approached our home. I prayed right then, that God would give me all the guidance and courage I would need.
Then Bryan picked up the mail from our box. In it was a package from my friend, Sarah.
I didn't tell you yet about my appointment 2 weeks ago, when they needed to prepare for this last 5 day extravaganza. Dr. Tanner came in to the treatment room, and using the $12 surgical marker with my name on it, traced an oval around the scar. A general outline about 2 inches around it on all sides. He didn't use any special instrument for this--just his eye and his hand and a $12 marker.
They took a photo of it.
They made a tracing of his marker line.
And a week later, I went into the treatment room to find an extension hooked onto the radiation machine. It was basically a frame of a cube. Inserted into the bottom plane of that cube was a square slab of lead with a hole cut out of it that fit the exact shape of Dr. Tanner's drawing. This was to shield the rest of me and let the radiation hit only that concentrated area.
Yeah, yeah, I got that. But it amazed me that they'd pour a mold based on the marker outline that my 6 year old could have drawn. "Amazed," because it had to be Dr. Tanner who drew it. The techs couldn't do it, nooooo, it had to be the bigshot radiologist.
Every time, for those last 5 treatments, this cracked me up. I asked what they did with the slab after I was done. If they were going to throw it out, I'd have asked to keep it. Now that would have been a conversation piece.
But they melt it down for use with the next patient.
Speaking of other patients, I did indeed outlast all the others who had dates before mine. And I outlasted all the others added right up to January 11.
I brought the kids with me all of last week. I told them On Friday that this was their last treatment--Mommy still had one more, but they would be with Betsy that day--so they needed to celebrate the last one with me on Friday.
After I got dressed (out of my gown, of which Joshua said each day, "That dress looks cute,") I brought them into the hallway outside the treatment room where a ship's bell hangs. Next to it is a brass plaque with a poem engraved,
I ring this bell
Three times to say
I've finished my course well
And I am on my way
I lifted Gemma up, and then Joshua, and let them ring the bell. They did it with great joy, free of concern, oblivious to the meaning of it. And they rang it loudly and a lot, a lot more than 3 times, because it is fun to ring a bell.
I cried and cried. Mostly because I can look at them and see that they don't get it. And I'm glad about that. Thankful. They have no idea what this year has been for me and Bryan. What they know and care about right now is that Mommy won't have a rigorous treatment schedule anymore, and the appointments she will have won't make her tired.
Today, it was supposed to be just Bryan and I, but then Betsy's son got sick, sick, sick with the flu, and those are germs the Ponce family doesn't need right now. So the kids came again.
They didn't ring the bell this time, and neither did I, because a patient went in for treatment right after me and I didn't want to risk disturbing her. My version of the bell, I think, was tossing my gown into the hamper, and leaving behind my very own cubby hole at the radiation unit.
I cried and cried again. I'm crying now as I tell you all about it.
We went to dinner together at Fargoe's, a very fun pizza place, and it was our first time, so it felt extra festive. At the table, we played 20 questions, a game Gemma loves, and Josh, too, though he has his own little version of it. . .
They have a little game room, too, where Bryan tried his hand at PacMan. Just seeing that was worth the trip. The picture I'm making is that we had a fun evening as a family. It was a simple delight just to be together. A delight to see my children enjoy themselves.
A delight I hope to enjoy for a long time coming.
Will you bear with me for a story
The radiation techs gave me a certificate before I left. Congratulations on finishing your treatment, that kind of thing. And then: "We Salute Your Courage!"
This stuck with me as we drove to the restaraunt, and again as we drove home. I realized something I hadn't been able to piece together before. What were all these tears about? At the end of chemo? And now?
It's not relief. Maybe it is a little. But I can tell you that mostly, I'm not feeling relief.
But that certificate. . . Yes. This was it. There's the thought out there that doing chemo and doing radiation took courage. It didn't. I mean, what was my option? You do what you got to do, right? There's nothing brave it that. Maybe if the option was a fast, painless death, then choosing a bummer treatment to live instead would have been a little courageous. But dying from an untreated cancer? In my mid-30's? That would have been a ton worse than anything I lived with the past few months.
No. I realized that the courage starts now. At least, I need it to. How to go forward without the cancer? After these several months and the tidal wave of love that has poured through our lives, I'm a changed person. There's no going back to my old life. But what does my life look like now? How do I go on without this giant circumstance?
I think all the crying has more to do with the grief over the end of that circumstance, over a changed life.
Don't get me wrong: Life will go on. And it will be far superior to what it would have been if we had not run this race. (Well, it's not quite over, is it?) But going on, and being willing to go into a new life, as a new person, is what takes courage.
At least, this is what I realized and felt in that deep place as we approached our home. I prayed right then, that God would give me all the guidance and courage I would need.
Then Bryan picked up the mail from our box. In it was a package from my friend, Sarah.
Haiti Orphans Update
It's Monday night as I write. I read in this morning's news about the children who've been joined with their families.
It's probably impossible to overestimate their shock in having gone from utter devastation and lack to a life of love, belonging and provision. A lovely picture of salvation, now that I think about it. . .
It's also probably impossible to overestimate their new families' joy at having them. I am good friends with a few of these families and they are just about ready to climb onto their rooftops and start singing.
It's probably impossible to overestimate their shock in having gone from utter devastation and lack to a life of love, belonging and provision. A lovely picture of salvation, now that I think about it. . .
It's also probably impossible to overestimate their new families' joy at having them. I am good friends with a few of these families and they are just about ready to climb onto their rooftops and start singing.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Haiti Orphan Update
Yowza!
The 82 Colorado-bound orphans are in the air as I type, being flown to Florida. Governor Ritter has chartered a flight with a medical crew to meet them there and fly them into Denver. They'll be medically evaluated while in the air.
Then their families will pick them up this evening! They shall sleep in their new beds tonight!
Our church alone will be welcoming 19 new children this weekend.
(I think that's the number. . . And, actually, I doubt any of them will be brought to a church service so soon upon arrival. But still!)
Thank God for their arrival, for their families, for the hundred of workers on both sides of the border who worked to make this happen.
And let's continue to pray for the orphans who were not already matched to families before the earthquake. There is still hope that they will be evacuated, too, under a humanitarian visa.
The 82 Colorado-bound orphans are in the air as I type, being flown to Florida. Governor Ritter has chartered a flight with a medical crew to meet them there and fly them into Denver. They'll be medically evaluated while in the air.
Then their families will pick them up this evening! They shall sleep in their new beds tonight!
Our church alone will be welcoming 19 new children this weekend.
(I think that's the number. . . And, actually, I doubt any of them will be brought to a church service so soon upon arrival. But still!)
Thank God for their arrival, for their families, for the hundred of workers on both sides of the border who worked to make this happen.
And let's continue to pray for the orphans who were not already matched to families before the earthquake. There is still hope that they will be evacuated, too, under a humanitarian visa.
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