Thirty-Five

Friday was my thirty-fifth birthday, which means I'm now at an age I distinctly remember my mom being. She had this great stonewashed denim maxi skirt that I thought was the coolest piece of fashion I'd ever seen. Let's hear it for the 80s, right? I must've been six, and thirty-five seemed so old and wise and elegant. I wanted to be those things, too.

So even though I'm 35, Quinn insisted on saying I'm now three while he held up the requisite number of fingers (because that's how old he'll be at his next birthday--gotta love the logic of a two-year-old). I woke up early on Friday to go hiking.

When I got home, Quinn came running through the kitchen repeating, "Happy birthday, Mama!" so of course I started crying. God, I love that kid.

Then Chris orchestrated a birthday party for me at our house on Saturday--from clean-up to food-prep-- which means I essentially spent the weekend eating cake surrounded by people I love.

Getting older is pretty wonderful, you know that? (Mustaches and all...)

***

In a little less than two weeks, I'll be heading up to San Francisco to walk 39.3 miles alongside some more people I love to help raise money for breast cancer research and support services for women who aren't as fortunate as I am.

I'm battling one heck of an ingrown toenail right now (which is so gross, I know; I'm sorry), so we'll see how that holds up on the hills of San Francisco. I've promised my nurses I'll listen to my body and won't overdue it. I am, after all, old now (at least according to what I thought when I was six.) As one nurse said to me the other day, "This walk is to support people like you, not to be done by people like you."

Hey, at least this year I won't be bald.

***

Here's to lots more birthdays, hiking well into middle-age, Quinn getting to make fun of my fashion choices thirty-some years from now, cake, and wishes coming true.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Over the weekend, Chris, Quinn and I went up to Spokane, in eastern Washington, in honor of my grandfather's 80th birthday and my grandmother's 76th. Even though they haven't been married for probably forty years now (or maybe because they haven't been married for forty years), they were able to come together with their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren to blow out candles with each other and celebrate with the family they began more than a half-century ago.

{my grandmother and me sharing a moment on a swing}

I wasn't sure what to expect for the weekend, honestly. I haven't seen some of my aunts and uncles since my high-school graduation almost two decades ago, and even though I was in Spokane in 2010 for my maternal grandmother's funeral, Chris hadn't been able to join me then and had never visited. It wasn't exactly at the top of our destination list. Not to knock the city where I was born, but it has always looked to me like a town in need of a fresh coat of paint.

We stayed at my Aunt Kathy's house, which used to belong to my great-grandfather, although you can hardly see the outline of the old house after a year of remodeling and renovation, both inside and out (no fresh paint needed here). This house is next door to where my dad grew up and my grandmother still lives today. Together, the houses sit on six acres in a suburb called Otis Orchards, not far from the Spokane River and the Idaho border. It is rural, and was probably an idyllic place to grow up when my dad was a kid. Now, my Aunt complains of "tweakers" stealing parts out of her barn to sell or trade for meth, so they've had to put up an extensive security camera system. The economic downturn hit Spokane's manufacturing economy hard; trailer parks and junk yards have taken the place of wide open fields and horse farms. As my dad will tell you if you visit with him, "It didn't used to be like this."

***

I met two of my first cousins for the first time on this trip. It's a long story that's not really mine to tell, but there are a couple of special kids growing up there without a mom, which I know isn't all that unusual in the world, but it is unusual in my family. The mother in me wanted to shower them with as much attention as possible while I was there. It was only a weekend, but I bonded with Lacy, a precocious six-year-old, pretty quickly.

While I was reading books to the kids, she saw my license sitting out on the dresser and asked bluntly if that was me. I said yes.

[my license photo, probably taken summer of 2008}

"Why'd you cut your hair?" she wanted to know.

How would I explain this? I wondered.

"I had to take some medicine that made my hair fall out, and it's just growing back in," I tried. I told her it wasn't like any medicine she was ever likely to need, because I didn't want her to be scared the next time she had to take Tylenol or antibiotics.

I've been wondering lately how I will explain cancer to Quinn when the time comes. He's getting older, and already knows how often I have to go to the doctor. I'm going to have to explain this to him someday soon. I think honesty is the best policy, but I also want to keep my discussions with Quinn (or any other kid) age-appropriate. How much should I tell her? I decided against using the cancer word, against going into detail about why I needed medicine or what my future might look like.

"Oh," Lacy seemed satisfied with my simple explanation so I left it at that.

And then she added, "Your face used to look better, too. I think you're growing a mustache." She looked closer. "Yep, definitely a mustache."

Apparently, the last few years have aged me a little (but at least I have enough hair again to worry about waxing my upper lip). Go figure. Let's see what my face looks like when I turn 80.

{four generations, ages 79.9, 34.9, 60, and 2.5}

This Time of Year

In my Facebook feed over the last couple of weeks, just about every parent I know has posted pictures of their kids heading back to school. You guys have some cute kiddos, you know that? And I can't help but hope I'll be around long enough to see Quinn off to second, third, fourth grade, to his first day of high school, to his high school graduation.

This time of year used to be my favorite. Back to school signaled new beginnings, and the crispness in the air was a sign that the holidays were just around the corner. But there is no crispness in the air here; in fact, it was a whopping 110 degrees out today, so maybe that's why this time of year seems harder for me lately.

Or maybe it's the impending autumnal equinox. Although I really think it's the damn heat. I walked into Safeway the other day, saw Halloween decorations and endless buckets of candy, and had to stop to think about what month it was. I had to remind myself that it's okay--Halloween is next month, after all. They're not jumping the gun (unlike the Christmas displays going on in Costco that started last month; that's just ridiculous). To Safeway's credit, it's not still mid-summer, even though it feels like it is.

And although we'll be a month behind schedule, next month we're switching Quinn out of daycare and into a preschool a bit closer to our house. This new school follows the Reggio Emilia approach, which as far as I can tell just means they emphasize play as a way to learn. The children assist in growing their own garden and raising chickens (once the weather cools down). And starting at age three, the school offers Spanish enrichment as part of its curriculum.

We have the option of either five hours a day or nine, three days a week, and at Chris' urging, we chose the longer days. Because I am exhausted--from chemo, from this heat, from parenting an active toddler who no longer naps--and embarrassed to admit that being a stay-at-home-mom is so much harder than I anticipated it would be.

When you have a baby, everyone advises you to treasure every moment. That is a big task, and it's hard to enjoy every single second when you are exhausted, when you've been up all night with an inconsolable baby, when your heart aches because you've got incurable cancer. On the other hand, I know intimately well that my time with Quinn is limited and I want to make the most of it.

I hope I'm making the right decision--one that will give me more time to rest so that I'm able to keep up with Quinn a little better, one that will give him room to learn in ways I'm not capable of creating (because I've forgotten most of my Spanish and am not willing to raise chickens, you see). Mostly, I hope Quinn will be happy.

Choosing What's Helpful

Do you all remember how I had to take a break from working out because of my broken arm back in January? And then how it healed just in time for me to have my expanders swapped out for implants in March? And who could forget my surgery incision opening up just four weeks after that??

I finally got clearance to return to exercise near the end of June, which means I spent HALF of 2013 recovering from one injury or another.

It was one long string of sitting on my ass, is what it was.

I know how lucky I am that I even have the desire to exercise, let alone the ability. After what I went through the first half of this year, I don't take that for granted. I have metastatic breast cancer; there are a lot of people who get so sidelined by this disease and the drugs required to keep it at bay--through no fault of their own--that exercise is the last thing on their minds. I am lucky that my metastases are small and confined to my lymphatic system. I am lucky that all of my side effects have been related to chemo, not cancer itself. I am lucky that, for now, the chemo I'm on has relatively few physical side effects.

It's amazing what you find to be thrilled about when you have cancer.

Since the end of June, I've been trying to get back in shape, walking here and there (although not as much as I should, since I signed up for this Avon Walk and 39.3 miles is no joke, but neither is summer in Phoenix, so I'm picking my battles) and going to yoga a couple times a week. I'm getting stronger, but my body is different than it was pre-cancer.

That might be the understatement of this entire blog.

This is a work-in-progress. My goal is not just to get in shape for the sake of my cardiovascular and mental health, not just to strengthen my muscles and increase my stamina, but also to stretch out scar tissue, figure out how to re-train chest muscles that have been pulled and shaped in ways they were never naturally meant to go, and prove to myself that my body is still capable--capable of hiking a mountain at 6 a.m., of keeping up with a toddler, of finding stillness and peace while completing a series of sometimes uncomfortable poses in a heated room, of walking a marathon and a half over two days to raise money so that maybe, someday we can end this terrible disease that accounts for nearly twenty-five percent of cancers in women.

I'm planning on walking a half-marathon this weekend with my good friend (and fellow Avon walker) Ginelle. Last weekend, I went on a two-hour hike with a couple of other friends who are also walking with me in San Francisco next month. Today, I'm going to try to hold a handstand in yoga for more than a half second.

My disability claim was probably just revoked, but I promise doing handstands has nothing to do with my abilities as a lawyer.

I don't exercise every day. Some days I'm too exhausted or my head hurts too terribly. But on a daily basis, I'm trying to prove to myself that I am capable of living with cancer. Exercise helps me with that. Sitting on my ass for extended periods does not.

Tell me, what does exercise help you accomplish?

Stable

I've been a little off lately, I know. I've had this anniversary and yesterday's scans on my mind, not to mention a possible new preschool for Quinn and managing disability insurance and student loans and the fact that my brother who we just visited in Alaska is leaving for Afghanistan in the spring, so it'll be awhile before I see him again.

And then Tuesday, as I was waiting in the dark, curtained-off alcove for my PET scan... Side note: have I explained how these things work? First, you have to fast for four hours, and my blood sugar always dips into the "Are you sure you're feeling okay, honey?" territory. Last time, the tech asked me if I was diabetic. I'm not. I had chemo on Monday, so I'm already prone to headaches and nausea. Not eating doesn't help. Ask any pregnant lady.

After I check in, the nurses show me to a recliner set into an alcove in the hallway. Once I'm comfortable, they access my port, the large, wart-looking thing right above my left boob. By "access," I mean they stick a needle into it to draw blood and inject me with a radioactive glucose. My fasting-starved cells eat the sugar up, and any cancer cells will eat it up faster than normal cells, thereby giving the radiologists a picture of what's going on inside me, cancer-wise.

It takes about forty-five minutes for the isotope to travel through my bloodstream, which is time I spend reclining in the dark alcove. Theoretically, it could be naptime, but I'm too anxious to nap. Every twenty minutes or so I can hear them opening the curtain for another nearby patient signaling it's time for him or her to get scanned. I want to vomit, but there's nothing in my stomach.

It seemed to be taking an especially long time for the technician to come get me. I was getting anxious. Even more anxious than usual. Finally, she came over. "Down the hall. Go ahead and empty your bladder," she told me.

I went to the bathroom, and then came back to my empty seat and waited. And waited. An electrician carted his cart by. The receptionist shuffled past to go back to her station. Machines whirled behind closed doors. I waited some more.

After what seemed like an eternity, the technician came back to me and explained, "I'm sorry, it's going to be another six minutes or so. I saw something on this woman's scan, and I need to make sure I rescan it to get good images." I felt bile rising in the back of my throat. I was next, and here the technician was telling me there was a tumor in the woman right before me. I'm pretty sure that violated all kinds of HIPAA regulations, but it also broke my heart for her and scared the hell out of me at the same time.

Six minutes must have passed. An aide wheeled the woman with the tumor past me, down the hallway. She had oxygen tubes coming out of her nostrils, helping her breathe. She was completely bald. I started crying.

During my scan, I tried to imagine clean cells. I told myself I'm healthy. I thought of my childhood, of lying on the beach in Hawaii when I was five and loving the feeling of the warmth of the sun. I thought of Quinn.

Toward the end of my twenty minutes on the machine, I could see the technician leave the room out of the corner of my eye. Immediately I started panicking. Was she was off to tell the next person in line that she'd seen something on my scan and would be a few more minutes? Tears were streaming into my ears.

And then, before I knew it, she was back, lowering the table, telling me my scan was over, sending me on my way.

I met with my oncologist yesterday to get my results, and--although my scan wasn't squeaky clean--he was pleased. The drugs are working. And for another couple of months, I no longer feel like I'm going to throw up.