I saved an old draft (very old. Oct. 2) ... the title was 'I Just Want To Feel Normal.'
Actually, that is a correction; it was titled "I Just Want To Be Normal".
Well, duh, that ain't happening sweetie.
You aren't.
Feel vs. Be... Where is the line drawn?
My last post from the hospital, feeling strong, invigorated, ready to tackle the world, was inspired from once again, not succumbing to infection. Sometimes, even in the worst case scenarios, we find the positives and feel invigorated to take on the world.
A little bit of MRSA, no problem!
I came home on a Friday just 3 weeks ago and couldn't wait to get back to my studio that I had left hanging in a lull after my 'soft opening'. By word of mouth and by local press (thank you, Ronni Newton!), my little studio and boutique were off to an amazing start! My sessions (or Sits, as I like to refer to) were filling up. I left the hospital and was so excited about the Grand Opening Celebration I had planned with another store in my building. It was only a few days away and there was a lot of work to be done.
Food, beverages and a beautiful night brought out so many people!
Everything looked wonderful...from the outside...
But me...
I was sooo tired.
Just smile... welcome all of my wonderful friends, just stand upright... don't wobble...
It was a huge success!
Friends that have been supporting me all of this time came out and the warmth and love I felt from them was the best medicine in the world. I was energized by the love and support and ready to take on the rest of the week. Except... I am still sick. Maybe if I don't talk about it...
Just keep going, hide the drain, forget the PIC line.. try to be 'normal'
I have this nasty drain attached to me. I am supposed to feel great (thank God you're not in the hospital, blah blah blah) "You look beautiful"! etc.. "You hide it so well"
I feel nasty.
A brownish, horrible color is draining into my drain and into other places that have ruined my incredible 'Marshall's Clearance Tops' that will make me look like whatever in my mind I am supposed to look like as an owner of a meditation studio. Nasty stuff is draining from me from my wound and is certainly not safe to have around others.
I feel despicable and dirty.
My wound has opened up again today while I was at the studio.
I am in tears on the way home having put yet another sign on my studio window indicating that I will not be there for the evening sessions.
Maybe no one will notice me scream at the top of my lungs in my car "WHY??" as I drive home with kleenex holding my belly together...
So the visiting nurse has come and I need to be at Yale first thing in the morning. I will be put under sedation so the likely hope of leading meditation tomorrow night is nil. And one more day, I will not live out my dream of helping others to learn to deal with adversity. But I know, I will learn more in the next 24 hours hours.
Because I trust and I belive.
Namaste.
Kim
Tuesday, October 11, 2016
Thursday, September 22, 2016
Thoughts on Going Home
"Can you add a single moment your life by worrying?" Matthew 7:27
Anxiety is a thief.
The combination of fear and uncertainty robs us of drive, desire, compassion, and most importantly, peace.
What do we have to fear when we put our trust in Him?Believing in God doesb't mean we will never experience uncertainty. We will always incur situations that cause us fear, pain and worry. The key to our faith is to consciously Let Go (visualize) of our anxiety and fears instead, completely trust (it's scary at first!)God to provide forum needs in His time and in His way.
When we dob't give away our anxieties (or don't COMPLETELY giv them away) fear and doubt become entrenched in our thinking and develop into a stronghold. Then negative forces will dig in and use every resource to build up our apprehension. This is what anxiety looks like - a sense of fear that overwhelms our faith.
Someone who has not totally surrendered their anxieties to God sounds like this: "I know God is capable of dealing with the problems in my life, but I'm just not sure He will". Then they take back their anxiety by trying to fix their problems themselves.
God sees the beginning and the end of every situation that we face. He knows the root of our anxiety, the best way to calm our heart, and how to turn sadness into joy. "Cast all your worries upon him because He cares for you", 1Peter 5:7
He will do all of this for us without leaving our side, because He loves us deeply and wants to bless us with peace and calm. We have only to reach out our hearts to Him and trust.
Living by faith guarantees hardship when a person decides to totally surrender to God and try to listen to and obey at all times. This was a hard pill for me to swallow. For some reason, when I decided to trust God completely and stop worrying, I thought things would be easy, breezy. Not. Sometimes, we are made to make painful sacrifices. Often we have to go forward by faith in spite of challenges. It can be very hard to trust so completely...like we are helpless children once again.
We are assured by Scripture that adversity produces a deeper intimacy with God. "The God of all grace who called you to his eternal glory through Christ will Himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you after you have suffered a little", 1Peter 5:10. Obviously, God and I have a different definition for the words 'a little', but I have never been so sure of anything in my life. Every single health challenge, or any other adversity, not only have I come out of virtually unscathed, but also I have learned so many lessons and become even closer to God each time. He has a plan for my life, I am along for the ride.
Hardships are inevitable. We could try everything in our power to avoid them, but they will still occur. However, these hardships are not for us to question 'Why, God?', but rather to state "I have only to remain still and God will fight for me", Exodus 14:14. We must meet the challenge head on and go forward in our faith.
"I have only to remain still"... remain still...sit for a while in quiet...be still.
On many mornings I felt wobbly because while in the hospital, I was looking at difficult times looming ahead. How can I work with this drain? How can I pull off this party on October 1 for everyone to see the studio? How would I manage the pain? Blah, blah, blah... I was looking at the future through my eyes and mind and only with my strength. It looked impossible. Also, I was worrying about future issues and not focusing on just today. But finally, when I took the time each morning to close my eyes, breathe, and center myself in the present moment, that's where I found God, waiting for me. Since He is my strength, He can empower me to handle each task as it comes. He has the power to make this beat up body of mine perform near miraculous tasks for myself.
I must keep bringing my mind to the present moment.
Breathe. Find my anchor.
It is an amazing fact that only humans can anticipate a myriad of future events and possible worrisome scenarios. This ability is a blessing, but easily can become a curse. If we use our minds to worry about tomorrow, we are actually practicing unbelief - we haven't truly turned our will over to God. But each time we sit quietly and return our minds to the present moment, we allow God to take care of us and the future. This is the core of mindfulness meditation. Stop planning, controlling, worrying.
A week ago, I was doubled over with infection in my belly and everything looked bleak as I anticipated what would happen to me. But hour by hour, I began to see God's hand in mine and the miracles, once again, began happening to me.
Today, I am going home. Once again, I have emerged from a very bad situation, basically unscathed. I do have an annoying drain hanging from me until the infection is completely gone, but I look at it as some kind of touchstone, a constant reminder of how exceptional my recovery has been. For the fourth time in less than two years, I have fought MRSA and won. My last wonderful, 'really good' PET scan showed no cancer in my body, giving me the opportunity to stop treatment. And that allowed me to pursue my dream of opening a meditation studio to teach people the most important thing I've learned in my life: to remain still, to just Be, and allow God to fight for me.
I live for today, right now, right here. Infection could come back, or not; cancer could come back, or not. But I'm not going to add one more moment to my life worrying about it. I am in awe of all of the miracles God has blessed me with, especially my studio.
Miracles?
Or just maybe, God's Will for me.
Namaste.
Kim
Anxiety is a thief.
The combination of fear and uncertainty robs us of drive, desire, compassion, and most importantly, peace.
What do we have to fear when we put our trust in Him?Believing in God doesb't mean we will never experience uncertainty. We will always incur situations that cause us fear, pain and worry. The key to our faith is to consciously Let Go (visualize) of our anxiety and fears instead, completely trust (it's scary at first!)God to provide forum needs in His time and in His way.
When we dob't give away our anxieties (or don't COMPLETELY giv them away) fear and doubt become entrenched in our thinking and develop into a stronghold. Then negative forces will dig in and use every resource to build up our apprehension. This is what anxiety looks like - a sense of fear that overwhelms our faith.
Someone who has not totally surrendered their anxieties to God sounds like this: "I know God is capable of dealing with the problems in my life, but I'm just not sure He will". Then they take back their anxiety by trying to fix their problems themselves.
God sees the beginning and the end of every situation that we face. He knows the root of our anxiety, the best way to calm our heart, and how to turn sadness into joy. "Cast all your worries upon him because He cares for you", 1Peter 5:7
He will do all of this for us without leaving our side, because He loves us deeply and wants to bless us with peace and calm. We have only to reach out our hearts to Him and trust.
Living by faith guarantees hardship when a person decides to totally surrender to God and try to listen to and obey at all times. This was a hard pill for me to swallow. For some reason, when I decided to trust God completely and stop worrying, I thought things would be easy, breezy. Not. Sometimes, we are made to make painful sacrifices. Often we have to go forward by faith in spite of challenges. It can be very hard to trust so completely...like we are helpless children once again.
We are assured by Scripture that adversity produces a deeper intimacy with God. "The God of all grace who called you to his eternal glory through Christ will Himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you after you have suffered a little", 1Peter 5:10. Obviously, God and I have a different definition for the words 'a little', but I have never been so sure of anything in my life. Every single health challenge, or any other adversity, not only have I come out of virtually unscathed, but also I have learned so many lessons and become even closer to God each time. He has a plan for my life, I am along for the ride.
Hardships are inevitable. We could try everything in our power to avoid them, but they will still occur. However, these hardships are not for us to question 'Why, God?', but rather to state "I have only to remain still and God will fight for me", Exodus 14:14. We must meet the challenge head on and go forward in our faith.
"I have only to remain still"... remain still...sit for a while in quiet...be still.
On many mornings I felt wobbly because while in the hospital, I was looking at difficult times looming ahead. How can I work with this drain? How can I pull off this party on October 1 for everyone to see the studio? How would I manage the pain? Blah, blah, blah... I was looking at the future through my eyes and mind and only with my strength. It looked impossible. Also, I was worrying about future issues and not focusing on just today. But finally, when I took the time each morning to close my eyes, breathe, and center myself in the present moment, that's where I found God, waiting for me. Since He is my strength, He can empower me to handle each task as it comes. He has the power to make this beat up body of mine perform near miraculous tasks for myself.
I must keep bringing my mind to the present moment.
Breathe. Find my anchor.
It is an amazing fact that only humans can anticipate a myriad of future events and possible worrisome scenarios. This ability is a blessing, but easily can become a curse. If we use our minds to worry about tomorrow, we are actually practicing unbelief - we haven't truly turned our will over to God. But each time we sit quietly and return our minds to the present moment, we allow God to take care of us and the future. This is the core of mindfulness meditation. Stop planning, controlling, worrying.
A week ago, I was doubled over with infection in my belly and everything looked bleak as I anticipated what would happen to me. But hour by hour, I began to see God's hand in mine and the miracles, once again, began happening to me.
Today, I am going home. Once again, I have emerged from a very bad situation, basically unscathed. I do have an annoying drain hanging from me until the infection is completely gone, but I look at it as some kind of touchstone, a constant reminder of how exceptional my recovery has been. For the fourth time in less than two years, I have fought MRSA and won. My last wonderful, 'really good' PET scan showed no cancer in my body, giving me the opportunity to stop treatment. And that allowed me to pursue my dream of opening a meditation studio to teach people the most important thing I've learned in my life: to remain still, to just Be, and allow God to fight for me.
I live for today, right now, right here. Infection could come back, or not; cancer could come back, or not. But I'm not going to add one more moment to my life worrying about it. I am in awe of all of the miracles God has blessed me with, especially my studio.
Miracles?
Or just maybe, God's Will for me.
Namaste.
Kim
Monday, September 19, 2016
Down in the Valley - Again.
I am writing from my bed, in the hospital, unbelievably, again. I have a massive infection in my belly, again. I am in a lot of pain and very scared and frustrated, again. And God will lead me out of this mess, again.
In spiritual terms, I am in the midst of a 'Valley Experience'. An experience where the hardship is so deep, that we find it almost impossible to stand and that the event can threaten to overwhelm us. Actually, it is almost impossible for me to stand because the drain that has been placed in my belly to drain the pus and gunk out, hurts like crazy when I move around.
Valley Experiences are not because of God, but rather give us the ability to draw closer to God as He leads us back up to the mountain top. I truly believe and have written about this before, that the closer and deeper that we walk along God's path (or Will) for us, the harder the devil tries to undermine our progress by throwing road blocks in our way. He certainly threw a big log at me last week.
I was almost giddy with pleasure at the success Mindfuless and Matters was experiencing during the soft opening that began September 7. People were coming to the meditation sessions and the boutique was selling lots of beautiful creations and gifts. I was going home each night happy and excited for the next day. I loved talking about the studio and was looking forward to going to a special ladies night out two Friday's ago to network and talk more. While I was getting ready to go out, I noticed a bump in my dress that looked like an 'outsy' belly button. This was completely out of the ordinary because after last year's MRSA nightmare, I no longer have a belly button. It was at the very top of the large scar that is on my belly. I was rushed so I put it out of my mind and continued to get ready.
Over the weekend, my new belly button got a bit bigger and was a bit painful. I thought that perhaps I had irritated an adhesion or it was new scar tissue. I felt great otherwise but called my Dr. on
Monday. Of course with my luck, he was out of town. I made an appointment for the past first day he was back. I was not able to make it to the appointment - I was already hospitalized.
I got home from the studio on Wednesday evening around 8:00 pm. I was ready for a long, hot shower, and then putting on my Deep Blue lotion. My lower back had started aching earlier in the
afternoon, I attributed it to a busy, long day. I woke up early Thursday to get showered and ready for 8:30 meditation. My back and groin were really aching and I was feeling kinda blah. I noticed a wet spot on my top and thought that's crazy, I know I dried completely off.
I lifted my top to look...
The room started spinning.
Pus and gunk were oozing rapidly out of the top of my incision. I couldn't believe it. I grabbed a
towel and pressed it to the hole in my belly and called for Ken. I found some gauze pads and secured them with my old abdominal brace. I called my surgeon's answering service and waited for instructions. Do I go to the ER here or drive to Yale? I called my primary Doctor, she told me not to
wait and get down to Yale ER.
Because I have never been to the ER and NOT been admitted, I packed a bag. I now also knew something was very wrong. The pain in my lower back, the ache in my groin, the blah feeling, all were adding up to 'what the hell is going on'? How can his be? This is a bad dream, right?! And then the hardest part, calling Beth at Little Something Bakery and having her write a note to put on my door to the studio saying that it would be closed. Are you freaking kidding me?! And then fear walked back into my life.
It is the most unsettling feeling ever to be cruising along, feeling greater than great, happy, excited, etc., then realize something potentially deadly has been brewing undetected for weeks, possibly
months in my body. My most recent surgery was 4 months ago, almost exactly the amount of time it took for my body to become infected from my original hernia repair two years ago. And one year ago to the day, I was on another floor of the hospital fighting for my life against MRSA. And now here I go again; down into the valley.
The doctor in the ER took one look at me and said I would be immediately admitted. He ordered a CT scan and broad spectrum antibiotics until cultures showed exactly what type of bacteria was infecting me. (Cultures take 3-5 days to grow out). It took 4 nurses and five sticks aided by ultrasound to get the IV in. The doctor lanced the area and so much stuff came out of my belly, I think I dropped a pant size.
Almost eight hours later, I was taken to my room. The pain was gaining momentum and I was starting to feel lousy. I was told that I would be going to Interventional Radioolgy to have a tube guided down to the infected area and a drain would then be sutured in place. As I waited, I began to get sicker and sicker. I was vomiting nonstop and sweat was pouring from me so much that my hair was soaked. By the time I reached radiology I was delirious and incoherent. Sepsis was setting in.
The rest of Friday is a blur to me. Somehow, Tessa arrived in my room. IV bags and tubes were
everywhere. My belly and my head were on fire. How had I gotten in such bad shape so quickly? I began praying....hard.
Friday night came and went, but I barely remember it . Nurses were constantly adding more IV bags and watching vital signs. I knew the night had passed when the nurses changed over their shifts. The fog I was in began clearing somewhat and I began to get some clarity and focus. I had dodged a bullet or even a bomb. Thank God I had an outward symptom of the infection. Had there not been, I would have become septic and that would have been disastrous. Once again, God had protected me.
The doctors explained their plan to Ken,Tessa and me. They absolutely did not want to perform surgery, because by doing so, it would only stir up and spread the infection all over the place. Instead,
they would irrigate my abscess cavity every few hours by flushing with an antibiotic mixture and let it drain out. In addition, three whoopass antibiotics would be rotated until the cultures grow out and more specific antibiotics would be brought in. After several days, and feeling confident that the infection is wiped out, I will go home with the drain and hopefully oral meds.
If not, a PIC line will be inserted and I'll have IV treatments at home.
Or at the studio - because this will not deter me.
I truly believe God's promises that He will use every 'valley' I walk through to benefit me in someway. As much as I dislike the pain, fear and uncertainties and as much as I want to (and have done!) cry, yell, question and worry, I know God has this. My valleys do not drive a wedge between me and God, in fact, they bring me closer to Him as I seek comfort, strength and peace from Him.
When I shut out my world and close my eyes and focus on God's presence, I can enjoy sitting with God in a heavenly realm. As I concentrate on God, His Spirit fills my mind with calm and peace. I refuse to worry. This wasteful practice weighs me down and blocks my awareness of God's presence.
I have studied the practice of mindfulness mediation with such a passion and look where it has brought me. I am able to use my practice in true times of fear and pain to invite God into my life to so that he can take my hand and lead me out of this valley and emerge even stronger in my relationship with Him and even more determined to make my business a success.
The devil isn't going to deter me this time, either.
Thank you everyone for your prayers and kind words.Thy mean so much to me.
Namaste.
Kim
In spiritual terms, I am in the midst of a 'Valley Experience'. An experience where the hardship is so deep, that we find it almost impossible to stand and that the event can threaten to overwhelm us. Actually, it is almost impossible for me to stand because the drain that has been placed in my belly to drain the pus and gunk out, hurts like crazy when I move around.
Valley Experiences are not because of God, but rather give us the ability to draw closer to God as He leads us back up to the mountain top. I truly believe and have written about this before, that the closer and deeper that we walk along God's path (or Will) for us, the harder the devil tries to undermine our progress by throwing road blocks in our way. He certainly threw a big log at me last week.
I was almost giddy with pleasure at the success Mindfuless and Matters was experiencing during the soft opening that began September 7. People were coming to the meditation sessions and the boutique was selling lots of beautiful creations and gifts. I was going home each night happy and excited for the next day. I loved talking about the studio and was looking forward to going to a special ladies night out two Friday's ago to network and talk more. While I was getting ready to go out, I noticed a bump in my dress that looked like an 'outsy' belly button. This was completely out of the ordinary because after last year's MRSA nightmare, I no longer have a belly button. It was at the very top of the large scar that is on my belly. I was rushed so I put it out of my mind and continued to get ready.
Over the weekend, my new belly button got a bit bigger and was a bit painful. I thought that perhaps I had irritated an adhesion or it was new scar tissue. I felt great otherwise but called my Dr. on
Monday. Of course with my luck, he was out of town. I made an appointment for the past first day he was back. I was not able to make it to the appointment - I was already hospitalized.
I got home from the studio on Wednesday evening around 8:00 pm. I was ready for a long, hot shower, and then putting on my Deep Blue lotion. My lower back had started aching earlier in the
afternoon, I attributed it to a busy, long day. I woke up early Thursday to get showered and ready for 8:30 meditation. My back and groin were really aching and I was feeling kinda blah. I noticed a wet spot on my top and thought that's crazy, I know I dried completely off.
I lifted my top to look...
The room started spinning.
Pus and gunk were oozing rapidly out of the top of my incision. I couldn't believe it. I grabbed a
towel and pressed it to the hole in my belly and called for Ken. I found some gauze pads and secured them with my old abdominal brace. I called my surgeon's answering service and waited for instructions. Do I go to the ER here or drive to Yale? I called my primary Doctor, she told me not to
wait and get down to Yale ER.
Because I have never been to the ER and NOT been admitted, I packed a bag. I now also knew something was very wrong. The pain in my lower back, the ache in my groin, the blah feeling, all were adding up to 'what the hell is going on'? How can his be? This is a bad dream, right?! And then the hardest part, calling Beth at Little Something Bakery and having her write a note to put on my door to the studio saying that it would be closed. Are you freaking kidding me?! And then fear walked back into my life.
It is the most unsettling feeling ever to be cruising along, feeling greater than great, happy, excited, etc., then realize something potentially deadly has been brewing undetected for weeks, possibly
months in my body. My most recent surgery was 4 months ago, almost exactly the amount of time it took for my body to become infected from my original hernia repair two years ago. And one year ago to the day, I was on another floor of the hospital fighting for my life against MRSA. And now here I go again; down into the valley.
The doctor in the ER took one look at me and said I would be immediately admitted. He ordered a CT scan and broad spectrum antibiotics until cultures showed exactly what type of bacteria was infecting me. (Cultures take 3-5 days to grow out). It took 4 nurses and five sticks aided by ultrasound to get the IV in. The doctor lanced the area and so much stuff came out of my belly, I think I dropped a pant size.
Almost eight hours later, I was taken to my room. The pain was gaining momentum and I was starting to feel lousy. I was told that I would be going to Interventional Radioolgy to have a tube guided down to the infected area and a drain would then be sutured in place. As I waited, I began to get sicker and sicker. I was vomiting nonstop and sweat was pouring from me so much that my hair was soaked. By the time I reached radiology I was delirious and incoherent. Sepsis was setting in.
The rest of Friday is a blur to me. Somehow, Tessa arrived in my room. IV bags and tubes were
everywhere. My belly and my head were on fire. How had I gotten in such bad shape so quickly? I began praying....hard.
Friday night came and went, but I barely remember it . Nurses were constantly adding more IV bags and watching vital signs. I knew the night had passed when the nurses changed over their shifts. The fog I was in began clearing somewhat and I began to get some clarity and focus. I had dodged a bullet or even a bomb. Thank God I had an outward symptom of the infection. Had there not been, I would have become septic and that would have been disastrous. Once again, God had protected me.
The doctors explained their plan to Ken,Tessa and me. They absolutely did not want to perform surgery, because by doing so, it would only stir up and spread the infection all over the place. Instead,
they would irrigate my abscess cavity every few hours by flushing with an antibiotic mixture and let it drain out. In addition, three whoopass antibiotics would be rotated until the cultures grow out and more specific antibiotics would be brought in. After several days, and feeling confident that the infection is wiped out, I will go home with the drain and hopefully oral meds.
If not, a PIC line will be inserted and I'll have IV treatments at home.
Or at the studio - because this will not deter me.
I truly believe God's promises that He will use every 'valley' I walk through to benefit me in someway. As much as I dislike the pain, fear and uncertainties and as much as I want to (and have done!) cry, yell, question and worry, I know God has this. My valleys do not drive a wedge between me and God, in fact, they bring me closer to Him as I seek comfort, strength and peace from Him.
When I shut out my world and close my eyes and focus on God's presence, I can enjoy sitting with God in a heavenly realm. As I concentrate on God, His Spirit fills my mind with calm and peace. I refuse to worry. This wasteful practice weighs me down and blocks my awareness of God's presence.
I have studied the practice of mindfulness mediation with such a passion and look where it has brought me. I am able to use my practice in true times of fear and pain to invite God into my life to so that he can take my hand and lead me out of this valley and emerge even stronger in my relationship with Him and even more determined to make my business a success.
The devil isn't going to deter me this time, either.
Thank you everyone for your prayers and kind words.Thy mean so much to me.
Namaste.
Kim
Monday, July 18, 2016
When Dreams Really Do Come True!
A good PET Scan, a REALLY good PET Scan. That's what I boldly asked God for and that's exactly what I got!
Last month, I asked 'Dare I dream?'.
And now I am not only daring to dream, I am stepping into my dream. Against everything that I have been told and researched about Stage IV Metastatic Breast Cancer, I am the exception to the rule, the statistic breaker.
I am a Miracle.
And I know it.
I have been told countless times from people that also share my faith in God, that He must have a purpose for me, a reason for still winning the fight. A reason for being here after my initial diagnosis and two metastasis. A reason to still be alive after a near fatal infection of my heart due to my port that resulted in emergency open heart surgery. A reason to still plant both feet on the floor every day after almost losing the battle to hospital acquired MRSA. A reason to be breathing in the sweet air after nearly 60 operations in 18 years and countless doses of different chemotherapies; having to stop many when they became toxic to me. Add to it the immeasurable radiation from hundreds of CT scans, MRI's, PET scans, X-rays, etc. There must be A REASON...
To me, it is very simple.
The reason is... to love.
To love waking each morning regardless of whatever I may be experiencing that day. To love the sound of my children and husband's voices, whether they are near or far. To love the relentless kisses from my pooches. To love my home, my friends, my garden, my coffee mug and my Bible. To love cooking and cleaning and working and playing. To love music and books, sports and theatre. To love the quiet and the not so quiet.
To love myself.
Finally.
Just as I am. Peace.
At this time, three years ago, I was in rough shape.
I was drowning in my own personal battle with depression and anxiety that few people outside of my family even knew about. I had become isolated and barely able to function. I was afraid all of the time. All of the time, every day, and it continued to get worse. July 7, 2013, was the darkest day of my life. I couldn't go on one more day waiting to die. It was just too hard. I hated myself for that. Total blackness. Total hopelessness. I couldn't even find God.
Thankfully, He never took His eyes off of me.
I desperately needed help. An ambulance was called. I had to be away for a few days. I haven't shared that with very many people, either. But now I can. Now I should. Because it is part of my purpose, I believe. Because at one horribly dark point of my life, it wasn't cancer that was the biggest threat to my life. It was my mind. It was depression and anxiety. Things people don't like to talk about so much. So we don't. We hide our secret until it threatens to consume us. As it almost consumed me.
As it did consume my father.
And his grandmother.
My wonderful doctor, not my oncologist, but a psychiatrist that specializes in treating terminal cancer patients, provided me with some incredible insights about myself and helped me to understand my depression and resulting anxiety. All I ever wanted to be was a 'normal' person. But how can you be that when you have been faced with so many abnormal life situations? From the initial trauma of losing my mom at the fragile age of 12 to cancer, my father's subsequent suicide, and then the shocking blow of my initial cancer diagnosis at 34 while pregnant with Torrie, each of those events changed me dramatically. The physical ravages of cancer that took away every female organ that I had, to the endless scars that were left in their place. The repeated baldness, the sickness, the relentless fatigue and pain, the never ending ache of missing my parents. No Kim, you were not normal. And me trying to outwardly appear that I was 'just fine' all of the time, was the single most damaging thing I did to myself. I was not 'just fine'. I was a tortured soul, physically and emotionally, trying to hold it all together for a family that I cherished more than anything else. At some point, it had to give. And it did.
But God carried me. He put exactly the right doctor in my life, and most importantly, touched my heart one more time and reignited my fire to LIVE. For a person like myself, in the midst of an acute depressive stage, medication was needed to 'quiet down my brain'. To stop the endless chatter and noise that seemed to overtake me. The results were immediate. And lifesaving.
And then I found meditation...
I discovered a tool. A tool to use anytime I felt the familiar waves of anxiety or the heaviness of depression. It was a tool that required a lot of skill to use, it was not easy at first. But I began to have moments of true mindfulness, of just being, with no chatter or noise or anything for that matter. Peacefulness.
And, fast forward, here I am. Recipient of a REALLY GOOD PET Scan. Six months, no chemo. Six months, another PET Scan. Maybe another six months of no chemo?
I have had a dream for the past two years. I watched it almost fade from view last summer when I was fighting for my life. I have a dream to share with others, the tool I have found to help me understand myself, find more peace, and above all, accept myself; just the way I am. No more pretending. The real deal, flaws and all. What a relief, what a gift!
I was busy today... I applied for my CT Business License. I retweaked my business plan some more. And.... I got my key to my very own meditation studio that now officially has the name of:
Mindfulness and Matters
~ Meditation and much more!
My dream is coming true. Dare to dream, it will happen for you, too!
Namaste,
Kim
Last month, I asked 'Dare I dream?'.
And now I am not only daring to dream, I am stepping into my dream. Against everything that I have been told and researched about Stage IV Metastatic Breast Cancer, I am the exception to the rule, the statistic breaker.
I am a Miracle.
And I know it.
I have been told countless times from people that also share my faith in God, that He must have a purpose for me, a reason for still winning the fight. A reason for being here after my initial diagnosis and two metastasis. A reason to still be alive after a near fatal infection of my heart due to my port that resulted in emergency open heart surgery. A reason to still plant both feet on the floor every day after almost losing the battle to hospital acquired MRSA. A reason to be breathing in the sweet air after nearly 60 operations in 18 years and countless doses of different chemotherapies; having to stop many when they became toxic to me. Add to it the immeasurable radiation from hundreds of CT scans, MRI's, PET scans, X-rays, etc. There must be A REASON...
To me, it is very simple.
The reason is... to love.
To love waking each morning regardless of whatever I may be experiencing that day. To love the sound of my children and husband's voices, whether they are near or far. To love the relentless kisses from my pooches. To love my home, my friends, my garden, my coffee mug and my Bible. To love cooking and cleaning and working and playing. To love music and books, sports and theatre. To love the quiet and the not so quiet.
To love myself.
Finally.
Just as I am. Peace.
At this time, three years ago, I was in rough shape.
I was drowning in my own personal battle with depression and anxiety that few people outside of my family even knew about. I had become isolated and barely able to function. I was afraid all of the time. All of the time, every day, and it continued to get worse. July 7, 2013, was the darkest day of my life. I couldn't go on one more day waiting to die. It was just too hard. I hated myself for that. Total blackness. Total hopelessness. I couldn't even find God.
Thankfully, He never took His eyes off of me.
I desperately needed help. An ambulance was called. I had to be away for a few days. I haven't shared that with very many people, either. But now I can. Now I should. Because it is part of my purpose, I believe. Because at one horribly dark point of my life, it wasn't cancer that was the biggest threat to my life. It was my mind. It was depression and anxiety. Things people don't like to talk about so much. So we don't. We hide our secret until it threatens to consume us. As it almost consumed me.
As it did consume my father.
And his grandmother.
My wonderful doctor, not my oncologist, but a psychiatrist that specializes in treating terminal cancer patients, provided me with some incredible insights about myself and helped me to understand my depression and resulting anxiety. All I ever wanted to be was a 'normal' person. But how can you be that when you have been faced with so many abnormal life situations? From the initial trauma of losing my mom at the fragile age of 12 to cancer, my father's subsequent suicide, and then the shocking blow of my initial cancer diagnosis at 34 while pregnant with Torrie, each of those events changed me dramatically. The physical ravages of cancer that took away every female organ that I had, to the endless scars that were left in their place. The repeated baldness, the sickness, the relentless fatigue and pain, the never ending ache of missing my parents. No Kim, you were not normal. And me trying to outwardly appear that I was 'just fine' all of the time, was the single most damaging thing I did to myself. I was not 'just fine'. I was a tortured soul, physically and emotionally, trying to hold it all together for a family that I cherished more than anything else. At some point, it had to give. And it did.
But God carried me. He put exactly the right doctor in my life, and most importantly, touched my heart one more time and reignited my fire to LIVE. For a person like myself, in the midst of an acute depressive stage, medication was needed to 'quiet down my brain'. To stop the endless chatter and noise that seemed to overtake me. The results were immediate. And lifesaving.
And then I found meditation...
I discovered a tool. A tool to use anytime I felt the familiar waves of anxiety or the heaviness of depression. It was a tool that required a lot of skill to use, it was not easy at first. But I began to have moments of true mindfulness, of just being, with no chatter or noise or anything for that matter. Peacefulness.
And, fast forward, here I am. Recipient of a REALLY GOOD PET Scan. Six months, no chemo. Six months, another PET Scan. Maybe another six months of no chemo?
I have had a dream for the past two years. I watched it almost fade from view last summer when I was fighting for my life. I have a dream to share with others, the tool I have found to help me understand myself, find more peace, and above all, accept myself; just the way I am. No more pretending. The real deal, flaws and all. What a relief, what a gift!
I was busy today... I applied for my CT Business License. I retweaked my business plan some more. And.... I got my key to my very own meditation studio that now officially has the name of:
Mindfulness and Matters
~ Meditation and much more!
My dream is coming true. Dare to dream, it will happen for you, too!
Namaste,
Kim
Friday, June 10, 2016
A Change Of Plans That Changes Me
Every once in a while, as a cancer patient, you have a really not so good experience at the cancer center you are being treated at. Unfortunately, today was mine.
Typically, a person in treatment for cancer is seen by an oncologist that they have chosen for their care and after discussion of options a plan is set forth for their care. For me, that involves seeing my oncologist once for every three treatments I receive, which comes out to about every three months. On regular treatment days (not being seen by my oncologist), I arrive, have vitals taken by my nurse (she is lovely, her name is Ebony) and then have my infusion. When it is time for me to see my oncologist, I usually have my calendar, my notes and a list of questions that I may have with me. Today was no exception because I was meeting my new oncologist for the first time, as my doctor took a new position in Pennsylvania. Changing oncologists for any reason can be extremely unsettling to cancer patients as they form a unique relationship with their patients because we are together so often. I am one of those who become unsettled.
In eighteen years, I have only had three oncologists. One retired, one I chose to leave and my present is being relocated. Today was my meeting with number four, who my present oncologist hand picked for me. I trusted her judgment with my life, so I trust her judgment in handing over my care. So with only a name of my new doctor in my hand, I ventured off to Smilow this morning to meet her.
I have mentally been preparing for this meeting for the past three weeks since my surgery. I had an agenda. As I have mentioned in my recent blogs since surgery, a wonderful feeling of peace has enveloped me since the operation and keeping that in mind, I wanted to discuss a possible radical option for my care. I have had such tremendous positive results from the changes I have made in my diet, the techniques of meditation I have been practicing, and the combinations of essential oils I have been using, that I really didn't want to alter in any way, the routine I have been following - even for treatment. I want a break. I want peace. I want to stay away from Smilow for a while.
Or a summer.
Metastatic cancer is tricky and deadly. There is no cure. Period. There are only ways to lessen the progression of the disease, hence, my three-week treatments. I have been really lucky that each time my cancer presented itself, it was in a tumor form, a lump. But there is no promise that the next time it wants to present itself that it wouldn't be like a large firework, spreading pieces of cancer everywhere through the bloodstream. Again, that's why I go every third week, the fear of just that.
But since my third occurrence in 2005, my cancer has been very quiet, thank God and Mary, because that was also the year that I went to Lourdes, France looking for my miracle. Could it be I received one, in the form of actually living a LONG life with the disease? I have been thinking so much about this lately. But I wanted to talk to my new doctor about all of this...
So me and my cute pink bag of tools headed out for New Haven this morning for a 10:00 a.m appointment. I was already a bit out of sorts because Ken is always with me when I go down. He carries my cute pink bag and my water bottle in one hand and holds my hand with the other. He lets me focus on the task in front of me and I am extremely grateful for that. But today he was on a mission with Torrie, our new high school graduate (!), to head to Cleveland to stand outside the arena with 15,000 other people to cheer on the Cleveland Cavaliers. My lovable duo of sports fanatics!
I arrived with 10 minutes to spare, checked in and made myself comfortable in the lobby. The minutes passed and then many more minutes passed. Finally, at nearly the hour mark my sweet nurse Ebony signaled me to come back. She apologized profusely for the delay, citing that the departure of my oncologist and rearrangement of a few nurses had really disrupted things at the center for the past few weeks. I said no problem and that I was looking forward to meeting my new doctor. Ebony said that the two doctors had very different styles of practice and one of the differences included me having to have bloodwork before seeing my new doctor. (In the past, it was always drawn at the time of my infusion). I instantly felt a pit in my stomach, because drawing blood on me is no easy task. I can only have blood drawn from my right arm as I had lymph node removal done from my left armpit with my initial cancer, so that arm is off limits to any needle sticks among many things, to help prevent lymphedema. The veins in my right arm are completely ruined from all of the chemo and meds I have had since having emergency open heart surgery due to an infection in my port. Of course, today was no exception. Two phlebotomists, five sticks and thirty minutes later, I arrived back from the lab for my appointment. That was not to be.
My poor arm was wrapped in pink and black tape from all of the pricks. It hurt and I wasn't so happy. Ebony then proceeds to tell me that my new doctor wants to reschedule my appointment. Excuse me? I have now been there well over two hours, I am bleeding through the stupid tape and now I am being told I need to go home and we will do the whole thing over next week. Don't think so. Why? A scheduling error. I was mistakenly booked for a 15-minute appointment rather than a one-hour consultation. A mistake was made. Deep breath. Ebony wants me to have a seat in an office because she feels so bad and wants the nurse manager to speak to me. I am seated in a small room that looks out a wall. I feel isolated (I am isolated!), frustrated and vulnerable. I am thinking that I don't like the way this has transpired, a really bad start to hopefully a long relationship. I actually am on the brink of tears as I think of how much this appointment has been on my mind and how long I had already invested in the day, and I was just being brushed off...or out. I took a couple of deep breaths and regrouped.
I mentally made the effort to change my perspective.
I am the Patient...I am the Customer. My outrageous insurance premium keeps the lights on in this place. Every time I sit down for an infusion, my insurance company is billed over $12,000. I am the boss, you work for me. I started to feel better.
The nurse manager and the nurse that works directly for my new doctor came in offering their apologies for the error. I said that I understood. A mistake was made; mistakes happen. However, I was not going to come back next week. In fact, I had a plan and a message to relay to doc. I wanted them to book my PET scan for mid - July, my six-month mark from my last PET. After results were available, I wanted a one-hour appointment booked with doctor to review and discuss the results and my treatments going forward. I would not be having my treatment today. They looked at each other and understood that I was not going to have it any differently. One of them scurried off to get my appointments set up. I opened the door to leave and walked directly into my doctor.
She looked nothing like I expected. She was not the coiffed, perfectly dressed young doctor I previously had. She dressed very 'free spirited' almost like an ad for organic, all natural, home brewed medicine. Large round glasses and dark black hair (I imagined blonde for some reason). She was stern and serious as she explained how regretful over the whole situation she was. She stated that she knew I was still in recovery from major surgery and that I should have had a totally different experience. Giving me anything less than an hour of her attention would be out right rude of her, she stated. The nurse told her my plan and she completely agreed. Go home, heal, we will talk soon she said as she clasped both of my hands and looked me directly in the eyes. she was very sincere. Something felt right...
So in a few weeks, I will have a PET scan. God willing, there will be no new growth or change. And then I will tell my new doc, Dr. S., that I want my break. Until the end of December. Six whole months.
What happened today was really quite simple: a mistake was made and I was the recipient of it. But it was so much more. Today, I took charge of my disease and of the care that I was going to receive.
I took back my control of an enemy that has been controlling me for over one-third of my life. Even if it's just for a few weeks.
Hopefully, for six months.
Dare I dream longer?
Namaste.
Kim
Typically, a person in treatment for cancer is seen by an oncologist that they have chosen for their care and after discussion of options a plan is set forth for their care. For me, that involves seeing my oncologist once for every three treatments I receive, which comes out to about every three months. On regular treatment days (not being seen by my oncologist), I arrive, have vitals taken by my nurse (she is lovely, her name is Ebony) and then have my infusion. When it is time for me to see my oncologist, I usually have my calendar, my notes and a list of questions that I may have with me. Today was no exception because I was meeting my new oncologist for the first time, as my doctor took a new position in Pennsylvania. Changing oncologists for any reason can be extremely unsettling to cancer patients as they form a unique relationship with their patients because we are together so often. I am one of those who become unsettled.
In eighteen years, I have only had three oncologists. One retired, one I chose to leave and my present is being relocated. Today was my meeting with number four, who my present oncologist hand picked for me. I trusted her judgment with my life, so I trust her judgment in handing over my care. So with only a name of my new doctor in my hand, I ventured off to Smilow this morning to meet her.
I have mentally been preparing for this meeting for the past three weeks since my surgery. I had an agenda. As I have mentioned in my recent blogs since surgery, a wonderful feeling of peace has enveloped me since the operation and keeping that in mind, I wanted to discuss a possible radical option for my care. I have had such tremendous positive results from the changes I have made in my diet, the techniques of meditation I have been practicing, and the combinations of essential oils I have been using, that I really didn't want to alter in any way, the routine I have been following - even for treatment. I want a break. I want peace. I want to stay away from Smilow for a while.
Or a summer.
Metastatic cancer is tricky and deadly. There is no cure. Period. There are only ways to lessen the progression of the disease, hence, my three-week treatments. I have been really lucky that each time my cancer presented itself, it was in a tumor form, a lump. But there is no promise that the next time it wants to present itself that it wouldn't be like a large firework, spreading pieces of cancer everywhere through the bloodstream. Again, that's why I go every third week, the fear of just that.
But since my third occurrence in 2005, my cancer has been very quiet, thank God and Mary, because that was also the year that I went to Lourdes, France looking for my miracle. Could it be I received one, in the form of actually living a LONG life with the disease? I have been thinking so much about this lately. But I wanted to talk to my new doctor about all of this...
So me and my cute pink bag of tools headed out for New Haven this morning for a 10:00 a.m appointment. I was already a bit out of sorts because Ken is always with me when I go down. He carries my cute pink bag and my water bottle in one hand and holds my hand with the other. He lets me focus on the task in front of me and I am extremely grateful for that. But today he was on a mission with Torrie, our new high school graduate (!), to head to Cleveland to stand outside the arena with 15,000 other people to cheer on the Cleveland Cavaliers. My lovable duo of sports fanatics!
I arrived with 10 minutes to spare, checked in and made myself comfortable in the lobby. The minutes passed and then many more minutes passed. Finally, at nearly the hour mark my sweet nurse Ebony signaled me to come back. She apologized profusely for the delay, citing that the departure of my oncologist and rearrangement of a few nurses had really disrupted things at the center for the past few weeks. I said no problem and that I was looking forward to meeting my new doctor. Ebony said that the two doctors had very different styles of practice and one of the differences included me having to have bloodwork before seeing my new doctor. (In the past, it was always drawn at the time of my infusion). I instantly felt a pit in my stomach, because drawing blood on me is no easy task. I can only have blood drawn from my right arm as I had lymph node removal done from my left armpit with my initial cancer, so that arm is off limits to any needle sticks among many things, to help prevent lymphedema. The veins in my right arm are completely ruined from all of the chemo and meds I have had since having emergency open heart surgery due to an infection in my port. Of course, today was no exception. Two phlebotomists, five sticks and thirty minutes later, I arrived back from the lab for my appointment. That was not to be.
I mentally made the effort to change my perspective.
I am the Patient...I am the Customer. My outrageous insurance premium keeps the lights on in this place. Every time I sit down for an infusion, my insurance company is billed over $12,000. I am the boss, you work for me. I started to feel better.
The nurse manager and the nurse that works directly for my new doctor came in offering their apologies for the error. I said that I understood. A mistake was made; mistakes happen. However, I was not going to come back next week. In fact, I had a plan and a message to relay to doc. I wanted them to book my PET scan for mid - July, my six-month mark from my last PET. After results were available, I wanted a one-hour appointment booked with doctor to review and discuss the results and my treatments going forward. I would not be having my treatment today. They looked at each other and understood that I was not going to have it any differently. One of them scurried off to get my appointments set up. I opened the door to leave and walked directly into my doctor.
She looked nothing like I expected. She was not the coiffed, perfectly dressed young doctor I previously had. She dressed very 'free spirited' almost like an ad for organic, all natural, home brewed medicine. Large round glasses and dark black hair (I imagined blonde for some reason). She was stern and serious as she explained how regretful over the whole situation she was. She stated that she knew I was still in recovery from major surgery and that I should have had a totally different experience. Giving me anything less than an hour of her attention would be out right rude of her, she stated. The nurse told her my plan and she completely agreed. Go home, heal, we will talk soon she said as she clasped both of my hands and looked me directly in the eyes. she was very sincere. Something felt right...
So in a few weeks, I will have a PET scan. God willing, there will be no new growth or change. And then I will tell my new doc, Dr. S., that I want my break. Until the end of December. Six whole months.
What happened today was really quite simple: a mistake was made and I was the recipient of it. But it was so much more. Today, I took charge of my disease and of the care that I was going to receive.
I took back my control of an enemy that has been controlling me for over one-third of my life. Even if it's just for a few weeks.
Hopefully, for six months.
Dare I dream longer?
Namaste.
Kim
Sunday, June 5, 2016
Races and Recollections
On this rainy Sunday, with yesterday's Race For The Cure fresh in my mind, I spent a good chunk of the afternoon going through a thick file in the bottom of my filing cabinet that I never bothered to label. There was never a need to make a name for it; how do you come up with one word to describe the paper trail of the highlights and lowlights of almost one-third of one's life? It's memories of my earliest days of having cancer and then the reoccurrences. It's always just been a nameless file... until now.
As I covered my kitchen table with bib numbers from races run, rough drafts of speeches given, torn out journal entries and pictures, my file transformed into something else for me. It has become my visual outline for my book. I have been stuck with my writing. Trying to decide which route to go, how deep to delve, which angle to pursue. But finally (emphasis on finally), going through the file and seeing, touching and remembering, I started to see the path I need to take.
I haven't been back through this file in a long time. It's made it's way from first in line in the top shelf of my file cabinet, all the way to the back of the second drawer, occupying a good half of it. It has slowly been pushed back by additions of my most current life; high school and college info, certifications, pet stuff, you name it. When anyone needs something I always point to the top drawer. If we ever had to get out due to fire or something, the whole drawer comes out first.
But today, as I quietly celebrate 18 years of life since my original diagnosis on June 5, 1998, I am somewhat compelled to get the file out and go through it. In the past, I have had to be in just the right mood to go through it. There is so much there. The raw emotions in my original handwriting of speeches that I have given to different groups. Some right after the first diagnosis, ripe with hope and courage. Some after the first metastasis tinged with disbelief and vulnerability. And then very few after the second metastasis; I didn't need notes anymore, it had become my life. And then there is a part of me that no longer exists because of my disease...the athlete.
I describe myself as being athletic when I was young. I always loved to play kickball and softball with the neighborhood kids. I loved field day and was quite competitive, always taking it very seriously. To this day, I love watching sports of all kind, especially my kid's. When we moved to West Hartford, I was hijacked by my friend Audrey to play women's soccer. I adored the camaraderie but was definitely not an "A" player. I had to stop playing when my port was put in. My teammates were so wonderful, that they had pink ribbons embroidered onto their jerseys; a gesture that still can make me misty eyed. But, due to cancer, I developed a new passion and that was running.
When I was newly diagnosed and was in the waiting room at St. Francis Cancer Center, I picked up a book by Nancy Brinker about her sister Susie Komen and her life-ending battle with breast cancer. It described the promise that Nancy made to Susie to try to find a cure, thus beginning the Susan G. Komen Race For the Cure. I asked my nurse about the race and she said that there was one in Connecticut each year and that I should so that I could meet other young survivors. A few months later, I went to the Race with carrying Torrie in a frontpack. I was amazed at all of the festivities, the runners, the walkers and, especially, all of the survivors. I made myself a promise that I would come back the following year and participate in the walk. At that time, I never even entertained the idea of running a 5k race. I was NOT a runner.
Going back through my file today, I found journal notes from April 5, 2000 "I decided early this morning to walk. Must quit waiting for cancer to come back (my 1st premonition?) and get back to real life - and FIT. Had Ken drop Torrie and I off at school For Young Children with jog stroller. Walked home. 4 miles; beautiful morning. Felt great. Took an hour". April 25, 2000 "2.5-mile run/walk. Am now running more than walking! Need to buy running shoes." And finally, Wednesday, April 26, 2000 "Have planned all along to walk the Race For the Cure. While doing my 2-mile run/walk (Albany to Main to Asylum) - decided to RUN the Race For the Cure! I'm so excited! I have 17 days until the Race. Just want to complete it. Got new shoes." The running bug had bitten me.
More daily entries with further distances. I love reading back and feeling the excitement build to Race Day. It was finally here - May 13, 2000 "RACE DAY!! Woke up at 5:15 a.m to thunder and pouring rain, ugh. On my way to Survivor's Breakfast radio actually mentioned race may be canceled. Got to park and rivers were flowing down the sidewalk. I was prepared enough to bring my flip flops so I could preserve my shoes and socks. My feet were freezing, though! Had to pee and missed survivors photo. Also missed hearing my name be called to represent CT in Washington at the National Race! Was so excited when I found out that I started to cry! Ken finally showed up with kids - he was so excited for me. Went to starting line area (rain finally stopped, skies cleared up) made my way to front 1/3. Got very emotional - I can't believe I'm running this race! Ken and kids gave me a thumbs up, the horn blew and we were off! It was tight going at first through the park, had to find a space and my pace. Was proud of myself for not getting too caught up with the people around me and their pace. The park was packed with people clapping and cheering. There weren't many pink shirts around me so I got a lot of cheering. Saw Ken and the kids at around 1 mile and felt great. I ran out of the park and continued to feel super. Started passing people at 2 miles! Came upon the BIG HILL. A group around me started talking it up 'heads down, arms pumping, don't walk.'! I made it! Yahoo! Breezed into the park to people clapping and yelling. Had energy left and started to sprint. The announcer yelled 'here comes a pink shirt' and I started clapping and waving. I sprinted the small last hill and saw Ken and the clock all at one. I saw I was going to break 30:00 and I was ecstatic! Time: 29:25! It was an incredible moment. I am a RUNNER!" What a great memory for me.
That race inspired me to keep running. I ran many more 5k's, a 10-mile race, a 20k race, a 1/2 marathon and, unbelievably, seven months after completing my first race, I completed the Walt Disney World Marathon. I had become an ATHLETE. But just a few months later, my cancer returned and running came to a halt.
As my disease progressed, accompanied by all of it's surgeries, complications, and treatments; running turned into walking. And now, as I gratefully sit here 18 years later, I have come to another realization: I am still an athlete. You must be one to endure and live with this disease.
I am still running the Race and the name of my blog is changing; it is now "Eighteen Years Of Pink".
Namaste.
Kim
As I covered my kitchen table with bib numbers from races run, rough drafts of speeches given, torn out journal entries and pictures, my file transformed into something else for me. It has become my visual outline for my book. I have been stuck with my writing. Trying to decide which route to go, how deep to delve, which angle to pursue. But finally (emphasis on finally), going through the file and seeing, touching and remembering, I started to see the path I need to take.
I haven't been back through this file in a long time. It's made it's way from first in line in the top shelf of my file cabinet, all the way to the back of the second drawer, occupying a good half of it. It has slowly been pushed back by additions of my most current life; high school and college info, certifications, pet stuff, you name it. When anyone needs something I always point to the top drawer. If we ever had to get out due to fire or something, the whole drawer comes out first.
But today, as I quietly celebrate 18 years of life since my original diagnosis on June 5, 1998, I am somewhat compelled to get the file out and go through it. In the past, I have had to be in just the right mood to go through it. There is so much there. The raw emotions in my original handwriting of speeches that I have given to different groups. Some right after the first diagnosis, ripe with hope and courage. Some after the first metastasis tinged with disbelief and vulnerability. And then very few after the second metastasis; I didn't need notes anymore, it had become my life. And then there is a part of me that no longer exists because of my disease...the athlete.
I describe myself as being athletic when I was young. I always loved to play kickball and softball with the neighborhood kids. I loved field day and was quite competitive, always taking it very seriously. To this day, I love watching sports of all kind, especially my kid's. When we moved to West Hartford, I was hijacked by my friend Audrey to play women's soccer. I adored the camaraderie but was definitely not an "A" player. I had to stop playing when my port was put in. My teammates were so wonderful, that they had pink ribbons embroidered onto their jerseys; a gesture that still can make me misty eyed. But, due to cancer, I developed a new passion and that was running.
When I was newly diagnosed and was in the waiting room at St. Francis Cancer Center, I picked up a book by Nancy Brinker about her sister Susie Komen and her life-ending battle with breast cancer. It described the promise that Nancy made to Susie to try to find a cure, thus beginning the Susan G. Komen Race For the Cure. I asked my nurse about the race and she said that there was one in Connecticut each year and that I should so that I could meet other young survivors. A few months later, I went to the Race with carrying Torrie in a frontpack. I was amazed at all of the festivities, the runners, the walkers and, especially, all of the survivors. I made myself a promise that I would come back the following year and participate in the walk. At that time, I never even entertained the idea of running a 5k race. I was NOT a runner.
Going back through my file today, I found journal notes from April 5, 2000 "I decided early this morning to walk. Must quit waiting for cancer to come back (my 1st premonition?) and get back to real life - and FIT. Had Ken drop Torrie and I off at school For Young Children with jog stroller. Walked home. 4 miles; beautiful morning. Felt great. Took an hour". April 25, 2000 "2.5-mile run/walk. Am now running more than walking! Need to buy running shoes." And finally, Wednesday, April 26, 2000 "Have planned all along to walk the Race For the Cure. While doing my 2-mile run/walk (Albany to Main to Asylum) - decided to RUN the Race For the Cure! I'm so excited! I have 17 days until the Race. Just want to complete it. Got new shoes." The running bug had bitten me.
More daily entries with further distances. I love reading back and feeling the excitement build to Race Day. It was finally here - May 13, 2000 "RACE DAY!! Woke up at 5:15 a.m to thunder and pouring rain, ugh. On my way to Survivor's Breakfast radio actually mentioned race may be canceled. Got to park and rivers were flowing down the sidewalk. I was prepared enough to bring my flip flops so I could preserve my shoes and socks. My feet were freezing, though! Had to pee and missed survivors photo. Also missed hearing my name be called to represent CT in Washington at the National Race! Was so excited when I found out that I started to cry! Ken finally showed up with kids - he was so excited for me. Went to starting line area (rain finally stopped, skies cleared up) made my way to front 1/3. Got very emotional - I can't believe I'm running this race! Ken and kids gave me a thumbs up, the horn blew and we were off! It was tight going at first through the park, had to find a space and my pace. Was proud of myself for not getting too caught up with the people around me and their pace. The park was packed with people clapping and cheering. There weren't many pink shirts around me so I got a lot of cheering. Saw Ken and the kids at around 1 mile and felt great. I ran out of the park and continued to feel super. Started passing people at 2 miles! Came upon the BIG HILL. A group around me started talking it up 'heads down, arms pumping, don't walk.'! I made it! Yahoo! Breezed into the park to people clapping and yelling. Had energy left and started to sprint. The announcer yelled 'here comes a pink shirt' and I started clapping and waving. I sprinted the small last hill and saw Ken and the clock all at one. I saw I was going to break 30:00 and I was ecstatic! Time: 29:25! It was an incredible moment. I am a RUNNER!" What a great memory for me.
That race inspired me to keep running. I ran many more 5k's, a 10-mile race, a 20k race, a 1/2 marathon and, unbelievably, seven months after completing my first race, I completed the Walt Disney World Marathon. I had become an ATHLETE. But just a few months later, my cancer returned and running came to a halt.
As my disease progressed, accompanied by all of it's surgeries, complications, and treatments; running turned into walking. And now, as I gratefully sit here 18 years later, I have come to another realization: I am still an athlete. You must be one to endure and live with this disease.
I am still running the Race and the name of my blog is changing; it is now "Eighteen Years Of Pink".
Namaste.
Kim
Monday, May 30, 2016
The Beginning of My Summer And The Rest Of My Life
Memorial Day, 2016.
The 3rd Memorial Day Holiday in a row that I have been in bandages from surgery. The 3rd holiday in a row, that I feel optimism for a healthy, healing summer. But this time; I feel different. I feel like some type of corner has been rounded or an obstacle has been removed. I feel lighter, happier and hopeful. Very hopeful.
This surgery has been different from the last two in many ways, mainly, because I am a lot different than I was last year and the year before. Over the past three years, I have undergone major shifts in my thinking and approach to situations. I have focused so hard on learning to try to take things not so seriously, even when faced with very serious challenges. I began the gut wrenching process of going back through my life and working through a lot of unfinished emotional business. I have slowly begun to repair the damage that has been caused to me and by me. I have fought to grasp hold of the one thing that eluded me all of my life: peace.
Driving to Yale for this last surgery, I was very afraid. Even more afraid than when I faced emergency open heart surgery and had Fr. Leary anointing me before going to the O.R. The fear of this surgery stirring up the MRSA that almost killed me last fall, was paralyzing. In the room preparing to go to the operating table, I began just holding and touching my rosary until I was placed on the table and the mask was put over my face to put me to sleep. I was calm.
And that's how I woke up.
Calm.
Normally, when I am awakened from anesthesia, I am confused and afraid and agitated. This time, I still I woke up to pain, but I was peaceful and rather relaxed. There was no chaos, nothing unforeseen had come up, and the surgery went better than planned. I slept well through that first night. Tessa and Ken were at my bedside early the next morning and had everything set up for me. I had wonderful meditation music playing softly by my bedside, lavender, and other healing oils were being diffused in my room. The light was soft from a lamp brought from home. That wonderful atmosphere was created and maintained for the next several days. Of course, the nurses and doctors had to come in and out, but I had a sign placed on my door for no other interruptions. I asked for visitors to wait until I got home and my phone was used only to communicate with my family. I just didn't want to disturb the peace that had I had been blessed with.
I came home from the hospital early (!), and was able to be present for Torrie's Senior Prom pictures and to help Tessa with her move back to Villanova for work. Today, I can say that I am in less pain that I have been in since more than three years ago. Amazing. Just waiting out some time to make sure that infection doesn't rear its' head... I'm almost there.
Before surgery, my oncologist informed me that she had been offered an opportunity at the University of Pennsylvania and that my care was being transferred to a new doctor. I will be meeting her in a couple of weeks. I want to have a discussion with her before I start my treatments back up. My cancer status has not changed in a few years. There has been no new growth, even when I was off the chemo for six months last fall. Is it possible for a break? Could I actually step away from Yale and treatments and injections and scans and tests, etc. for the summer? Could I have a 'normal' summer? Next month, my blog title will change to Eighteen Years of Pink. That is a LONG time to be running this race...I want to rest a while.
Tessa has moved to PA to work for the summer before her senior year of college; Torrie graduates from high school in just a few days. I never, ever, expected to live this long.
Ever.
And here I sit, feeling better than I have in a very long time, entertaining the idea of a respite from cancer and it's treatments.
I also sit here with ideas dancing around in my head about starting my Mindfulness and Matters studio, actually allowing myself to dream and plan for the future.
I dream of growing old...
maybe it's not just a dream.
Namaste,
Kim
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