It’s been 47 days since the last time I was zapped by radiation. 13 since a CT scan showed… nothing. No sign of cancer. It’s funny how as you are going through a challenge, every heinous second feels like it’s being burned into your brain so you’ll never forget it. Then, the horribleness starts to imperceptibly fade (I suppose that’s a good thing. Or moms would probably only have one baby EVER). Now, when people I haven’t seen for a while ask how I’m doing, I have to think for a fraction of a second about why they’re asking. Oh yeah, that rare cancer I had that doctors couldn’t agree on how to treat. Yeah, that.
The answer is that I’m doing better every day. Still not 100-percent, which is repeatedly surprising to me. I am on one medication only, Omeprazole, for reflux, but I only have one pill left. I still need an emergency glass of water standing by when I eat, just in case I do so too enthusiastically. Swallowing big bites still occasionally gives me that feeling of having a small hippo stuck in my esophagus. But nothing is off limits anymore; I will make up for 3 months of not drinking red wine. Believe that.
The endurance is coming back. I swim/bike/run or hike every day. I’m able to go longer with more intensity now without having that feeling like the lights may go out at any second. Yesterday, I had the best run I’ve had since, oh, November. It was short, but it was sunny and 35 degrees and I ran at a pace I could hold last fall. Then I threw in a half dozen uphill intervals for good measure. Today, after I take advantage of a big snow dump on my big snow skis, I plan to hike up the mountain a few miles. My Kilimanjaro hike is less than a month away. (OMG!!!!!!! I’M SO EXCITED ABOUT THAT!!!!!!) Truthfully, I had had some wavering about whether I could physically make the climb (not that I wouldn’t have tried, even if I had to make the summit on my belly like a baby seal….), but now, I have no doubt. My gear list is almost fulfilled. I think a strap for my sunglasses and some emergency snacks are all I have left to buy.
Of course, even though I don’t REALLY think about it all the time, cancer and its treatment leave telltale signs that life was different for a bit. Believe it or not, my hair is STILL falling out. The shedding has slowed, but a shampoo means more strands in my hands. My friends politely say they don’t notice, but my hair stylist begs to differ. I usually wrap a hair band around my ponytail twice. Now, if I don’t wrap it four times, the band will fall out. I find them all over the house. My cats think I’m leaving them little play toys. If I part my hair in different places, I can see mortifying patches of scalp. Sometimes I do it just to scare myself. It’s been almost two months since my last chemo, and I would think I should be able to see baby hair coming in but I don’t yet. Dr. Akerley said the hair never stops growing, even when you chemo it. Mine apparently is on an extended rest interval. I’m still glad I didn’t have to resort to the mohawk, as fun as it would have been (for a week).
I am making sure that I have polish on my fingernails, as there is a light blue/black horizontal line across each one from the chemo. Last time I had chemo, my nails actually got wavy on the nail beds. This time, there’s just a little demarcation line that is a dead giveaway, if you know where to look for Evidence of Chemo.
I still have an end-of-the-summer tan. Of course, it’s in an 8×8″ splotch on my back and a smaller, lighter one on my chest. That’s from the radiation. The skin actually feels thicker in those areas, too. I’m assuming that will go away, but it doesn’t really bother me. Between those and the multitude of scars from surgeries, mountain bike crashes, trail running Superman landings, separating mad cats, and more, I haven’t had Cinderella skin since I was a teenager. I’ve never felt the need to hide the war wounds from cancer treatment. Truly, they are battle scars from wars won to me. I can still feel the collapsed vein and the welt from my port for chemo in 2001, and I do from time to time, for no particular reason except that I can.
Now, once again in my lifetime, my wellness will be measured in 3-month increments. I will go back sometime in March (after the Kili climb) to drink the barium chalk-water, be injected with dye, and CT scanned to see if life goes on the path I choose or a different one. I won’t worry about it. I won’t dread it. It is what it is and worry only makes it worse. (Plus, isn’t it amazing how what you worry about is never, NEVER, as bad as you imagine it might be? Your clothes never spontaneously fall off as you are meeting your new boss for the first time. Amazing.) I will, however, be slightly anxious the day before the test and relieved when Terry the nurse tells me he’ll see me in June.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Right now, there are 8 inches of new snow on the ground and another 10 or so to come. Life is back to normal. Living strong.
P.S. I saw “The Armstrong Lie” last night, the new documentary on the fall of Lance Armstrong. It was not a hatchet job but had nothing new, was too long, and had too much of that annoying Betsy Andreu. It was a whole lot of ok. Now, let’s move on. Forward.
Laura S
Wendy you are so amazing. 🙂
Vivian
You are an inspiration. It will be a year in three days since I was diagnosed with NHL. I beat it, but there is always that cloud of worry. It’s taking me a while to get to a full exercise regimen. Muscles seems weaker. I’m planning of going for a hike in Ireland this summer. I am slowly putting in more time in the gym. Good luck with your climb. My son did the EBC trail in the Himalayas in 2010.
oleda baker
Wendy – you are unbelievable. We have all learned a lot from you…and still learning. Thanks, Oleda