So it's a bit obvious that I've fallen off the radar. Besides cancer, I seem to be suffering from a severe case of Writer's Block. I've attempted numerous times to write a post but each time I fail, and for various reasons. I thought that if I started with the basic buidling blocks of a post, then I might be successful. So what is the basic building block? Words, silly. I've decided to introduce some new terminology. The following is a personal glossary that will hopefully give you some insight into the last few months. It's in alphabetical order.
I'm an English teacher, people.
Glossary
Cancery; (adj.) when I want to weasel my way out of social events or cleaning, I tell people I'm feeling cancery. My husbands response to this is usually calling me an ass.
Chemo fog: (n.) This is a legitimate term and is something I have become all too familiar with. The new chemo regimen has me on the same drugs with a new chemo booster drug. My first 12 treatments were rough but I never got that pure exhaustion that other cancer patients warned me about. Well now I'm in the thick of exhaustion. My brain is in a total fog. I spend the bulk of the week asleep or just dazed. It's like my eyes don't even completely open for 5 days. I struggle finding the simplest of words, I can't concentrate (I don't even have the ability to play Candy Crush!). I don't read, watch tv, or really do anything because I'm just so out of it. And I miss my kids terribly during this stage. I obviously need help on these days so friends and family are here to take care of the kids. It sucks. Life just stops and I get really depressed. I pray for Saturday to come because that's usually when I start to feel somewhat human again. And poor Billy is on double duty, taking are of kids and the household after working all day. I feel dumb and I feel as if I'm getting dumber by the week. It's one thing to have chemo wreak havoc on my insides but I know it's killing brain cells as well, and that is absolutely terrifying.
Christmania: (n.) when you go ape shit and spoil the crap out of your kids and try to make the holiday epic because in the back of your head a little voice says, "what if this is my last Christmas"? This disease affects all major holidays.
Christmas Eve-il: (n.) when you get an email first thing Christmas Eve morning saying your latest scan results are in. Christmas Evil is deciding whether or not you want to read them or wait until after the holiday because you're not sure you'd be able to handle the results and you don't want to be sobbing on Jesus's birthday. So you force yourself to wait until the day after in order to attempt having a normal holiday. This my friends, is not an easy feat.
Counts: (n.) My new obsession. I wish this had something to do with royalty or vampires but it's just my stupid blood counts. The new booster drug is continuously killing my blood cells. I never had this with the first regimen but now I do. Why I'm obsessed is because it not only means my immune system is sucking but it also determines whether or not I am healthy enough for chemo. I've been rejected once and had to wait an extra week. I don't like rejection and I don't like that these miniscule little shits can't get their act together.
Dat: (n.) As of now, Sam only has 2 legitimate words. She makes a ton of sounds but "hi" and "dat" are words she can say and respond to. So what is "dat" you might ask? Is it her name for her beloved mother or her doting father or possibly one of her loving siblings? Nope. It's for the fucking cats. She can't say Mama but she can say "hi dat" to any four legged feline she sees.
Frustression: (n.) the way I feel the night before chemo. I get frustrated because my time to get anything done is over. If the house isn't clean or the laundry is overflowing it will stay like that unless someone does it for me which makes me feel useless and helpless. I try to pack as much as I can handle into my good week but there's never enough time and the week passes so quickly. So I'm left sad and angry. Pure and utter frustression.
Hot Sam: (n.) a new past time my husband and I have invented. If you are old enough you might remember the pretzel stand Hot Sam that used to be in the Ocean County Mall. Well our Hot Sam is not a pretzel. It's a fresh pee pee diaper. So basically it's one of us hitting the other in the head, neck, or possibly down the shirt with a diaper and saying "Hot Sam". We may be the most immature parents to date but we laugh more than anyone I know. I'm not even going to tell you the game we made up with the diaper pail!
Inhalation therapy: (n.)
def 1:The constant need to smell my baby (I.e.baby head, baby feet, baby blankets) in order to release endorphins. I swear there must be something to this and my healing process. Even on my really bad days I still have to get my ass downstairs In order to hold Sam and be close to her
def 2: Taking it all in. Inhaling the moments. I will never be the mother that posts a pic of my kid that says I'm 9 months old today. Frankly, I usually have to do the math to figure out how old Sam is. I am a proud owner of three baby books that have maybe one or two pages filled out. I know I share a lot of clips of Sam ( thank you iPhone technology) but I've never been one to run and get a camera to capture special moments. If anything I taught my husband to stop doing that too. Just be in that moment. Just view it with your eyes and not through the lens of a camera. Yes,I may not remember the moment 10 years from now but I know I felt it. I was napping next to Sam a few days ago and the light from my bedroom window was falling on her face. I watched the light on the curve of her nose, on the round of her check, and how it brought out the reddish tinge of her eyebrows. It was a perfect picture opportunity. But I didn't dare move from that moment. I just stared and felt everything and inhaled.
Irinotecan: (n.) This is my chemo booster drug. It's nickname is "I run to the can" and for obvious reasons. During infusion I am given a dose of atropine to ward off the immediate diarrhea this drug causes. Atropine prevents diarrhea but luckily you are still blessed with the symptoms. So you still get the chills, the cramping, and the saliva buildup. And if that's not enough, this fabulous drug also causes late onset diarrhea. A week after infusion you are blessed with having anything you eat go right through you. Good times.
Limbo: (n.)
def 1: a state of waiting, not knowing, pausing. A state of fear and sadness because you don't know how long you will live which in turn affects how you will live.
def 2: a game played by bending under a stick. A game I used to find annoying but would now kill to be able to bend like that. Lately, my abdominal muscles have been on the fritz. Not sure what's causing the pain. Torn muscles, scar tissue from my surgery or possibly adhesions. It could be anything but it makes bending and laughing a bit painful. The only good thing about the pain is that it serves as a reminder of how much I laugh.
Pre nausea: (n.) Let me preface this definition with a fact that people close to me know all too well: I have a phobia of vomiting. Right before I started chemotherapy I tried to learn everything I could about it online. To be honest, I felt like most information was geared to all other cancers but mine. Anyway I found a guide about nausea and the different types like nausea during infusion or late onset nausea. I came across the term pre nausea and honestly thought it was the silliest thing I have ever heard. It's nausea that occurs prior to treatment. There's no physical cause for it so it's brought on by mental stimulus. Well that would never happen to me! Well...I've basically Pavloved myself. (I just made a new word!).Yes, through the power of conditioning I now can make myself nauseated at the very thought of chemo. I also feel sick thinking about the restaurant on the first floor of the cancer center ( it reminds me of the weeks Sam was in the NICU). And if I visualize the Wawas enroute to Philly, I get the dry heaves.
Shower monster: (n.) the monster that attacks you every time you take a shower. It forces you to strip down and see the latest impact chemo has had on your ailing body. Maybe it will be excessively dry skin or a scab that keeps bleeding due to low platelets. Or you just happen on the massive red cystic acne scars that cover your entire back. Or a giant bruise that came from who the hell knows.The monster also makes getting wet irritating. You are constantly cold and your skin is hyper sensitive so water drops feel like little pin pricks. But the real challenge is washing those feet. It's the most painful irritating tickling feeling on earth but you will get through it.The last crushing blow is what the shower monster leaves for me at the end of every single shower: a large clump of my hair resting in the drain. Without fail this clump always leaves me feeling defeated.
Side eye: my son's authentic way of rolling his eyes at me. The side eye has become a constant these last few months. He is frustrated and can't figure out how to deal wth his emotions. Happy to say that yesterday we had a really long talk about side eye. Apparently I've been coming down a little hard on him and I will agree wth that. And apparently my cancer is really pissing him off and in a way, he's taking it out on me. It's really hard telling my child that it's okay if he's angry at me. That i know it's not really me he is angry at but he can't find the right way to show that he is tired of the situation. Cancer sticks its claws into everyone and also dictates what we can and cannot do as a family. I missed out on sledding this weekend. Sledding! I fucking love sledding. Suck it, cancer.
Stable: (adj.) the word I hang on to with a white knuckled grip. Last scan still showed the same spot on my peritoneum but it did not grow in either size or activity. There may some thickening in the lining of my stomach again. In a month I will have an endoscopy to determine if this is indeed the case. However, no new activity showed up in that area so as my nurse practitioner stated: "For now, I am stable". Ha! That's funny. Stable. Stable is the last adjective I would use to describe cancer. Or even me. Nothing is EVER stable. Not for one second does my life feel stable. But I'm clinging to that word. I have no choice.
Starfish: (n.) Don't forget, kids! I'm still trying to maneuver through menopause. Chemo week seems to bring on my menopausal symptoms but even in my off week, I am blessed with some killer hot flashes. This is especially the case at night. So starfish is the position I take during a hot flash. I spread out my arms and legs in hope of some relief. I must look like a complete ass when I do this, but I'm on fire and I don't give a shit. For you ladies in this stage of life, give the starfish a go and provide me with some feedback.
Walking dead-itis: (n.) It's when you turn.
It's when you bitch and moan to your husband about how much you don't like this tv show based on the bits and pieces you have seen... But then you catch an episode that has an amazing story line and you realize you're just being a pompous asshole.
It's when you binge watch four seasons in 2 weeks.
It's when you completely immerse yourself into a series so much that the bulk of your Christmas gifts are Walking Dead merchandise.
It's when you admit that shows like this and True Detective are so dark that it makes your life look like a cakewalk. And even if it's just for an hour, you are able to tone down the double thinking that you are plagued with.
It's when you strip the show down to its bare bones and find the deepest connection with the main character: I must survive this. I have to do everything I can, even if it means doing things I don't like, to survive. I have to. For my kids.
Widow shopping: it's window shopping with a twist. It's when someone dies and you go to his or her wake and find yourself window shopping. You look at room size, flower arrangements, and photo displays and start gathering ideas about how you would like your own farewell to play out. Because let's admit it cancer folks, you think about this all the time. Seriously, admit it. I know I'm not the only one. However, when you share your thoughts with your spouse, the prospective "widow" you are shopping for, it doesn't really translate well. They don't get it and might be offended. So word to the wise. Pick out coffins with other cancer patients. They have definitely been down that mental road already.
Writer's block: (n.)
def 1: the inability to get my words out because of the state I am in. This in turn creates guilt about avoiding the giant support system of friends and family.
def 2: the actual delusion of blocking by not writing. Let me use it in a sentence to help further explain its meaning.
My writer's block makes me not have cancer, for If I don't write about it, then it must not be there.
If I don't update people on my situation and I don't address my feelings, good or bad, then I am just like everyone else.
Damn girl, you crazy.