This one unpredictable, raw, and wild life

"If you're going through hell, keep going." - Winston Churchill

To be honest, I've been reluctant to write much the last several weeks. Cancer isn't the most thrilling companion, and I haven't felt there's much to say about the ongoing treatments. I've been settling into my new role as a pin cushion, poked twice a day for my Lovanox (blood thinner) injections. Also, I'm making myself get outside for longer walks while we're enjoying unseasonably awesome February temps in the 50s, 60s, and 70s.

#SeenOnMyWalk around our local Boyd Lake State Park

I'd finally started to feel like we had this several-weeks-old blood clot situation under control. I was focused on eating the elephant one spoonful at a time. But, then on Feb. 10th my neutrophils - a type of white blood cell - were low on my lab blood work, and I had to step up the needle game. I was ordered to go to another branch of the hospital that Saturday and Sunday for Neupogen shots, which stimulate bone marrow production of white blood cells. The oncologist is (rightly) concerned about my white blood cell counts, since they help fend off infections.

I really thought I was taking pretty great care of myself - getting better with my nutrition, taking my vitamins, resting plenty, and exercising regularly. Like the good little perfectionist I've always been, I was following the rules for beating breast cancer. Sean headed off for a well-deserved ski trip with the guys for the President's Day holiday, and my parents flew to Colorado to help out with my chemo appointment. (Major props go to my Dad who assumed the responsibility of giving me the blood thinner shots while Sean's away.) This would be an easy weekend.

On Friday morning Mom, Dad, and I headed off to the cancer center for my Taxol infusion. Mom came in with me for accessing the port (putting a needle in for the chemo IV) and the blood draw (for lab work). We headed up to the infusion center, selected a chair with massage capacities and mountain views, and waited for the nurse to give me the pre-meds. This time, though, a nurse came over and introduced herself - as "the person who was supposed to give you chemo, but..." We weren't cleared to do the chemo because my lab work showed that my neutrophils had not rebounded. Instead of heading skyward, they now were below the threshold for me to receive chemotherapy drugs. My oncologist had called in when she saw the neutrophil numbers and said we'd just wait until next week's chemo, and I don't need to make this missed treatment up later. I got a Neupogen shot, was told to schedule another one for Saturday back at the hospital, and sent on my way.

I mean... YAY, right? I should have rejoiced for getting a freebie week of reprieve from these infusions. So, why did this all make me cry? I couldn't make it through checking out at the cancer center without the tears falling. We came home and I fell into a depressive state - slept, sulked, and cried - over the missed chemo. Battling cancer had become my routine, my daily task. Now I couldn't even do that successfully. I had failed in the one aspect of my life that right now overshadowed everything else about me.

In the afternoon, I lay down for a second nap, staring at the ceiling with a feeling of emptiness. My mind raced like a hamster in its wheel. I tried praying. I sang quietly to myself. I breathed in and out, using a three-part yogic technique I learned long ago in a class. Nothing seemed to help. I didn't want to be so forlorn. I wasn't trying to give in to hopelessness, but I couldn't seem to find a way out. Swells of anguish surged over and over and over.

As time passed in the painfully slow way it does when I sink into depression, a new emotion began to flood my senses... one that lurked beneath the melancholy. I am angry. My body tensed. Like, truly f*cking mad. I'd rubbed raw a part of myself I wasn't dealing with. At my core, I'm aggravated about being in this cancer-ridden state, ticked off at the seemingly endless treatments, irate over the unknowns that lie ahead. Here I am, giving my all to fighting cancer, and it's not enough. I'm pissed at my body for betraying me, for being too weak to handle these treatments. How am I supposed to work with this adversary? What do I do when I am the traitor?

I don't have an answer to dealing with my body's treason, but feeling the anger was a breakthrough. After years of teaching about counseling and seeing therapists, you'd think I'd remember how important acknowledging every emotion is. Ever the rookie, I am! But, there you have it - when you're in the thick of an emotional setback, it's hard to get enough perspective to remember training or past experience. It might seem counterintuitive, yet succumbing to my surface-level sadness helped me get to the deeper anger it was masking. As a result, by embracing and naming the fury I feel, I could begin to set it free.

When I felt ready to let go of the most acute feelings of animus, I thought about what might give me an outlet for my roiling emotions. In DC, I would have made my way to see the National Zoo animals, connect with a more primal part of myself, and lose myself in their antics. So, I dragged myself from bed and put on some workout clothes. I didn't expect an instantaneous fix, but I needed to give myself a chance to come out of the despondency. My parents and I ventured to a nearby reservoir with resident nesting bald eagles to walk a few short trails and eagle watch. Seeing the soaring raptors and talking with rangers about area wildlife reinvigorated me. I am more than my cancer.

The pictured tiger, lion, and wolves are among hundreds
 of captive creatures The Wild Animal Sanctuary has rescued
 from dire situations around the world. 

Although I needed to stay local for Saturday's shot, my folks and I made plans for Sunday. We decided we'd trek to The Wild Animal Sanctuary about an hour away in order to indulge our shared love of wild creatures. Basically, the balm I chose for treating my inner turmoil was to reach outside myself. To celebrate things I enjoy. To find some peace in the natural world. To give my heart and its huge capacity for loving animals an outlet. 

Believe it or not, learning about the rescued animals was like finding kindred spirits who've suffered yet are now showing their resilience and ability to rebound from great challenges. We observed hundreds of former exotic pets, circus animals, or otherwise abused captive creatures that now have a second chance at life outside concrete and barred enclosures; they have acres and acres of Colorado prairie to roam. They can be wild, most for the first time in their lives. These creatures have found new family groups and companions, luxuriate in our 300 days of sunshine, and are treated with compassion and dignity by an adoring staff and caring supporters. If that's not a metaphor for pushing through our painful experiences, I'm not sure what is.

These animals' stories aren't mirrors of my own (My life has always been filled with love, opportunity, and relative comfort - these creatures have been used, battered, and discarded), but they did inspire me to keep telling my own story. Sometimes I feel scared, lonely, angry, sad, and blocked. I keep choosing every day to fight cancer and find reasons for living a full life in spite of it. It's not always exciting, and it's definitely not easy. On many occasions, I'm able to muster an inner strength and raison d'etre. Other times, I need a swift kick, a gentle nudge, or a full-on meltdown.

Stick with me, friends. This journey has highs and lows, and I need your support. I'm a bundle of feelings and thoughts that I have to let breathe - I'm grateful for your listening and empathizing with me. Trust me, it makes a difference to hear from you and know I'm not alone.

Fortunately for me, the wildlife helps, too.

Complicating matters

"Life is a series of experiences, each one of which makes us bigger, even though sometimes it is hard to realize this. For the world was built to develop character, and we must learn that the setbacks and grieves which we endure help us in our marching onward." - Henry Ford

Trying to stay the course to good health,
in spite of a few setbacks and fears

In the middle of last week, I developed a muscle ache in my right shoulder, and I was bummed because it meant I needed to lay off some of the yoga poses I typically do to relax, strengthen, and stretch myself. Over the next couple of days, the pain migrated down my arm to my elbow, and I noticed swelling throughout the area. The tight, swollen skin freaked me out, and I hoped maybe I'd just been ingesting too much salt. I sat around with my arm up over my head, willing the swelling to dissipate.

When I went in for chemotherapy last Friday, I knew I needed to show the nurse my puffy arm and describe the shoulder pain. What I didn't expect was how easily she'd diagnose the underlying issue.

"Yeah...," she said, inspecting my arm and noticing pronounced veins around my shoulder. "It looks like you have a blood clot. I'll talk to your doctor about this and see if we can get you an ultrasound today."

And, thus, a new regimen was born. To make a long story shorter, my 2-hour chemo appointment ballooned into an all-day affair, which included diagnostic tests to confirm there is a clot and identify its extent, an interminably long wait at Walgreens to get new meds, and doubling back to the cancer center for a tutorial on blood thinners.

The blood clot starts adjacent to the chemo port that was installed on the upper right-hand side of my chest, and it extends down my arm. Blood thinners are necessary to reduce the coagulation, and (according to my oncologist) it's not safe for cancer patients to take a pill to thin it out.

All of this means I have to receive shots to reduce coagulation. Twice a day. For three months or until the port is removed.

So - in yet another turn of great heroism - my incredible husband Sean is injecting my abdomen morning and night with blood thinners. Thank goodness for him! I've always been queasy about blood, shots, needles, etc. I knew I'd struggle to do this to myself, and he's willingly assumed the role.

To my head, this complication feels like two steps back, after celebrating the good "step forward" news about my tumor dissipating. I'm finding it difficult to reframe this setback as just a small hiccup in my larger process.

It doesn't help that looming ahead this Friday is my genetic counseling appointment to begin the exploration of whether my breast cancer is at all tied to my genes. Truly, I'm frightened to my core about the possible test results, since having a genetic mutation to BRCA1 or BRCA2 would mean I'm at an increased risk of cancer recurrence. Being diagnosed with breast cancer under age 50 is a possible sign of some mutation being present, and triple negative cancers like mine are more frequently linked to BRCA1 mutations than other types of breast cancer are.

Having been through fewer than half of my chemo treatments now (9 more to go!), I can say definitively that I NEVER want to do this again. If a BRCA1 or BRCA2 mutation is present, the best way for me to reduce the risk of developing breast cancer again or ovarian cancer will be to do a double mastectomy and a hysterectomy. I mean... ARRRRGGGGHHH!!! That sounds unbelievably atrocious right now. I just want to be healthy, to go back to a "normal" life, to see fewer hospitals and doctors and specialists and surgeons. So, the unknown of the test results - which I may not receive for a month - is dampening my spirit and preventing me from feeling very hopeful.

Trying to stay positive in the face of these real and possible complications is tough. Although I'm not trying to "borrow trouble," as my mother-in-law cautions me against doing, I do feel a need to be informed about the possibilities ahead. I'm accepting all prayers and good vibes for no mutation to be present, strength and peace in the face of the unknown, hope for thriving and surviving whatever comes my way, and wisdom for my caregivers. This process is all part of my life journey, whether I want it or not, and I'm endeavoring to come to terms with it. I know that I am stronger than this cancer, especially with the support of my community and network.

I just have to keep reminding myself of that... Every. Single. Day.