Is it the end?

About a month ago I met my new oncologist, Dr. Wahl. She is taking over Dr, Kraemer's patients. I'm not good at new things, so this was kind of awkward. First, I couldn't see her in August like I wanted to because she didn't have an opening for a "new patient". I didn't think I was new. I'd been going to their office since 2009, I just never saw her. But then again their office was closed (that's another story). So I had my appointment in September. I'm not sure why this bugged me, but my yearly appointments have always been in August and I kind of wanted to keep it that way. I had a schedule and I didn't want it to break it. I even sobbed over this. It is always amazing to me how emotional I privately get over cancer stuff. I'm not talking about a tear escaping, I'm talking about hiding-in-the-shower-with-tears-streaming-down-our-cheeks-and-running-out-of hot-water-before-you-stop-crying emotional. (I'm sure my high school English teacher just grimaced with that sentence.) 

I met with Dr. Wahl and she and I discussed my medical history and unlike Dr. Kraemer who didn't insist I get my port out and left it up to me, she highly suggested that I get it out.

Her: "Think of all the free time you will have when you don't have to visit us each six weeks to get a flush." 
Me: "But when I do I ask for a blood draw and we are keeping tabs on the cancer." 
Her: "You don't need it, treatment is over."
Me: "But I'm afraid it will return and kill me."
Her: "There is a 2% chance it will return."
ME: "But there is a chance."
Her: "I sent the paperwork in for surgery. I see you like Evergreen."
Me: "But there is still a chance."
Her: "I declare you cured." 
Me: "I give up!"

So yesterday, Oct 18, 2016, I did it. I had it removed. If I had gotten it out in August 2010, it would have been a very simple five minute process in a sterile room. But because I have had it in for six and a half years, I had to be sedated and it had to be done in a OR room. Of course it took only a few minutes and I wasn't totally out (or so they say). I went in as 12:30, surgery was at 2, and I was home before 4. Easy! 

I'm just recovering now. No lifting for two days, No showers for two days (they didn't stitch the wound close--used some bondo for skin stuff). and then I should be right as rain. Except...Is this really the end?

I truly am so nervous. This has been one of the hardest things I've ever done. Physically it was torture. I've reread my journal during active treatment and I can't believe I lived through it. The memories of the physical pain make me cringe and cry.
"Like giving birth to an elephant,"
"I can't seem to catch my breath, "
"I can walk up and down the stairs twice a day, so I plan my day carefully." 
Emotionally, I still live it. I look at the marks cancer has left on my body every day in the shower and when I'm getting dressed and I thank my lucky stars it's not worse, but they remind me every day of the emotional pain I lived through.
"I can't believe I'm bald. My crown of womanhood is gone."
"Nothing prepares you to write your farewell letter to your children."
"Everyday I wake up and think, 'Is this my last?'"
"I want to see my grandchildren."
"Please, just let me live one more day!"
And I continue to say those things weekly, if not daily. 

On Monday night, I almost called to cancel the surgery. I cried myself to sleep.
While in the recovery room before surgery (funny but it was the same room I was in when I went back to have it placed in April of 2010), I cried because...I don't know why I cried. Thankfully the nurse understood; she's a breast cancer survivor. 
After being wheeled back into the room post surgery, I cried again.
And I'm crying writing this.

So I'm not sure I'm happy to have my port gone. It's only been a few hours and I'm still bandaged up so I'm not even sure what the new scar looks like. But I'm sure every morning it will remind me I have cancer. Maybe someday I will say, "I had cancer," but right now that is a dream, I can't say that right now. I can't believe it. I'm afraid to say it. Maybe it will jinx it, maybe it won't be true and right now, my faith sees that 2% chance and it scares me to death.

In the meantime, I'm going to fantasize about going to sleep and rolling over on my right shoulder and not have my port pinch me. I'm going to realize that I can hug someone tight (or them me) and my port won't pinch me. I wonder if that will happen....

I wish I could go back and have my 10 year old daughter whose head would nestle right there and hug her without grimacing. She never saw that face, but I made it each time I hugged her. That one I wish I could go back and redo. 

In the meantime, I might just go take a long hot shower because this has been a really hard road to travel. 
 

Celebrating Women... And the Award Goes to.....

Today, March 8, 2016, is International Women's Day. 
I looked that up on the computer and I'm still not sure what it really is about. It has something to do with "Gender Parity". I had to look that up to and by definition it means:
"The Gender Parity Index is a socioeconomic index usually designed to measure the relative access to education of males and females. In its simplest form, it is calculated as the quotient of the number of females by the number of males enrolled in a given stage of education (primary, secondary, etc.)"

OK, I'm not going there. I'm going where I first thought this was going. I thought this was about celebrating the women in your life who made a difference, proved something, and more importantly deserve to be given the Oscar, or Emmy, or Nobel Prize equivalent award to those who are just plain awesome in their own little circle and made a difference in someone's life.

So the without further ado....

And the Award Goes to...

Nellie Nadine Ostler!
My mom has been on my mind lately. January we celebrated her birthday. Dang! Do I miss her. Then my brother's son's future mother-in-law asked for wedding pictures of his grandparents and great-grandparents. Then my son left on his LDS mission and we were back in Utah, a place my mom loved and I saw all the things my mom use to talk about. Then I went to the doctors and they call me by my first name which I share with my mom. Then to top it off, my daughter tagged me in a Facebook post. This facebook post was one where you copy and paste the message and then tag a few more people. This one is about celebrating when you felt beautiful. She actually posted this picture of me and her.

I remember when I first thought my mom was beautiful. I was doing a 7th grade English paper and we had to interview someone in our family and I don't recall the rest of the assignment. I just remember staring at this photo of my mom and thinking, "Wow, she was very beautiful as a teen." 

My mom had me later in life and all my friend's moms were pretty young. They were "hip" and "with it" or at least I thought. I felt like my mom was stuck in the 50's and we were living in the late 70's early 80's and she just wasn't "with it". I actually had to take back that thought. I began to think of my mom as something other than my mom. She had been a teen (maybe she did know a little about teenage angst). She had been "in love" (maybe she did know something about heart break). She had been a student (maybe she did know a little about pressure to fit in or about assignment anxiety). Maybe there was more to her. 

There was. 

And for that she wins the first award in my selection for this International Women's Day award that I'm giving out.

The second recipient isn't a person but a group of people. Granted they all aren't women, but the majority of them are. The award goes to nurses. Today I have the honor of visiting my oncologist for the last time. No, I'm not getting kicked out because I'm cured. He is retiring. We had a lovely chat. He's going to Texas and unfortunately he is taking his lovely wife, his nurse with him. Nurse Sharon held my hand as Dr. K. took a bone biopsy. Nurse Sharon held my hand when she pumped chemicals into my body to kill the cancer. Nurse Sharon called to tell me happy news as well as sad news. Nurse Sharon was there ever step of the way. Today after my chat with Dr. K, I had to have my blood drawn. Nurse Sharon wasn't able to do it because she was administering chemotherapy to another patient. But I heard her words. They were almost the same words she spoke to me all those years ago. But as much as they might be the same, there was sincerity behind them. "Darling, I know this hurts." "Darling, I'm so sorry." "Darling, just hold on." "I'm almost done." "Darling, I know." And she does. She is a survivor herself. 

I waited for her to come out from behind the privacy curtain and then I stopped her and told her "Thank you for saving my life." Of course she wouldn't take credit for it, but I let her know how important the work she did and still does is to those of us who don't see a very rosy outlook on life. Today Nurse Sharon and all the other lovely nurses (male ones too) are celebrated because of their undying nurturing care for those who most of the time would rather be somewhere completely different.

Yes, I cried as I sat down in my car. I will miss her and her husband. 

And the last recipient goes to my daughter. 

I had five boys and then God blessed me with Jessie. I get the "oh, so you kept trying until you had a girl." No, not really. Out of my six children, I only planned my first four. God decided to give me Chris and Jessie. 

I celebrate Jessie because I think she is great and I think she thinks I'm great. She keeps me young and she keeps me humble. 

Happy Anniversary

I have been a certified personal trainer for a year now!

I never thought my life would go in this direction but it did and so I'm happy. I love my job. I love seeing the transformation in my clients. 

Just the other day I was in a social situation with some friends, one of them was a client of mine. Someone commented on how great she looked. She smiled! Paycheck! Earlier in the evening I happened to touch her biceps and was amazed at the solidness of her arms. 

Another client who is using my online program has lost 30 pounds! But even better, has kept it off. Not easy as a young adult with food being the focus of all social functions. He works out 30-45 minutes every morning doing mostly body weight exercises. 

I love success stories. 

Here's to many more years of changing peoples lives.

And as always you can get in touch with me through email: Doreen @ Blandingonline.com  

Why I Hate Liers

I have cancer. I have Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. There is no cure.

I felt the physical pain of the tumor in my back. I have suffered through two 21 plus days of radiation and 1 cycle of five sessions of RCHOP chemotherapy. I lost my hair--everywhere! I lost a ton of weight. I lost my appetite. I lost the feeling in my toes and finger. I froze, I sweltered; often all in the same hour. I slept but never felt rested. I cried. I threw up. I starved. I swelled. I bled. I was scanned so many times I've lost count. I know which veins bleed well. I know which veins are scared so they will not give blood anymore. I have scars. I have tattoos (they are dots on my body so they can line up the lasers). I have raised money. I have run (Team in Training). I have suffered. I have conquered. I have survived. And I have watched friends die. 

Tracy Dart is a woman from West Seattle who claimed to have breast cancer. She did her first three day walk in honor or memory of a relative and then shortly after that she said that she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Of course she continued to walk and raise money. One report says she (Team Tracy) raised over $414,000 for the Susan G. Komen Foundation and for a year drove a Volkswagen car that was wrapped in pink.  I know of a West Seattle store that held fund raisers in their store for her. People gave her cash for groceries and "$7,000 went to help with living expenses while she underwent treatment for cancer". Meals were provided for her. She claims that she beat breast cancer three times. 

But she lied!

She never had breast cancer--EVER! 

She isn't the first person to do this and she won't be the last. But this one hits close to home. 

I posted this on my Facebook page and I had a fellow survivor just shake this off and said, "I guess as a survivor this doesn't take away the fact I survived. Having cancer was one of the worst times of my life and I overcame it and although it's easy to be angry, I feel sympathy for people who are sad and empty. It does nothing to me, my treatment and my battle."

So why do I care?

I care for the very fact that one person commented on the Facebook news feed when this story broke: "I will never donate to another person's cause." Cancer depends on money so that research can be funded. I'm not sure the cure will ever be found, but we sure can find better treatments. 

I went through one of the harshest chemotherapies for NHL: RCHOP. If the research was better, maybe I could have been given a different drug without all the harsh side effects. They have come a long way, but there is much to learn and discover.

I care for the fact that Ms. Dart claimed in speeches that she went through treatment. I have no words for the hell that I went through when I was in treatment for cancer. Every day (and to some degree even now) I went to bed and wondered if that was the last day of my life. Being scared for your own life every day is unthinkable, but somehow I did that. I wonder what Ms. Dart's evening prayers were? Did she pray, "Dear Lord, Please, let me live one more day. My babies aren't done growing and I haven't seen them graduate yet, or get married, or kiss their unborn babies."? NO SHE DID NOT!

A local TV personality posted this message to Marshawn Lynch thanking Mr. Lynch for giving him the courage to push through a very difficult cancer treatment. In part it said this,
"My doctor, John Thompson at Seattle Cancer Care Alliance put me on a two week treatment of Interleukin 2. I didn’t know he was sending me to hell.
"It’s a drug that has horrible side effects. Let’s put it this way, they put you in intensive care when it’s administered. Your blood pressure drops while your heart races. You get the chills so violently you shake the entire bed. You gain water weight at such a clip you can damn near see your face swell if you were looking into a mirror. Sleeping, yeah, right.  Every eight hours, the process repeats itself. You want to quit. Cancer is kicking your ass. The drug feels even worse. Your life may depend on receiving the drug. Knowing all of that, there’s an even chance you’d run away from the hospital and the drug if given the chance.
"While in the fog of that war, someone told me the Seahawks had a playoff game. It meant nothing at that moment. I was in and out for the start of the game. I didn’t care. Actually, I couldn’t care."
(Full posting here: http://jessejones.com/story/a-thank-you-note-to-marshawn-lynch/)

That, my friends, is cancer treatment. Ms. Dart is making it up in her speech at the three day walk event. (Truthfully I couldn't stomach the whole 11 minute video so I stopped after 3 minutes of lies.)  She doesn't know. She can't understand. SHE IS LYING. 

I care because of posts like this from my friend Lori: "She stole money from us, about $1000.00. I am assuming we are not the only ones.....the worst part is I sat and cried with her roommate and dear friend over the potential loss of her. I prayed many times at church for her. I could go on and on......."

The emotional thievery is unmeasurable.

I care because others will wonder, "Does Doreen really have cancer?" My cancer isn't visible. I didn't lose a body part. I did lose my hair, but then Ms. Dart shaved all of her off. Who's to know? Not that I want everyone to know, but I do. I want those who are suffering to know you can survive. There is a tomorrow. I know when I was diagnosed I wanted to read all the survivor stories I could. I wanted hope. I know this cancer will kill me...someday. But I want that day to be way out in the distance. I still want hope. I now want to be that hope for others. 

But now I wonder, "Will they believe my brave face? Will they come pick me up from a doctor appointment? Will they bring my family a meal when I just can't get the strength together to do it for them? What proof will be required for me to prove I have cancer?"

I do feel very sorry for Ms. Dart. I feel for her need for this type of attention. I feel sorry for her.

I hate liers. 

Here is part 1 an 2 of a speech I gave at the TNT dinner in Vancouver just before a marathon in 2011. https://www.facebook.com/sblanding/videos/vb.1329747260/1700360552074/?type=2&theater
https://www.facebook.com/sblanding/videos/vb.1329747260/1700407793255/?type=2&theater

Sources for this story: http://www.king5.com/story/news/local/seattle/2016/01/31/local-woman-may-have-faked-cancer-diagnosis/79620826/

http://www.westseattleherald.com/2016/02/03/news/update-cancer-claims-tracy-dart-were-false-she-ha

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-h00WKUM1sc (but please don't watch---her view count doesn't need to go higher)

I Don't Want Solidarity

There is a buzz about a celebrity who just cut her very long hair. Clare Bowen who stars in the ABC drama Nashville recently just cut her hair very short because she wanted others to know that hair doesn't make the person. 

"I was inspired when I heard a story about a little girls who said she couldn't be a princess because she didn't have long hair," Bowen wrote on Facebook. "I wanted her and others like her, to know that's not what makes a princess, or a warrior, or a superhero. It's not what makes you beautiful either. It's your insides that count...even if you happen to be missing half of them." 

While I agree with her I don't want her solidarity. She goes on:

"Every scar tells a story every bald head, every dark circle, every prosthetic limb, and every reflection in a mirror that you might not recognize anymore. Look deeper than skin, hair, nails and lips. You are who you are in your bones. That is where you have the potential to shine the brightest from. It is where your true beautiful self lives." 

While I agree with her, I don't need her solidarity. She concludes:

"If it makes even one person think twice about judging another, then in some small way, the world is better."

While I agree with her, I don't want her solidarity. 

Yes, I know she had cancer when a child and was bald, scarred, etc. I know all that. But it is totally different when you are an adult. I don't want her solidarity and here is why:

I was 40 and bald because cancer took my hair. One day I felt good enough to go to Costco. I knew what usually took an hour or so to shop was going to take not only two or three hours but multiple trips to the car because I was still physically wiped out. I have to shop at Costco because, cancer or no cancer, I was still the mom to six kids and all were teenagers. Not only that Costco has a bunch of great frozen dinners and sometimes, that was all I could do for dinner.  I had ended treatment and I actually saw a few hairs where my eyebrows once were. I had peach fuzz. The very kind all my kids had when they were born (well, except my second child who was born with a head of hair). I was actually feeling GREAT compared to the last 11 months. I thought I could even handle all the food smells in Costco without throwing up.

Just as I was about to load my stuff on the belt, one person called me "sir" and I about lost it. Any self-esteem I felt coming back that morning as I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and examined my cancer riddled body was gone. I did everything I could not to cry right there on the spot. It would look ridiculous for a 40 year old grown woman to cry. I didn't make the second trip through the store. I just got in my van, called my husband and sobbed my way home. 

I don't want solidarity.

What does cutting your hair completely off or even a pixie cut have to do with cancer? People who do this aren't sick. They don't understand. It's not just hair on the top of our head. It is our eyebrows, our eyelashes, our legs, our everywhere! Those people will see a little stubble in a few days. I went six months with no hair! Completely from tip to toes: NO HAIR!

I don't want solidarity.

Those people don't have dark circles under their eyes that no amount of make up will change. And just for the record, your skin cells are sluffing off so fast that your face is kind of raw from  washing it. Make up is only for the days when you HAVE to look good. But no mascarra because when you go to take it off you will lose any eyelashes that you have left. Washing your face just plain hurts. 

I don'w want solidarity.

They don't have scars from surgeries that are raw and sore. 
They don't have tattooed dots on their body telling the radiation technician exactly where to aim that laser. 
They don't spend hour after hour in the bathroom puking their guts out just because they thought they smelt something. 
Their hairless arms aren't covered in bruises because some nurse can't find a vein. The vein can't be found because it is either so scarred from being poked so many times or you are so dehydrated that you could drink a river and you would still have flat veins (remember that puking?). 

I don't want solidarity. 

These people don't live every day with the threat of relapses. There is no fear that they will lose their hair again. They do not take a deep breath when call ID says, Dr. Kraemer's office. They don't fear the next lab report or scan report. They don't know the taste of "Banana Smoothie Barium Sulfate Suspension" nor do they know what a nuclear chaser is. 

I don't want solidarity.

They don't hear the clicking sound of MRI or CT scan machines in their sleep. 

I don't want solidarity.

They don't see a scar on their body every morning while dressing to remind them they have cancer.

I don't want solidarity.

I have reminders all over my body that I have cancer and that it will never be cured (although I do hold out hope). I have a port, a scar on my sternum, I think I counted ten tattoo dots on my tummy and a few more scars on my back that thankfully I usually don't see. 

I don't want solidarity.

But let's get back to the bald part. Hair is a HUGE identifier of who we are as women. I have struggled with my hair my entire life. I've never liked it. It's always been the wrong color, cut, texture, too straight, thin, etc. Then I lost it all and when it came back it was going to get new hair. NOPE! I got the same mousy brown thin straight as a stick hair I had before. But I had hair and for that I was thankful. But more importantly it said I was HEALTHY! Chemotherapy drugs were no longer coursing through my veins. 

In fact the day before this gal's hair cut went public I got a note from a male friend via Facebook,

"I saw you in the choir at Stake conference and thought, "Wow, her hair is getting long. That is soooo cool!" Not just for fashion, but what it means for your health. So glad you are still with us."

Hair means health! It doesn't mean solidarity.

Hair means I won this battle!

Those who shave their heads in "solidarity," I get you want to show support. I understand that and it might seem like a great idea and be the only thing you think you can do. But please do not pretend to know what it feels like. 

Bald means cancer is winning but I'm putting up a fight. Bald means the fight is still on. Bald mean sick. I see this every time I walk into the clinic for a check up. There is always someone who is standing on the doorstep of death. Plugged into a "dance partner" that is silently killing them. I just pray that they fight back and say, "Not today, Cancer! Not today." But if they give up, I totally understand the desire to go through those doors. I've been there. 

Cancer sucks!
Cancer kills!
Chemotherapy sucks!
Chemotherapy kills!
Baldness sucks!

Please don't show me your solidarity by cutting off your hair. But if you do donate. But I'd rather you keep your hair and donate your money so a researcher can find a cure.  Donate so a patient can afford to take a cab to the clinic. Donate! I really don't want to see your bald head and you don't want to see mine (although I do have a darn good looking head). I really want a cure for cancer.

I don't want solidarity. 

I want a cure for cancer! That's what I really want! 

Click the image to donate.