Cancer Recovery Part Deux

Slowly, I've been returning to normal, or as my friend says, I've been to returning to weird. Even a month ago I never imagined that I would feel as good as I currently do. Still struggling with neuropathy and sleep is iffy, but otherwise, not too bad. So you ask, my devoted readers (OK, reader), what's next?

Well, glad you asked. When I first was diagnosed, I read everything I could find and the more I read, the more overwhelmed and discouraged I became, so I stopped reading anything that didn't have a serial killer, clever detective, or Jane Austen on the cover. But now, I wanted to know, how do I stop this from happening again. Other forms of breast cancer have medicines that help, but triple negative comprises only 10% of all diagnoses and as yet, there are no preventative measures. My oncologist recommended Vitamin D and baby aspirin, but I wanted more. So I took up the internet again and discovered that the best results in non-recurrence came from diets low in saturated fat (which includes hamburgers, sigh), high in plant foods, and regular exercise (30 minutes per day, 6 days a week).

So I wanted to get serious about returning to health, shedding 3 or 4 pounds (or tons, whatever), building strength and changing some habits. So I joined a gym. Note, that I haven't actually gone yet, but they membership card is on my key chain. Next, I signed up for a program at Moffitt that includes 12 weeks of nutrition, exercise and weight management lessons. I've had 2 lessons so far and feel healthier already from having to write down all the food I eat. Let's face it, nobody wants to eat large quantities of junk if someone else is checking up on you.

Once you've had cancer, your risk of getting it again is 40% higher than normal people (that's what we call you folks that are cancer-free). I don't ever want to go through this again. If it happens, it happens, but not because I didn't put up a fight, kicking and screaming. I have hair now; I want to keep it.

Liminal Space

Liminal space is loosely defined as being on the threshold of a new experience, situation, or if you want to get technical, existensial plan. That pretty much describes where I am right now. Realizing the old me is gone away, but not quite figuring out who the new me is just yet.

This was really driven home to me last week when I went on my annual Lenten retreat at the convent in St Leo. I've done this for about 10 years and it is always something that I look forward to, and come away refreshed and renewed from having spent several days in quiet reflection, meditation, prayer, and eating Thin Mints. This year, I was especially looking forward to seeing friends whom I hadn't seen since becoming sick.

Something, however, didn't seem to click. I left feeling tired and alienated and the rest of the week was a struggle to get rested up. My first thought was, time to move on. My second thought was, wait a minute, let's not get hasty.

I have had an urge since being given the "all clear" to change everything in my life. Quit my job. Move to Dubuque. Get an eyebrow tattoo (just one). The world seems a strange and scary place, especially when you're locked up in a convent without any thin mints. So I stepped back and said to my self, "Self, don't make any irrevocable decisions just yet." Instead, I plan to continue getting back my strength, reflecting on the possibilities, and inflicting this blog on my loved ones. Once I figure out the new me, then I'll figure out where I belong or don't, and I'm pretty sure it won't be Dubuque.

Cancer Girl

For the last 10 months, every moment of every day was consumed with having cancer and everyone who looked at me saw someone who was unwell and struggling, Cancer Girl. I resented that that was all they saw. Then I made a discovery this week, that's all I can think about, talk about, dream about. It is still my focus. I am still Cancer Girl.

When will I feel better? When will I look normal? Will it come back and if it does, what happens to my eyebrows this time?

Everything and everybody looks and feels different. I get up in the morning and calculate how many hours before I can go back to bed. It is exhausting to be the new me.

I went to a "retreat" last week with my work colleagues. Besides the fact that I was unable to participate in many of the events that required walking on ropes and jumping off a telephone pole (I'm serious people), I felt somewhat out of it. Didn't these people know I had cancer? How could we talk about anything else? And truthfully, I didn't mention it even once, but I realized that it left me with little conversation.

I mean how long can you discuss the lesser known works of Jane Austen. I knew, however, I was really out of it when a friend told me a story and I noted how much it reminded me of an incident on Golden Girls.

So last evening, when a friend called and wanted to go shopping, I went. Even though it cut into my Everybody Loves Raymond viewing. We talked about my cancer, but we talked about lots of other things as well. We talked. We commiserated. We bought shoes. Because that's what normal people do, whether they've had cancer or not.