Svea's beeswax gifts of love and protection sit on my windowsill.  An angel, birds, wands, sea star, bunny, apple, and banana watch over me.  Tomorrow, Thursday we head down to Mayo again.  I'll be having my second phase of reconstructive surgery on Friday. This is when I'll get the "real deals", the breast implants.  The saline-filled expanders come out and the silicone implants go in. I hope to be home again Friday night.  I'm not one to stay in the hospital, so I'll be grateful if I can be released home.  I'll be stuck at home for awhile, so come visit if you like.  I won't be able to drive for a few weeks.  I'll be off work for 6 weeks. I can't wait to get back to my pregnant mamas and other clients.  I hope to be well enough to make some long overdue home visits soon.
      I forgot to put my hat on once when I left the house to go grocery shopping earlier this week.  Hatless. First time since September.  I've decided to color my hair because it's coming in so gray and straight. So, tomorrow morning I'll be back to my beloved Sassy Lu Salon for some dark brown.  Then it's on to my fantastic acupuncturist Jennifer Blair at the Penny George Institute for Integrative Medicine. She will place some acupressure bebe's for quick healing and remind me of my guided imagery for safe passage during surgery.
     I've opened up a few slots for meals on the "How Can I Help" page.  I figure we could use a few home cooked meals over the next 2 weeks, then hopefully I'll be back in the saddle again.  (Just please don't mind the messy garage if you come to deliver some food to our refrigerator.)  I love being able to smell and taste again! Thanks in advance for your continued help with food and gifts of time.
     I have good energy.  I'm optimistic.  Prayers, thoughts, candles.....always welcome.  Love to all.  

     I have a lot of catching up to do. This post will just be a quick overview. Then I will introduce my guest blogger, my daughter Esther. I'll include some photos at the end. Please feel free to share this site if you like it or find it helpful.  It's now read by 20,000.  A little daunting yet exciting. 
       I've been feeling well. I have bountiful  energy during the day, however, I usually fall asleep at 8pm when I'm putting my youngest to bed. It's been a busy spring. My 50th birthday came and went with many small celebrations.  Florida spring break in Fort Meyer's beach was glorious, sunny and restful.  We went to a friend (and former teacher of my son's) funeral--she died from breast cancer, was diagnosed just before me and didn't make it a year. Easter Sunday--celebrate LIFE!  I said goodbye to my family home on Lake Phalen. My very dear friend, who has been a lifeline this past year was recently diagnosed with breast cancer as well.  She had her double mastectomy last week, now faces probable chemo and radiation (prayers for M, and her daughters, please.)  Svea's latest telling remark is, "Daddy, I must be having a hot flash!"  We have been consumed by baseball (Jonah playing Varsity, JV and 9th grade games), chickens, birthdays, music, homework, fundraisers, bikeathon, finished my midwifery certificate maintenance education (I've been working on this since last summer with great difficulty), school plays, back to work, and Esther's eighth grade project.
     My daughter Esther's school, City of Lakes Waldorf School is a Pre-K-8th school which focuses on beauty, art, music and imagination. They have a low tech/hands on approach, incorporating "the whole" of every process for holistic learning. For example, the third graders do a block in farming where they plant and harvest; they shear the sheep, clean the wool, card the wool, spin the wool, then knit with wool, and wear it. You have seen some of my husband's lovely chalkboard drawings which are part of the rich story telling culture of school.  In eighth grade, the kids all find a mentor and spend months working on a project of their own interest. They present their projects in the spring. Esther chose writing.  She worked with a gifted mentor, Jeannine Ouellette, who is a freelance author and organizer of writing retreats for young writers and adults (www.elephantrockretreats.com). They developed a plan for Esther to explore a few different genres of writing and then present her portfolio.  Esther wrote a short story, a personal essay, some poems and a song (although she was too shy to share her song yet).  She also found a woman at MN Book Arts downtown Minneapolis to help her print a seven line poem on a vintage printing press (9 hours), complete with hand set lead type and handmade paper. She wouldn't let me read much of her work until the last week.  Much of the content was about our last year and my cancer.  It was heart breaking and breathtakingly beautiful for me to read. On the night of the presentations, she reminded us, "I've been afraid of this moment since second grade.  I almost did my project on Stage Fright, then I would have demonstrated this by not showing up."  In front of 200 people, dressed in a sleek black dress, she delivered her speech with ease and grace.  Not rushing.  Grounded.  I am a proud mama. Here are a few excerpts from her project. (With permission.)
Guest Blogger Esther Frantzich 14 years old.

When a Star Falls
 
For my brave mother going through chemotherapy. 

Her head held high and shaking
Damaged pride unshown
Hushed whispers cage what once was.
She never knew
The strength of the storm
Held softly
In a droplet of fire.

The Killing
 
It was light brown, very beautiful
Not much bigger than a dime
A feathery little head and clear black eyes
Flitting about the kitchen
A small movement in an otherwise still room
I didn’t want to kill it
The word DON’T scratched
itself into the lining of my stomach
But I had promised I would
The last thing it probably saw was itself
In the underside of my sterling silver ring
I haven’t thought of it since

I want to know how others view the world
How to make Swedish pancakes like my mom
Who in the world Jon likes
What it would be like to be blind
What caused Ria’s break down
How many spiders exist
Why people keep time

I miss so many things, not all sweet
Like the hole in my wall
from when I freaked out in the rocking chair
The Florida house and family vacations
Chubby chub and a non-judgmental view of strangers
Easy friendships between guys and girls
The middle of my parents’ bed
Freedom

I am a hint of rainbow on a plain white wall
I am a typewriter catching sunlight and shadows
I am a crooked line of nail holes
Tonight I will dream of a hand resting alone
upon the blue green carpet of a classroom floor,
a band of lighter skin, indented marks
where a ring once was

I am unsure of many things, but this I know:
No matter how well I hide, if I can see you, you can see me.

     I feel great!  Really.  Joyful.  I am a little sore still, 6 weeks post surgery, but I can handle soreness.  The chemotherapy was mysterious and nasty and made me feel sick, but the surgery was more straightforward and understandable.  Now I'm in strengthen and recover mode.  I'm not supposed to lift or push or pull yet, but I'll work up to that.  Can't wait to do yoga.  I'm hungry.  I can taste and smell again.  Just a few food aversions associated with the chemo experience, but for the most part these are minor. I experience occassional hot flashes because the chemo shut down my ovaries, no big deal.  My hair is starting to grow back; in fact, I have fuzz all over my body.  I'm happy to have to shave my legs again.  
     This ain't no boob job.  I just have to comment on this topic a bit.  I don't mean to be snarky, but really people, think before you speak.  Cancer, mastectomy and reconstruction are part of a very different process (and psychological experience) from a breast augmentation.  I've heard so many people joke about this being a "new and improved set of breasts," or questions about "picking out a new size," or "does Tim have a say in this and does he want the 38DD model?" I have been a little flippant myself, saying, "I don't want them bigger, but I wouldn't mind if they were a little perkier."  I was describing some discomforts to a friend and she said, "Oh yeah, I remember when Jill had hers, she felt the same way..."  I said, "Oh, I didn't know Jill had cancer."  She said, "No, she didn't, she had a boob job."  Oy vey. Nothing against boob jobs, just don't compare what I've been through to augmentation.  She didn't experience the fear of cancer, the scar across her breast with no nipple or areola left, her breast tissue scraped out, tape, glue and foam holding her skin in place, numbness forever across her chest, tubes and drains hanging out (filled with weird secretions), lymph nodes removed, fear of recurrence, need for recreation of a nipple and tatooing to make it look real....whew! Done with my rant. Onward and upward....
     We accompanied our 15 year old son, Jonah, for a baseball tournament to Vero Beach Florida over Valentine's day/President's day weekend.  It was a lovely trip full of baseball, friends, family and sun.  We looked for shells and listened to the waves roll in. Very restful and healing. Jonah pitched well, Esther worked on a perfect tan, Svea caught a baby Bonnethead shark, Tim nursed a fever and slept in, I watched early morning baseball and walked the beaches. Zeb wasn't with us because he was traveling with the St. Olaf Choir. We missed him.
     Check out my husband's song, "The Dry Season."  (Click on the Home tab above and it will play for you, or download it off iTunes--The Dry Season by Brother Timothy Frantzich from his Our Lost and Wild Daughter CD.)  He wrote this awhile back, but it has become a favorite of mine during this time.  A song of longing and hope.

The Dry Season
by Timothy Frantzich

The dry season has come
The dry season has come
The world is parched and numb
The dry season has come

Longing stirs the drowsy soul
Longing stirs the drowsy soul
Sings down into this earthen bowl
Longing stirs the drowsy soul

To remember that green time
To remember that green time
How flowers on the trellis climb
Remember that green time

The water is on its way
The water is on its way
It may not come today
But the water is on its way

A spring quenching and sweet
A gushing spring quenching and sweet
Coming up right there at our feet
A gushing spring quenching and sweet

      Next week is my 50th birthday.  March 12th.  When many of my friends are fretting about entering this new decade, I've never been so happy to have a birthday in my life. I am trying to live in the present, thankful for each day. Taking it easy. I love the task of being alive, doing mundane tasks.  The ordinary is exceptionally beautiful and profound. I love making ham and cheese sandwiches wrapped in foil with an ice pack for the kid's lunch, feeding organic grains and greens to the chickens, holding a warm egg in my hand, folding clothes, sifting sand through my fingers, struggling through a french poem with my son, feeling a reluctant hug melt into a relaxed hug, transferring a little money into the college student's account for some necessities, giving advice to a tearful dramatic teenager while she is furiously texting friends on 2 phones at once,  sending the kids outside to sled down the ravine, wallowing through insomnia by making contact with an old friend who lives in New Zealand, driving a forgotten lunch and play script to school, praying for friends and family, culling fresh cranberries under running water in a strainer--feeling for imperfections, holding a sleeping baby, sleeping in fresh sheets, soaking up wisdom from my acupuncturist, eating dinner at the inn with my three sisters, getting a manicure to disguise the damage the chemo has had on my fingernails, allowing a complete stranger to pay for the manicure after chatting at the salon, sweating in a sauna, wishing I had gone to Ash Wednesday services for some ash on my forehead, letting the six year old stay home to have a "mama day" for no good reason, witnessing a sun rise over the ocean and a sun set into the ocean on the same day, baking scones, drinking ice cold filtered water, eating fresh ripe raspberries and blueberries and mangos out of season, planning a 50th birthday dinner for myself. 
 
I'll leave you with this poem by William Martin:

Make the Ordinary Come Alive - 
by William Martin, excerpt from The Parent's Tao Te Ching

Do not ask your children
to strive for extraordinary lives.
Such striving may seem admirable,
but it is a way of foolishness.
Help them instead to find the wonder
and the marvel of an ordinary life.
Show them the joy of tasting
tomatoes, apples and pears.
Show them how to cry
when pets and people die.
Show them the infinite pleasure
in the touch of a hand.
And make the ordinary come alive for them.
The extraordinary will take care of itself.

     Today I'm about 2 1/2 weeks post surgery.  I'm recovering well.  My drains, saran wrap like dressing,  foam padding and purple marker are gone--just a few stitches and super glue left. Svea's home with the sniffles and lost in her world of play and rainbow loom, so I'm taking a few minutes to catch up on my care site. Last Wednesday, after Tim and the kids left for school, I realized it was the first time I had been alone in a few weeks.  I breathed a sigh and headed for the shower. It was the first time I could cry. I could let my guard down--no one to walk in on me in the shower, no one to see if I had red puffy eyes, no watchful little eyes and ears paying attention so carefully. I had a good cry.  Then got out of the shower and dressed.  I was hit with waves of grief, then joy, then gratitude.  I said out loud to my own ears, "I get to live!"  Then I was brought to my knees, overwhelmed, humbled, thinking of all of the kind family and friends, the long haul, the toll this illness has taken on all of us, blessings have been showered upon us.  Meals, prayers, cleaning help, poems, rides for the kids, PTO (paid time off) donated by co-workers, time with me at my infusions, candles lit, texting messages, phone calls, hugs, books, cards, financial support, emails, letters, energy work, reiki, acupuncture and massages....Thank you, thank you. It has made all the difference in the world to me. Pure Gratitude.
     I am melancholy.  The emotional weight of this diagnosis mixed with some relief is hitting me now that some of the physical discomforts have subsided.  I was blind sided by the diagnosis.  I worked so hard to keep my chin up.  I was able to work through the first phase of chemo. I walked, did yoga, watched my diet, did all the "right things" to help my treatment, dealt with insurance companies, recovered from a severe car accident, more insurance issues, chose a care team, managed many appointments every week. Parenting duties didn't slow down. Then the nausea and fatigue from the nasty second phase of chemo hit.  Whew, it was exhausting. Now I'm physically starting to feel better and the emotional side of all of this is slowly making itself known.  It may take some time to "come out of the cave"--squinty-eyed and slowly stumbling, opening to the light.  Also, I have been following quite a few other women who are also on a journey with cancer.  All different cancers, all different life situations.  Some are friends, some acquaintances, a distant cousin, a patient of mine, some strangers that I now consider sisters in the struggle...At the same time I received such welcome good news about the response to my treatment, others have had difficult news--Their nodes weren't clear, they suffered complications from their treatments, there are no more options for treatment and one dear women entered hospice care.  It's so very sobering, humbling and difficult to rectify all of the conflicting emotions.  Why them, why me? Why not them, why not me? My heart goes out to all of these companions of mine along this road.  Love, Peace, and Comfort to all. (Prayers for Deb C., Deb M., Debbie, Michelle, AnnaLee, Maria, Ginger.)
     Here is some detail about my surgery....On Thursday we headed to Mayo Clinic in Rochester.  (We dropped Jonah off at the airport on the way--he was flying to Phoenix for a baseball tournament with his grandparents.)  We checked into our hotel suite.  Zeb drove from St. Olaf College to meet us and hang out with the girls while we were in appointments for the afternoon.  The long awaited (dreaded) blue dye injections were much easier than expected--4 small bee stings on each breast to mark the sentinel nodes. We walked a few blocks against a frigid wind where one of my sisters joined us for dinner at Mango Thai. We splurged on pumpkin curry, sweet green curry, excellent pad Thai, shrimp and pea pods. I tucked into bed early with Svea because I had an early curtain call and I knew that I would get my best sleep before midnight (if I awoke I might be nervous).  
     I woke at 2 am to the bells of St. John's church--they chimed every 15 minutes and were both soothing and jarring at the same time.  I was remarkably calm as I anticipated the morning events. I drifted in and out of sleep. My alarm rang at 4:30 and I headed to the shower for my toxic chemical wash (for the second morning in a row in preparation for surgery). At 5:00 I woke Tim. We readied ourselves in dark silence, moving around the sleeping children.  I kissed them all goodbye, whispered sweet, wise things to them and headed out the door into the maze of underground tunnels.  One foot in front of the other.  Surreal.  
     The admissions area of Methodist Hospital was already buzzing.  We were shown to a private prep room.  My port was accessed. I was asked many, many questions.  I felt calm.  After an hour, I left Tim there and was wheeled by cart to another holding area. My anesthesiologist greeted me and we discussed the procedure.  I asked about Propofol (anesthetic). I asked for all the anti-nausea meds they had.  My reconstruction surgeon came in to draw on me with purple marker to help guide the main breast surgeon.  Purple initials by both surgeons on both sides to assure proper procedure. My surgeon, Dr. Boughey, accompanied me into the OR.  The anesthesiologist gave me a little Versed then placed an intravertebral block which gave me extra pain control for 36 hrs.  I was cozy under warm blankets. I purposefully envisioned Florida beaches so that I might dream of them while asleep. (I did). I was put to sleep with meds through my port, so I was unaware of IV's and all other preparations.  Very easy.
     5 hours later I woke up in the recovery room.  The nurse cracked up because before I even opened my eyes, I said, "What do I need to do to get out of here?"  I wanted to see Tim and the kids right away because they wouldn't be allowed into the recovery room.  I asked her what the procedure had been and if everything had gone smoothly.  She told me that they had to take some lymph nodes.  I asked her how many?  "4 lymph nodes on the right side."  I said, "Perfect!"  She was relieved because she thought she was giving me bad news.  I knew that this meant they had tested the sentinel nodes on the right and found them clear and didn't need to take any more.  Whew! Immediate relief.  Within 45 min. I was in my room with Tim and Zeb and they ordered sub sandwiches from the local joint.  I was so hungry since I hadn't eaten in 24 hours. I was surprised, but the nurse said I could eat whatever I wanted, so I joined them.       
     I felt great.  No serious pain. I had 4 drainage tubes, 2 on each side coming out of the side/rib area with drains attached. I was happy to see the girls.  They came to visit with 2 of my sisters (one had spent the night with us and the other had driven down early that morning).  They had been shopping for swimsuits and swimming all day. Tim went back to the hotel room to tuck Svea into bed while my sisters kept me company.  Then they tag teamed so Tim could come sit with me while Esther and my sisters had a "girl party" back in the hotel room with movies and Skinny Pop (pop corn).  The night was long and a little uncomfortable because of the crazy, pumped up squeezing air socks I had to wear for clot prevention.  I was ready to leave in the morning as soon as my surgeon did rounds.  She said she was very happy with the results and how smoothly everything had gone.  Discharged home by 11 am Saturday.
     Sunday was smooth.  Then Monday I started throwing up and we wondered what was wrong.  We wondered if I had been exposed to the flu or if I was having a weird reaction to the meds.  By evening I had figured out that it was an allergic reaction to the antibiotic I had been given.  Other than this bump in the road, everything has been smooth.  In the midst of this on Monday, the doctor called to tell me the final pathology report--Totally clear!  No cancer anywhere even on a microscopic level.  Nodes clear, nipple clear and even the large tumor site clear.  Total response to the meds (and prayers, etc.).
     The reconstruction has been started.  I have expanders in place. I am sore. No radiation needed (because my nodes are clear and the cancer is gone.) It will be a long process of slowly filling the expanders with saline.  Because of the neoadjuvent chemotherapy (before surgery) they were able to watch the tumor shrink and they knew the therapy was working.  But, this also left me very depleted before major surgery, so I will be off work for a full 12 weeks.  I can't lift or push or pull.  No housework for at least another month.  I will have frequent visits to Mayo for ongoing reconstruction efforts and visits to my oncologist at the U of MN for blood work and Herceptin infusions--an antibody the targets the cancer cells to get rid of any micro metastasis. (It's not chemo--It won't make me sick or affect my hair, it's just an insurance policy to help avoid recurrence down the road.)  I will go back to work in April.  I need more surgery in May and I'll be out 4-6 weeks from work again.  I will have a few more small procedures throughout the summer as well, but I won't need to take off more time from work for these surgeries (nipple construction and tatooing). It will be a full year of treatment.  This is what they told me to expect.  
     

     Monday morning Jan. 6th, minus 30 degrees Fahrenheit.  Mayo clinic, Rochester MN.  Tim and I stayed overnight at the historic Kahler Hotel the night before due to the extreme weather.  Tim teased me for my eclectic garb--snow boots, green velvet pants, gown, and my ever-present North Face polar hat (I trade off 4 colors).  This was my final meeting with my surgeons for my impending double mastectomy scheduled for Jan. 17th.  Test results are the best possible!  All results from MRI, mammogram, and ultrasound show that the "cancer has RESOLVED!" However, this is the macroscopic look.  The real proof with be the microscopic pathology done during and after the surgery.  I love my surgical team. I am very reassured that they will take good care of me.  
     I will arrive at Mayo on the Thurs. Jan. 16th for some preliminary blood work and injections of blue dye (to locate the sentinel lymph nodes).  I will stay overnight with my family in the Kahler Hotel the first night. I'll head over to Methodist Hospital (Mayo) early on Friday Jan 17th for surgery.  6-8 hours in surgery, then I'll stay in the hospital only one night, if all goes smoothly (as planned). Home on Saturday evening.  I'm told that it's better to be home in my own bed for comfort and decreased infection risk. We will see.  I'm not much of a hospital person, so I think I will prefer to go home early.  I'm quite nervous about the surgery and general anesthetic.  But, I have been doing lots of positive envisioning and meditations given to me by dear friends and teachers.  My acupuncturist is a gem--she does lots of healing work and shares body meditations with me.  When I am in her studio, it's the only time I sleep soundly and have no nausea. 
     Short and boring this time.  I haven't posted for a long while, but I just didn't feel well enough.  It took longer to climb out of my cave after that last grueling round of AC chemo.  Thank God I am finished.  Forever! Whew. The second phase of chemo (AC) was scary and mysterious.  Surgery seems like a big deal too, but it seems more straightforward with a fairly predictable recovery (knock on wood).      
     Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's were rough this year.  So glad to bid good riddance to 2013 and ring in the new with 2014.  I need prayers and thoughts for blessings in the new year--for complete healing, strengthening, patience with the process, smooth surgery and recovery, clear lymph nodes.  Send a few prayers and thoughts Tim's way too--he's trying to hold it all together.  The kids are doing well in their own ways.  Thanks again for all the LOVE.   It's my late father's birthday today--he's been gone almost 11 years.  My mom's gone on to the next world too (almost 2 years ago), so I am really missing them today and in all of this.  I'm an orphan.  This is another reason I love my network of extended family and dear friends during this passage.  Couldn't do it without all of you!
     Here is Svea taking orders and writing menus for her "Bunny's Restaurant".  Lovely, sweet, inspired child--she waits on me in bed. She pets me, smiles and says, "Oh, my poor little mama...."

     Just finished my last of the nasty chemo infusions! Done with 6 months of treatment. Home resting for the most part. Now I will have to endure approximately 2 weeks of feeling poorly, but somehow knowing I'm done helps so much. Thanks for all the prayers and support !!!! I could have never made it through without all of the LOVE.
      I feel like I've been spelunking down in my cave (which I described in my last update) for 6 weeks, had a sip of fresh air, and now I have the task of going back down again. It's the hardest thing I've ever done.  I used a metaphor for my acupuncturist, Jennifer at the Penny George Institute and she liked it.  It goes like this...my body is my sweet, loyal black labrador retriever, just looking at me with those eyes.  She says, "Why are you doing this to me?  I'll go with you into this cave again, but why? I don't understand.  It's really awful. Why are you letting them do this to us? I feel nauseous and tired all the time, gurgly stomach, nothing tastes right and even water tastes bad, cold sweats, insomnia.  Do we have to do this again? Please explain." Jennifer said, "Well, you have a framework here, because you have a real black lab that you have taken to the vet."  Huck understands some English even though he can't speak, but I let him know I will be with him, I will comfort him in every way I can, and it is necessary. It will be ok.  I'm doing my best.  Today I go for my last neulasta shot (white blood count booster), then I'm in bed for days.  I'll eat cottage cheese, mashed potatoes, spicy thai soup,  drink mexican coke, Limonata, and homemade Ginger Lime Mango Tango smoothies. I know the routine now.  I'll curl up in bed and try to sleep as many hours as I can, and keep the barfing to a minimum.  When I feel well enough, I will try to watch a couple feel good movies (which my FB friends helped me compile and I now have a list of over 200--check it out.)  I don't feel well enough to read unfortunately.  I can knit a little.  Passing the time, one foot in front of the other.
     I still have to go in every 3 weeks for an infusion of Herceptin antibody through August, but that doesn't have many side effects.  I will have more tests Jan. 3rd and one last consult with my surgeons at Mayo on Jan. 6th.  Then surgery is a double mastectomy on Jan. 17th.  12 weeks of recovery.  Next hurdle.
     Mothering doesn't stop.  It's 7 am and our household has already been bustling this morning--finishing homemade ornaments, making grilled croque monsieur for Jonah's extra credit in french class, picking out Winter Festival outfits and braiding hair.  I hope to feel well enough this morning before the storm hits so I can go to my kids' festival performances.  
      Thanks for your ongoing encouragement and support and prayers and candles.  I love it when I can just tell a friend, "I feel like shit."  I don't say it often, but when I do, I mean it. Can't wait to be through this phase  and on to the healing and strengthening. I need prayers that this last chemo will zap every last cancer cell and that the nausea will be minimal.
     Merry Christmas!  We have been sporadically doing our advent garden at home before bedtime with the children.  This time of year is really magical. Looking forward to the bright shining star in the sky.  Hoping for lots of family down time for the next 2 weeks.  LOVE LOVE LOVE you all.
     Some poetry and family photos for you.....

Stealing Sugar From the Castle – by Robert Bly

We are poor students who stay after school to study joy.
We are like those birds in the India mountains.
I am a widow whose child is her only joy.

The only thing I hold in my ant-like head
Is the builder’s plan of the castle of sugar.
just to steal one grain of sugar is a joy!

Like a bird, we fly out of darkness into the hall,
Which is lit with singing, then fly out again.
Being shut out of the warm hall is also a joy.

I am a laggard, a loafer, and an idiot. But I love
To read about those who caught one glimpse
Of the Face, and died twenty years later in joy.

I don’t mind your saying I will die soon.
Even in the sound of the word soon, I hear
The word you which begins every sentence of joy.

“You’re a thief!” the judge said. “Let’s see
Your hands!” I showed my callused hands in court.
My sentence was a thousand years of joy.

     I had my first infusion of the AC (new chemo Adriamycin and Cytoxan) last Thursday.  The infusion went smoothly. Tim accompanied me. I made the mistake of thinking we could go out to lunch at the Birchwood post chemo as usual.  By the time I returned home at 3 pm, I was feeling really crappy. I took a Compazine and went to bed.  I try to stay up on my anti-nausea meds.  Still, nothing really worked very well.  Acupuncture on Friday was the best remedy.  I fell asleep with the hair-width needles in place and slept like a baby for what felt like an hour. On Friday I had my shot of Neulasta (white blood cell booster).  That went well, and luckily I haven't had much bone pain that is supposed follow--just a little achy for a couple days. I've lost 6 lbs. since Thursday and yesterday is the first time I could eat much of anything. A massage this morning made me forget about the nausea for minutes at a time. 
     This feels really different. I feel very sick on a base level.  I have been trying to describe it to people as constant morning sickness, but weak and shaky (and no fun baby bonus at the end).  But that's not really it. My heart beats fast.  I'm tired.  Nothing tastes right.   I feel somehow estranged or separate from my body.  Split.  I am my body's guardian and somehow I have betrayed it.  I have let this poison in, and now my body is in panic mode, trying to purge. This toxic feeling is claustrophobic. The natural impulse would be for my body to vomit to clear the toxin, but I don't and nothing really helps. I haven't yet made peace with my body. I might need to do some meditation or some explaining to my cells and bone marrow that this is really necessary for longevity, and that I'm sorry. 
     I wish I felt as good as I did in that photo from the North Shore (Photo credit to Esther Frantzich.) This photo, a moment frozen in time, is a focal point in meditation that helps  get me through. Esther and I shared a magical weekend with some other dear mother/daughter pairs at a writing/yoga retreat. I felt grounded and strong. More about that weekend in a future post. 
     There is another image that helps me (I used this last night as I was falling asleep)...This passage is like a deep, dark, dank cave into which I must descend. Alone. Down, down an unfamiliar stone stairway and then eventually back up and out. But the way can be eased by others and Spirit.  The prayers, thoughts, love and wishes of others are like a warm dry wind "Ruach" (breath of God) and candlelight which accompany me. I imagine the cave transforming, beautifully lit by beeswax candles and it's not so lonely, cold or damp.  The warm wind Ruach helps carry me along the long stone stairway.  I will hold that in my mind and heart as I stumble forward one step at a time.  It might be a long 7 weeks until this phase is over...
     Gin-gins help some.  They are a little hard candy made with real ginger by Ginger People.  Reed's Ginger brew (real ginger ale) helps too.  Here is my recipe for a great smoothie. I sip on this to curb the nausea.  The kids love it.   (I made this for some friends who came to help with dishes and folding on Monday and they raved about it....)

Ginger Lime Mango Tango

Juice of 2-3 fresh limes
1 tablespoon of fresh shredded ginger root or crystallized ginger
1 fresh Honeycrisp apple cored
2 frozen bananas peeled
2 cups (10-12 oz) of frozen sliced peaches
1 cup (5-6 oz) of frozen mango chunks
1/2 cup of orange juice
1/2 cup of apple juice
a little sugar to taste (if you must)

Blend in a blender or pulverize in a Vitamix or similar.

     Tim and I spent a fine weekend celebrating our 22nd anniversary.  We stayed in downtown St. Paul Saturday night, then headed to Redwing Sunday.  We hiked along the bluffs.  Held hands.  Very sweet and fun--sounds trite, but we truly experienced some levity and explored new vistas together.  The St. James Hotel was perfect--cool victorian feel with high ceilings, antiques, trains rumbling through town day and night.  We drove to Pepin on the Wisconsin side of Lake Pepin for dinner at the Harbor View Cafe. Stunning views of leaves at their peak color along winding, smooth roads. We were seated in the picture window looking out at white-capped Lake Pepin and an early sunset (day-light savings time). Dinner was memorable--Halibut with capers, linguini and mushrooms, curry lentil soup, mixed greens with homemade dressings, veggies and rice, dessert of german chocolate cake and creme caramel. We drove back to the hotel tucked into bed early.  We departed at 5:30 am Monday morning to drive through the dark to Mayo Clinic for a 7am MRI appointment.  Coffee on the way in tiny town Zumbrota, served by a plump farmer in overalls; "No fancy stuff here" as he handed me the styrofoam cup filled with light amber hot liquid with 2 coffee-mates he had already mixed in.  
     The MRI went smoothly--My fuzzy North Face hat and ear plugs muffled the sound enough.  (I practice my breathing and sending prayers and thoughtful energy to loved ones while I'm in the tube.)  We waited for the results at the local Pannekoeken House. At noon we headed home with no results yet--we had children to collect from school.  On the drive home, between pod casts of This American Life and Radio Lab, we received the call.  The research nurse read the results to us over the phone--the tumor is so small that it cannot be accurately measured, only the tiny metal clip to mark the position is left.  It's gone. So relieved. The chemotherapy is working. No worrisome lymph nodes seen. There is still an area of "enhancement" in the surrounding tissue, so I'm not out of the woods completely.  The Paget's portion of the cancer means I will still have to have surgery.  The surgery date has been set for Jan. 17th--double mastectomy.  I will meet with my surgeons again next week to go over the safest approach and techniques offered.  
     This week on Thursday,  I will start my new chemo regimen.  It's called AC ( Adriamycin and Cytoxan).  This is not supposed to be quite as friendly as my last round of chemo.  8 weeks with treatment every other Thursday. Keep me in your thoughts and prayers as I head into this next round.  I'm hopeful and grateful that the treatment has gone so well so far.  I hope our Thanksgiving and Christmas seasons will go smoothly. I actually have some of the shopping done already....keeping it simple and close to home this year.
     Here is my FB entry from Oct. 24th--"At 4:30 this morning the alarm went off.  Waking us for our various pursuits.  J headed to Las Vegas for a baseball tourney, Tim to teach, girls to school, me to the U of MN for treatment today.  As I was about to step into the shower with my tiny scrawny head, Tim said, "Happy Anniversary dear."  I said, "Oh yeah, Happy Anniversary to you too.  I bet you weren't envisioning all of this when you said '...for better or worse...' ".  He smiled and said,  "Yes, well, you never know which is which."  Sweet. Kind.  True Love.

     All is well.  I'm feeling great!  Seriously, I never expected to feel BETTER on chemo.  I really feel good--no side effects at all (except for hair loss).  No pain, nausea, vomiting, numbness, tingling, swelling, fatigue--all those symptoms I expected to have.  I had such a fear and misguided preconception of what chemotherapy would be like. I am happy to say I really feel better than I have in years.  Of course, I've made some lifestyle changes--I'm not working nights, I'm working less in general, I'm eating well, I've lost a few pounds, I'm walking regularly, I'm attending to matters of the heart and soul, I'm slowing down (trying not to hurry--see below). A little boost from the decadron goes a long way as well. Just think how great I'll feel when I'm finished with chemo!
     I'm also trying to get better about asking for help.  I have put out a request for meals and cleaning help and this has made all the difference in the world.  Thoughts, prayers, lit candles, meals, texts, messages, calls, emails, have come pouring in and the support is palpable.  I have never had to ask for help before and it is humbling.  The expressions of care and love for me and my family are overwhelming.  I get the message--people really want to help and to be involved.  Heartfelt gratitude!  I actually look forward to Thursdays when I have treatment--I get to spend precious one on one time with dear friends and sisters (and occasionally, my husband). 
     Chiropractor visits, massage, acupuncture, etc. all continue in the wake of my car accident.  All these appointments and treatment days equal more than a full time job.  Work has been busy.  Clients are coming in to see me before I go out on short term leave.  Highlights from a recent 16 hour call shift with 2 babies born--the first was a natural birth of a baby girl born to a Somali new immigrant woman through the help of a male interpreter over the phone--needless to say, I had to get creative with acting out breathing, hand gestures, encouraging words and smiles.  The second birth that day was completely unmedicated, a first time mom spent her time mostly in the waterbirth tub and finished with a beautiful land birth. I stayed on beyond the end of my "shift" to see the birth through; a baby girl crowning for 90 minutes  (in 18 years I never seen such a long crown), born to an exhausted, happy mama's arms.
     All my labs/bloodwork are normal and my last few treatments have been smooth.  This week on  WEDNESDAY will be #12 (of 14) in the first round of chemo (Taxol, Herceptin, and AMG386 study drug).  Then Nov. 7th I'll have my first of a new chemotherapy regimen.  I'll have 4 treatments of AC chemotherapy, each 2 weeks apart. (Total of 18 treatments). If all is on time, this should take me to the end of the year. January will bring a rest time while getting my counts up, then surgery mid-late January.  I hear it's 8-12 wks of recovery time for this.  Herceptin will continue for a full year (with few side effects). Sounds like a long haul.
     We have Zeb home for fall break. Jonah is in the fall play at school and still pursuing traveling baseball. Esther and Svea pariticipated in a magical Michaelmas celebration at school--complete with dragon, swords, and fireballs.  Svea was very ernest in her warnings to me about the dragon--She recited the verse and said, "When I say 'poison scales' watch out, because he's coming...".  A community harvest festival followed with stone soup, bread and apple crisp. Tim continues teaching 2nd grade and his peace and justice work.  This past weekend he joined forces with Jesuit peacemaker John Dear, playing music and leading community for a meaningful day at St. Joan of Arc church in Mpls.  This Thursday, Esther and I are heading to the north shore of Lake Superior for a mother/daughter writing/yoga retreat.  Can't wait!

A few dates coming up:

*Wednesday Oct 16 --Chemo infusion #12--Wednesday, because I get to go out of town over MEA for a    mother/daughter retreat on the north shore of Lake Superior.

*Thurs. Oct 17th-Sunday Oct.20th--Mother/daughter retreat with Esther on North Shore of Lake Superior.

*Monday Oct. 21st-- Mayo clinic meeting with surgeon and reconstructive team to explore options.

*Thurs. Oct. 24th--Chemo infusion #13 AND 22nd Anniversary of marriage to Timothy.

*Thurs. Oct. 31st--Chemo infusion #14 and last of the first round of chemo with study drug.

*Monday Nov. 4th--MRI at Mayo to track progress of treatment.

*Thurs. Nov. 7th--first treatment in new chemotherapy regimen.

Lastly, I'll end with one of my favorite poems, now even more poignant for me, Marie Howe's Hurry.

Hurry

BY MARIE HOWE

We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store   

and the gas station and the green market and   

Hurry up honey, I say, hurry,   

as she runs along two or three steps behind me   

her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down.   


Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave?   

To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?   

Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her,   

Honey I'm sorry I keep saying Hurry—   

you walk ahead of me. You be the mother.   


And, Hurry up, she says, over her shoulder, looking   

back at me, laughing. Hurry up now darling, she says,   

hurry, hurry, taking the house keys from my hands.