#588 Post From My BHE

Dear Friends and Supporters,

Rob has been at it again with blog writing.  He just finished watching a three part series on U.S. Grant and is in his "war mindset". Bear with me--I have had to endure his endless history lessons.  Still love this man although somedays it is easier than others!
M.


Mary and I were never fans of the term, “fighting or battling cancer”. The doctors, nurses, and researchers are the real warriors in such a fight.

Those that know me know of my passion for history especially war history. But after managing this disease for eight and a half years, my mindset has changed.

A war is not fought in one battle but is a series of engagements without ever knowing the outcomes. One goes from treatment to treatment as the enemy (cancer) evolves and fights back. You must change tactics midstream if necessary as reports (scans) come in.

On a good day you attack the enemy and live life to the fullest. On a bad day you set up defensive positions and hold on to your situation as best you can.

And, like going into war, the objective is the same. You just want to get back home to enjoy your family and have some semblance of normalcy in your life. As we celebrate our nation’s fight for freedom may all those “fighting” cancer eventually “win their war”.

Rob

Thanks for reading #588.

#587 Life Jackets=Life Savers

Enjoying the campfire with Rosie

We just spent a few days up north breathing in the aromatic smells of the trees and surrounding ourselves with nature at its best.  Actually it qualifies as the second best remedy for the present situation after the greatest medicine of all--grandchildren hugs from our recent Seattle trip.  With cancer and covid ever present on our minds, a break from both of these maladies has significantly improved our mental health.

Rob, my BHE, found a rustic (it was clean and had a bathroom) cabin which was  compatible with our drive to get away from it all. Rosie, the dog, escaped with us and enjoyed the romps through the woods and the chases after the chipmunks (although none were caught).  My plan to swim was achieved without any fear of drowning although between a tippy kayak and a wiggly dog, Rob was at risk for a dunk in the water.  It was my forty-seventh swim since our plunge into advocacy work and my goal to reach the fifty mark appears to be right around the corner.

On another note, I saw my oncologist (BOE-best oncologist ever) last week after my MRI.  The news, unfortunately, wasn’t good.  Party time has continued in my liver where the lesions have increased in number and in size.  Although this felt like a gut punch, it will not stop me from advocating and swimming and living the best way I know how. Quoting from one of Mary Oliver's poems, "I don't want to end up simply having visited this world" continues to be my mantra. 

As I advocate for more research funding for stage IV to ensure my daughter and granddaughters will never face a cancer diagnosis, I continue to explain to others that a cure may not be in my future. However, I’m still rooting for the brilliant researchers to discover another miracle drug and throw current metsters like me a lifejacket of more time.

June 20th was my sixth metastatic cancerversary and I want more years to hang out with my BHE and the BFE (best family ever). Although I’m now facing tougher side effects in the next few months with more scans and an array of worries, I am confident there is a shining light of hope on the horizon but need your help.  

Please consider a donation to my More For Stage IV fund at the UW Carbone Cancer Center.

Not only will my children and grandchildren benefit but hopefully, optimistically, fingers crossed and with “a touch on wood”; a new treatment is lurking in my future to keep me around for many more years.

Thanks for reading #587 of 7777+.

#586 SHAZAM! This is Life Changing

We are masked, thanks to sister Susan.

It's been a while since my last post when... Shazam! Just like that our world was turned upside down and blog writing became secondary. While trying to adjust to the new norm of living with Covid19,  I realized the troubling feelings I was experiencing were similar to the ones I had already agonized over after learning of my terminal diagnosis almost six years ago.

This led me to researching the five stages of grief and how it relates to both my initial emotions with cancer and the Coronavirus that is consuming everyone's lives. One of my findings was David Kessler's words describing what we may be experiencing due to the recent events even though we may not necessarily be suffering the loss of a loved one.

"The five stages, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance are a part of the framework that makes up our learning to live with the one we lost. They are tools to help us frame and identify what we may be feeling. But they are not stops on some linear timeline in grief. Not everyone goes through all of them or in a prescribed order. Our hope is that with these stages comes the knowledge of grief ‘s terrain, making us better equipped to cope with life and loss. At times, people in grief will often report more stages. Just remember your grief is as unique as you are." https://grief.com/the-five-stages-of-grief/

What makes this message so relevant to the Coronavirus and to my living with terminal cancer are the similar feelings they both have evoked.

                                                                         Denial

Covid19--Maybe it isn't as bad as the news reports are stating.
My cancer--A possible misdiagnosis?  Tests can be wrong, can't they?

                                                                         Anger

Covid19--I am so angry I can't see my friends and family and a return to my normal life.
My cancer--Why has this happened to me?  I want to scream and rant and rave. Life is so unfair.

Bargaining

Covid19--Please, higher powers, hear our prayers and requests to get rid of this menace.
My cancer--Help me, I will do anything to be able to live longer.

Depression

Covid19--Why us? I don't see any way we can recover.  It all seems hopeless for our world to survive.
My cancer--There are few treatments to keep me alive and there is no cure.  I won't see my grandchildren grow up.  I will not see ___________.  (Fill in the blank with any number of things).

Acceptance

Covid19--  I get it now.  Accepting a different way of living life and appreciating all I do have will make this catastrophe not feel quite so catastrophic.  Good must come from this and we will be better humans taking care of the earth and each other.
My cancer--I plan to fill my days with joy, laughter and discovery. Cancer will not define who I am.

Ruminating about these five stages is exhausting and occurs on a regular basis for me.  You see, life with a terminal disease is not always easy for others to understand...and that's okay, I get it. But perhaps those of you experiencing this coronavirus crisis and the stressful emotions involved, you may now understand what I, and many others like me, face every single day. I will keep going and so will you--one day at a time.

Thanks for reading #586 of 7777.

#560 Take a Hike, Cancer

Goofy Grandparents at Twelfth Night

"Surely, two of the most satisfying experiences in life must be those of being a grandchild or a grandparent." -- Donald A. Norberg

As I take a moment in my hectic schedule to write this I am pleased to announce there is no time for thinking, pondering, worrying, etc. etc. etc. about cancer. It will have to take a back seat because I am preparing for a gargantuan distraction that will take my mind off the ongoing heart ache and anxiety this disease tends to create.

What event is so earth shattering that would remove this niggle in my head for a bit?  Grandchildren are a'coming and there are things to do to prepare for this much anticipated visit.  So, cancer can take a hike for a week while I bathe in the luxurious feelings of being Grandma G. to the most adorable children...ever!  (of course others will argue their offspring rate that adjective but we are all entitled to be bragging grandmas--so let me brag).

With meals to be made, toys to be acquired and beds to be assembled we are almost ready for their grand entrance.  It will be a glorious six days and, although I will be exhausted, it will be from hugs and building memories with these munchkins--not the cancer.

At night I am sure my weary head will hit the pillow but happily with not one trace of concern that my body is failing me.  The flurry of activity brought on by a delightful three year old and a lovable four month old will have made me this exhausted--and that's a good thing. I am anticipating my smile will be wide and my heart even wider as I float into a fairy land sleep with only dreams of what our next adventure will be.

“Grandchildren don't need a lot of toys. The best thing a grandchild can have is a grandparent who gets down on the floor and plays with them.” -- Unknown

Yes, no time for *&^%$ cancer this week--oops, will clean up my potty mouth for a bit.  Despite the grim news from last week (buggers are growing on my liver) I will revel in a state of Grandma Utopia--if there is a place--and cherish every single moment with them.

Oh, I would be remiss in not mentioning how ecstatic I am about my eldest and his wife accompanying the cherubs and my other two visiting their niece and nephew.  My three children are still the limelight in my eyes but it has been years since they've sat in my lap and cuddled with a good book.  It's the circle of life for me to bestow my love to this next generation just as their grandparents did for them.

Onward and upward to a week filled with lasting memories for all of us.

Thanks for reading #560 of 7777.

#559 Four Letter Words and All

The BHE recovering in style.

It comes at no surprise my being diagnosed with METS has transformed me into a foul mouthed swearing long shore man type of woman.  At the drop of a hat, the F-bomb spews out of this older (and I hope wiser) woman who should know better by using a preferable choice of words such as;  dognabbit, son of a gun and gosh darn it all.

Well, it seems the cancer has brought slight changes to my vocabulary and an attitude of--I don't give a flying rat's ass what anyone thinks. While in college the language was completely acceptable (at least in my circle of friends), however, my mother would have had the soap ready to wash out my filthy mouth and despair how she had failed to raise a "proper" daughter. (phrases such as: "You eat with that mouth?"  and "Not in this house!" still ring in my ears).

To redeem myself to my departed mother's good graces, I will use another four letter word that would have made her smile and knowingly nod her head in approval. 

The profound four letter word?  HELP.  This mighty word has also given me another companion to use, and that is HOPE.  Let me explain.

If you've kept up with the latest Gooze saga, you know Rob and I have been in a @#$%^ (sorry mom) turmoil of personal trials.  His bum quad is slowly healing and he now can drive, fix meals and even shower by himself.  With his above mentioned activities my level of stress has greatly decreased, however, I will admit the showering, well... it felt almost like the year 1978...but I digress.

My heart issues have been resolved and am now working out again and feeling grand.  Which brings me back to the four letter word--HELP.  Friends and family assistance came roaring in at a category 4 storm level and, before I could even mutter the H word, meals, flowers, good wishes and a delivery plan for the paper and mail were provided.  Their never ending attention was always present and any words of gratitude I could muster do not fully express how much it meant to us. A gigantic thank you will have to suffice.

A multitude of friends helping me plant this spring.

Which leads me to the other word in this combination of four letter wonders--Hope.  My active BHE was sidelined for the first time in his life, two major trips had to be cancelled and the approaching summer had the look of a fun sucker (thanks, Deb, for the word).  As help arrived we could see a bit of hope at the end of this whole saga and would eventually be able get through this muckity muck of disasters.  HOPE was around the corner reminding me of the quote,

"Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end".

This was a signal for me to alter my thoughts of taking Rob out to the back shed--insert a visual of a lame horse--that, indeed, we would eventually persevere. 

Yes, we are both doing much better thanks to the circle of friends and family.  I've learned a few things along the way as far as how to help others--for one, just do it-- text and say a meal is on its way or secretly deliver the paper to our doorstep.  It takes the pressure off the caregiver and taker to even understand what needs to be done and what to ask.  

Help and hope go hand in hand to recover from any malady--big or small.  Thanks family and friends for your caring gifts of love.  One benefit to your kindness is my foul mouth has taken a slight hiatus for now.  My mother would be happy.

One last quick reminder--Mark your calendars to visit the The Oregon Firefly Coffee Shop on August 3rd, 8-4 PM featuring our Art Show benefitting the More For Stage IV fund at the UW Carbone Cancer Center.   

Thanks for reading #559 of 7777.

#553 November and Still Here!

A couple of metsters and our support team!

November 1st already.  Looking back, I've taken quite a break from my goal of writing every day to stretching it to once a week, then to a month...and now will it be once a quarter?  Life gets busy -- writing was shuffled to the back of burner but now I am back!

The onslaught of pinktober is officially over and I've been following the discussions on social media. There's hate, there's love and then there is indifference.  Let me address the indifference.

First of all, raise your hand if you have never met anyone with some type of cancer.

Next, raise your hand if you have a relative or friend or neighbor with this disease.

Now, raise your hand if you, indeed, have this beast living inside of you.

Maybe the small number of hands in the air of not knowing anyone lets you feel indifference to this disease because, hallelujah, it hasn't directly affected you.   Unfortunately, and I don't want to scare the crap out of you, the chances are good someone you know will be hit with the cancer bomb in your lifetime. Or maybe indifference isn't the right word and it might be because you simply don't know how to help (the Pollyanna in me wants to believe you care that we are dying and truly do want to help).

Your lucky day because I will make sure you are educated on this disease and then encourage you to share your newfound knowledge with your friends.

 Since cancer can affect almost any area on our bodies, I won't overwhelm you with all the known cancer facts but will narrow it down to what I know (and hate) best--metastatic breast cancer.

Here are the top ten facts according to our brochure we put together this past year (I told you I was busy!)

1.  Metastatic breast cancer is breast cancer that has spread beyond the breast to other organs in the body (most often the bones, lungs, liver or brain).
2. No one dies from cancer in the breast.  Deaths are due to metastasis to other parts of the body.
3.  There is no cure
4.  20-30% of people initially diagnosed with early stage disease will develop metastatic breast cancer.
5.  Three years is the average survival after an MBC diagnosis.
6.  Metastatic breast cancer can occur 5, 10 or many years after a person's diagnosis.
7. Less than 10% of all breast cancer research dollars goes towards Stage IV
8.  An estimated 150,000-250,000 Americans are living with metastatic breast cancer
9. Approximately 40,450 women and men in the US died in 2016 from MBC.
10. 100% of your donations to the The More For Stage IV fund at the UW Carbone Cancer Center (click on it) will directly benefit metastatic breast cancer research.

Now there are 10 powerful facts to share in November after the pink dust has fallen away and as the new month unfolds, we are again pushed aside, ignored or completely forgotten until next year. Guess what? My voice is louder than ever and will make sure you know we are still here and always need your support.

Last request, please go vote for the democrat running in your district!  Our lives depend on making sure our preexisting conditions are covered with reasonable health care benefits and they are the ones who will protect us.

Thanks for reading #553 of 7777.

#550 Rob's 65th Birthday Wish

Cheers to the BHE! (Best Husband Ever)

June 19, 2014.  A bone scan.  On his birthday.  He insisted on accompanying me when I reassured him it was probably a running injury. "Lighten up," I said.  "Let's get this thing done and then go out and celebrate your big day."

As I entered the scanning arena, the young tech greeted me enthusiastically and gushed about my "adorable" shoes as I laid down on the extremely comfortable (sarcasm inserted here ) gurney.  It was a jovial group preparing me for the scan which led me to feeling more at ease about the outcome.  Moments later, after the procedure began, the mood in the room shifted and I craned my neck to see the pictures on the screen.  Needless to say, the red dots showing up on my hip and a few other areas made me reconsider my running injury prognosis--this can't be a good sign.

When the previous bubbly tech reappeared with a sad sack look on her face, I immediately sensed a hovering doom settle into the room. She quietly escorted me to the X-ray area without a word spoken between us.  At the time I clearly remember thinking, "Please, no bad news on his birthday."

Of course we didn't have any answers until the following day but the evening prior to THE phone call that would alter everything, Rob's sixty-first birthday, was a somber celebration.  At the time we had no clue what a metastatic diagnosis would mean only that it was not the news we had anticipated and thought life as we knew it would now be forever changed.

And changed it has become. As of this upcoming June 19th, I will have outlived the three year median life expectancy for anyone diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer.  I have gone through four radiation treatments, switched drugs twice and will be beginning my third line of treatment (on his birthday...again) which also means I have had progression twice and, a silly complaint, but have lost a good portion of my hair.  The positive side to all of this is being overwhelmed again and again by the support and kindness of family, friends and strangers.

But one thing has been constant and that is this incredible loving man by my side every step of the way.  He refuses to accept a grim diagnosis and has taken on this monster called cancer with a vengeance that would rattle even the most skilled opponent.  If you know Rob, you know his tenacious spirit and unwillingness to take no for an answer.  Our fundraising has exceeded both of our expectations (well, mine. He sees it as a challenge to find more).  And he pushes on to where we are going next, how we raise more money for our researchers and educating all those who are uninformed.  His networking skills are his strength and as a result have inspired others to give, donate, offer, pledge, bestow, etc. etc. etc. to our More For Stage IV fund.

 A side story about his tenacity.  He has become a top notch amateur researcher and well known in the medical circles, ie. my oncology department, as Dr. Google or Mr. I'll ask questions until there are no more to answer.  For the past two years he has attended the world's largest breast conference in San Antonio--he schmoozes with the researchers, takes notes and then returns to relentlessly pester my oncologist about any latest treatments that might work for me.  Dr. A. is always patient and understanding of his nonstop onslaught of questions and never once has he rolled his eyes.  Mine, on the other hand, are often rolling around my head.

My last oncology visit was sans Rob as it was a teaching session about my new treatment so no need for him to be there.  I was met with the usual hellos from everyone followed by the question, "Where's Rob?"  From the nurses to the receptionists, he is adored and admired for his unbelievable gift of caring and cancer knowledge.  According to them he is close to a walking metastatic encyclopedia if there ever was one and it makes me feel proud that others see him as I do--a stand-up kind of man who will do anything to keep his wife around a while longer.

Lucky me to have him by my side as we navigate through the scariest time in our lives.  When we said our vows forty years ago never in a million years would I think this one would be of such importance--"In sickness and in health".  Yep, he has been there for both--even on his birthday.

To wish Rob a very happy birthday, please consider a donation to UW Carbone Cancer Center. Trust me, he would honestly say it would be the best gift--ever.

Thanks for reading # 550 of 7777.

#529 Ladders Smadders--What were you thinking?

Lots of males climbing and falling off ladders.

When you receive a cancer diagnosis it seems everyone wants to make you feel better by telling you the following declarations:

1.  You could get hit by a bus.
2. A bear could eat you--Heather's favorite.
3. No one lives forever (true, but, unfortunately terminally ill people have a big mark on their forehead).
4.  A meteorite could fall from the sky and wipe us all out
                                                     
                                                    and on and on and on.

You get the idea.  Yes, we all have this one life and possible disasters surround us but as a metster I take great care in avoiding situations that might put my life in any kind of peril.

The latest Gooze incident was a heart stopper and I pause for a moment contemplating all the possible catastrophes we never see coming.  This one involved none other than my beloved somewhat of a non risk taker husband.  He has been my caregiver, my biggest cheerleader, my (fill in the blank with any dynamite adjectives)-you get the picture, he's pretty special; however, once in a while common sense escapes him and this time it could have resulted in a huge life changing mess.

The recap of the story began when I was gone for the day and on my return discovered bloody scrapes on his leg and hands along with a bent gutter and a water soaked deck.  As he blurted out an explanation of his misadventure I realized it could have been much worse but instead of being the sympathetic wife, I proceeded with a lecture on "what could have happened, might have happened; and are you nuts you could have killed yourself" reprimands.

 His first mistake (and there were many) was he climbed a ladder--that is a big "no no" especially if you are terrified of heights.  Do not do it.  Second mistake was I was not here to tell him not to climb the ladder or at least be there to hold the darn thing--he knows better. His third blunder that almost could have done him in was cleaning out the gutters with a hose which consequently drenched the deck rendering it as slippery as your local hockey rink.  He's a smart man--what did he think would happen?

No one was witness to the disaster because it happened so quickly when the ladder's footing succumbed to the slimy wet mess generated by Rob's efforts to get rid of the leaves. Within a nanosecond the contraption came crashing down with poor wide eyed Rob hanging on to it for dear life.  Shaken but alive he regrouped and, if you can believe it, got a different ladder and attempted the cleaning-- AGAIN.

As I said before, $h*t happens and sometimes you are incredibly lucky and sometimes you are not.  This time around he lucked out with neither a bear eating him nor a ladder mangling his body.  Let's hope he thinks twice before he climbs those steps and remembers my wise words about falling from obstacles that could wipe you out forever.  Good grief is all I have to say.

Thanks for reading #529 of 7777.