Going into my adjuvant therapy treatments - as with most everything else about this disease – it was the unknown that scared me the most. The blessing - as with most everything else about this disease – was that it played out like a best-case scenario. The last six months of treatments, whether chemo or radiation, was very tolerable for me. God and his church have been with me every step of the way. Thank you again for all of your prayers.
There was some congratulations and celebrating on and after July 2nd when I had my last dose of chemo. It is a certainly a cause for joy and celebration in terms of a milestone. Still, I've been struggling with what it means to be done with my adjuvant therapy. On its most basic level it means that "they" will not be putting poison into my body to make me better again anytime soon. I have been affected far more by the drug side effects than the disease itself thus far. I assume that I'll start feeling better once those side effects recede into the past. It is the absence of those negative effects that I look forward to. (Whether there are any positive outcomes of these treatments is, unfortunately, completely unknown.) That's why it's strangely a bit anti-climatic, I think. The practical effect of the end-of-treatment milestone is the absence of a negative…eventually.
Still, I am beginning to see the wonderful return to the healthy "normal" that I have prayed for. A state where pancreatic cancer is something that happened to me once upon a time. It is a something - as with most everything else about this disease – that changed my life for the good but I don't want to go back to.
I have also been appreciating that if I was part of the other half of the 6 billion people sharing God's good earth, I could very well be dead (if not very sick) right now. I am blessed to have been born in the very rich western world where we have come to expect the medical community to fix us up when things go wrong, even on a cellular level. I am blessed to have had my cancer detected, a superlative surgery performed and adjuvant therapies available to me. I can't complain about any minute of any of it – so long as I stop to consider the alternative.
So, I have been doing what I can do to get strong again. I walk a mile to and from the train station on most work days. I have been increasing my running mileage. I play softball occasionally and roller hockey on most Wednesday nights. I am fortifying the soil for maximum healthiness. I am a little too tired all of the time but less and less so. Now, I'll be getting stronger daily coming out of the chemo. As the poisoned and frozen ground thaws, seeds are poised to burst out into the warm spring sun of recovery. Getting back to max will be an epiphany prompting a celebration of my fantastic life yet again.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
We Are Family
This Thursday I will have my final dose of chemo. Yipee! This whole ordeal, which started almost exactly eight months ago, will then enter a new phase. In terms of my physical body, I will, in effect, be returning to my pre-cancer state of health. And for that I will be very glad. No more side effects of drugs and radiation treatments. No more fatigue. No more compromised immune system.
It's that last effect – manifested by a very low white blood cell count - that has necessitated nightly shots of Neupogen administered by my nurse Jacquelyn. The Neupogen, which stimulates my bone marrow to make more white blood cells, also causes me to feel very achy – like when you have a debilitating flu. Thankfully, acetaminophen takes care of that. One thing just leads to another once you enter the world of pharmaceuticals, it seems.
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A couple of months ago, one of our pastors asked me to consider doing a testimonial at church. The spirit was willing but I was having trouble putting the words around it. I found myself all over the place with so many different things to say about the impact that the fantastic Reformed Church of Highland Park (RCHP) has had in my life over the last nearly three years.
In the meantime, a few folks have done their testimonials expressing what the Church has meant to them. It has been both very moving and a window into the role of religion and this particular church community in their lives. In reflecting on what my Church has meant to me recently, it has made me consider how religion can work in our lives and the spiritual power of this blog community too.
For us, finding RCHP was a bonus benefit of our move to Highland Park in July, 2006. We choose this town very deliberately and were thrilled by the house we landed. As far as a church…that was something that we'd work out. Little did we know what awaited us when the strong recommendation came in from our Jewish friends, no less! It just goes to show that you can plan and consider very carefully and yet God's grace is something bestowed upon us.
This Church has challenged us since the first time we walked in. We were embraced from the get-go, and challenged. It has felt completely comfortable and yet a little uncomfortable the whole time. It's the discomfort that comes from stretching and growing. I firmly believe that if you are very comfortable with where you are (Church-wise and life-wise), then you aren't challenging yourself enough.
And then most recently – this Church has meant more than I ever thought that a church could mean to me. Besides growth, it's meant love and family for me…for us.
The idea of a family has always meant a lot to me. It's been a very well-defined word, not used lightly. My birth and extended families have been my first consideration -almost to a fault some might say. Just ask any of my old girlfriends. J And, of course, there is nothing more important to me than Jacquelyn and my babies. But, my last few months have helped me to appreciate in the depths of my heart a wonderful broadening of the word family. My RCHP church family has been right next to me throughout my illness - with all of the presence and support that the word implies. They've been like the cloak of Jesus that I clutch for healing - embodying His teaching. I trust that they aren't going anywhere.
Further, my church family has loved me. After using my sleeves for too long, I've taken to bringing a handkerchief to church with me because of the many tears of sadness, warmth and joy that I find myself shedding nearly every week in those pews. The little Church on 2nd Ave offers me an incredible emotional haven, wrapping me in the safe and loving arms of God.
There are many parallels between the remarkable RCHP congregation that has been physically present for me and this online community. I acted somewhat out of character back in November in opening myself and my health challenges up to the world. Though this blog would certainly make you think differently, I was never one to broadcast my troubles or struggles. But, the return on that risk-taking has been the most tangible presence of God's love that I have ever felt pouring forth from all of you. I have felt an army of supporters travelling my road w/me - something that has literally saved my life.
It has been absolutely amazing for me to discover how much faith there is out there amongst the people that I know. Since taking my faith public, I have received strong responses from all corners of my life. In a Church community, you would expect that. But, I learned so much about the faith and doubts of friends and acquaintances. There is so much intentionality and praying going on – who knew?! To mix religious metaphors – it has been, for me, a validation of the law of spiritual karma. Namely, the more you put out there, the more you get back. It is a beautiful thing. (I've found that it works the same for love too.)
After all of these years, I just may have learned to let myself be loved. That may be one of the best outcomes for me from all of this. And for that, I thank God for the blessing of opening myself up to a bigger circle.
When I needed a boost of love and faith, my Church family and online community have come through beyond my every prayer, and for that I can never thank you enough.
It's that last effect – manifested by a very low white blood cell count - that has necessitated nightly shots of Neupogen administered by my nurse Jacquelyn. The Neupogen, which stimulates my bone marrow to make more white blood cells, also causes me to feel very achy – like when you have a debilitating flu. Thankfully, acetaminophen takes care of that. One thing just leads to another once you enter the world of pharmaceuticals, it seems.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A couple of months ago, one of our pastors asked me to consider doing a testimonial at church. The spirit was willing but I was having trouble putting the words around it. I found myself all over the place with so many different things to say about the impact that the fantastic Reformed Church of Highland Park (RCHP) has had in my life over the last nearly three years.
In the meantime, a few folks have done their testimonials expressing what the Church has meant to them. It has been both very moving and a window into the role of religion and this particular church community in their lives. In reflecting on what my Church has meant to me recently, it has made me consider how religion can work in our lives and the spiritual power of this blog community too.
For us, finding RCHP was a bonus benefit of our move to Highland Park in July, 2006. We choose this town very deliberately and were thrilled by the house we landed. As far as a church…that was something that we'd work out. Little did we know what awaited us when the strong recommendation came in from our Jewish friends, no less! It just goes to show that you can plan and consider very carefully and yet God's grace is something bestowed upon us.
This Church has challenged us since the first time we walked in. We were embraced from the get-go, and challenged. It has felt completely comfortable and yet a little uncomfortable the whole time. It's the discomfort that comes from stretching and growing. I firmly believe that if you are very comfortable with where you are (Church-wise and life-wise), then you aren't challenging yourself enough.
And then most recently – this Church has meant more than I ever thought that a church could mean to me. Besides growth, it's meant love and family for me…for us.
The idea of a family has always meant a lot to me. It's been a very well-defined word, not used lightly. My birth and extended families have been my first consideration -almost to a fault some might say. Just ask any of my old girlfriends. J And, of course, there is nothing more important to me than Jacquelyn and my babies. But, my last few months have helped me to appreciate in the depths of my heart a wonderful broadening of the word family. My RCHP church family has been right next to me throughout my illness - with all of the presence and support that the word implies. They've been like the cloak of Jesus that I clutch for healing - embodying His teaching. I trust that they aren't going anywhere.
Further, my church family has loved me. After using my sleeves for too long, I've taken to bringing a handkerchief to church with me because of the many tears of sadness, warmth and joy that I find myself shedding nearly every week in those pews. The little Church on 2nd Ave offers me an incredible emotional haven, wrapping me in the safe and loving arms of God.
There are many parallels between the remarkable RCHP congregation that has been physically present for me and this online community. I acted somewhat out of character back in November in opening myself and my health challenges up to the world. Though this blog would certainly make you think differently, I was never one to broadcast my troubles or struggles. But, the return on that risk-taking has been the most tangible presence of God's love that I have ever felt pouring forth from all of you. I have felt an army of supporters travelling my road w/me - something that has literally saved my life.
It has been absolutely amazing for me to discover how much faith there is out there amongst the people that I know. Since taking my faith public, I have received strong responses from all corners of my life. In a Church community, you would expect that. But, I learned so much about the faith and doubts of friends and acquaintances. There is so much intentionality and praying going on – who knew?! To mix religious metaphors – it has been, for me, a validation of the law of spiritual karma. Namely, the more you put out there, the more you get back. It is a beautiful thing. (I've found that it works the same for love too.)
After all of these years, I just may have learned to let myself be loved. That may be one of the best outcomes for me from all of this. And for that, I thank God for the blessing of opening myself up to a bigger circle.
When I needed a boost of love and faith, my Church family and online community have come through beyond my every prayer, and for that I can never thank you enough.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Circle of Life
A few weeks back I mentioned the foursome of baby robins that graced us for a time, nourished and protected by a doting mother. All four of us Juricics would conscientiously try not to disturb the new and fragile family. But it is a jungle out there, even in our backyard. One morning, 7-10 days after they'd busted into the world, they went from four to one. Not yet ready for flight – we feared the worst for them. The next morning the nest had been knocked to the ground and no little tweeters were left - most likely, unlucky victims of the necessary circle of life. It is only cruel or tragic because we choose to differentiate between the various expressions of God – favoring baby robins over, say, possums. All, ultimately, part of God's plan.
Not a day goes by that I am not reminded of God's plan and my own personal circle of life. That circle of life is my view of everything that is most important to me. It is my perspective on my past, present and future. As the song says – "It's the circle of life, and it moves us all, through despair and hope, through faith and love." It's my horizon, my fate. But instead of it getting smaller or tighter, the cancer has made my circle more intense, brighter and wider. If you can visualize it – my circle has gone from fuzzy to focused, from slow-burning to bursting. That's been the gift of my misbehaving pancreas to the rest of me.
I need to find a better way of saying this, but…if this cancer doesn't kill me; it'll be the best thing that ever happened to me (besides Jacquelyn and my babies). It certainly has been thus far.
Many people have expressed to me that they are sorry to have heard the "news" about me. Though these sentiments are certainly sincere, they are not ones that I share. As I've said, I wouldn't wish this upon anyone – but so far it hasn't been a bad thing that has happened to me, probably more good than bad until now. I haven't "lost" much of anything yet. I recognize that that could all change in a moment, that I could lose it all. And even if that is God's plan and the circle of life, I won't be okay with that. But til now, all it has cost me is a few sections of my digestive system. Other than that physical effect, all that I've lost is the false notion that I am invincible. It is an idea that most of us carry around with us, but a trait that we don't actually have. By losing that lie, I've gained a far more valuable truth.
Not a day goes by that I am not reminded of God's plan and my own personal circle of life. That circle of life is my view of everything that is most important to me. It is my perspective on my past, present and future. As the song says – "It's the circle of life, and it moves us all, through despair and hope, through faith and love." It's my horizon, my fate. But instead of it getting smaller or tighter, the cancer has made my circle more intense, brighter and wider. If you can visualize it – my circle has gone from fuzzy to focused, from slow-burning to bursting. That's been the gift of my misbehaving pancreas to the rest of me.
I need to find a better way of saying this, but…if this cancer doesn't kill me; it'll be the best thing that ever happened to me (besides Jacquelyn and my babies). It certainly has been thus far.
Many people have expressed to me that they are sorry to have heard the "news" about me. Though these sentiments are certainly sincere, they are not ones that I share. As I've said, I wouldn't wish this upon anyone – but so far it hasn't been a bad thing that has happened to me, probably more good than bad until now. I haven't "lost" much of anything yet. I recognize that that could all change in a moment, that I could lose it all. And even if that is God's plan and the circle of life, I won't be okay with that. But til now, all it has cost me is a few sections of my digestive system. Other than that physical effect, all that I've lost is the false notion that I am invincible. It is an idea that most of us carry around with us, but a trait that we don't actually have. By losing that lie, I've gained a far more valuable truth.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Embracing Acceptance
"I can't believe I forgot to pick up this week's farm share this morning!"
"I just don't know what to do with you sometimes Noah/Ana. You just don't listen."
"The train delay this morning made me 45 minutes late for work."
These statements (or something similar) have been heard around our house recently. Those nagging things that go wrong or other than we'd planned in our lives, causing us anger and/or stress. We all have them, regularly. There's no avoiding them – but it is up to us how we react to life's little trials.
Back in January, as I was recovering from my surgery, I started thinking about how I could live a healthier lifestyle to minimize the chance of a recurrence. I've been striving for a stricter diet of less white flour, sugar, processed food and industrial meats intended to make my body less hospitable to the cancer. I decided that a reintroduction of a daily practice of meditation to complement my discipline of prayer could do much for my mind. Beyond the chemo and radiation treatments, I want to be doing all that I can to help myself.
So…I just got back from a meditation retreat in Massachusetts. It was three wonderful days of contemplation, hard work and relaxation. Three days of basic and delicious vegetarian meals, wake-ups at 4 am and total silence. Three days of being totally cut off from the outside world – no cell phones and no leaving the grounds – to meditate for about 10 hours a day. The technique is called Vipassana and it stresses observing the reality of oneself by observing the sensations within the body. I had taken a 10-day course back in 1996 and this 3-day refresher seems like a great way to jump start my practice.
A key aspect of Vipassana practice is to couple the awareness of our body's sensations with equanimity. What that means is to be conscious of everything that happens within, and at the same time not to react to it, understanding that it will change. Put another way – in more colloquial terms – is don't sweat the small (or any particular size) stuff.
Interestingly, my cancer diagnosis has taught me to be equanimous too. It gave me a new perspective on what is important in my life. There were few things that got me very upset before and fewer now. If anything, it was the small stuff that did disproportionately get to me; being too hard on me and those around me about the little things. So much of that is gone now. I am attached to far less in terms of particular outcomes and have fewer expectations. I understand that there is little else but to roll with the punches. Trains are sometimes late, to-dos will sometimes slip our minds and kids will (should) act like 3-year-olds. All of which is much easier with the conviction that it is all part of God's plan and that he walks the path with me.
Another funny thing happened to me on the way through this cancer challenge…
I had always viewed time as a precious resource, to be maximized and never wasted. I prided myself on being very efficient. Multi-tasking was seemingly second-nature to me. I have always liked to have a plan. I wasn't neurotic about it, but good planning implied anticipation and a sense of control for me.
The diagnosis of this most deadly of cancers threatens to take away my remaining time and shatters my sense of control. You would think that every minute would become even more precious to me. And although it is, in the sense that I appreciate every morning more, I am running around much less. I welcome spontaneous upsets to my best-laid plans. I derive much more pleasure from a slow and simple meal or one sip of a delicious wine than ever before. It is actually my relationships that have usurped time as the most precious commodity in my life. Strange considering that a "premature" death threatens me with less time on this earth. Family and friends have always been very important to me but never as much as now. Maybe it is exactly the recognition that time here was never ours but merely granted to us by God – whereas, our relationships are, ultimately, all that we have and all that we make and all that we take.
"I just don't know what to do with you sometimes Noah/Ana. You just don't listen."
"The train delay this morning made me 45 minutes late for work."
These statements (or something similar) have been heard around our house recently. Those nagging things that go wrong or other than we'd planned in our lives, causing us anger and/or stress. We all have them, regularly. There's no avoiding them – but it is up to us how we react to life's little trials.
Back in January, as I was recovering from my surgery, I started thinking about how I could live a healthier lifestyle to minimize the chance of a recurrence. I've been striving for a stricter diet of less white flour, sugar, processed food and industrial meats intended to make my body less hospitable to the cancer. I decided that a reintroduction of a daily practice of meditation to complement my discipline of prayer could do much for my mind. Beyond the chemo and radiation treatments, I want to be doing all that I can to help myself.
So…I just got back from a meditation retreat in Massachusetts. It was three wonderful days of contemplation, hard work and relaxation. Three days of basic and delicious vegetarian meals, wake-ups at 4 am and total silence. Three days of being totally cut off from the outside world – no cell phones and no leaving the grounds – to meditate for about 10 hours a day. The technique is called Vipassana and it stresses observing the reality of oneself by observing the sensations within the body. I had taken a 10-day course back in 1996 and this 3-day refresher seems like a great way to jump start my practice.
A key aspect of Vipassana practice is to couple the awareness of our body's sensations with equanimity. What that means is to be conscious of everything that happens within, and at the same time not to react to it, understanding that it will change. Put another way – in more colloquial terms – is don't sweat the small (or any particular size) stuff.
Interestingly, my cancer diagnosis has taught me to be equanimous too. It gave me a new perspective on what is important in my life. There were few things that got me very upset before and fewer now. If anything, it was the small stuff that did disproportionately get to me; being too hard on me and those around me about the little things. So much of that is gone now. I am attached to far less in terms of particular outcomes and have fewer expectations. I understand that there is little else but to roll with the punches. Trains are sometimes late, to-dos will sometimes slip our minds and kids will (should) act like 3-year-olds. All of which is much easier with the conviction that it is all part of God's plan and that he walks the path with me.
Another funny thing happened to me on the way through this cancer challenge…
I had always viewed time as a precious resource, to be maximized and never wasted. I prided myself on being very efficient. Multi-tasking was seemingly second-nature to me. I have always liked to have a plan. I wasn't neurotic about it, but good planning implied anticipation and a sense of control for me.
The diagnosis of this most deadly of cancers threatens to take away my remaining time and shatters my sense of control. You would think that every minute would become even more precious to me. And although it is, in the sense that I appreciate every morning more, I am running around much less. I welcome spontaneous upsets to my best-laid plans. I derive much more pleasure from a slow and simple meal or one sip of a delicious wine than ever before. It is actually my relationships that have usurped time as the most precious commodity in my life. Strange considering that a "premature" death threatens me with less time on this earth. Family and friends have always been very important to me but never as much as now. Maybe it is exactly the recognition that time here was never ours but merely granted to us by God – whereas, our relationships are, ultimately, all that we have and all that we make and all that we take.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Real Happiness
"Happiness is only real when shared." This past Memorial Day weekend was a beautiful testament to that idea for the Juricic clan.
The quote comes from "Into the Wild" - a terrific and thought-provoking film about an optimistic adventurer/fool who inspires many on his trip through life and up to Alaska. We finally got around to watching our Netflix choice – over the course of two nights, of course.
Appropriately enough, the simple joy began on Friday night in my pastors' backyard. I can't say that I grew up spending much of my non-Sunday time participating in church activities. But there we were, most contentedly kicking off the summer with our Church family. Kids of all ages sharing a pot luck, playing nice together, and singing on blankets and chairs for hours. We only went home because tomorrow was to be another beautiful day.
Saturday's gardening plans were trumped by a lovely afternoon of sitting under the awning with family and friends that had dropped by, mostly unexpectedly. We were sharing the backyard space with our new arrivals – Baby Birchie and Olivia - who had just fought their way out of their robin eggs a foot or two off of our back deck. By the end of the weekend, they were joined by their little siblings, Josie and Adam Tweetie.
On Sunday we hit the road and went up to the Catskills for the resumption of a Juricic family tradition. Sixty or so of the extended family and friends meet up in the "bosak" (or woods) to eat and drink and play all day. It's a crowd that might only otherwise convene for a wedding. Especially after a seven year absence, the opportunity for unstructured fun and interaction in the wide open spaces was particularly special. Ana got over her fear of (some) creepy creatures by allowing caterpillars to crawl all over her arms. Meanwhile, Noah barely stopped running around the field playing ball or Frisbee or whatever with whoever would engage him - or no one. We all slept well.
Back home- marching, motorcycles, flags and fire trucks - the kids loved our little town parade on Monday. The kid's naptime allowed us to finally get around to the yard work. Ahh…accomplishment! Then, a drive-by greeting turned into dinner with our neighbors when they stopped in to see the robins named after their two girls.
Maybe it is all too mundane to mention. Still, I wish for you that your weekend was as rewarding. Every moment of it made exceptional by the others present, sharing in it.
Another recurring theme of the weekend was the relationship between forgiveness, love and happiness. "When you forgive you love. And when you love, God's light shines on you." Into the Wild's protagonist, Alexander Supertramp, learned the lesson of the opening quote only belatedly. He never got around to the second. Thankfully, family (and other) reconciliations are still possible for each of us. This weekend, I saw - in my own family – the love possible when it does happen and the instances of where it still can. It's up to us to open those doors and let God's light in.
And my little lemonade journey passed another milestone with the completion of my radiation treatment this week. It only took 29 trips! I now have a couple of weeks off to regain my strength and then it's on to the home stretch. All I have left is one more month of chemo. I ought to be working my way back to my pre-cancer self in my post-cancer world by mid-July. Thanks for sharing in my trip.
May God bless you with the happiness of others to share your lives with.
The quote comes from "Into the Wild" - a terrific and thought-provoking film about an optimistic adventurer/fool who inspires many on his trip through life and up to Alaska. We finally got around to watching our Netflix choice – over the course of two nights, of course.
Appropriately enough, the simple joy began on Friday night in my pastors' backyard. I can't say that I grew up spending much of my non-Sunday time participating in church activities. But there we were, most contentedly kicking off the summer with our Church family. Kids of all ages sharing a pot luck, playing nice together, and singing on blankets and chairs for hours. We only went home because tomorrow was to be another beautiful day.
Saturday's gardening plans were trumped by a lovely afternoon of sitting under the awning with family and friends that had dropped by, mostly unexpectedly. We were sharing the backyard space with our new arrivals – Baby Birchie and Olivia - who had just fought their way out of their robin eggs a foot or two off of our back deck. By the end of the weekend, they were joined by their little siblings, Josie and Adam Tweetie.
On Sunday we hit the road and went up to the Catskills for the resumption of a Juricic family tradition. Sixty or so of the extended family and friends meet up in the "bosak" (or woods) to eat and drink and play all day. It's a crowd that might only otherwise convene for a wedding. Especially after a seven year absence, the opportunity for unstructured fun and interaction in the wide open spaces was particularly special. Ana got over her fear of (some) creepy creatures by allowing caterpillars to crawl all over her arms. Meanwhile, Noah barely stopped running around the field playing ball or Frisbee or whatever with whoever would engage him - or no one. We all slept well.
Back home- marching, motorcycles, flags and fire trucks - the kids loved our little town parade on Monday. The kid's naptime allowed us to finally get around to the yard work. Ahh…accomplishment! Then, a drive-by greeting turned into dinner with our neighbors when they stopped in to see the robins named after their two girls.
Maybe it is all too mundane to mention. Still, I wish for you that your weekend was as rewarding. Every moment of it made exceptional by the others present, sharing in it.
Another recurring theme of the weekend was the relationship between forgiveness, love and happiness. "When you forgive you love. And when you love, God's light shines on you." Into the Wild's protagonist, Alexander Supertramp, learned the lesson of the opening quote only belatedly. He never got around to the second. Thankfully, family (and other) reconciliations are still possible for each of us. This weekend, I saw - in my own family – the love possible when it does happen and the instances of where it still can. It's up to us to open those doors and let God's light in.
And my little lemonade journey passed another milestone with the completion of my radiation treatment this week. It only took 29 trips! I now have a couple of weeks off to regain my strength and then it's on to the home stretch. All I have left is one more month of chemo. I ought to be working my way back to my pre-cancer self in my post-cancer world by mid-July. Thanks for sharing in my trip.
May God bless you with the happiness of others to share your lives with.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Radiation can be your friend
I am in my last of five weeks of radiation therapy and thought I'd consider what that's been like for me.
Every weekday visit the radiation oncology department in the lowest depths (literally) of Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital. Luckily, RWJUH is about 100 yards from the New Brunswick train station that I otherwise use to get to and from work. Logistically, it could only be more convenient if they came to my house to administer the treatment – except for the humongous x-ray machine that would be a bitch to get through my front door.
Other than Mondays, when I get checked out by Sue the nurse and Dr. Jabbour, every day is pretty much the same. I flash my membership bracelet to "Kelly Radiation" – that is after all how she answers the phone -who swipes me through the double doors. I grab my locker token and go into the changing room to put on my very flattering blue hospital smock. My appointments are generally 4 p.m. or later. I chose the afternoon because it interferes with work less; I have far fewer 3 p.m. than 9 a.m. meetings. The downside is that the days worth of delays often get compounded. It has allowed me to catch up on my pastoral care class reading or work stuff or news while trying to ignore the imposing flat screen tuned to Oprah or CNN.
Being a day-in, day-out thing – I've gotten familiar with both the other patients and the hospital staff. That, in of itself, is a bit strange because whatever acquaintance made is by it's nature brief if intimate.
Once I get in to the darkened room that is "LinAcc #1", I settle into the mold of my upper body that my usual and favorite techs, Kevin and Ann, have laid out for me. Basically, I lie in the exact same position with my arms raised over my head for about 25-30 minutes.
Kevin's good selection of 60's-80's classic rock plays in the background while a woman's voice instructs me to "breath in…breath out" rhythmically. First they use an x-ray to line me up according to the tiny tattoos and marking they made on my torso before the first day. The table jerks up or back, left or right to get me perfectly aligned. The rotating head of the machine spins the zapping head into place to begin the intensity-modulated radiation therapy. It makes seven stops in all – hitting the spot where the head of my pancreas was, from various angles. Each stop is hit in two half doses with the aperture adjusting accordingly. I can tell when the dose is being applied because the instrument clangs loudly, as if revving up. A box that they tape to my belly indicates when my breathing is at its' ebb. The radiation modulates and is delivered on each exhale.
It can be very relaxing and I have nearly fallen asleep a bunch of times, especially in the afternoon. Invariably, Ann will rouse me within a couple of too-shallow breaths. By the time my treatment time is up, my arms and shoulders are numb and I am only too glad to be sprung.
Otherwise, there is no pain involved in the treatment itself. Nor am I experiencing much in the way of negative side effects. Just today I jokingly asked whether I was in some placebo group because I doubted that I could be getting the full effect with so little in the way of side effects. All I have is a little bit of fatigue, especially in the afternoon. I wake up wanting to sleep more every day – but lots of folks experience that. I keep waiting to experience more pronounced fatigue, nausea or any of a number of other GI effects that I have been warned about…but, so far, I have been blessed to have nothing more than the fatigue.
My ankles have been swollen, to varying degrees, for more than two months now - but other than being a mystery, it hasn't been particularly bothersome. They suspect that it is a side effect of one or both of my chemo drugs. I take a mild dose (1,600mg, orally, twice a day) of Xeloda, a chemotherapy drug, that sensitize the radiation – making it work better. Before that, it was gemcitabine delivered via IV once a week.
So, assuming I finish up with radiation sometime next week, I should have a couple of weeks off before I go back to the chemo in mid-June. The plan right now is back to just one month of the gemcitabine chemo and then I will be all done – maybe around the 4th of July.
That's a good thing - especially since I have signed myself up to run the NYC marathon that I didn't get to do on my bday last November. To get ready in time, I need to be training in earnest come July.
On the other hand, completing the chemo/radiation scares me. Right now I feel like I am actively fighting the return of the cancer with these poisons. Still, I recognize that my fate ultimately lies in the absence of these extraordinary medical warriors. That is truly when it will be up to the grace of the Lord and the power of prayer. It is good to know that I won't be on my own.
Every weekday visit the radiation oncology department in the lowest depths (literally) of Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital. Luckily, RWJUH is about 100 yards from the New Brunswick train station that I otherwise use to get to and from work. Logistically, it could only be more convenient if they came to my house to administer the treatment – except for the humongous x-ray machine that would be a bitch to get through my front door.
Other than Mondays, when I get checked out by Sue the nurse and Dr. Jabbour, every day is pretty much the same. I flash my membership bracelet to "Kelly Radiation" – that is after all how she answers the phone -who swipes me through the double doors. I grab my locker token and go into the changing room to put on my very flattering blue hospital smock. My appointments are generally 4 p.m. or later. I chose the afternoon because it interferes with work less; I have far fewer 3 p.m. than 9 a.m. meetings. The downside is that the days worth of delays often get compounded. It has allowed me to catch up on my pastoral care class reading or work stuff or news while trying to ignore the imposing flat screen tuned to Oprah or CNN.
Being a day-in, day-out thing – I've gotten familiar with both the other patients and the hospital staff. That, in of itself, is a bit strange because whatever acquaintance made is by it's nature brief if intimate.
Once I get in to the darkened room that is "LinAcc #1", I settle into the mold of my upper body that my usual and favorite techs, Kevin and Ann, have laid out for me. Basically, I lie in the exact same position with my arms raised over my head for about 25-30 minutes.
Kevin's good selection of 60's-80's classic rock plays in the background while a woman's voice instructs me to "breath in…breath out" rhythmically. First they use an x-ray to line me up according to the tiny tattoos and marking they made on my torso before the first day. The table jerks up or back, left or right to get me perfectly aligned. The rotating head of the machine spins the zapping head into place to begin the intensity-modulated radiation therapy. It makes seven stops in all – hitting the spot where the head of my pancreas was, from various angles. Each stop is hit in two half doses with the aperture adjusting accordingly. I can tell when the dose is being applied because the instrument clangs loudly, as if revving up. A box that they tape to my belly indicates when my breathing is at its' ebb. The radiation modulates and is delivered on each exhale.
It can be very relaxing and I have nearly fallen asleep a bunch of times, especially in the afternoon. Invariably, Ann will rouse me within a couple of too-shallow breaths. By the time my treatment time is up, my arms and shoulders are numb and I am only too glad to be sprung.
Otherwise, there is no pain involved in the treatment itself. Nor am I experiencing much in the way of negative side effects. Just today I jokingly asked whether I was in some placebo group because I doubted that I could be getting the full effect with so little in the way of side effects. All I have is a little bit of fatigue, especially in the afternoon. I wake up wanting to sleep more every day – but lots of folks experience that. I keep waiting to experience more pronounced fatigue, nausea or any of a number of other GI effects that I have been warned about…but, so far, I have been blessed to have nothing more than the fatigue.
My ankles have been swollen, to varying degrees, for more than two months now - but other than being a mystery, it hasn't been particularly bothersome. They suspect that it is a side effect of one or both of my chemo drugs. I take a mild dose (1,600mg, orally, twice a day) of Xeloda, a chemotherapy drug, that sensitize the radiation – making it work better. Before that, it was gemcitabine delivered via IV once a week.
So, assuming I finish up with radiation sometime next week, I should have a couple of weeks off before I go back to the chemo in mid-June. The plan right now is back to just one month of the gemcitabine chemo and then I will be all done – maybe around the 4th of July.
That's a good thing - especially since I have signed myself up to run the NYC marathon that I didn't get to do on my bday last November. To get ready in time, I need to be training in earnest come July.
On the other hand, completing the chemo/radiation scares me. Right now I feel like I am actively fighting the return of the cancer with these poisons. Still, I recognize that my fate ultimately lies in the absence of these extraordinary medical warriors. That is truly when it will be up to the grace of the Lord and the power of prayer. It is good to know that I won't be on my own.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Infinite Love Through Prayer
A couple of months ago, I very nearly called off the prayers on my behalf. I felt that I had moved beyond the most urgently critical period of my cancer and recovery - into a (God-willing) steady state mode. I thought that the prayer energy could be directed elsewhere – towards others, where there might be a more pressing need.
I believe that the prayers of so many was/is an extremely powerful resource. I was also looking at it as finite. I saw prayer and the love that it expressed as a fixed pie that was not helping elsewhere if I was hogging it up. Now I see how wrong that is.
God's love is infinite. Our petitions for it need not be rationed. In being truly Christian, we are, in effect, creating love in the world. Prayer is one of the chief disciplines of that love creation.
Prayer is pure positivity. Prayer brings us closer to God and each other. "To pray is to change. Prayer is the central avenue that God uses to transform us." We pray because there is an inherent trust that God can intervene to make things/us better. There is so much that is wonderful in this world, but until it is truly "all good", there will be room for prayer.
The more that we pray – for each other, ourselves, in thanks, praise and hope – the more light and love we create in the world. There is nothing but the upside potential and there is no limit.
For me personally, I recognize that the more I am praying at random moments throughout the day, the closer God is to me. It is a virtuous cycle; when I pray I remember that he is with me, and the more I keep him next to me the more I pray.
I saw God this morning in the three teal robin's eggs nestled in the sparse little pine tree just off of our deck. Mother robin flew away startled as I rushed by on my way out to work. I prayed that my curious little "chicks" wouldn't interfere too much with her work tending to hers. But...I digress (only a little).
I have seen - and felt, literally - the power of prayer and all that it can achieve.
Thanks for all of the love. Keep spreading it. There is just no reason to stop. Ever.
I believe that the prayers of so many was/is an extremely powerful resource. I was also looking at it as finite. I saw prayer and the love that it expressed as a fixed pie that was not helping elsewhere if I was hogging it up. Now I see how wrong that is.
God's love is infinite. Our petitions for it need not be rationed. In being truly Christian, we are, in effect, creating love in the world. Prayer is one of the chief disciplines of that love creation.
Prayer is pure positivity. Prayer brings us closer to God and each other. "To pray is to change. Prayer is the central avenue that God uses to transform us." We pray because there is an inherent trust that God can intervene to make things/us better. There is so much that is wonderful in this world, but until it is truly "all good", there will be room for prayer.
The more that we pray – for each other, ourselves, in thanks, praise and hope – the more light and love we create in the world. There is nothing but the upside potential and there is no limit.
For me personally, I recognize that the more I am praying at random moments throughout the day, the closer God is to me. It is a virtuous cycle; when I pray I remember that he is with me, and the more I keep him next to me the more I pray.
I saw God this morning in the three teal robin's eggs nestled in the sparse little pine tree just off of our deck. Mother robin flew away startled as I rushed by on my way out to work. I prayed that my curious little "chicks" wouldn't interfere too much with her work tending to hers. But...I digress (only a little).
I have seen - and felt, literally - the power of prayer and all that it can achieve.
Thanks for all of the love. Keep spreading it. There is just no reason to stop. Ever.
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