365

June 15, 2017. It's been a year to the day. An entire year. 365 days since the day the pain was so great that I drove myself to the emergency room and was told I have cancer. That fateful day that has changed my life forever. For better or worse, this happened.  And continues to happen. It has destroyed me, deconstructed me, and rebuilt me into a person that I never could have foreseen. My survival has made me live with more appreciation for every little thing than I have ever thought possible. I've found patience that I've never been able to find before. I pause and regale quietly at the miracles that exist like I never have. I love the people in my life with more fervor and outward expression than I thought I could. I am humbled to a raw version of myself and brought to my knees at the outpouring of support that I receive on a daily basis. And mostly I am thankful. For every moment.  For every adventure.  For every person that I encounter.  Because this is my life.  And as difficult and scary as this has been so far, I know that this life I have is a gift. Every moment is a moment that is mine. Every hug, every smile, everything that my senses take in is in heightened Technicolor. And I can't help but be happy that I am living it. Even as I long for the independence that is just a tiny blip in my memory. Every life has its trials. I can't help but think that though I've gone through more than I thought I could, everything I've endured has prepared me to fight this battle. I see my body degrading every day. The person I was is sloughing away. My hair was falling out everywhere, so I chose to go bald. I'm getting freckles all over my face. My nails break off at the quick. I have lost the body I had built from rock climbing and cycling. The healthiness I see in old pictures is only a memory. And though I'm so much better than I was when I was first diagnosed, I don't know the physical body I see when I look in the mirror. Though my spirit is strong, my body is a mystery. So I choose to concentrate on my spirit. That is something that only gets stronger with time. And no matter what comes in this new year, I am better than I have ever been in my spiritual, emotional, and mental being. I'm going to get my body to catch up. Hopefully sooner than later.

They told me it would take 9 months to a year of chemotherapy to get me to a point that I could live my life again. I never stopped living, but my life isn't what I ever saw it being. This cancer that has consumed my life as I knew it. It hasn't relented, it has been beaten back a bit, but we are at a stalemate.  The chemo I'm currently on is holding it steady. The cancer is what they call "stable". And the powers that be consider it "good". So here I am. One year later with no end in sight.  I asked Dr. El Reyes if there was any way I could work again. Even for a day a week. He said no. He said that with the way I was handling my current chemo, that I couldn't. My profession was too taxing and he thinks it's too much on my body. The side effects from this cocktail range from constant nausea to a loss of normal equilibrium to feral mouth ulcers so bad that I have a difficult time talking or eating. Dr. El Reyes has made it a little less strong at my request and it has helped to slightly lessen all of these side effects, but it makes me wonder if the cancer will grow because of it. There are so many things to worry and stress about that I no longer choose to entertain the extracurricular noise in my head. I have slowly evolved into taking one step at a time. One day at a time, one moment at a time. I have silenced the constant questions, fears, and concerns so I can process the right things properly. I still process the thoughts I need to, but this gives my mind the space it needs to appreciate the good things. To live my life with fervor and love each person that graces my presence with open honesty. To be able to take advantage of the time I feel good and put it to its best use. This is a marathon of undetermined length and difficulty. And I intend to cross that finish line with my hands in the air and a ribbon that breaks away at my waist.

My hair had gotten too thin, and grown in straight. My scalp was very apparent. I couldn't make it look good anymore, so I asked my stylist friends to set me straight. Was it time to let it go? The most difficult part of losing my hair was the decision to shave my head. Being a hairdresser, I was used to being the one to help others in this situation. To tell them it needed to be done, that it would grow back, that it would be ok - it was only hair. I had lost my perspective and couldn't tell myself. I was too close. This thought was so foreign to me that I cried in frustration. Why had I lost my ability to decide? Thank goodness for amazing friends. A moment in the presence of a skilled and reliable stylist can be life altering. And even I felt it that night. Two of my friends confirmed that it was time and only then did I feel myself relax. This was an important step to regaining my identity. The next day I went to my photographer friend's studio to shave my head and document it.  We would video and take pictures. I felt that it was important for people to see this part of it.  Maybe it would help someone somehow. The relief I felt as I was doing it and once it was finished was incredible. It was as if I found my strength again. 

I had an MRI on the Wednesday before I left for Bonnaroo  and had to wait until I came back to hear whether I would be getting surgery, so going was the perfect distraction. It was imperative that I attend this year. It was a goal, a milestone. Going meant that I had lived an unfathomably difficult year and survived. It's a place full of happiness, music, and friends. It's a theater of the ridiculous and a place to let go and find yourself again by getting lost in a free and easy environment. One year ago I spent 4 days in excruciating pain, leaving early on the last day after suffering through my body screaming for reprieve. Three days after that I was admitted into the hospital and told I had cancer. I honestly didn't know how bad it was or what that meant. All I knew was that I was more scared than I've ever been. There were many moments that I thought I wasn't going to make it to now. This past year taught me courage, patience, love, and hope. I discovered a strength that I didn't know I possessed. And I found myself opening my heart up to those who loved me in a way I never knew I could. And sharing it with those who were accepting.

I met with a surgical oncologist that specializes in the liver the day after I got back. He told me then that I would be getting surgery. The MRI came back showing no growth or recession and that means it's the best possible plan to conquer this beast. He actually looked and sounded excited to do this procedure. One year ago it was an absolute no possibility. But now it’s going to happen. They will be removing most of my liver that contains 17 metastases.  Miraculously, the part of my liver that isn't infested is in the middle left section of my liver. The left lobe regenerates, while the right lobe doesn't. Eventually the liver will grow to fill the space left by the removal of the cancer ridden parts. I call the left lobe of the liver "our lizard tail".  After my liver is resected, a colon surgeon will take over and remove the tumor in my colon while I'm still out, possibly in another surgery depending on my next appointment and what he says. Then they are going to embolize the blood flow to the right side of the liver to starve the cancer in the right and redirect it to the left, so it gets what it needs to regenerate. All of this can possibly be done laparoscopically. There are a few ifs along the way to determine success and direction of these procedures. This is going to be a series of surgeries. It’s not often that they do this, but I have faith that it will all happen the way it's supposed to. As I sat in the office letting it all sink in, I felt so much that my emotions canceled each other out. It was as if I couldn’t feel anything. This is going to be the thing that saves me. I was so paralyzed with the good news that I was petrified to believe it. I went completely silent. I couldn’t rejoice, I couldn’t be scared, I didn’t know how to react. It took the rest of the day and into the next morning to really let sink in what was happening. Though this will be incredibly taxing, this is what I’ve been waiting for. I will be recovering for five days in the hospital and four to six weeks at home. This means the chemo I just finished would be the last for at least three months because of surgery prep and recovery. Even though there will be more treatments, scans, and medication after this, I was beginning to see a faint light at the end of this tunnel.

Olympic Chemo on Ice

I began to think about what it all means. As I lost myself in the things going through my head, I came to the realization that I am not my cancer.  Cancer is what I'm dealing with right now, not who I am.  I am my family, my friends. I am the love I feel and the happiness that I embrace. I am the adventures I experience.  I am the simple moments of beauty that carve their way into my soul. I am every appreciative moment that I recognize. I am the goosebumps that prickle over my skin and the tears that roll down my cheeks.  I am every warm hug I encounter. I am the comfort I have in knowing and the peace I feel with it. I am my thoughts, my poetry, my art. My expressions, my laughter.  I am every song that ever touched my heart and rocked my mind. And so much more than this cancer that pervades my life at this point. The cancer will fade into nothing one day and what will be left is all of me. And I’m good with that.

"I ain't happy, I'm feeling glad

I got sunshine in a bag

I'm useless, but not for long

The future is coming on"

~ " Clint Eastwood" Gorillaz