Right Where I Should Be

2212 (10:12 PM) Central Time, December 31, 2014 New Year's Eve

I can tell you that I've never been happier to see a year come to a close. To say this year was tough would be an under-statement and an insult to truth, my integrity, and to anyone who knows what cancer treatments can feel like. I will not tell you it's been a good year. I will not tell you I feel blessed because of it. However, I will tell you that I'm glad the cycles of treatment are over and that I feel like I've been given a second chance at life. You know the saying, YOLO, You Only Live Once. That's not true. I am on my second life. Life #1 was from birth to 49 1/2, the pre-cancer years. Life #2 is from 50 1/2 (January 2015) to whenever. The gap from 49 1/2 to 50 1/2 is exactly that: a gap. It's like a big black hole that swallowed up everything. There are certain events I remember and certain dates and numbers I'll never forget but my awareness of the passage of time or seasons passing is just a blur. I am glad 2014 is over and I am slowly getting my mind back.

To celebrate the end of 2014, I figured I would be out tonight with lots of people and lots of noise; perhaps at a restaurant or a pub somewhere with the TV on and people talking. I would rebelliously order a Rye & Coke just because I can, and my husband and I would watch the countdown and kiss at the stroke of midnight. Instead, I'm at my computer talking to you. My oldest daughter is out with her friends. My second daughter and a friend are in the TV room playing Just Dance. And my husband is upstairs sleeping. And me? I am right where I should be. There was a time when I would experience a strong sense of the Fear Of Missing Out (FOMO). Everybody's doing something and I'm not. There's a party going on somewhere and I'm not there. There's a pub full of people and I'm not there. What am I missing? Tonight, I don't feel that. Tonight, there is a calmness in my heart. The fear of missing out is gone. I am not missing out on anything. I have lived. And I will live again.

Happy New Year, Everyone.

Dawn

Christmas 2014

Normally, I'm not a huge fan of Christmas. I have nothing against it. I just think the whole thing is over-rated. I liked to wait until the girls were on Christmas break and then I'd start shopping and decorating. However, this year has been anything but normal and, given my post-cancer-treatment status, I am creating a new normal for myself. I am not the same person I used to be. I do not do the things I used to do. I don't think the way I used to think. The good, the bad, and the ugly, it's all different now.

When I found out in January that I had an aggressive form of breast cancer I had months of not knowing what the outcome would be. I do not have the words to describe how I felt when facing my mortality. The dread of leaving my children without a mother or leaving my husband/best friend to grieve was terrifying. Even the moot point of being closed up in a box was extremely unsettling. At the end of February, my first question to the surgeon was, "Is this a death sentence?" He assured me that it was not a death sentence but that the best result would come from an equally aggressive treatment plan. We had no conversations about whether or not I should accept treatment. There were no other options. As a mother, I owed it to my children to do everything I could to keep myself alive as long as possible. So, every horrible, miserable thing that the doctors told me to do, I did.

That process began one year ago (December 2013, with a clinical breast examination). Today it is one week before Christmas Day 2014 and two months since my last radiation treatment. Since mid-November, I have been having a blast getting ready for Christmas. I still get phenomenally sleepy on a regular basis and am not working yet, but I'm cleaning, I'm decorating, I'm baking, I'm shopping, I'm going out to Christmas tea. And the best part is that once or twice a day I stop what I'm doing and give myself a little metaphorical pinch. I get a goofy little grin on my face and think, "Look at that. I'm still here."

It's Christmas and I'm still here.
Merry Christmas, Everyone.

I have Cancer

The following piece was given to me by a friend. I did not write it and, unfortunately, I do not know who did so I apologize for not being able to give credit.

I have cancer, but cancer does not have me.
Cancer is not who I am.
It is only a bend in the road- an unexpected detour on my path.
It is a lesson in the cosmic schoolroom of human existence.
So I will pause.... To rest..... and heal......
And study the lesson......
Before I move on to a life beyond cancer
I will not give in to fear.
I will not be discouraged by setbacks.
Setbacks are only opportunities to review the lesson.
I will not be ashamed of my scars
Scars are the brushstrokes in the masterpiece that is my life.
I will be thankful for the many blessings cancer has brought me into my life
People I never would have known
Love that I'd never been still or quiet enough to witness
Humility I needed
Strength I thought I'd lost
Courage that I never thought I had
I remember that I can still have fun
I will remember always that its okay to be healthy and silly.
And remember that I must endure the rain
To find joy in the rainbow
While I may have cancer
Cancer does not have me!

My Mother, My Hero

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, my gut reaction and first instinct was for the protection of my two daughters. I would be a mess if I had to watch my child suffer through cancer, gruelling treatments, and uncertain future. With that in mind, I realize how difficult this year must have been for my mother who watched, cared for me, and never asked for anything in return. This is her story.

I found a lump on my left breast last November. When I saw my doctor he found two lumps. He and I weren't worried so I didn't tell Mom. He booked me for a mammogram and an ultrasound. Because there was no apparent need for concern my mother and I were expecting a routine mammogram and a pleasant day of shopping and lunch. By the end of the two procedures, a couple of hours had passed with Mom waiting on her own. The technician left and the head nurse came in. She said that we needed to do a biopsy right away. I asked her to go see Mom who had been given no information. I received three biopsies: two for my breast and one under my arm. Even without a diagnosis it was obvious that things were not right. By now, several hours had passed. Mom had been waiting all this time. I was a terrified nervous wreck. After I could stand again the nurse took me to the quiet room where my mother was waiting. As soon as I saw her I collapsed, buried my head in her lap and bawled.

My treatment consisted of surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, tamoxifen. Through this whole process, my mother has been beside me cheering me on and helping out. She went to my doctors' appointments. She sat with me during intravenous chemotherapy. She sent my dad to the house one morning to make sure that I had woken up. She waited in emergency for five hours because I had fainted. She (with my father) did a tremendous amount of driving. We live out in the country so there are a lot of miles involved. She did extra driving just so that when I was in london, I could still go out for the day. And when she wasn't waiting or driving, she was doing. She brought home boxes of groceries, cooked hot meals, did our laundry, sat with me, ran errands, and bought prescriptions. She was the one who did whatever was necessary so that everyone else could go on with school and work.

And here's the kicker: not once has she suggested that this year was difficult on her. I know there were nights when she didn't sleep because she was worried but you'll never hear her complain. Always she maintained a positive attitude, staying strong so I could lean on her. I would be thrilled to see her receive public recognition for her selflessness because she truly is an un-sung hero.

Stranded

In the post-midnight darkness, the wind howled and the snow pummelled the car. It was a surreal sensation to see snow blowing parallel to the pavement coming straight at them with only a windshield to separate them from the elements.

She and he and their two young passengers had almost made it home. The car had stopped a mere two miles outside of town. So close, yet so far.

Inside the car, the atmosphere was peaceful. Too peaceful. Without the sound of the engine or the noise of the tires on the road, there was nothing to hear. Eerily quiet. No sound, only snow.

Occasionally, the passengers would lament the diminishing heat. She and he lovingly gave up their jackets to the backseat. As the two drifted off to sleep, one hoped for a snow day tomorrow and the other dreamed of her Christmas shopping.

Time marched on. The seconds continued. Eventually a minute passed by. Two minutes. Then three minutes.

Look, in the distance, headlights creeping through the white-out. Could it be? Slowly, the headlights pulled alongside the quiet car. Yes! The jerry can had arrived!