Last night, I attended to the young adult support group at Dana-Farber for the first time. Janelle accompanied me, as primary support people are invited to come to the second meeting of every month. My heart was beating very fast on the car ride there. I haven't been back to Dana-Farber since my last treatment and it felt scary. The group turned out to be full of wonderful people all battling different cancers and in different phases of treatment or recovery. Being there was painful and heart-breaking. I had to listen to horrible stories of lives shattered by cancer. But it was also full of hope, support, and kinship. Here are people that live life every day, even when cancer makes it challenging. So while I felt broken down by the fear and uncertainty cancer has brought into so many lives, I also felt built up by the courage and hope of my peers. We do hard things every day. All of us. Sometimes it's good to think about those things and remember that we can get through the other hard things coming our way.
It's been helpful to think about some of the hard things I've already made it through so I can see my own strength on days I feel depleted of it.
In the last six months, I have:
1. Listened to a cancer diagnosis by myself on the phone at work.
2. Told my parents and friends that I have cancer.
3. Told my students that I have cancer.
4. Got a painful bone marrow biopsy.
5. Made it through 6 rounds of chemotherapy.
6. Made it through countless blood draws and IV placements.
7. Drank water - this may not seem like a big feat but I can't even describe how horrible water has tasted for the last five months. It's finally starting to taste refreshing again.
8. Found hope and light on dark nights and during challenging moments.
9. Had my beautiful curls shaved off.
10. Met with a fertility specialist at the age of 27 to talk about the likelihood of conceiving someday.
11. Kept dreaming.
It's amazing to think about all of the hard things people do EVERY day. Not just people with cancer but everyone. Every single person can create his/her own "hard things" list. We all should look at our lists often. These lists illustrate our strength and bravery. We can do hard things, sometimes we just need a reminder.
One of the best and most powerful reminders of my strength and community over these last five months has been the bird socks. I felt stronger and more connected with every picture or message sent from someone wearing the bird socks. The bird socks completely changed my cancer journey. They gave me a feeling of being surrounded by love and support every treatment. Over Christmas, I walked into two family events (Janelle's cousin's and then my family reunion), where everyone in the room was wearing the bird socks. When I say "everyone", I mean over twenty people at both events. I was completely blown away. During these last five months, I've craved tangible proof that I am not alone and that I'm loved and supported. The bird socks have given me that proof and so much more.
Ever since I finished treatment, I've been thinking about how I can convey this message of "we can do hard things" to newly diagnosed young adult cancer patients at Dana-Farber. I have such an amazing community of people that remind me daily that I can face and beat any challenge I encounter. In a small way, I hope to be part of other patients' communities, conveying the same message to them. After brainstorming with Janelle and getting my idea approved by the young adult program at Dana-Farber, I'd like to share it here. Also, I need your help.
Bird socks. I'm going to donate as many bird socks as possible to the Dana-Farber Young Adult Program. Therefore, young adults receiving new diagnoses in the next couple of months will get a pair of bird socks and a letter from me telling them that: people care, they have a community behind them, and they can do hard things. Obviously, if I could afford to buy hundreds of pairs of bird socks myself, I would. But I can't. So that's where you all come in. If you feel so inclined, would you purchase a pair of bird socks that I can donate to Dana-Farber? I going to try to collect as many pairs as I can in the next couple of weeks. Then, I will give them to the Young Adult Program to distribute to new patients. It completely breaks my heart that every day more people find out that they have cancer. I just have to do something to make them feel less alone. The bird socks changed my cancer journey so I can only hope they will make others smile, if nothing else.
If you are local, you can buy the bird socks at Brookline Booksmith or On Centre. If you are not local you can buy them on Amazon here. You can have the socks shipped to my apartment or you can give them to me in person; however, I'm not going to post my address online. If you need my address, feel free to email or Facebook message me. Also, feel free to get the gray, turquoise, or multi-color bird socks. All bird socks are welcome! I can't thank you all enough.
Also, I have my post-treatment PET scan on February 19th. If you could all wear your bird socks, I would greatly appreciate it. We're hoping for a dark scan and smaller nodes. Thank you.
Thursday, January 21, 2016
Friday, January 8, 2016
Terrified of More But Filled with Sunshine
I started writing this a couple of days ago but I didn't want to post it yet because it didn't feel complete. Now I know why. It was missing the sunflower part. So I've added to it. Now it's ready.
Today I dropped my mom off at the airport for the last time (in the foreseeable future) and I felt a bit sad and lonely. When I got home, I sat down in my living room and looked around. We have little twinkle lights on our mantle with a Buddha surrounded by rocks from Westport I collected with my mom. There are pussy willow lights from my new "in-laws" and paintings from Alaska and Ecuador from close friends. There are engagement cards from our community hanging from purple yarn above our fireplace. There is a beautiful drawing celebrating our engagement and some of our favorite inspirational books sitting on our bookshelf. Then, there is this amazing jar sitting on top of that bookshelf. It's my "Jar of Sunshine". Six of my closest friends put together this amazing jar that I received the night before my last treatment filled with with 365 pieces of sunshine - cards, little gifts, pictures, quotes from my favorite books and movies, inspirational quotes, gift cards, and love. Every day in 2016, they guaranteed that I would feel love in a tangible way. I've rarely needed to feel love or sunshine in a tangible way, like on a piece of paper or in an actual picture. But today I needed it. I needed to know that even as all these transitions happen and my life starts moving towards a "new normal"-I have my people. I will always have my people. Then, my afternoon was filled with three phone calls from dear friends. I felt so strange about writing the post below because I felt like it wasn't fully me, it didn't have my hopeful heart in it. I am not always joyous or grateful or happy but my heart usually has hope that better days are ahead. And they are. Today proved it. So even though I'm terrified for what is to come, today I am filled with sunshine. Also, watch this. This is what I'm talking about when I think of my people.
Post from earlier this week: I've been terrified to write since I finished my last treatment because so much has been stirring in me since then. I wasn't sure what would surface. So much processing has started. It feels like so many endings and beginnings have come and gone in just a week. I made it through my last low period, last oral thrush mouth wash, last nerve pains (hopefully), last prednisone mania episodes, and so on. But I've also had my first flashbacks, worries about returning to work, and post-treatment anxiety.
I haven't ever thought much about trauma in relation to my life. I've thought about it in respect to my students' lives and the lives of countless people around the world, but never my own. Now it feels present in my life. I feel like pieces of myself were taken from me with my cancer diagnosis and treatment. Pieces relating to my security, understanding of the world, anxiety, gratitude, health, and hope. These missing pieces have left me with a new, fresh lens for which I am grateful. However, I still miss the way I used to be able to view and navigate the world. I miss not worrying about finances or life expectancy all the time. I miss not worrying about every pain in my body. I look back on my former self and feel envious of the carefree life she lived. I don't know if I appreciated it enough back then, although I guess it doesn't matter now.
I'm nervous about going out into the world as this "new" Anna. A person who needs to be more conscious of the money she spends on chai tea, cards, and books and more cognizant of whether the food she buys and eats is organic and more aware of the chemicals used around her and more gentle with herself when concentrating is hard and more mindful of having healthy sleep and exercise habits and more vigilant about germs and just more. It sounds exhausting. All of this more. My treatment bubble gave me time to just be. To wake up and plan my day based on how I was feeling. It's almost over though. Pretty soon, I'll feel pretty good., which is wonderful, don't get me wrong. I'll be fatigued, have low energy, trouble concentrating, and anxiety. But I will be able to plan out my days in advance and schedule dinners, yoga, and activities with friends knowing that it is unlikely an episode of mania, or mouth sores, or nausea will ruin it. Weirdly, it feels terrifying to have that freedom. To no longer have to live in the moment or the day. To think beyond the next 3 or 21 days. Sometimes life's gifts are terrifying.
Today I dropped my mom off at the airport for the last time (in the foreseeable future) and I felt a bit sad and lonely. When I got home, I sat down in my living room and looked around. We have little twinkle lights on our mantle with a Buddha surrounded by rocks from Westport I collected with my mom. There are pussy willow lights from my new "in-laws" and paintings from Alaska and Ecuador from close friends. There are engagement cards from our community hanging from purple yarn above our fireplace. There is a beautiful drawing celebrating our engagement and some of our favorite inspirational books sitting on our bookshelf. Then, there is this amazing jar sitting on top of that bookshelf. It's my "Jar of Sunshine". Six of my closest friends put together this amazing jar that I received the night before my last treatment filled with with 365 pieces of sunshine - cards, little gifts, pictures, quotes from my favorite books and movies, inspirational quotes, gift cards, and love. Every day in 2016, they guaranteed that I would feel love in a tangible way. I've rarely needed to feel love or sunshine in a tangible way, like on a piece of paper or in an actual picture. But today I needed it. I needed to know that even as all these transitions happen and my life starts moving towards a "new normal"-I have my people. I will always have my people. Then, my afternoon was filled with three phone calls from dear friends. I felt so strange about writing the post below because I felt like it wasn't fully me, it didn't have my hopeful heart in it. I am not always joyous or grateful or happy but my heart usually has hope that better days are ahead. And they are. Today proved it. So even though I'm terrified for what is to come, today I am filled with sunshine. Also, watch this. This is what I'm talking about when I think of my people.
Post from earlier this week: I've been terrified to write since I finished my last treatment because so much has been stirring in me since then. I wasn't sure what would surface. So much processing has started. It feels like so many endings and beginnings have come and gone in just a week. I made it through my last low period, last oral thrush mouth wash, last nerve pains (hopefully), last prednisone mania episodes, and so on. But I've also had my first flashbacks, worries about returning to work, and post-treatment anxiety.
I haven't ever thought much about trauma in relation to my life. I've thought about it in respect to my students' lives and the lives of countless people around the world, but never my own. Now it feels present in my life. I feel like pieces of myself were taken from me with my cancer diagnosis and treatment. Pieces relating to my security, understanding of the world, anxiety, gratitude, health, and hope. These missing pieces have left me with a new, fresh lens for which I am grateful. However, I still miss the way I used to be able to view and navigate the world. I miss not worrying about finances or life expectancy all the time. I miss not worrying about every pain in my body. I look back on my former self and feel envious of the carefree life she lived. I don't know if I appreciated it enough back then, although I guess it doesn't matter now.
I'm nervous about going out into the world as this "new" Anna. A person who needs to be more conscious of the money she spends on chai tea, cards, and books and more cognizant of whether the food she buys and eats is organic and more aware of the chemicals used around her and more gentle with herself when concentrating is hard and more mindful of having healthy sleep and exercise habits and more vigilant about germs and just more. It sounds exhausting. All of this more. My treatment bubble gave me time to just be. To wake up and plan my day based on how I was feeling. It's almost over though. Pretty soon, I'll feel pretty good., which is wonderful, don't get me wrong. I'll be fatigued, have low energy, trouble concentrating, and anxiety. But I will be able to plan out my days in advance and schedule dinners, yoga, and activities with friends knowing that it is unlikely an episode of mania, or mouth sores, or nausea will ruin it. Weirdly, it feels terrifying to have that freedom. To no longer have to live in the moment or the day. To think beyond the next 3 or 21 days. Sometimes life's gifts are terrifying.
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