This entry is dedicated to Jessica Nicholls from Sonoma, California.
She died on May 5, 2018 from a pulmonary embolism at 27 years old, a few days after she was told her breast cancer had returned and metastasized.
She was NED (No Evidence of Disease) for over a year after being diagnosed with the same type of breast cancer I had, IDC (Invasive Ductal Carcinoma), stage 3 whereas I was stage 2.
Her last post on our cancer group's site is still ringing in my ears;
She died on May 5, 2018 from a pulmonary embolism at 27 years old, a few days after she was told her breast cancer had returned and metastasized.
She was NED (No Evidence of Disease) for over a year after being diagnosed with the same type of breast cancer I had, IDC (Invasive Ductal Carcinoma), stage 3 whereas I was stage 2.
Her last post on our cancer group's site is still ringing in my ears;
''I am metastatic...liver and spine.''
I bought her vegan lip balm over the weekend and planned on tying it up with a fancy ribbon today and mailing it to her with a little note to cheer her up. I went on Facebook to get her address and learned that she died. She died, just like that. She went into the hospital with a nosebleed on Thursday, the same day she learned she was metastatic, and she died. It happened that fast. Instead of lip balm, I mailing a toy for her beloved dog, and some herbs from my garden for her. I think she would have really liked that.
RIP, Jessica.
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| For Jessica |
One of the reasons I do not share my blog with people outside of the cancer world is that I do not think they would understand. Sure, they may possess an abstract understanding, but they don't really understand. Unless your life has been threatened on a daily basis by a situation which you have absolutely no control over, you would never really understand.
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The cancer world is a scary place. It's scary as hell. But living in it also wakes you up to the realities of your life. Sometimes those realities are hard truths to face, but we must face them nevertheless. One of those truths is that we are living on borrowed time, and that our mortality taunts us.
That's what ultimately sets us apart from us and them. Them being those outside of the cancer world.
It undoubtedly changes your perspective on how you view your life, your relationships, everything.
I find it harder to control my cynicism lately. In fact, hearing people complain about trivial matters has become my greatest annoyance.
The other day I was picking up a pizza and drove around a car which was taking forever to park. The couple from the car came in the restaurant and publicly berated me, saying how I should be ashamed of myself. Ashamed of myself. For driving around someone in a parking lot. I wish that was my biggest problem.
The next day I was at the cancer center, listening to someone talk about how they are running out of options to treat their inoperable brain tumor, while another woman was having an allergic reaction to her new chemo, breaking out in to hives and projectile vomiting.
I wish I could have teleported that blissfully ignorant couple there at that moment, for a dose of reality. That's the thing, though. It isn't their reality. So they view the world differently, as do I.
Sometimes I wonder if I am too broken to interact with people the way that I used to. I still love being around people, but can't help but find my cynicism getting the better of me more and more often. I hope that one day it will be different, even though I know it may not be. That the innocence has been beaten right out of me. I may always silently be playing an invisible, tiny violin and discreetly rolling my eyes every time someone complains about not having time to take a golfing lesson, or missing a concert, or not being able to get a babysitter to go out to dinner.
When you are undergoing cancer treatment, no one ever tells you about the after-shock of it all. That's because they are so desperate to save your life, and you are so busy devoting every ounce of energy and strength into fighting to save your own life, that you kick the can down the road.
They say any issues that you experience from treatment are ''treatable.'' ''We'll cross that bridge when we come to it'', they say.
I have to wear a compression sleeve when I fly since I had lymph nodes removed and am at increased risk for lympdema.
I have shortness of breath when I overly-exert myself from having my lungs radiated, and always have to make sure my chest is kept warm on cold, windy days because I am at increased risk for pneumonia.
My abdomen is still sore sometimes, from having a piece of muscle removed to recreate my new breasts.
I have lingering neuropathy from chemo, with what feels like little electric currents throughout my body.
My bones are at an increased risk of fracture, and I broke my first ever bone 5 months after my last chemo treatment. I slipped on a gift bag my kids left on the wood floor and broke my wrist in 3 places. My oncologist says it was probably a coincidence, but my physical therapist says he has a lot of patients who broke bones after chemo, so...
I am at an increased risk for clotting. Like Jessica, and her sudden pulmonary embolism.
And that is not including the constant worry that my cancer may come back and spread, to my brain, my liver, my bones, my lungs.
I take every preventative drug they recommend.
They say a recurrence is less likely with more muscle mass, and suggest at least 5 hours of exercise per week. I work out about 10 hours a week, and by God I will be ripped before long.
I limit alcohol, and a drink a liver detox tea every day. I also drink raspberry and nettle leaf tea to keep my ''below the belt'' lady parts in good working order.
I am vegan-leaning vegetarian.
I wear factor 110 sunscreen and wide-brimmed hats.
I only drink out of glass, or my precious stainless steel Klean Kanteen water bottle.
What else can I do? Nothing. I am doing everything in my power to prevent a recurrence, fully aware that ultimately I really don't have much control. Cancer doesn't give a flying f-k if you only eat plants and drink goddamn herbal tea. Yet I watch people purge themselves on fast food, or smoking, or drinking everyday, and can't help but think why me and not them? I don't wish this cruel disease on anyone, but in all fairness it does seem unfair. They are the same people that will complain about absolute nonsense, totally unaware of how lucky they truly are.
Of course I am frustrated. I am frustrated whenever a sister in the cancer world dies. When someone like Jessica, who was always kind and had her whole life ahead of her, dies, while others who are mean and do nothing to help anyone continue to live.
If there is a God, he/she/it has a lot to answer for.
I read somewhere that Jessica had planned on going from state to state kayaking on lakes this summer. I will be sure to kayak in her honor, because that's all that I can do.
All that I can is to live my best life, love fully, and appreciate every day.
As another fallen sister said before she passed away in December,
''It's a beautiful day to be alive.''
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