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Winter, My Friend

19 Jan
Margarette Falls

Winter is the slow down
Winter is the search for self
Winter gives the silence we need to listen
Winter goes gray so we can see our own colors…” Terry Guillimets

I always anticipate the first snow hike of the winter season. One of my favorite local desitinations is the Margarette Falls Trail in Greeneville, Tennessee. The weekend weather forecast brought rumors of a coming snowstorm and sure enough, come Monday afternoon, the snow was falling and the ground was turning white. Tuesday morning’s sunrise presented a winter wonderland of freshly fallen snow. Plans were made for a gathering of friends and a quick after work hike on Wednesday. As our feet traveled up the crunchy trail, we were serenaded by the chilling waters of Dry Creek as it flowed over frozen rocks, and tumbled down cascades cloaked in artistic ice formations from the overspray. The crisp winter air laid gently on our exposed cheeks, bringing an exhilrating sensation as it rushed through our nostrils, warming our lungs on the uphill climb. My senses were on overload and I felt like a kid in a candy shop, standing in awe of the brilliant winter landscape before us. As we approached the falls, it was no surprise that Margarette would be stunning wrapped in her new winter wardrobe. Oh, what a blessing to experience such beauty and share moments and laughter with friends in such an incredible place. We returned home with refreshed souls and our longing for nature therapy fullfilled.

As Thursday morning greeted my sleepy eyes, my thoughts were still lingering on our hike. I used to despise winter and being cold is one of my least favorite things. Every year as Autumn approached, I could feel the dread of the cold days that were coming creeping up inside of me Nothing about the winter season appealed to me. I loathed the frigid temperatures that caused my entire body to shiver for months, the naked trees, the browns and grays, and the troublesome snow, well it was just a curse word to me. The only thing I smiled at was seeing my children play, building snowmen, snow angels, snowball fights and sledding. In the spring of 2013, when I discovered the hobby of hiking and something miraculous shifted in my mindset. I fell head over heels in love with nature on my first outing.The sights, the sounds, the wonders of nature all captivated my soul and with each new adventure, I fell deeper in love. The spring and summer wildfowers, the vast amount of different fungi, the getting up early to witness the sun break the horizon and say hello to the new day, the starry skies that covered me as I hiked out in the dark after watching the sun kiss the earth goodnight. The high peaks, the low valleys, the creeks and the waterfalls, the fiery red skies, the emerald green mossy forests, the colorwheel of leaves falling from the trees. I was enamored by it all and looked forward to every oppportunity that I had to put my feet on a trail. As the seasons changed and the days grew colder, I remember feeling a little downhearted about missing a few months of being out and a friend suggested a winter hike. What? Me, outside in the winter? As crazy as it sounded, I decided to give it a try. Needless to say, I was just as fascinated with mother nature in all of her winter glory as I was with her on her warm days. Eleven years later, I look forward to those winter destinations that cannot be tried safely in the hot summer months as the trails breed lots of overgrowth, briars and dangers of snakes.

While laying snuggled up under my covers with my doggie cuddled against me, I came across the above quote on social media. It’s one of those quotes that when you read it, it seizes your every being. I refelcted on how I use to see winter as my enemy, however these days, I look at her with a much grander perspective.The older I get the more I realize that just as the earth needs a respite from all of its blooming, so does my soul. Winter isn’t meant to break me, but instead a season to remove that which is not necessary and reveal the foundation which holds me together. Who am I underneath the vivid colors of growth? What virtues remain to steady me in the bitter winds and stripping away to bare bones? How deep is the faith that will carry me through until the sun warms the frozen ground again? Until the first new bud rises up with courage and perseverance and the songbird stirs a fresh melody of hope in my heart?

Ah winter, you are more of a friend to me than I have realized. My loyal companion who is not afraid to speak the truth. My comforter when my covering is sparse. You are my iron that sharpens iron. You teach me the art of letting go. Come, do your work in me until spring comes to sweep me off of my feet again.

Some of the ice formations along the creek
a trail treat 🙂
 
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Posted by on January 19, 2024 in Uncategorized

 

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I Have Missed My Father

08 Jan

Have you ever wondered if you can miss something that you have never had? All of my life I have never had a close relationship with my father. From the moment I was conceived, my father despised and rejected me. Growing up I never understood the hatred that he seemed to have for me and the abuse that he inflicted.

My father met my mother when she was in her late teens. They married shortly after he returned from the army and fought in the war in Vietnam. My father served 4 years and returned home an alcoholic, full of rage, very cruel and very abusive. As a sober man, my father was handsome, funny, charming and quite likable. When he drank, no one was safe from the fits of rage that consumed him and everyone in his path. My mother lived in extreme fear of her life and ours for 17 long years until she was able to finally escape the horrible violence. I can still see that 13-year-old girl standing on her grandmother’s porch, torn with emotion as my father told me he would be leaving. My father left a lot and would be gone for days on end, so that part was nothing unusual. This time however, my father told me that my mother had filed for divorce and he would be leaving for good. I would be lying if I did not admit that part of me was elated that he would not be a in our lives anymore. None of us would have to spend our days and nights living in fear of whether we would live or die. Another part of me was sad because this man whom I had so desperately tried to earn his love and approval was leaving. My young, divided heart couldn’t help but wonder if I would miss him?

Before he left he handed me a $20 bill that he said he owed me for shooting me in my rear with a bb gun. One day when I was around 7 or 8 years old, He had told that he would give me $20 if I bent over and let him shoot me and not cry. He promised he would only pump the gun up once, and little did my innocent heart know he had pumped it 20 times already. I took the bet and as soon as the bb hit me, I screamed in pain and lost the bet. I had a bruise for weeks. Years later, standing on my grandmother’s porch, he finally admitted that he had lied about how many times he had pumped the gun up. As he handed me the money he asked, “B.D. (my nickname my dad gave me when I was little, He said I looked like a Bald-headed Duck. I really don’t think he meant it as a compliment) anyway, “B.D., I never was mean to you, was I.”  I reluctantly accepted his peace offering and replied, “no daddy, you were never mean to me.” We both knew that was a bold face lie. The hard truth was yes, YES! My father was meaner than a den full of vipers with Satan as their master, however I had learned over the years that the safest response was just to affirm the words he wanted and needed to hear.

For the next 10 years I remember seeing my father once. I went with my oldest sister to one of the gaps in Southwest Virginia to visit him for a while. I don’t really remember much about the visit except when we were leaving I told him I missed him when honestly, I didn’t. The only connection I had with this man was the trauma he had beat into me for the first 13 years of my life.  I lived many years of my adult life controlled by the lies he has instilled in my fragile heart. I believed I was ugly, stupid, useless, a crybaby, not wanted, unworthy to be called by his name and absolutely unlovable. It was a tough road to hoe for a young girl and I didn’t fare to well with it for a long time.

Life without my father went on. I graduated high school and my father wasn’t there. I didn’t miss him. I had my first date and my father wasn’t there. I didn’t miss him. I got a job and bought my first car. My father wasn’t there. I didn’t miss him. I got married and my father wasn’t there. I didn’t miss him. Birthdays, holidays, father’s days came and went and I never gave it a second though that my father wasn’t there. It wasn’t until I had my first child that an uncanny desire rose up in me for my children to know their only living grandfather. I reached out to my father and made plans to go visit him. Back in those days there was no internet or cell phones, so we communicated through hand written letters or land line telephones, making plans for me, my children, my sisters and children to visit him. We always had to pick a specific date to ensure that my father was sober for our arrival. Visits went decent for the most part, but on some occasions, not so much. One time right after my first son was born, we went for visit. My sisters and I could tell something wasn’t right. My father seemed agitated and was using curse words that he normally didn’t say when we were visiting. He commented that he didn’t know we were coming and his girlfriend piped up proclaiming that yes, he did! That did not suit well with him and I saw the father that I had lived with for years rise up in him. I knew it was time to leave, yet he wasn’t willing to let us go easily. I had to take all of the kids to McDonalds, leaving my sisters behind, and wait for him to pass out to go get them and all of us head home. Needless to say, it was a while before I ventured back to see him.

There were a few more occasions over the years that we all got together, mostly Christmases and Thanksgivings. I would try to remember to call and wish my father a happy birthday, although he never called to wish me one. I would remind myself to call him around Father’s Day and talk to him, although he never thought to call me on Mother’s Day. Usually whenever my father called me, he thought he was calling someone else. I would answer and when he realized he had called me, he would make small talk and promise to come to see us soon. “Soon” didn’t happen and honestly, I really didn’t miss him. The worst phone call I received from my father was one evening when he had been drinking. We talked for a few minutes and before he hung up he said those old familiar words, “B.D. I never was mean to you, was I?” At this point in my life I was no longer a terrified little girl that felt the need to give him the answer he wanted. Instead, my answer was “yes, YES you were mean to me. You were mean to all of us! You made our life a living hell. But I have forgiven you for all of that.” He did not like my answer one bit and all I heard on the other line was the phone being slammed on the hook. I don’t remember too many phone calls after that.

The best phone call I ever got from my father was on June 28th, 2011. It was days after my children had lost their father to colon cancer, we were on vacation, my phone rang and it was my father. He wanted to let me know he was going to have surgery the next day for cancer they had found in his colon. Mostly he wanted me to know that he had talked to the hospital chaplain and had made his peace with God. He had surety that no matter the outcome of the surgery, he would be fine. Despite the estranged relationship that I had with my father, it made my heart happy to know that years of prayers for his soul had been answered.

I would like to tell you a wonderful story of how life changed after that, of how my father and I finally connected and how he became a wonderful part of our lives, but none the less, that story doesn’t exist. Life continued to go on and my father wasn’t there. I finally went to college at the age of 44. Graduated at the age of 48 with two degrees. My children had significant birthdays, graduated high school, my daughter had her first child, I got my first career job; so many momentous occassions that we celebrated, but my father wasn’t there, and again, I didn’t miss him. Every few years he would show up at my house, usually in January, tell me how much he had missed me, and hand me $200 “to get the grandkids something.” My mind would always retreat back to the 13-year-old girl standing on my grandmother’s porch, accepting the peace offering that would somehow absolve him of his sins until the next occasion rolled around. Some things seemed to never change.

In January 2019 I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I would spend the next 17 months of my life in active treatment, fighting to overcome the nasty devil of cancer. My father never called or came by, in fact he didn’t even know what I was going through, yet I didn’t miss him. Somehow, he finally found out about my battle and stopped by to see me one afternoon. We talked a little about what I had went through, and he told me he was glad I was okay. I looked into his eyes, searching for some kind of connection between the two of us, but I found nothing.  At the age of 50 I finally realized that my father and I were strangers. He hugged me and left. That was the last time that I saw my father and he would know who I was.

My father was diagnosed with vascular dementia and over the past few years his memory has left him. It is a cruel disease that slowly takes from you what it wants and only allows you to remember what it says that you can. It frustrates you when you are trying to recall a simple word that you have used a thousand times but for the life of you, will not come to your mind. It robs you of your reality and traps you in the prison that it chooses for you. He and his girlfriend of 30ish years both struggled with other health issues, but she still had her wits about her, and along with lots of help from my middle sister, was able to take care of my father for the most part. On Christmas day 2023, his girlfriend suddenly passed away. Not only was my father not able to stay by himself because of the dementia, he was also in the process of moving from a mobile home back to an apartment that was near friends who could help take care of him. Unbeknownst to my father, he was in crisis and needed help.

Over the past couple of weeks, I have spent more time with my father than I have for most of my adult life. I’ve helped my sister pack and clean at his old place, unpack and organize at this new place and I have gone over and sat with him for a few hours at a time so my sister could take care of other things. My father has asked me numerous times my name, where I am from, and where have I lived. We have talked about places that he lived as a child, his parents, brothers and sisters, who sadly he doesn’t realize has passed on, his time in the military, his cats, country music he likes to listen to, his love for Elvis Presley, how he has hitch hiked across the country and when his girlfriend is coming back from California. We have laughed and we have sat in silence, yet not one time have we talked about the fact that he is my father and I am his daughter. We are just those two strangers who just a few short years ago was standing in my kitchen hugging each other, now sharing time together that won’t be recalled.

The word miss can be used as a noun or a verb. As a noun it can mean failure, loss, absence, or defect. Miss as a verb can mean want, feel a loss, crave, desire, long, need, pine for, wish, or yearn. It can also be used in verb form meaning to fail, overlook, disregard, or forget. Today, as I sat in the recliner and watched my father doze on the couch. I realized that all my life I have “missed” my father in some form or fashion. I’m sure there was a time as a young girl that I craved, desired, longed for and yearned for this man to love me, to show his approval, to care for me, to want me. Once he was no longer a part of my young life, the longing turned into forgetting and disregard.

I am not bitter at my father, nor do I have any anger in my heart for the abuse he inflicted upon me. I am no longer a wounded little girl or even a confused young woman who is trapped in the prison of trauma. I have not forgotten what myself, my mother and my siblings had to endure, but I know that freedom and healing has come with age, wisdom and understanding. I now know that my father’s father was an alcoholic, full of rage, who was very cruel and abusive. He made my father’s childhood a living nightmare and beat him into a cruel prison and threw away the key. I have realized that at one point in time, my father loved with the only capacity that he knew how, yet trauma and addiction dominated his life at a much greater capacity. Today this tyrant called dementia rules over his mind and has locked him into another prison that he cannot escape. The hard truth is that he nor I will never know what it is like to connect with one another the way a father and daughter was meant to connect. So, can you miss something that you have never had? I conclude yes, indeed you can, just as I have missed my father.

 
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Posted by on January 8, 2024 in Uncategorized

 

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Anatomy of a Strong Woman

16 Aug

A strong woman. Who is she? How was she made?

Was she born with strength, determination and perseverance?

Or was she formed from necessity?

Forged in the fires of adversity,

Tainted by the sins of others,

Molded through the storms of loneliness and pain.

Was she once a carefree child singing a melody of innocence?

Dancing in the gentle rains of love and joy?

Running with hope and trust to find the strong arms of safety, security and acceptance,

Only to stumble under the iron fists of abuse and disdain?

Was her innocence stolen and traded for shame?

 Was she always “stubborn as a mule” or did her will rise up to form a mighty fortress to surround her fragile heart?

The strong woman, her shoulders squared, structured to carry the heavy loads for herself and others.

Her arms, stout, designed to endure the hardships without giving way, all the while serving as a safe-haven of grace and love.

Her eyes, fixated, discerning, possessing the key to the portals of her soul for anyone who is brave enough to enter.

Her expression, inviting to some, impenetrable to others.

She stands tall like the mighty oak whose roots entrench the earth.

Seasons change and so does she, blooming, bending, letting go, but never breaking.

She is independent, capable, a force to be reckoned with.

Intimidating to those who are weak,

Judged by those who are haughty.

Misunderstood by those who only observe her force.

Recognized by those who have traveled the same trodden path,

Yet, there are moments when being strong is as much of a curse as it is a blessing.

Yes, she can handle her own, however being on her own was never the path she wanted to take.

It was imperative, rise up or die!

When the storms of life rage, the onlookers shout, “You got this, ” “You are so strong,” “You will get through!”

Undoubtedly, she will, she knows no other way.

She will brave the turbulent winds, and trudge through the downpour.

The mirk and the mire may slow her pace,

Nevertheless, she will emerge as the phoenix rising,

Resonating victory in her weary outstretched arms.

All those who depend on her will not be disappointed.

When the clouds break and the light permeates her sky,

She will rest in the presence of the One who is always faithful,

Giving thanks for her breakthrough.

This strong woman, adorned with fortitude, anchored in peace.

Oh! how her heart is full of gratitude!

Her spirit soaring like the majestic eagle!

She is a fighter! She is an overcomer! She is a champion!

Ah, but underneath it all…she is a woman.

Her soul is weary.

She was designed to be the helper not the doer.

To complete, not compete.

To be adored, and cherished,

 Not hidden, pushed to the side, the back or the end.

Night comes to steal away the light.

The silence surrounds her and the tears of exhaustion fall.

Her soul is hungry for the safe haven she desperately needs to come undone,

To repose, reset, and renew.

Her skin craves the gentle touch of companionship that will set her mind at ease.

She doesn’t begrudge being strong, on the contrary, weak women and even weaker men annoy her.

She is just tired of being strong, alone.

She wonders if it is an oxymoron to be strong and fragile all in the same skin?

Why can’t her strength be celebrated? Appreciated but not taken for granted?

Is she too much? Should she be any less than who life has demanded her to become?

As her hands search for another to hold, she drifts into sleep.

When the sun rises over the horizon, and darkness gives way to the morning light,

Again, she rises.

Disciplined to face whatever the new day brings.

She girds herself in grace, welcoming her faithful counterparts of determination, perseverance and tenacity.

The fragrance of hope, kindness and compassion wafts in the air as she passes.

She is who she is and she cannot waiver.

She is the strong woman.

 
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Posted by on August 16, 2023 in Uncategorized

 

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Oh, Sweet Valleys Below…

19 Apr
Atop Mcaffee Knob along the Appalachian Trail, Roanoke VA

Oh sweet valleys below…

So precious to me

Who would I be

Had you not shaped me?

I give thanks

For all that I am

And all that I’m not

For every loss

For every gain

Through the laughter

Through the pain

Warmed with the sunshine

Drenched with the rain

With every step

I have been changed.

Oh sweet valleys below

On this mountain I wonder

I gaze and I ponder

Who would I be

Had you not broke me?

Sometimes choked me

Left me gasping for air

Oh deep despair!

You Defined. Refined. Sublimed.

Oh sweet valleys below

You are my treasure

My measure, my pleasure

Without you I would never be

All of me

Risen. Redeemed. And Free.

Oh sweet valleys below…

 
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Posted by on April 19, 2022 in Uncategorized

 

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The Rebellious Boob Chronicles – One with the River

12 Oct

Recently I had the opportunity to attend a cancer recovery retreat in the Lake Logan North Carolina area hosted by Casting Carolinas. Casting Carolinas is a non-profit organization that offers one-day and three-day retreats for women surviving all types of cancers. They use their own unique F.L.O.W. program that combines fly fishing instruction with medical education and mindfulness, teaching survivors skills to help them deal more effectively with the emotional effects of cancer and survivorship. 

To say that I was extremely excited for the retreat is a gross understatement. I had originally been chosen to attend in October 2020, but due to unforeseen circumstances of a pandemic, the retreat had to be cancelled indefinitely. Sigh. I would remain on the waiting list to be contacted when things opened back up. When the email came through in June stating they were opening up registration again for an October 2021 retreat, I was so thrilled that I set an alarm to remind myself to sign up first thing! The anticipation over the next few months stirred in my soul as I felt this time away was going to bring many blessings. I am a nurturer at heart and I spend the majority of my time, at work and at home, taking care of others. This 3-day weekend, however, was going to be a time of focusing on me and for once in my life I didn’t feel selfish about that.

The day had finally arrived, the weather forecast for the weekend looked fabulous, I was packed and headed out. I had my windows down, some praise music on, the leaves were already wearing autumn attire and the two hour drive quickly passed. I caught myself smiling from ear to ear as I drove up the gravel road to the retreat center, pulled into a space, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the car to spend 3 days with complete strangers whom I shared a common bond with – survivorship. All of our lives had been uprooted by a cancer diagnosis, some more than once, yet we were all here, ready to embrace what was in store for us.

Laughter and peace permeated the atmosphere as I stepped up on the porch of the cabin. I was greeted by several volunteers that made me feel welcomed immediately and directed me inside to the registration table. All the ladies that hosted and served at the retreat were so full of life, joy and friendliness and made you feel at home immediately.  Once I checked in I was to come back outside and be fitted for my river waders and boots for the fishing trip on Sunday! Wait. A River. Moving water. Insert anxiety. Was I ready for this part?

My mind wandered back many years, to a moment in time that had forever seared itself into my brain. I was 6 or 7, at the lake with my family and my father was trying to teach me to swim. He stood at a distance, chest deep in water, swearing to me that it wasn’t over my head, and promising that if I started to go under, he would save me. Little did I know he was standing on a stump that lifted him up a good 3 feet.  I attempted to swim, face down in the water, arms stroking back and forth. I was making some progress but suddenly, I began to sink. The water overtook me, I was thrashing left and right, eyes wide open, surrounded by the murky water and bubbles created by the oxygen that was leaving my lungs. My feet desperately searched for the bottom and it was nowhere to be found. I screamed but no sound came out, only gulps of water rushing into my mouth. Where was my father? I needed him to save me! Whether this lasted 5 seconds or 5000 years, for me it felt like an eternity and  I just knew at that moment I was drowning. Finally, a hand reached down and pulled me out of what I thought was a near death experience, and as soon as my feet could touch ground, I ran out of the water, coughing, spewing out water, and terrified. I sat there on the shore crying, wanting a hug or reassurance that I was okay, yet what I got was belittling laughter. I was a worthless crybaby, a chicken, a coward, a sissy. My dad demanded that I get back in the water but all I wanted was to run away in fear and I didn’t care what kind of punishment I would get for refusing his demands. A whipping would be better than dying, right?

From that moment water became my enemy and at the age of 51, I still cannot swim. I can climb a 500-foot mountain, stand on death defying cliff edges, leap a tall building in a single bound – okay maybe not that extreme – but I can handle getting my feet wet in stream crossings. However, if the adventure involves any part of my body above my knees being immersed in water, you can guarantee that anxiety rushes in. There I stood on the front porch of the cabin, getting fit for boots and river waders and in two days, I would be standing in a mighty rushing river holding a fly-fishing rod. Oh Lord, what had I gotten myself in to?

The next couple of days were amazing! The heart of the retreat is a mindfulness program developed by the hosts of Casting Carolinas, called F.L.O.W. It focuses on taking a deep breath, calming your spirit and being aware of what is going on with your thoughts, emotions and reactions. We had several group sessions where we all came together and spent time connecting with ourselves and each other, learning, and growing. We shared lots of laughter, life experiences, and shed heartfelt tears. I felt incredibly honored to be in the midst of so many strong and powerful women. We also spent time learning about fly fishing! We learned about the river and the different aspects of it. What kind of insects the fish eat. How to put a fly-fishing rod and reel together, tie on the flies, and how to cast. We even got to make our own flies! Saturday evening, we were entertained with a time of live music, dancing and singing, oh and not to mention that we ate so much delicious food I thought I would bust.  My heart was overflowing with joy and gratefulness as I laid my head down on the pillow Saturday night, closing my eyes in anticipation of Sunday morning’s river adventure. All that we had learned about fly fishing would be put into action as each woman would have their own guide and get to spend almost four hours on the river fishing.

The sun rose quickly the next morning, and decked out in our boots and waders, we all gathered at the cabin for a closing ceremony. Whew, what an emotional hour! 🙂  We then made our way to the dining hall for breakfast and to meet our guides. My guide for the day would be Rick, an experienced fisherman who cut his teeth fishing in the Gunnison Valley of Colorado. We enjoyed small talk over bacon and eggs, got group pictures and then headed out to the Pigeon River to hopefully catch some fish! As we made our way down to the river and stepped in, I was entranced by the melody of the moving water. Rick took some time to educate me on a few things, observe my newly learned casting skills, find a nice spot to steady ourselves and then it was time to fish. I admit it was awkward at first feeling the difference between fishing with a spin cast and spinning reel versus the fly rod. I was used to having weights on my line and the fly-fishing line seemed weightless. After a bit of practice, I got the hang of it and I was casting, getting bites, losing fish, and yes, I finally caught some.

My catches included a brook trout, a rainbow trout and a brown trout, which earned me the badge of what fishermen call a “grand slam,” catching one of each type of trout.  Go Christy! It was so fun being played by the fish. The water was crystal clear, you could see them just hanging out underwater and watching as my fly would float downstream right in front of them. Then those little buggers would jump right out of the water in front of you just to show you who was the real boss! As we were walking upstream to fish in another spot, I noticed a brook trout hanging out in a little pocket of water to the left of the river. I said to my guide, “hey, there’s a fish right here!” He said, “see if you can catch it?” I said, “with my bare hands?” Yes! So, I took a deep breath, raised my hands in the air and breathed out, “I am one with the river.” I was being silly, but hey it worked! I knelt down, slowly put my hands in the water and very gently eased them under the belly of the fish and bingo! I raised him right up out of the water! My guide let out a huge belly laugh and I was proud to be his first student to catch a trout with their bare hands!

As fun as it was catching the fish, my favorite part of the day was reading the river. I loved observing how the different sections flowed at different speeds. I learned what lanes were and began to identify riffles, eddies and pockets. I discovered that you begin fishing the river in front of you and slowly progress across the stream so that you don’t spook the fish. At one point I even told my guide that he was more than welcome to fish while I just stood in the river being mesmerized. For the professional record…he did not fish! :). At one point I was standing in moving water that was almost chest deep and I could feel the weight of the current against me. Wait, I was standing in water ALMOST CHEST DEEP!  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and realized that for the first time in my life I was surrounded by water and my mind was not consumed with anxiety.  In fact, all morning I had not given one thought to anything other than the delight I was feeling as the river had wooed me like a new suitor and captured my undivided attention. 

Twelve thirty rolled around quickly and it was time to head back to the dining hall for lunch, our graduation ceremony, to tell our fishing stories, say our heartfelt goodbyes and head back home. Some folks had caught tons of fish, others a few, one had caught waders full of water as she took a tumble, and me, yep I told the story of how I caught that brook trout with my bare hands! The weekend had written so many great stories yet I knew that the greatest story of all was that, on this wonderful Sunday morning in October, I was no longer a terrified little girl, a crybaby, worthless and a coward. I was also a strong, powerful woman, and in those few passing hours I had made a new friend and the river and I had truly become one.

 
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Posted by on October 12, 2021 in breast cancer, Uncategorized

 

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The Christmas Doll

14 Jul

It was a rare occasion to find myself at home on a Friday evening. Usually I was either already on the road to Western North Carolina or gearing up to get on my way for an adventure-filled weekend. However, work schedule changes for my significant other created a shift in my normal plans, so here I was, sitting at home in a quiet house with time on my hands. I decided I would take advantage of my time and tackle some cleaning and household projects that had been on the back burner. I moved furniture, swept down dust bunnies, moved some pictures around on my wall and cleaned out a cabinet. Next thing I knew, I found myself up in my attic going through boxes and totes, not really looking for anything in particular, just sorting, organizing and purging items that no longer added any rhyme to my reason. I opened one tote that had several Boyd’s Bears in it I was saving for my grand-daughter, and there in the bottom of the tote, I found her – my Christmas doll. I picked her up, looked into her dreamy eyes, and for just a few moments, as a rush of emotions consumed me, I traveled back in time almost 40 years.

Growing up in our house was not always the most pleasant of occasions. My father was a troubled man who had come from a very poor and violent upbringing. In appearance, he was strong in stature, handsome, and if you met him on a normal day, you would say he was quite likable and funny. When I see pictures of him as a young man, dressed in his military attire, I can see why my momma fell in love with him. What a looker! However, my father was also an abusive alcoholic and when he drank, the portals of hell could not compare to the evil rage that came out of him. The demons he wrestled with wreaked havoc on any one in his path, and most of the time that was my momma and us children.

I am the third child of four children, and other than the fact that I look more like my momma than the rest of my siblings, I was just like any other ordinary child trying to grow up in a hostile world. In his drunken rages, my father made no bones about the feelings he had towards me. He despised me, detested me, abhorred me, loathed me – heck, he downright hated my stinking guts! I endured many beatings for simple things like looking at him the wrong way or laughing too much. I still recall the piercing sting of the steel rings of his thick white belt all over my back, sides, stomach and legs as he beat me for laughing at my sister while she was in the shower.  I was 5 years old. The physical beatings were painful, yet the things I recall that hurt the most were the words he would spew out of his cigarette and liquor ridden breath. I heard often how I was such an ugly child, so stupid, nothing but a cry baby and if I heard it once I heard it a thousand times how he wished I wasn’t his and how he didn’t even want me to call myself by his last name. He always called me by nicknames, which to him were amusing, but to me they were degrading and made me feel less than human. I was 33 years old before I ever heard my dad say ‘Christy’ and it shocked me so much that it took me a minute or two to respond to him.  As a young child, I did not have the ability to process that these things he would say weren’t true, I thought a father’s words was the gospel!  Nor did I have the wisdom I do as an adult to understand that these vicious demons belonged to him and had nothing to do with any shortcomings on my part. The aftermath of his destruction left me wounded, bleeding, literally and figuratively, broken, fearful and confused. I had no identity, no value in myself, I just knew that I was disgusting, unwanted, worthless and unlovable.

Needless to say, Christmases in our house were not the joyous occasion they were intended to be. I honestly only remember just 3 holidays that were significant for the first 13 years of my life. One was when I was in 5th grade and someone from the Salvation Army Angel Tree Program came to our house and met with my mother to get a wish-list,   clothes and shoe sizes for all of us children. I was ever so proud to wear a brand new outfit on our first day back to school from holiday break. I felt like a runway model as I sported those baby blue corduroy pants and a blue and brown plaid button up shirt. When my momma was finally able to break free from my father, get a restraining order and file for divorce, she was able to go to work at a local department store. That year we all had a brand new pair of house shoes under the Christmas tree! The third occasion I remember was the following year when we were picked to have a Christmas shopping spree at the department store where my momma worked and that is when I found her, the Christmas doll. The moment I laid eyes on this doll I knew that I had to have her. She was the most beautiful doll I had ever seen and she looked like someone straight off of my favorite TV show, Little House on the Prairie. I coveted Laura Ingalls Wilder, her simple life with a daddy who loved her and her family ferociously and worked hard to take care of and provide for them. There was a deep longing in my soul for this doll, and I chose her as my Christmas gift.

Fast forward almost 40 years, to a grown woman, sitting on the living room floor, holding this doll that I had kept for so many years. Through nine moves, two states, broken relationships, a wonderful marriage, a hateful divorce, unspeakable heartaches, terrible loss, shattered dreams and life-threatening disease. Through years of healing, helluva hours of counseling, renewed hopes, incredible transformations, perseverance, and self-discoveries. Through hard times, good times, joy, laughter and tears. Time and again  I had set her out on beds, put her back in boxes, set her back out in chairs as decor, only to put her back in boxes to safely store away and move again.

 When I saw her so many years ago sitting on the shelf in that old department store,  I had no understanding of the depth of why I not just wanted her, but needed her so badly or why I would keep her for so many years. Yet finally, on a rare friday evening that I found myself home alone, the answer flooded my soul like a dam break. This Christmas doll – she was beautiful, she was valued, she was wanted and she was loved. She was everything that I had yearned to be as a child and everything that I had fought to become as a woman.  I was her and she was me. 

Alone on the floor in that quiet house, I rejoiced because I am no longer that lost, broken child searching for love, significance, worth and acceptance. As an adult woman, I know that my wounds have healed, my scars, although still a part of me, have faded and I am fully aware that sometimes in life we are the victim of someone else’s battle. I can honestly say that I do not hate my father, I feel he has hated himself enough through the years for the mistakes he made and the devastation my tender heart suffered at his hands. I pray he has found the healing, peace and forgiveness in his own heart that I have embraced for myself and that we all desperately need. I breathed a slow, heavy sigh as I placed the doll back into the safety of her tote and laid my other keepsakes around her. One day, when I am long gone from this world, my children may find her and wonder why their momma kept such a simple, old doll stored up as a treasure. 

 
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Posted by on July 14, 2021 in Uncategorized

 

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The Rebellious Boob Chronicles – Life After Active Treatment: The Quest for Normalcy

01 Apr

10 months ago I finished up active treatment for Breast Cancer. 17 months of my life spent dedicated to eradicating the terrorist that had invaded my body and threatened my well-being.

18 weeks of chemotherapy involving 2 chemotherapy drugs and 2 immunotherapy drugs.
17 immunotherapy infusions.
5 surgeries including a double mastectomy and reconstruction.
25 radiation treatments.
Completed. Done. Finished. Over with. Sigh. Hallelujah.

Being the hope filled, positive-attitude-kind-of-girl that I am, I had noble aspirations that finally life could go back to normal after everything was said and done, right? Yeah, I know, I love the way I crack my own self up sometimes but a girl can dream, right?!?

According to Webster’s dictionary normal is “the usual, average, or typical state or condition.” “conforming to a standard; usual, typical, or expected.” I am sure that at some point in my educational plight ‘normal’ had been a spelling word that I had to look up the definition for. I was in fact the spelling bee champion for many years throughout my elementary and junior high years (hey, we all have to be good at something! I just so happened to thrive at memorization!) and I have always had a love for words, their meanings and the way you can scramble them together and write a beautiful story. Anyways…

I was ready to be ‘normal’ again. My healthy, active, adventurous happy world had been rocked by the diagnosis of breast cancer. I had sat week after week enduring treatments that, although the ultimate goal was healing, came in like a wrecking ball and transformed my fit, strong body into a caricature of weakness. I worked hard during the off-weeks of my treatments to keep myself built up, knowing that the next round would inevitably wreak a little more damage, bring a little more fatigue, a little more muscle atrophy, and a little more transformation to the woman I saw looking back at me in the mirror. I don’t despise the treatments that were successful and have given me more years to live my life, but I won’t pretend that I enjoyed those suckers one hairy bit! They were a dastardly yet necessary task and I would be just fine to never, ever, ever have to endure them again! I was ready to begin the process of rebuilding without the task of being tore down again.

I was ready to be normal again. To not have to undress in an open room and lay bare chested on a table while nurses chatted casually as if I wasn’t present. At times I didn’t even feel human as they lined up the fire-breathing dragon machine to zap any cancer cells that might be lingering in the shadows of my chest area formally known as my breasts but now a cavity with muscles separated from the chest wall and stuffed with concrete filled expanders.

I was ready to be normal again. To get up, get dressed, put on my face and not have to worry that throughout my day my painted-on eyebrows would get rubbed off and I would be walking around looking like Pinky after his horrifying eye-brow shaving bathroom scene. (referencing Pink Floyd’s ‘live action/adult animated surrealism musical The Wall Movie’ that was popular in the 80’s. The majority of you reading this blog may have no clue what I am talking about, and if you don’t, it’s okay, don’t watch it.  You will forever be traumatized any time you hear any of the songs from the soundtrack. Just googling the album cover is enough to scar you for life!)  

After 17 months of fighting a disease that was sent to take me out, I was ready to be normal again.

9 months later, I can say to you that normal is:

A setting on your dryer.
A temperature of 98.6.
An average statistic.
A blood pressure of 120/80.
A man not asking for directions.

However, normal has nothing to do with how you feel after active treatments are over.

Don’t get me wrong, physically, for the most part, I feel great!

My hair, my eyebrows, and my eyelashes have all grown back and I look pretty much like myself again (except for the natural hair color. No more Clairol! 😊)

On most days, my energy level is fantastic. I can now work again until I am done – not until my body says whoa…you have used up all of your energy cells today and I am shutting down…at 11 am.

I am starting to rebuild muscle tone – it’s a slow process but hey, it’s a process!

I can wear tank tops now without being self-conscious of a port bulging out of my chest like a third eye.

I am no longer referred to as a cancer patient – I am now a cancer survivor! whoop whoop!

There are SO many positives and for each and every one I am thankful.

But am I normal? Of course, some would debate that I was never normal to start with, right but zip it!

My point is I have discovered that going through cancer changes you. There is no such thing as going back to normal. It not only alters your physical body – noobies and nice new boobies are not the same! Trust me! My whole entire upper body has been restructured; I have shoulder aches, I have noobie muscle spasms (OUCH!), I am constantly aware of the discomforting tightness on my right side, blah blah blah – For more information you may read a previous blog about the new girls. 😉

There are some days, for absolutely no reason at all, that I am unusually tired and I have to have a zero evening.

My hair that was so nice and thick growing back is now thinning due to the medication I have to take daily.

I am depleted of estrogen as a preventative to keep new cancer cells from growing back. My body went from pre-menopause to post menopause, which is normally a several year transformation, in 8 seconds.

In spite of all of the physical changes I have experienced, I can honestly say that the thing I have found most challenging with surviving cancer is the way that it affects your mind set. Yes, I feel great, I take care of myself, I eat healthy, I exercise on the daily. I feed my body, soul, and mind daily with positive energy. I am religious with my check-up appointments and I even google my bloodwork to make sure things are, yeah you know, NORMAL! UGH!

However, any woman (or man!) who has had cancer knows that there is a constant nagging forethought of reoccurrence. Any odd feeling. Any abnormal pain. Any unexplained fatigue. Time for a check-up? Count on some anxiety. Time for yearly scans? They call that nervousness ‘scan-xiety.’ Even on the best of days, the thought of reoccurrence can creep up like an ex-boyfriend showing up at the same restaurant.  The timetable of your life is now forever associated with and referenced to “before cancer” and “after cancer.” Will this course of thinking change with time, perhaps, maybe, hopefully, please Lord!

So, is life after active treatment perfect? Nah? Am I back to normal, double-nah. It is a futile pursuit and I have given up the ridiculous notion that there is such a thing as me and normal in the same sentence. Nevertheless, I am certain of one thing as sure as my name is Christy. I endeavor to enjoy every single day of life after active treatment that I am blessed with and to live to the absolute fullest. I also know undoubtedly that I am much better now than I was when I began this journey many months ago, and for this I am forever thankful.

 
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Posted by on April 1, 2021 in breast cancer, Uncategorized

 

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The Rebellious Boob Chronicles: A Year Ago Today…

10 Jan

twin towers

(I dedicate this blog to my dear friend and soul sister Brooke West who took me to all of my doctor visits, who sat with me through every minute of chemotherapy, who endured me on steroids…whoa! who laughed, cried and prayed with me, and who sent me the most powerful text message early one late December morning that inspired these words.)

They say time flies when you are having fun. I say time has a way of creeping by and flying by all at the same time whether you are having fun or not. It is hard to believe that just one year ago today I was getting ready to embark on the most challenging personal journey I have ever faced in my life. I have definitely been through some rough times in my 49 years, heck my early childhood was enough to make anyone tremble a little (but that is another blog for another time). I have lost family, friends, a marriage, a spouse. I have had my heart broke by people who were supposed to be my friend. My family has experienced the tragedy of senseless violence, we have suffered the consequences of not-always-the-smartest choices (a nice way of saying I have done some stupid stuff in my life!), and we have had the proverbial rug pulled out from under us on many occasions. I could go on and on, but I think you catch my drift that life hasn’t always been a piece of cake. The hard times have shaped me and my faith has produced a stubborn resilience that refuses to let the hardships get the best of me! However, in January of 2019, life was getting ready to throw me a hefty kick to the gut, on the most personal level, which would require me to dig deep, trust wholeheartedly in my faith and endure with the strongest determination I could muster up.

On November 21st, 2018 I went for my yearly mammogram. After receiving a bad scare in 2015 and having to go have a diagnostic mammogram and ultra sound to determine density in my right breast, I had kept up my mammograms on a regular basis regardless of the fact that I didn’t have health insurance for years (kudos to the local health department for a grant that covered mammograms for uninsured women). On November 28th I went for a complete physical with my primary care physician. I hadn’t had one of those in years and felt it was a smart move since I now had health insurance that covered such things, and I hadn’t been feeling quite like myself here and there. The good news is that my physical results were fabulous! All of my blood work came back perfect and my doctor said I was one of the healthiest women she knew. The bad news is my mammogram came back showing some questionable areas in my right breast, and once again, a diagnostic mammogram and ultra sound was ordered. I would like to say that I was as calm as a cucumber, but I won’t even try to downplay the fear that ravishes a woman’s heart when she is told further tests need to be done. Not to mention that over the course of 2018 I had noticed a change in the pea size mass that was diagnosed as density in 2015. It was now about the size of a nickel but according to google it was nothing, (seriously, of course I googled it!!) but deep down inside, I was scared. On January 3rd 2019, I went in for my testing. It wasn’t anything I was unfamiliar with, but this time the atmosphere seemed a little more intense. The mammographer appeared a little more serious and the ultrasound tech took an extensive amount of time checking out my right side and under my right arm. Finally, she called in the radiologist so that she could sit down with me face to face, eye level to eye level, and tell me ever so gently that it was expedient that I go for a biopsy.

I left the office feeling overwhelmed and as I drove back to work, I cried a little and prayed a lot. My thoughts rushed to my children and I had no I idea how I would tell them that their mother may have breast cancer. I spent the next week praying profusely and diplomatically telling God why I DID NOT need to walk through breast cancer at this time in my life. No just NO! Of course I didn’t want to have to fight the battle, but my reasons weren’t selfish ones, first and foremost I did not want my children to have to suffer through another parent having cancer. Please Lord, not at this time in our lives. Give us a little more time to grow, to heal, to enjoy life. I am strong in my faith and firmly believe that the God I serve can work miracles and remove anything out of my body that He chooses. Yes Lord, work a miracle on my behalf, after all my God moves mountains, right?!?

A year ago today, on January 10th, 2019, I was dreadfully waiting for the sun to rise as I rose out of bed early to get ready to go to my scheduled biopsy. One of my most dear friends and soul sister’s was taking me so that I didn’t have to go alone. I made my coffee, read my devotion, prayed and again recited to God at what a testimony it would be and how I would so praise Him if He would just remove these freaking lumps in my breast (yep, ultra sound showed two!).  I opened my Facebook and the first thing I saw was a memory from my ‘Dear Christy from God’ letters on January 10, 2018 (exactly one year prior) that said:

“Dear Christy, when I choose not to move the mountain, then what?” ~God~.

I knew in that moment what the outcome of the biopsy would be before they ever pierced my skin. I knew in that moment that my life and my children’s lives were getting ready to change drastically. I honestly didn’t know what all it would involve, but I knew from this moment on that my life would be on a different time table – you know, like how we measure time as BC (before Christ) and AD (anno domini – the year of our Lord) – now for me it would be “before I got breast cancer” and “after I survived breast cancer.” I sighed deeply and read the memory again:

Dear Christy, when I choose not to move the mountain, then what? ~God~.
Dear God, well, I guess we climb the dang mountain, that’s what. ~Christy~

And that is exactly what we did.

It took eight viciously long days for the doctor to call and ask me to come in for my results. Tom Petty nailed it on the head when he said “the waiting is the hardest part!” My dear friend and soul sister went with me to hear the results and we all had to chuckle a little as my doctor recited again that I was one of the healthiest women she knew…but…the biopsy showed that I had breast cancer.  My first reaction was “well hell” and after listening to what the next few weeks of my life would be like with all the doctor visits they would line up for me, Brooke and I both agreed on one thing; My God, the one in whom I believe in and love wholeheartedly, the one who loves me more than I can imagine, the one who flung the starts into place and measured the depths of the seas in the palm of his hand, the One who is good all the time, He was not at all surprised by this diagnosis. The bargaining was over, the course had been set and if He wasn’t going to move the mountain, then in no uncertain terms He was going to have to show up and help me climb it. On this side of the battle I can say that not only did God show up, but He showed out!

I have spent the past year of my life climbing this mountain called breast cancer. I have gone through two port surgeries, 5 months of chemotherapy, a double mastectomy, 25 radiation treatments, and reconstructive surgery. I lost my hair, my dignity, my hot, muscular beast of a body I had worked so hard for (okay, maybe I wasn’t so hot to start with but it’s my story and I’m sticking to it! J). My battle isn’t quite over yet as I am still doing immunotherapy infusions every three weeks. I am getting ready to take a preventative pill for a year and then another preventative pill for five years. Hopefully I will only have one more surgery left to complete reconstruction. All in all, it is safe to say that it has been a wing-dinger of a year! I have felt strong and I have felt weak. I have felt empowered and I have felt helpless. I have been brave and I have been scared. I have been challenged physically, mentally and emotionally. I can say that being on this side of the battle feels much better than where I was one year ago and, despite all of the losses and struggles,  I have experienced some pretty awesome things through all of the madness. I have been surrounded by the most wonderful support system of family and friends, saturated in prayers and positive thoughts by a countless number of people and received more acts of kindness than I deserve. I have met some of the most precious folks along the way who had fought this same battle, strangers who became friends almost instantly because of the special bond we share. In the best of times and in the worst of times, I know without a doubt, that I have not been alone in this struggle for one single minute.

By the grace of my Almighty God, I was not only able to continue to work full time, I was also able to do my job with a passionate fervor and reach and exceed the goals that were set before me. I have traveled to more states this year than I have in all my life and I have watched the sun rise and set on the east coast and the west coast. I was able to experience a sweet beach vacation and a grandiose out west adventure, celebrating my 50th birthday watching the sun come up over the Mesa Arch in Canyonlands, Utah. In the midst of fighting cancer, I logged 3,284,177 steps and I was on the trail 83 days, only missing  a handful of adventures due to treatments and side effects. The most difficult year of my life has also been the most glorious of adventures! And I give all praise, honor and glory to the God in whom I gave my heart to so many years ago. His joy IS my strength!

Some would argue that if He was such a good God, why didn’t He move the mountain like I had begged him too? Oh my, as I type this I shudder at the things I would have missed if He would have done things my way. Am I saying that I am thankful for cancer? NEGATIVE GHOSTRIDER! However,  had I not walked this journey, I would have missed the recognition of His mighty hand weaving the strands of my life and guiding my every step. In 2012 God sparked a desire in me for the outdoors, and after my first hike in June 2013, a passion for hiking and adventure was birthed in my soul. I can name 3 things that tried to divert my passion through the years, but God in His goodness would always just redirect my steps and lead me to another place til eventually I found my Tribe. From 2016 through 2018 I spent weekend after weekend on the trail and with each step God was with me, honing my heart for maximum strength, honing muscle and sinew to perfection, building up every aspect of my body, strengthening my mind. healing my soul, and preparing me for a battle that would inevitably attack it all. He knew that on January 18, 2019 when I received the news that I had breast cancer that I would need to be in the best physical, mental and spiritual shape that I had ever been in to endure and come out victorious. Insert that I worked for 13 years without health insurance, and in August 2018 I was hired at my new job that offers incredible benefits, my health insurance kicked in on October 1, just 3 short months before my diagnosis.

A year ago today breast cancer was my diagnosis but it was never my destiny! It is just a path to another purpose and I hold fast to the peace, joy and thanksgiving that fill my soul. Today, on January 10, 2020 I open my eyes to a new day, a new year, a new decade and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am better, much better than I was…a year ago today.

 
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Posted by on January 10, 2020 in breast cancer

 

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The Rebellious Boob Chronicles: Radiation and Vacation

04 Dec

The Subway

A diagnosis of breast cancer is something that no woman ever wants to hear, however, on average, one woman out of 8 is diagnosed with breast cancer in the United States every two minutes. On January 18, 2019, I experienced those “two minutes” and my doctor informed me that I had invasive ductal carcinoma in my right breast. Suddenly I became the “one in eight.” The good news was there are 3.5 million breast cancer survivors in the United States, the cancer had been discovered in early stages and I was the healthiest I had ever been in my life, which gave me a running start at what my body was getting ready to endure for the next several months. My treatment plan included 6 rounds of chemotherapy, once every twenty days, and then surgery to remove the affected breast tissue. The bad news was…I had freaking breast cancer and I was getting ready to embark on the most challenging year of my life.

After my diagnosis, things moved quickly. I had my first MRI on January 24th, first Echocardiogram on February 1st, had my port put in on February 4th, and my first chemotherapy treatment was February 11th. For the next several months I had more doctor visits than any one human should have and my body experienced many hardships and changes. I had my last treatment on June 3rd (hallelujah!) and went to my follow up MRI on June 17th to assess how effective the treatments had been. On June 19th around 11:45 am, I received the call with the results, “No evidence of residual malignancy in posterosuperior and upper inner quadrant areas of the right breast or elsewhere.” The tumors were GONE!  The chemotherapy had worked! The prayers had worked! All the support and encouragement had worked! All the moments of fighting against the terrorist that had invaded my body had worked! And last but not at all the least, my God had worked on my behalf and we had won! This stage of my battle was over and my next stage would be surgery scheduled for July 8th, 2019.

After careful consideration and consultation with my oncologist and surgeon, I chose to have a double mastectomy instead of just having the right rebellious boob removed. No cancer had been present in my left breast, yet I wasn’t willing to take the chance in having to fight this battle again if ole lefty decided to rebel against me in the future. Plus, the aging process is a reality in all of our lives and what woman really wants one boob that says “hello there!” and one that is saying “see ya later alligator” as she ages?? So, a double mastectomy with complete reconstruction beginning during the same process was scheduled. I am happy to say that surgery was a success and healing came swiftly. Perhaps it was the resilience that my body had already proven time and time again; the many prayers; my stubbornness; or all of the hiking I was able to enjoy while on medical leave. I was back on the trail 12 days after surgery and enjoyed 7 trail days, a beach trip between July 20th and August 4th and I was able to return to work August 5th.  My conclusion is that it was a combination of all the above! My surgeon had said that I could return to my normal activities after about a month so within one month and two days after surgery, I was back on the rock, climbing carefully, but nevertheless climbing! We even climbed one route completely blindfolded! Booyah!

Needless to say, despite all the hardships this year had brought so far, I was living and loving life! My follow up consultation with my surgeon brought unexpected news. She only had to remove 3 lymph nodes, which came back crystal clear, however one of the cancerous tumors had rested so close to my skin margin, and because she didn’t have a whole lot extra to work with (her kind words referring to my size B!) she recommended radiation to make sure there was nothing microscopic lingering around the tumor area. I would probably be okay without the radiation she said, but if I chose to have the radiation, she was confident that there would be no cancer left behind. So of course I chose to proceed with a radiation consultation and the next step in my journey would be 25 treatments, one a day for 5 weeks. We opted to allow the plastic surgeon to complete his process of stretching my muscle cavity to make pockets for my new implants before we started the treatments and this put us on a close time table. I had told my doctor during my consultation that I had to be done by October 17th because I flew out on October 18th to Utah for a much awaited out-west adventure that had been in the makings for almost a year. They weren’t that happy about the time restraint, nevertheless 2 days after my consultation my first treatment was scheduled.

Radiation began on September 12th and I had 26 days to complete 25 treatments! The first treatment was somewhat overwhelming as you walk into this huge room, a nurse stands behind you holding a hand towel to cover you up as you undress, you lay down on a table and they wheel you under this huge concoction of a machine that lines you up and shoots a radioactive beam straight to the targeted spot. After I got over the reluctance of taking my top off and standing naked in front of strangers, bearing my scarred chest that looked like it had two cement filled softballs crammed in it, the process itself was painless, a little dehumanizing, but painless. Each treatment lasted less than 15 minutes to show up, undress, lie down, get zapped, get dressed and leave. I began to get some minor skin irritation after 18 treatments, but I only had 7 to go and then I would be done and my body could enjoy a much needed 10 day vacation while healing.

On Wednesday October 16th, I completed my 25th treatment. Needless to say I was elated as I walked into the office to see the doctor and say goodbye. Treatments had gone well with minimal side effects and it was time to heal. The doctor looked at my skin, frowned a little at the irritation and then informed me that radiation side effects were about 10 days behind and I could expect more irritation. I would have to watch carefully and treat my skin with a special salve 4 times a day to avoid cracking and possible infection. When I explained to him I was going on vacation and would be hiking and camping, he explained to me that there was no way I needed to carry a backpack for at least two weeks. Yeah right, bahahaha! Inside I was screaming…what the heck! Why do you always have to rain on my parade! I am going out west and I do not have time for irritation and infection. Insert some major eye rolling and heavy sighing as I left feeling my stubbornness rising up from the pit of my stomach and as rebellious as the boob that had gotten me to this point in the first place.

Friday came and we were on a plan to Salt Lake City Utah. To make a long story somewhat shorter, we enjoyed 10 days of the absolute best adventuring a girl could have. The scenery was overwhelmingly beautiful! Mountains bigger than life! Incredible monoliths that didn’t even look real! Rocks, canyons, rivers, waterfalls! We put 1700 miles on a 15 passenger van, and almost 140,000 steps on my Fitbit. We visited Bridal Veil Falls in Provo, Utah; camped in the desert of Moab; visited Arches National Park and  Canyonlands;  watched the sunrise over the Mesa Arch as we rang in my 50th birthday; visited Mule Canyon and the House of Fire; drove through Natural Bridges National Monument and down the Moki Dugway (whoa what an adventure!); went through Mexican Hat, Monument Valley and Navajo Nation; stayed the night in Page, Arizona and visited Horseshoe Bend; drove to Bryce Canyon for a night of camping and exploring; and ended our trip with 3 days and nights camping in Zion National Park right behind The Watchmen. We hiked the Subway (thank the Lord and Jeremy for getting the permits!) and Angels Landing and finished up our last night at the Canyon Overlook trail. WOW!!! Needless to say the entire trip was beyond amazing. I have inserted pictures for your viewing pleasure :).

I somewhat followed the doctors’ orders and spent time treating my irritated radiation skin in a cold van in the desert of Moab and in campgrounds at the National Parks. I only had to wear a pack twice the whole time we were there (thanks to my David for carrying everything!). By the time we returned home, my skin was almost all the way healed and ready for the consultation with my plastic surgeon on November 12th. The next stage of my journey would be scheduled for November 26th – surgery #2, the removal of the concrete softballs on my chest I had been carrying around since July and the insertion of new implants. Goodbye softballs, hello noobies!

This year of my life was almost over and the hardest parts of my journey were coming to an end. As I reflect back I must say it sure has been a challenge. There were days I felt like a victorious warrior and days it took all I had within me to fight through. Through it all I’ve lived, I’ve learned, I’ve loved, I’ve collected priceless memories and have been surrounded by the most precious people. I’ve discovered I am stronger than I thought I was but yet I don’t have to be strong all the time. There is a time to persevere and push on and a time for rest and healing. I’ve learned that no matter what life throws at you, with a little faith and a lot of support, you absolutely can make it through anything. It may not always be pretty and you may not always like it, but you will prevail. I’ve learned that during the struggles, if you keep on keeping on, the day WILL come that you are better than you were during those moments.

Next step – say hello to the ‘noobies!’

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Delicate Arch

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Landscape Arch

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Sunrise at Mesa Arch

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Canyonlands

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The House of Fire

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View from Moki Dugway

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Looking back up Moki Dugway. We drove down that!

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Sunset in Monument Valley

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Horseshoe Bend

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Bryce Canyon

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Bryce Canyon

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Welcome to Bryce Canyon

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Welcome to Zion National Park

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Front view from Campground

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The Watchman

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along the Subway hike

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Hiking up to Angels Landing

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Canyon Overlook

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Going up the Wiggles

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Our total number of steps…Whoa!

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The crew at The Subway

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The Subway

 
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Posted by on December 4, 2019 in breast cancer, Uncategorized

 

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The Rebellious Boob Chronicles: Chemotherapy and Losing Your Hair

02 Jul

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I will began this blog by saying that it has taken me 4 ½ months to be able to complete and post this blog. I began writing it shortly after we shaved my hair off on March 4th, yet every time I sat down to pen my thoughts, I would either draw a blank or would be so overcome with emotion that I just couldn’t finish. Losing your hair isn’t just a physical side effect of chemotherapy, it is an emotional one, one that reaches down into the depths of your soul and touches the heart of your identity. It’s visible evidence that something isn’t quite right in your body. Hair loss isn’t limited to just your head either. Eventually you lose your eyebrows and your eyelashes (I miss them!) and your body hair (I won’t complain about not having to shave my legs for months!! ) It changes your appearance and it takes time to get used to it. Months later I have grown accustomed to my bald head. I’m much more comfortable being without a head covering around my family and friends, letting that bald, round head shine – especially when it’s blazing hot out and I am crawling up the trail, literally! I am able to look in the mirror and most times I don’t even bother with the fact that I have no hair. I discovered that I can take naps without having to worry about messing my hair up. I can drive with the window down and let the wind blow as much as it wants to. I can take showers at night and not have to fool with fixing my hair in the mornings, thus getting to sleep later. The perks have been many. So as I post this today, I am thankful for the progressive adjustments. I am thankful for those who contributed to my hat fund and collection and allowed me to look fashionable these past months. I am thankful that I am 3 weeks post-chemotherapy and I have a nice little layer of baby hair growing back already. I am thankful for all of the positive words and encouragement to boost my struggling self-esteem and keep me smiling. Most of all, I am thankful to finish this blog and finally get the words out of my soul that have been churning on the inside for so long. And I am thankful for YOU for sharing my journey with me.

Rebellious Boob Chronicles – Chemotherapy and Losing Your Hair

One of the things I dreaded most about chemotherapy was losing my hair. Even before it was confirmed that I had cancer, I had nightmares about being bald.  Once I received the diagnosis I would catch myself standing in front of the mirror, holding all of my hair back, trying to imagine what I would look like bald. My kids would walk by and be like…mom what are you doing? (Insert a strange look on their face)

Once the news was out and I started chemotherapy, everyone knew it was inevitable. I have the best of friends and every one would do their best to console me. “It will grow back!” or “Ah, It’s just hair!” they would say. The truth is, yes it will grow back, however to say that my hair is just hair is quite an understatement. I’ve had a love/hate relationship with my hair since it started growing 49 years ago and it became a part of who I am, a part if my identity.  I’ve had long hair, at one point it was blonde and curly.  However, the older I got and the more I began to discover who I truly am deep on the inside, the shorter and darker my hair got until finally, I found MY hairstyle and it became my icon. People who didn’t know me personally would recognize me by the infamous red streak that I wore forever. My children’s friends would say, “oh yeah, your mom is the one with the short red hair.”  Strangers would stop me and compliment me on how much they liked my hair. Well most strangers were in my favor. I remember once a man stopped me in the grocery store and felt the need to tell me that most men didn’t like women with short hair. I come a frog’s hair of letting him know that most women didn’t like men with short …., but I refrained and just told him it was okay, that I didn’t like most men and went my merry way without cutting the fool. So without much ado about nothing, I think you get the point. My hair was an important part of me.

At my first visit with my oncologist, my doctor was gracious enough to talk to me about the most common side effects of chemotherapy and how long it usually started for them to show up. Hair loss usually occurs 10 to 14 days after the first treatment. Wow. I thought I would have longer than that but I began to mentally prepare myself for the loss that was coming.  At first it was just a hair or two here and there that I would find or would stick to my hands. However, the second weekend after my first treatment, I was getting ready for an adventure and when I went to fluff my hair glue through my hair, I brought my hands down and they were covered in my dark brown locks. Ugh! Day after day the same scenario until I came to the conclusion that the inevitable was happening and it was time to take control. Thus I planned an “Ode to my hair” head shaving party for March 4th, the evening of my second chemotherapy treatment.

My kiddos, my hairdresser, and my grand babies were present and some of my awesome girlfriends came bearing gifts of wine, appetizers and desserts. I parked a chair in the center of the kitchen and the party began. The buzz of the clippers hummed a somber melody. We shared lots of laughter and a few tears were shed.  We made videos and took selfies. My oldest son, whose hair was way down his back, shaved his head also in honor of his momma. I was surrounded by tons of love and support and it made such a bittersweet event and that first glance in the mirror a little more bearable. It was done. My hair was gone. I was bald.

Now came the rush of fears. Would people look at me different? Would my boyfriend struggle with having a bald girlfriend? Would my friends avoid being seen with me? And of course, my greatest fear about it all was how would my children and grandchildren  react to having a bald momma and Momsy. I know, it sounds silly to even say that out loud, but every day and especially through this whole ordeal, they have been and always will be my greatest concern. It wasn’t long after we finished with the new hairless style that my phone starting blowing up with notifications. My children had posted some of the selfies we took on their social media. Yikes! I admit that at first I was a little shocked. I wasn’t sure that I was ready for thousands of people to see me with no hair! However, as I began to read their proclamations of love, support, and encouragement and the sweet, positive responses from others,  my heart was flooded with gratitude. They were proud of their momma, hair or no hair, and they wanted their world to know it! I was overwhelmed and the fears I had melted away. I was thankful. I was blessed beyond measure. I knew in those precious moments that no matter what I had to face through this journey that I would be okay, and more importantly, I knew they would be okay.  I knew that someday soon, I would be better than I was at this moment.

March 4, 2019

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My Kaley

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My Olivia

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My Kaler

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Getting a haircut!

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The party crowd!

 
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Posted by on July 2, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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