Sometimes You Just Need to Cry

Emotions are hard.

It’s been too long since my last post and I hope that my silence here hasn’t made you think that I’m unwell. Well, I guess technically I am but I don’t think anyone can tell! Instead of living my life as a “sick” person, I’ve been out running around–both figuratively and literally–doing things I love, connecting with old friends, making new friends, and generally trying to live my best life.

Having said all that, I had intended to post about my return to regular fitness and exercise and how much of a mental and physical boost that has been but instead I felt it important to share about my experience yesterday at my 14th chemo infusion. While it’s often easier to write about all the fun stuff like travel and nature and fitness, I don’t want to pretend like everything is normal. Everything is NOT normal and I think about my cancer 24/7. I wish this wasn't the case. While I do work hard to appreciate what I have today and to foster hope for the future, I can't help but have days like yesterday that leave me feeling like I got skippity paps in the face and was told to “wake up and face reality”.

I’ll start by saying that yesterday morning started out great. I was able to do my regular morning routine (meditation, short yoga flow, affirmations, journaling, reading, and walking Molly through the trail with Chris), go for a short run and do a strength workout in the garage where I actually barbell back squatted for the first time since November! I worked up to a whopping 65#’s for 10 reps and I’ll admit it was more challenging than I would have liked. Sorry, I guess I can't help but throw in fitness talk! 💪

So after this great morning, and my last shower for 2 days (TMI?), we left for the Cancer center. It always starts with bloodwork to test my levels and make sure I’m within the safe range to receive treatment*. The oncology nurses are always so nice and very skilled when they access my port, which in combination with a lidocaine cream that I’m supposed to apply 2 hours beforehand, usually makes this a pain free process. However, I forgot to put the cream on until right before we were leaving which meant that I felt the thick needle going into my chest/port. Ouch. On the positive though, my labs came back great with numbers higher than at my last infusion. 
*FYI, the main counts we look at are platelets, red blood cells, white blood cells and hemoglobin. If any of these are too low, the dose of my treatment would need to be reduced or canceled all together. Back in April, my platelets got down to 84 K/uL (normal range is 154-393) and I had to get a lower dose of chemo, but yesterday my platelets were at 166 in the normal range.

Once cleared for treatment, I get hooked up to the IV drips. I should note that every time my port is accessed, it gets flushed with a saline solution. I’ve grown to really dislike this as it not only signifies the start of treatment but I can taste it going in which often triggers the start of ~5 days of nausea. 🤢 After the flush, I first receive anti-nausea meds and a steroid while the pharmacy prepares my chemo cocktail. The first chemo is a 90 min drip so in total I sit there connected to the IV for about ~2 hours. Then I get connected to the portable pump that I get to stay attached to for 46hrs. Rinse and repeat every two weeks. Fun.

Which leads me to my feelings. Normally I don’t mind the time at the infusion center because that’s time I can spend talking to Chris, watching a home improvement show with my mom, reading, writing, and/or scrolling social media for animal videos. And while I’m thankful that my cancer center provides each patient with ‘private’ bays, they are pretty open air with sound traveling very easily from bay to bay. There hasn't been a treatment gone by where I haven't overheard a neighbors TV being too loud (often Fox news 🤮), phone calls on speaker, games being played on phones and conversations with the nurses.

Yesterday, I heard a nurse telling a survivor that their next treatment would be number 99. I know she meant well, but she went on to say something along the lines of, ‘well we must be doing something right considering you’ll still be here for your 100 treatment mark’. She didn't exactly say those words, but that’s how I heard it. And the data-driven side of me immediately started to think about how long 99 treatments takes. I realize that every chemo regimen is different and he might go in weekly or even daily instead of every other week like I do. Still though, I had to run my numbers. I had 10 treatments in 5.5 months and will probably get another 10 in before the end of the year, which puts me at ~20 treatments for my first year. If this rate continued that would put me at 5 years of chemo before I hit the 100 mark. 😳

In reality, I don’t expect to continue at this rate because I intend to take breaks for surgeries, for extended travel and to make sure I maintain a healthy quality of life. But DAMN. This wasn't in the 5 year plan that my husband and I envisioned when we left Brooklyn and moved to Ohio three years ago. This wasn’t in our thoughts as we learned last October that we were going to become grandparents and that our children were moving to Dayton to be closer to us as they started their family. This wasn't on our minds this past December as we celebrated Chris’ 50th birthday, our love of life and each other, and our overwhelming feelings of gratitude for the life we’ve been able to experience and cultivate, all while walking/hiking 20,000 steps a day in Colombia…just days before I was diagnosed.

This cancer diagnosis wasn't in the plan. And yesterday I broke down as we walked to the car leaving the cancer center. What turned out to be soft tears trickling down my cheeks turned into full sobs as we sat in the car and I talked through my emotions with Chris. The thought of doing this same routine for 5+ years, or the rest of life if we’re being honest, f*cking sucks. The nausea, the neuropathy, the fatigue, the insomnia (I started writing this at 2am FYI), the scars, the medication routine, the 46hrs being tethered to a pump…it all f*cking sucks. All the ‘why me’, ‘it’s not fair’, ‘f*ck cancer’ thoughts flooded my brain and I just let it all out. Yet, I was also crying because I still couldn't help but think that it could be worse. I can’t get away from the empathy that I hold for others, like this man at 99 treatments or another fellow CRC cancer survivor (JJ Singleton) who I follow and has been on chemo for 7 years, has had most of his colon removed and was tube fed for 250+ days. A fear exists that that could be me someday.

I want to be clear though. While I don’t want to go through all of this, I’m not being forced into anything I don’t want to do and I know that I could stop any/all of it anytime. However, this is the choice that I’m making and you better believe I’m giving it my all. And while I’m still that energetic, happy, positive outlook on life type of girl, I also realize it’s ok to cry. 

I just got back from a great vacation where I kept telling people how good I felt. And I wasn’t lying. I do feel good and look healthy and it was so great to let others see this for themselves. It was such a mental boost to see so many friends, have great conversations and just feel loved. So to go from such a highly positive emotional and uplifting week, back to the reality of treatment left me a bit of an emotional wreck yesterday. And that’s ok. Crying and experiencing sadness is a part of my healing. Just like sharing this all with you (and my therapist…see you at 11am Wes!) is also a part of my ‘treatment’ plan.

Thank you for being here, for reading until the end and for all your continued love and support.

In love and gratitude,

Jess