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A first-hand look at the good, the bad, and the ugly about pancreatic cancer.

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Hi. I’m Kate. Turn ons include IV drips, PETscans, and organic fig newtons. Turn offs include whining, hospital gowns, and artificial sugar. Let’s see how much life I can squeeze in between work, chemo, sleep, and scans.

Archive for September, 2007

The Receptionist

I was sitting at a stoplight and she walked right in front of my bumper. She looked tired and drained, relieved that Monday was finally over. I tried to envision her job and pictured her as a receptionist (I was a receptionist for about three months and hated every minute of it). I thought about her sitting at her desk for eight hours, transferring calls, pointing people to the bathroom, and signing for packages. I wondered if she liked her job or if she too had nightmares of ringing telephones.

I’ve never claimed to be a very observant person, and it took some time before I realized I was sitting by the entrance to the National Institutes of Health. Perhaps this woman was a receptionist for NIH, the powerhouse of cancer research.

Was this woman the receptionist who pleasantly answered the phone when I called looking for nutritional information? Or was she the person who snapped at me when I was inquiring about the labyrinth in their Clinical Research Center (very cool…check it out)?

I wondered if the receptionist understood how important she is to me. For that matter, do any of the NIH workers know how much influence they have on my life? Do they understand that when they take a sick day to play golf, my life is potentially shortened by a day? My survival is dependent upon their work ethic and I just hope they don’t procrastinate as much as I do.

She may think she’s just a receptionist, but she’s not. She’s the voice of help and hope…and I think I now I understand why she looks so tired.

3 responses so far

Nine Words

(Okay, so I’m recycling something I wrote for PanCAN’s Web site. I’m just so tickled to see it on their site.)

Devastating.
One word to describe the overwhelming realization that PanCAN’s Survivor and Caregiver Network did not contain any volunteers who had metastases in all the same locations as I. I spent hours reading and rereading the inspirational stories for someone with a similar story. I checked daily, hoping to find that one person. I was, however, thrilled to talk to two incredible stage IV survivors in the Survivor and Caregiver Network and maintained the hope that I would one day be able to serve a resource for others.

Partial Remission.
Two words to describe my current status after eight months of treatment. The tumors, once ‘too numerous to count,’ are retreating. My liver and lymph nodes, clean. The tumors on my lungs and pancreas, shrinking. I allow myself to take comfort in this victory, knowing and understanding how fortunate I am to be alive.

Owning my Life.
Three words that describe me. I quickly realized it’s not about ‘finding a balance’ between my life and the tumors. It’s about throwing everything I love, everything wonderful in life, at cancer. Recognizing my fear and anger, and still finding the strength within to seek out my dreams. Squeezing as much life as possible in between blood work, appointments, treatment, and scans. Trying to live, laugh and love more than lament.

I am strong. I am fighting. I am surviving.
Nine words that have kept me alive.

My story isn’t about pancreatic cancer. It’s about living.

6 responses so far

Bracelets

As far as colors go, purple is okay. I’ve always preferred green and think that Barney is partially to blame for my discrimination against purple. Many months ago I received a purple bracelet in the mail. I didn’t think much about it and threw it in one of our various junk drawers. After all, if I don’t like purple, why would I wear a purple bracelet?

Over these past few months, my opinion of the color purple has changed. I’ve come to realize that it’s a vivacious color, full of life and energy. It’s a very special color bracelet, one that you don’t see very often because so few people have the courage to wear it. There is a certain sense of pride that comes from wearing purple. The purple community is small, stubborn, and ever hopeful. We’re that proverbial junkyard dog, scrappy and feisty, not going down without a fight.

Last week I was told that there was a chance that I could wear a pink, not purple, bracelet. I was ecstatic at the very thought of changing colors. Pink is everywhere. Celebrities have embraced pink and subsequently funds have poured into pink research. People have walked miles to help the pink community and I was thrilled that I might actually benefit from their pounding feet.

That was last week…

A few tests (and sleepless nights) later, I was told that purple is still probably my best color, but they want me to keep a pink bracelet around just in case. Wearing both colors is apparently the best approach for me right now. Sadly, most people don’t wear purple for very long, three to four months is the average. I‘m still workin’ my purple bracelet and will keep it up for as long as I can. At least I know that I can always pull out my pink bracelet if my purple one gets lost.

If yellow and blue make green, what does purple and pink make?

More hope.

No responses yet

Heal

It’s not a suggestion or a request. It’s firm, yet gentle and leaves no room for doubt.

I’ve spent hours concentrating on it, coaxing it into existence. It’s with me wherever I go. I see it when I’m stuck in traffic or in a long meeting. Like a scrolling screen saver, it slowly creeps across my mind, repeating in an endless loop.

When meditating, I visualize it slowly dropping into a puddle of water. The resulting ripples run through my body and gives me strength. During treatment, I see the word floating in the IV bag, going through the needle and into my arm. My blood swiftly carries it to my heart and my heart readily pumps it to my awaiting organs.

My mind has an intimate connection with the word and understands its significance. My body feels the word pulsing through it and strives to make it a realization. Mind and body in sync, working to reach a shared goal.

It’s my mantra, my theme song, my dream.

Heal.

7 responses so far

My Ugly Shoes

A humble and heartfelt hi to everyone. Humble because, as you will quickly learn, this is my shameless plea for money. Heartfelt because that’s how I seem to be living my life these days.

This story is divided into two parts: the first half is me begging for money for PanCAN’s Annual TeamHOPE Walk, the second half is me begging for help spreading awareness of pancreatic cancer.
I probably would have stopped reading by now, so I don’t blame you if don’t read any further. I also don’t want you to feel guilty for not donating - I’m walking regardless of whether or not I get that awesome cooler on wheels. If nothing else, I would be so grateful if you would delete the first half of this story, and send the second half to your family and friends.
First half: A Crumby Commercial?
I bought new running shoes about two weeks before I was diagnosed. Words cannot begin to describe just how ugly these shoes are, but that’s what happens when you have big flat feet - you get big ugly shoes. I bought the shoes because I missed running and thought that the shoes, along with an unbelievably complicated strength training regime, would help boost my energy level. Little did I know that my energy level was a symptom of the cancer that was invading my body.
My ugly shoes, still wrapped in tissue paper, have been sitting patiently in the deepest recesses of my closet. They have never felt the concrete below them and are starting to feel very neglected, but luckily, they have my spinning shoes keep them company.
When I first heard about this walk I thought it would be nice if someone would walk in my honor, but then realized it’s out in BFE Maryland (my apologies to anyone living in Bel Air, but I think you’d probably agree with me) and that was simply too much to ask of anyone. But on October 7th, after nine months of chemo, I’m going to put on my ugly shoes and participate in the walk myself. That fact alone fills me with such joy and happiness.
Well, if I’m going to actually wear my ugly shoes, I figured I might as well try to make it worth someone’s while. The walk is only two miles long, but it might as well be a marathon as I get worn out just walking from my car to DSW. I know I’ll finish the walk - I would just like to finish it in time for the closing ceremonies! Please visit my fundraising page and support me and my ugly shoes.
Second half: Purple and Proud
The Pancreatic Cancer Action Network (PanCAN) is the national organization dedicated to helping people like me. They spend their time spreading awareness about pancreatic cancer, lobbying for more cancer research, and connecting patients and caregivers with other people affected by pancreatic cancer. They are the purple bracelet people who have been there when I needed information, guidance, or reassurance. Their site is a tremendous resource, but this is the most important page: About Pancreatic Cancer.
I won’t go into the statistics because, to be brutally honest, they scare the flip out of me. It goes without saying that early detection is of utmost importance when it comes to increasing survivorship percentages. Please visit PanCAN’s site, learn about pancreatic cancer, and pass this information along to someone else.
As I wrote in my blog: The purple community is small, stubborn, and ever hopeful. We’re that proverbial junkyard dog, scrappy and feisty, not going down without a fight.
Help me spread the word about pancreatic cancer. We may not be pink, but we’re just as proud.

2 responses so far

Judy

Ms. Paxton? I’m Judy. Follow me. (Oh, great. Here we go.)

I assumed she was talking to me since I was the only person left in the waiting room. I followed her down the corridor where construction workers looked up and gave me a smile. I wasn’t in the mood to flirt, so I just stared ahead, focusing on the faded cartoon cats on Judy’s scrubs.

‘Strip down to your underwear, put the gown on, and lay down on the table in the examination room.’ I got the distinct feeling that I was keeping Judy from her Friday happy hour. She was already thinking about her strawberry margarita and saw me as the last obstacle before she headed to the bar. I nodded and did as she instructed. (Crap. Does the opening go in the front or the back?)

I instantly hated the examination room. The one piece of artwork was as blasé as the gray and beige dappled wallpaper. I wanted to flip the piece over to see if the cardboard backing offered more visual interest, but my growing fear of Judy outweighed my curiosity. (Shhh…I think she’s coming.)

After confirming her happy hour plans, Judy strolled into the room. Without warning, she pulled open my gown and squirted gel all over my stomach. I felt a little queasy as the goo started to drip down my sides. (I can’t believe I thought I could do this by myself. Tim insisted on coming, but I waved him off. I honestly thought I was strong enough to handle this. Help!) Judy turned on the machine and started running her magic wand over my stomach. Every few seconds the machine would click and capture an image of my insides. I kept looking at Judy, hoping to see a smile or a wink - anything to give me some sort of reassurance that everything was okay. I got nothing.

Desperate to forget about my surroundings, I let my mind drift off a bit. However, when left unaccompanied, my mind likes to swim in the deep end and I often find myself in over my head. Before I knew it, I was thinking about a friend’s recent sonogram and the happiness she must have felt while having virtually the same exam. Same uninspired artwork. Same sticky goo. Same magic wand. Yet I imagine our experiences were light years apart.

I pray it’s a girl.
I pray it’s not cervical cancer.

Please tell me it’s a boy.
Please tell me it‘s not in my ovaries.

Is the baby growing?
Is the cancer spreading?

Feeling a meltdown approaching, I asked Judy if we could take a break. To her credit, she asked if I was okay, but her tone betrayed her words. She kept an eye on her watch and was secretly hoping that I would stop shaking long enough for her to finish the exam. (Strong mind. Strong body. Strong mind. Strong body.) A few deep breaths later, I was able to start again and made it all the way through.

After getting dressed and cleaning up a bit, I shuffled off to my next test. The construction workers smiled at me again and this time I smiled back, but it wasn’t directed at them. It was to karma who had just agreed to give Judy a flat tire on her way to happy hour.

3 responses so far

Analysis Paralysis

 

Analysis paralysis: over-analysis of an issue to the point where it can no longer be recognized, often resulting in lack of appropriate action.

I started looking for my kick-ass cancer shirt the day after I was diagnosed. I’ve been known to agonize over clothing before, but this was bordering on insane. There were just too many messages, too many options, and too many questions.


Cancer sucks.
I have chemo brain. What’s your excuse?
F*ck Cancer (available with or without the *)
One more MRI and I’ll stick to the fridge.
Cancer picked the wrong diva.

Did I want to be cute and flirty? Simple and understated? Bold and brazen? Did I even want this type of attention? As I went through the laundry list of questions, I realized they all had one thing in common, what other people thought. At what stage in life do you stop worrying about how you are perceived by others? I can say with confidence that it isn’t stage IV.
I wasn’t afraid of receiving pity, sympathy, or empathy. Quite the opposite. I was afraid of people thinking I didn’t deserve to wear a kick-ass cancer shirt. I could actually see someone approach me in the grocery store and tell me that I should be ashamed of myself. That kick-ass cancer shirts are exclusively reserved for people suffering from cancer. You see, I don’t look like your typical cancer patient. I’m very lucky that my noticeable side effects are limited to teenage-like acne and unbelievably long eyelashes. (pause to count my blessings). Because of this, people are often incredulous when they find out that I have cancer. I get stares when I casually walk into treatment and plop down in one of the comfy chairs. In fact, I have the distinct feeling that I’ve been ostracized because I still have hair. I don’t fit into the chemo clique.

But, hair or no hair, I still have cancer. It’s time for me to stop worrying about what other people think and focus on just being myself (all this from a shirt). It took me eight months to come to this revelation, but only ten minutes to decide on a design. It’s irreverent without being vulgar, fun without being flip.

And, as a friend would say, I think it’s very Kate.

11 responses so far