tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86296153379834959142024-03-05T09:59:44.781-06:00The Trouble with Pancho & LeftyAmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-7746325569459889822019-08-01T19:03:00.000-05:002019-08-01T19:03:02.478-05:00My Latest Published Piece<a href="https://themighty.com/2019/07/father-vietnam-veteran-trauma/#conversation">https://themighty.com/2019/07/father-vietnam-veteran-trauma/#conversation</a>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-64095339002246402042019-04-09T16:08:00.001-05:002019-04-09T16:08:36.126-05:005 Years Later...and Still HealingI want to tell you something different. Something along the lines of I celebrated five years of being cancer-free yesterday! I want to tell you that it was a happy day and I went to lunch with my husband or friends or cooked a special dinner in honor of the occasion. The fact is that none of that happened.<br />
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The night before, I spent anticipating what the day would be like. My anxiety grew more and more so I made some plans to combat what my emotions were constructing. I planned to wait in line to get a NCAA National Championship shirt (we're Texas Tech fans -- more on that later) and I did that from 8:30 AM - 10:00. I read Brene Brown's book "The Gifts of Imperfection" -- excellent book -- while I waited. Then I grabbed a quick breakfast and headed home. We just remodeled our kitchen and there's still unpacking to do, so I'd love to say I worked on that. Or maybe cleaned up my daughter's bedroom, or even called up a friend for coffee -- anything to distract me from the fact that it had been five years since my mastectomy. I didn't do any of that though. Instead, I told BHE (Best Husband Ever) that I needed time to myself, so I crawled into bed and stayed there for the next several hours. I didn't read, I didn't write, I didn't even surf Facebook or Instagram to check on what was happening with friends. I simply laid there. I thought about how angry I am at cancer and what it's done to me, what it's still doing to me. I thought about what it's done to friends and those still struggling to beat it. I thought about what I've lost and what I'll never get back, about the pills I still have to take and how it makes my hair thin and has other frustrating side effects.<br />
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Later I picked my sweet daughter up from school, not wanting to leave the safety of my bed but having to face the world. Then we got frozen yogurt because Mondays are always treat days. Then we came home and I went back to my bed. I told her it was because I had to rest up to stay awake for the championship game that night. The truth is that handling life was just too much. So she and BHE went to the store to get dinner supplies while I stayed home. I got out of bed when they got back and somewhat participated with the world, mainly waiting for the game to start so I would feel some sense of excitement and joy on what had been a pretty miserable day. And I did. Some sweet friends came over to help us watch the game and we cheered our team to a near victory in a basketball game that went into overtime. I went to bed full of ambivalence over the game and over life.<br />
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I woke up this morning hopeful, but feeling much of what I felt yesterday. Thankfully I already had a session with my counselor scheduled for 11:00. Again, instead of doing something productive to pull me out of my funk, I took my daughter to school then crawled back into bed until 10:30. Some of you are probably reading that and thinking that sounds heavenly. I wish it were. It's hell. It's stewing and stifling and stuck in the same negative thought patterns every time I go there. It's the worst of my anxiety and depression and feelings of worthlessness and guilt. So while it's a beautiful gift of a day today, I couldn't seem to stay out of my bed and it pisses me off. I saw my counselor -- a precious blessing in my life -- and we talked through it. I mostly cried through it. She said a lot of wise things and asked some challenging questions. Then I went to Target (where all good things come from) to get the kids' Easter stuff. I thought that would make me feel better. It didn't. So guess what I did? You got it -- came home and crawled back in bed. I told my counselor I wouldn't do that. We came up with a plan of other things I could do instead, people I could confide in, activities in which I could engage. But I didn't. I went back to my anxiety and depression and wallowed. But here I am now, writing it out as I often do when I need to get things out and move on with my life. It's the only thing that keeps me sane sometimes.<br />
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So, for those wondering what that 5-year mark means for cancer survivors, I can only speak for myself. It's tough, just like every other cancer anniversary. I wish I could say it's been a celebration of life, a joyous day full of thanksgiving. It hasn't been that way for me and I think that's okay. I'm still grieving and healing and that's okay too. But I'm here and for that I'm thankful.<br />
<br />Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-84826307956180772602019-01-21T12:13:00.003-06:002019-01-21T12:14:47.717-06:00It's a New Year and I'm Up for It!As I type this, I'm trying to ignore the sound of jack hammers outside of our home office door. This is the beginning of our big kitchen renovation. They're removing floor tile today. It kind of sets my anxiety aflame, but I have to keep reminding myself of what we have control over and what we don't. We chose to upend our kitchen for 6-8 weeks, thanks to a massive water leak that is. We get to have a new shiny kitchen after this and that's something we're very thankful for. We're also thankful that the insurance is paying for most of it. Today my anxiety is okay. We'll see what song I'm singing in week three.<br />
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Speaking of my mental health, things are pretty good right now. I'm still on three anti-anxiety/depression meds and one thyroid med meant to help with my depression. When I think of where I was at this point last year, I'm so thankful for the things in my life that brought me out of my deep depression and suicidal state. My medication, my counselor, my psychiatrist, my wonderful husband and kids, my friends who check on me, and so much more. We can afford my mental health care and I'll never take that for granted. I'm thankful for my hard-working husband who provides for us and takes my mental health struggles seriously. I'm aware that this isn't the case for everyone and it breaks my heart for those who are hurting.<br />
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Last week I got a call from my psychiatrist asking if I could talk with another breast cancer survivor. She's five months out from the end of her treatment and is really struggling emotionally. She thought she should be further along in the healing process by now, as if she should be "over it." Let me say this and hear me loud and clear -- there is never any "getting over it." For cancer patients, we've been through trauma. We can move past it with time, counseling, and support, but it's forever a part of us. Specifically for breast cancer patients, the trauma is so visible. Many of us have to make the choice to save our own lives by having a mastectomy. Losing one's breasts is losing part of one's womanhood. Reconstruction isn't like getting breast augmentation. It's like getting taxidermy. My breast surgeon (shout out!) explained it that way before my surgery and it's so accurate. I don't consider what I have now to be breasts. My breasts are gone. Forever. What I have are numb, sometimes itchy, sometimes sore excuses for placeholders under my clothes. That's why I got them -- so that I could walk around and people wouldn't wonder why my chest was completely flat. I got them so I could emotionally heal better. April 8th, 2019 will be five years since my mastectomy and the beginning of my reconstruction. I don't know how I'll feel on that day. They give us a five-year survival rate, and while I'm not really worried about my cancer coming back, five years only got me to age 41. I still have five more years to go on my cancer med, a hormone-blocking medication that comes with its own side effects. I'm thankful for it though because it's keeping my cancer away as far as we know.<br />
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These are my thoughts today. I'm more sensitive now to others who have been through trauma and other scary things. It's not something to just "get over." Life is complicated, joyous, scary, and lots of things mixed up in one. We can't dictate someone else's journey. We can only dictate our own and adjust when it doesn't go as planned. I don't pretend to know how God works. I don't know if He for meant me or anyone else to get cancer. What I do know is that He's using my experience in the lives of others. As I sat and had coffee with my fellow cancer survivor, I thanked God for the way He was using my experience. And I thanked Him for the way He used others to help me as I was going through it.<br />
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I know many people have been through difficulties much greater than mine. If my cancer journey is the toughest thing we go through in our lives I will be truly grateful. I think of my friends with sick kids, those who have lost spouses, friends dealing with difficult marriages, or those who have lost children. I would choose my journey any day over theirs. That doesn't mean I haven't been through something though and it's nothing I have to feel guilty about. The same goes for you. So for those of you who are like me, those of you who have been through something and struggle with hurt, depression, anxiety, there is hope. Reach out -- get help. If you can't afford it, talk to your doctor and ask for recommendations. Many counselors work on a sliding scale. And what's more important -- eating out, that cool new toy, that outfit you like, or your mental health? Seek out counseling opportunities at your church. Our church pays for counseling. Maybe yours does as well. Maybe you just need someone to listen. In that case, I am here. I can be reached via this blog or Facebook, or if you're local I'm always up for coffee, lunch, drinks, whatever. Don't settle for misery. You don't deserve that. You deserve hope and joy -- reach out and grab it!Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-31812570497946596272018-09-18T14:10:00.002-05:002018-09-18T14:10:25.030-05:00I'm Still Here<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It's true -- I'm still here. It's been a while since my last post and there are several reasons for that. I started a new teaching job. It's just MWF for one hour each day. BUT I reserve the right to be excited about it because it's given me an intellectual outlet, and it has gotten me back to my roots of teaching about culture in our society. It's at a private Christian high school, and the class is on culture and Christianity. I adore my students when I didn't know if I would. I've only ever taught college students so this is a bit different, but they're mature beyond their age (so far). It's been a blessing having something to study, prepare, and teach each day. It was something that was majorly lacking in my life. I think it definitely contributed to my depression and anxiety. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Speaking of those two demons, they continue to plague me even in the face of joy. I struggle each day to fulfill my obligations, even when those obligations are enjoyable events like lunch with friends, pool parties, teaching class, or even attending church. I'm not exaggerating when I say that every single thing can be a struggle. Grocery shopping, taking the kids to school and picking them up, feeding the kids, even feeding myself sometimes. Most of the time I want to retreat to my dark, quiet, cool room and hide under the covers as if depression and anxiety can't find me there. I've blown off yoga and Pilates (my sanity-savers) several times for my cave space but that just makes it worse. Lying there alone in the dark sends my brain into overdrive when I used to be able to relax or nap. Now it's a space for worry to the point of torture.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm still seeing my counselor every week and I thank God for her. I know that it's her job to see me but having a non-partial person to talk to is my saving grace. She is precious to me in so many ways. I'm also still seeing my psychiatrist and trying a new med yet again. This time it's T3, a thyroid medication that's seen some success in treating med-resistant depression. It's hard to look at my chart and see those words "Major Depressive Disorder" and not feel broken somehow. But I'm thankful that I live in an area and have the means to see doctors who are knowledgeable, caring, and resourceful. So far I'm not sure how well this new med is working since I'm still struggling a lot, but we're going to give it a little more time to see how it goes. I'm limited on what medication I can take because many interact with my cancer medication which I'm on for another 5.5 years. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I write I try to ask myself what's my take-away from life right now. Or, as Jen Hatmaker always asks her podcast guests, "What's saving your life right now?" Well, I have several. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1. My husband. He's my number one cheerleader and motivates me when I just can't do life. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">2. My daughter. She's a mini version of my husband and when he's not around she fills in the gaps. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">3. My son. He's twelve years old and going through a lot right now, as twelve-year-olds do. Much of my attention is geared towards him these days, and while much of it has been negative because of his choices and consequences, it's kept me grounded to realize why I'm here and what my most important job is right now. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">4. My friends. I don't get to socialize much outside of the house with them but we keep in touch through texting and Marco Polo. It never fails that when I'm having a really hard time a close friend will check in and lift me up in prayer or by throwing good thoughts and hopes my way. I need to be better at doing the same for them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">5. Lastly, and perhaps the most important one, is cold brew coffee. Just kidding, kind of. I started drinking it last year as now have to have it every single morning. For you regular coffee addicts, this isn't a big deal. But I didn't drink coffee hardly at all before I began my relationship with cold brew. Now I have to have it. It's saving my life right now and I'm not scared to drink it year-round. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So there you have my life right now. I wish I could say it's all positive but it's just not and I'm not the type to pretend it is. However, one big positive in relation to this breast cancer blog is that I saw my oncologist last month and I don't have to see her again for a year! That's a big deal! It means I'm healthy and there's no sign of anything to worry about. I'll have my routine breast MRI in November and I expect that to show nothing as well. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One last thing. If you're the praying type, or even if you're not, please say a prayer for my survivor friend Joan. She's precious, fierce, and a valiant fighter. She's in the fight of her life right now as her cancer has returned and is spread throughout her body. The world needs Joan in it! Please pray for healing, comfort, and protection over her, her mother, and her best canine buddy and partner-in-crime, Buster. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-89706752218675640172018-07-16T15:20:00.000-05:002018-07-16T15:20:25.196-05:00When Sleeping is the EnemyMy counselor and psychiatrist tell me to write. They're not wrong. It's therapeutic for me. It allows me to empty my head and continue on with my day. But to tell you the truth, I'm exhausted, both mentally and physically. Summer is both awesome and difficult at our house. We have one kid who suffers from anxiety as I do and does better under a strict schedule but needs lots of down time; and we have one kid who's like her daddy and is up for a party pretty much anytime one is advertised. That makes for a difficult household during the summer. Well, why don't you just make a really detailed schedule for yourself and your kids so everyone is happy? Good question. It's because we all function well under our own individual schedules. During the school year it's great because we're all scheduled in each of our own activities. This make us happy. I'm not dragging the 12 y/o to the science museum for the sake of the 8 y/o and the 8 y/o to the game store for the sake of the 12 y/o. Well, why don't you just find activities that they both like? Right. A 7th grade boy and a 3rd grade girl -- they won't even agree to go to the pool on the same days. It's like they've conspired against me to make things difficult. They're great kids, but even great kids are hard sometimes. In fact, parenting is just hard.<br />
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I've been struggling this summer. What I want to do is sleep late, skip yoga and Pilates, drink my cold brew while being left alone, maybe do some work on curriculum, then get back in bed and read myself into a nap. Because naps are both basically awesome in nature and also help pass the day away. That sounds kind of depressing, doesn't it? The idea that I want to nap so the day passes more quickly? That's not what we want in my life. By "we" I mean the people who want me to stay mentally healthy -- my medical/mental folks, my husband, my kids, my family and friends. Sleeping at odd times is the enemy of people who suffer from depression. It helps us avoid real life and what we're really struggling with. I hate that because I LOVE naps. In my bed with a book is my happy place. Sometimes there's nothing wrong with that but other times, when I'm escaping a to-do list, or my kids, or life in general, falling asleep with a good book is a big fat way of telling life to get lost. And that takes us into dangerous territory. I don't want life to get lost. I don't want myself to get lost.<br />
I have things to do. I'm starting a very part-time teaching job in the fall for which I am preparing. I have my kids' schedules to run and make sure they're not on a screen 24/7. I have a wonderful husband who needs and deserves my attention and admiration. I have real life friends and family who deserve more than just texts and Facebook messages.<br />
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And then I remember that so many others are dealing with MUCH more difficult lives than I am. They have real problems like poor health, job loss, marriage troubles, sick kids, and on and on. So I feel guilty about being depressed and anxious, which makes me more...you guessed it -- depressed and anxious. So what I want to do right now is sleep. I want to get my Kindle and crawl into my awesomely comfortable bed, in my dark and cool room, and fall asleep while reading a silly Christian romance book (my current and random genre of choice). I won't right now though. I'll stay on the couch writing and working on lectures while my daughter is curled up next to me reading her own book. She's not watching those silly YouTube videos they love to watch and I'm not in my room ignoring her. I'm calling this one a win. When it's four o'clock and they're allowed to get back on screens, I may reward myself with a nap. I see my counselor tomorrow so we'll see what she says about that. Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-32590178963318765462018-06-08T12:29:00.001-05:002018-06-08T14:42:23.707-05:00My Mental Illness<div style="font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="background-color: #fce5cd;"><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My life is amazing. I have an amazing husband, awesome kids, a safe, warm house, all the food we could want, plenty of money to pay the bills and have luxuries, and I struggle with mental illness. Every single day, I take these pills to keep me mentally and physically healthy. I'm sharing this because I'm not ashamed and you neither should you be. It's not something I think should be done in secret with stigma attached. It doesn't mean I'm weak or somehow lacking in character, p<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">erseverance, or strength. It means that the chemicals in my brain are out of balance. It means that it got so bad that I reached out for help. I was miserable but I'm not anymore. </span></span></span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; display: inline; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />Here is what I take every single day: B12 (for mood and health), D3 (for mood and health), Tumeric (for inflamation), Abilify (anxiety/depression), Wellbutrin (depression), Klonopin (three times a day for anxiety), Lexapro (anxiety/depression), Tamoxifen (cancer drug), and Coumadin (for my clotting disorder). These drugs, along with weekly counseling, daily yoga and pilates, and my writing keep me where I need to be.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #fce5cd;"><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">People use Facebook and blogs for all different sorts of things. I've always used both platforms to be nothing but honest. It's okay if you just like to look at people's lives. It's okay if you just want to share the good stuff. It's okay if you want to share everything, just memes, or whatever the heck you want. It's just Facebook. I'm choosing to use it to reach out. To maybe help someone who's struggling. To make it okay to say that I take meds and I'm not ashamed. This isn't bravery, or it shouldn't be labeled that anyway. It should be so accepted and non-stigmatized that it's normal for people to talk about their struggles, their counseling, their medications.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So there you have it. If you feel like joining me in fighting the stigma, comment with your med/counseling routine. What habits do you use to stay mentally healthy? Maybe it's just meditation, or prayer (a form of meditation), or exercise. Maybe you've never struggled with mental health. You're in the minority. Count yourself blessed. But for those of us who have, let's lend our understanding to others who need it. Let's look for those warning signs in our friends and acquaintances. Let's really mean it when we ask, "Are you okay?"</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Suicide hotline: 1-800-273-8255 (you can also google it and reach an online chat)</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741</span></div>
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Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-9654996193387979242018-06-04T10:04:00.002-05:002018-06-05T18:51:33.727-05:00The In-BetweenThe in-between. That's what my doctor identified on my last visit to her office for my med check. It's when I usually feel like writing. My last visits to my psychiatrist and to my counselor have been uneventful, and that is fantastic news! There's always the standard questions about how I'm doing on my meds and how I'm feeling about different circumstances and situations. Having nothing to report is a good thing, exactly what we want. One thing they always ask about is if I'm writing, because writing is very therapeutic and often cathartic for me. If you've been following this blog you'll see that I haven't written since early April. So, why not? My psychiatrist helped me recognize that I write when I'm "in-between" -- in-between feeling really good and really bad. My writing is an effective coping mechanism, often times bursting out of me so I can continue with my day and other more functional thoughts and actions.<br />
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The reason I haven't written since April is because I haven't been in the in-between place. I've been in the really good place. I haven't needed to write in order to cope with the world around me. A lot of that has to do with me being very busy -- I always function better when I'm busy. That sounds like it's a good thing but the fact that I don't function well when I'm <i>not </i>busy is a problem. It's the down time that allows my brain to wander and dwell on painful and difficult things. And sometimes it's not even certain thoughts, it's just a feeling of angst or depression that's there for no reason at all other than it just <i>is</i>. My life can be perfect and still those feelings creep in. That's the nature of chemical versus clinical anxiety/depression.<br />
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I also don't write when I'm in the really bad place. In January and February of this year I was in a bad and scary place. I felt like hurting myself, unable to function outside of my bed, my room, my house. No one would have noticed this because I'm good at pretending. I only let the closest people to me in on it and even then I didn't necessarily tell the entire truth. My "truth" was often just, "I'm having a hard time." This is a far cry from imagining what it would be like to swallow all my pills and go to sleep. Now I can hardly fathom having those thoughts. When I finally admitted it, my psychiatrist threatened to hospitalize me unless I told my husband about those thoughts, and my counselor made me sign a suicide contract. That's miles away from where I am now. But in that dark space, I couldn't write because my thoughts scared me. It felt like if I put my feelings in writing then they'd be real and I'd somehow be more likely to act on them. So I was silent. Silence can be dangerous. I'm thankful that in my case it wasn't.<br />
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When I write I get lots of private comments from friends going through the same thing. They don't comment here on my blog, but usually send me texts or messages through Facebook. They're often living in the in-between -- that uncomfortable place where life is a struggle and they don't know why they feel the way they do. Sometimes they're in the bad place and I try to help them find resources to help. I'm so very thankful that they reach out because the alternative is dangerous. For those who have never experienced being a danger to themselves, such a situation seems confusing and impossible. I just want you to know that it's very real and very scary for those who are in it. And for those of you who are in it, please know that I and many others are right here waiting to listen and help.<br />
<br />
This morning at yoga, our instructor mentioned that the four pillars of health are peace, hydration, nutrition, and movement, but the most important of those is peace. I absolutely believe that. Whether it's religion, mindfulness, yoga-type practices, or something else, nothing else comes naturally in life without peace. It's hard to maintain the other three pillars without feeling peaceful. This is always my chant when I'm (trying) to meditate -- PEACE. I pray for it every time I pray. I repeat it over and over when I'm feeling anxious. It's my greatest wish for those I love and for the world in general. So no matter what you're facing, ask for peace. Whoever you pray to, ask for peace. Strive to find it within yourself. You are powerful and wonderfully made. Sometimes we need medicine and/or counseling to find that peace and it's okay. Wherever you are today, friends, I wish you peace. May you find it in abundance.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-62735447226396887602018-04-05T14:12:00.001-05:002018-04-05T14:12:50.910-05:00Between Him and God<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
They began to trickle in to the gate area, some in uniform
some in civilian clothes but all carrying the tell-tale Army camouflage
backpacks. They were young. Very young. Wide-eyed and willing to serve, not yet
having faced the front and felt the ravages of actual battle. One was wearing a
Nirvana shirt. He wasn’t even born when Nirvana still existed. “Please don’t
let me cry on this flight.” That’s the text I shot off to my mom and three
sisters as the gate area became packed with young Army men. And then entered a
veteran, likely a young Vietnam Vet or perhaps Gulf War. He wore a leather vest
with various Army and Harley patches. Had I not had my seven-year-old daughter
with me I would have quickly made my way to the nearest bathroom to have a good
cry before boarding the flight. But I couldn’t do that. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The same phrase entered my head, the one that haunts me
every time I see a service member or recall my father’s time in the Army –
“between me and God.” That was his mantra. He likely repeated it to himself the
last forty years of his life. I say the “last forty years” because that’s how I
think of my dad’s existence. Before the war and after. He repeated that phrase
to us several times in the years and months before his death. It referred to
his greatest demon, the one he met in the jungles of Vietnam, the one he would
never divulge or let go of. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thanked the young soldiers for their service and I touched
the shoulder of the older veteran, thanking him for his. Any time I see an
older veteran I want to tell them about my dad, how he served two years in the
jungles, how he earned a bronze star for saving a boat, how he came back
forever changed. But I don’t because that’s not playing by the rules. We don’t
talk to strangers that way, especially in passing on an airplane. So I just
settled for a touch on the shoulder or a handshake and a thank you. And I
wonder what demons he’s living with. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sit on the plane surrounded by these young men and women
willing to serve our country in a way I’ve never been. I pray over them – for
their protection, that they never meet the demons so many others have, and
selfishly that my own children never follow in their footsteps. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We sing songs about them, tell stories about them, have
parades and special days for them, but few of us will ever understand what they
carry. It’s an indoctrination into a life and existence that we wouldn’t wish
on our enemies. And yet our enemies carry the demons as well. That’s the result
of war. Men, women, civilians – in the jungles, deserts, mountains, trenches –
all must forever suffer the consequences of brokenness. Some may return home
with whole bodies, having escaped the physical damages of battle yet all return
fighting mental brokenness. Those who deny it are simply avoiding reality. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My father never revealed what happened in those jungles. He
said he’d take it to his grave and he kept his promise. He did tell stories and
they were graphic, something out of a high-budget war movie. I wonder what
could possibly be worse. In a way, I’m thankful he never told us. I wonder if
his carrying that burden on his own was a huge sacrifice he made for our
family. For years I’ve regretted that I couldn’t carry it for him or with him
to lessen the load but now I realize that he kept his secret because he knew it
was too heavy for the rest of us. He was brave, as he was in the jungles, as he
was for forty years after the demons latched on, as he was when he slipped away
from us. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I sit next to my sweet baby girl, the one who was born
six weeks after my dad passed, I think of the joy she would have brought him.
Today she’s sporting unicorn shoes, a unicorn dress, and a unicorn backpack for
the trip. He would have laughed to no end over her style choices. He would have
hugged and kissed her, told her he loved her, held her hand and gone to grandparent’s
breakfast at her school. He would have done all the things his demons never let
him do for his own children. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so I pray again – let these young soldiers find solace
in their families. Let them unburden to trusted people when they need to. Let
them be fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters who live full, unbroken lives
after their tours are done. Let them have nothing that stays just between them
and God. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-14283579339897701562018-04-01T18:04:00.001-05:002018-04-02T10:59:14.256-05:00His First "I Love You"<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As far as I
can remember, I was eighteen years old the first time my dad told me he loved
me. It was after my high school graduation and it came with an awkward hug and
kiss on the head. It was completely momentous and completely too late. I was
student senate president and had just given the student address. I was on cloud
nine, feeling all the excitement that graduates feel on that night. But then my
dad did that thing and distracted me for the rest of the night. In a sense it
made me angry. How dare he choose my special night to do the one thing I’d
dreamed he’d do since I was old enough to think about it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Five hours
-- that’s how far I was moving from home to go to college. I couldn’t wait.
Couldn’t wait to get out of the small town in which I grew up. Couldn’t wait to
start a new life at college. Couldn’t wait to get away from the uncomfortable
relationship with the living ghost that was my dad. I suppose his profession of
love toward my twin sister and me that graduation night was his way of saying
he’d miss us. I don’t really know though since he never said it. When he and my mom dropped us at college in the fall, he responded with the same awkward
hug, kiss on the head, and “I love you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I didn’t
know what all that meant. Those words and that affection from him were so foreign to me. Maybe he was realizing for the first time what he’d
lost, and what he was still losing. The time he’d wasted during our childhood – time spent drinking and
avoiding instead of spending time with his kids. If that’s the case, I can’t
imagine the enormity of his regret. To this day it hurts my heart to think
about what he must have felt. Throughout our time in college, Dad would make grand
gestures. Our shared car would have problems and our mechanic father would
drive the five hours to and from our college in one day to make the necessary
repairs. I didn’t understand why he would do such a thing when we were
perfectly capable of taking our car to a mechanic. He wouldn’t stay for lunch
or dinner nor any longer than it took to fix the car. He would also give us
money that I knew he didn’t have to spare. Now I understand that he was trying
to make up for time lost. He either didn’t understand or couldn’t follow
through on what we always knew though. We just wanted his love. We didn’t need any
grand gestures. We needed him to apologize, to admit that he wasn’t the father
we needed him to be. We needed him to get help and heal the wounds caused by
his time as a soldier in Vietnam. We just needed him to get better, so he could
be a “normal” dad. Whatever normal looked like for a family touched by PTSD for
more than three decades. We buried my dad eight years ago today. I think about the military funeral, about the cemetery, about all the men and women buried there with him. And I wonder how many of them also had trouble saying "I love you."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-85607187804638063552018-03-26T10:41:00.005-05:002018-03-29T14:48:12.718-05:00His Lunchbox<span style="font-size: 12pt;">I can’t remember the color or what it looked like. You’d
think I’d remember something that significant. This thing that seemingly
controlled our lives. This symbol that noted what our days would be like,
whether he would be just a fleeting ghost in the house or whether he would be
the drunk-but-present, non-father-figure we hated to see.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">That damned lunchbox. I think it was a small lunch-sized
Igloo and I’m probably just making up that it was red and white because that
was the classic ‘80s Igloo. But it was the kind with the titling triangle lid
that slid down to reveal the interior. Everyday he took that box to work and
every night he came home, emptied it, and put it in its place of honor on top
of the fridge. My 4<sup>th</sup> grade self knew that was something important
to my father. And I knew that if I was to communicate with him it had to be via
that lunchbox. During the week when it was parked on the fridge I knew he would
see a note placed inside it, and Dad would be sober enough to read it. Not on
the weekends. Not only did he not use the lunchbox on the weekends but he
wouldn’t be sober enough to give my note a fair chance. So, I devised my plan.
I would write a letter that would save our family – one that would spell
everything out and change our lives. It would completely result in our dad
having the epiphany of his life and becoming the father we all wanted him to
be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">I pulled out a school spiral and began composing the most pleading,
eloquent letter any 9-year-old had ever written. I begged him to stop drinking.
I begged him to stop smoking. I begged him to love us. I explained how much it
hurt my feelings that he spilled his beer on my Bible. I pleaded with him not
to get drunk on the weekends so we could do things that normal families do –
things like fishing and camping and taking trips. Or at least that’s what I
assumed normal families did. I signed it, “I love you, Dad. Love, Amy.” Then I
ripped it from the spiral, leaving the classic messy edges that still annoy me
to this day. I carefully folded the paper, waited for him to go to bed, then pulled
a chair over to the yellow fridge. I placed the paper in his lunchbox then went
to bed, sure that by the next afternoon our lives would be different. This
would be the pivotal moment for our family. He would hear such wisdom and love
in his little girl’s words and he would beg us for forgiveness. We would soon
be a real family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The next day, I woke like it was Christmas morning. Dad was
already gone to work, as he was each morning when we woke. The lunchbox was
gone. I couldn’t wait for him to get home, for him to be changed, for him to
pick me up and be the dad I’d always wanted. The kind of dad that does things
like picks up his daughter and hugs her. But something caught my eye as I
walked by the kitchen table. In the corner next to the table was the trashcan.
That huge freaking black industrial-sized trashcan which was the only thing
that could keep up with a family of seven. On top of the trash was torn up
pieces of paper. The edges had that annoying fraying from being torn from a notebook,
and my handwriting was on it. There would be no change, no hugs, no dad stuff
that day nor the days after. I can’t imagine what went through his mind when he
read my letter but he must have been angry – enough to rip it to shreds. Who
does that? What kind of father would rip up his daughter’s heartfelt letter? A
father with PTSD. One who sees everything as a threat. One who is barely
hanging on to sanity and sees change as the enemy. I didn’t understand that as
a child but as an adult child of a veteran with PTSD I understand it all too
well. I understand the anxiety and the depression and the longing to control
the world around me. I understand the fear of change and the anger that comes when
change occurs and it’s not my idea. I understand that he would have chosen
differently if he could have. He would have scooped me up and kissed my face
and became the dad we all desperately wanted. That’s not how it went though,
and I understand it now. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-81366077670256187702018-03-21T14:30:00.001-05:002018-03-21T14:35:07.315-05:00Daily LifeSince my last post life has been better. The new medication has been helping with my depression, plus I've been working to follow through with plans I've made with my counselor and psychiatrist. Days are up and down -- some good, some bad, but more good than not. One thing that's been fun is that I've been going to yoga and Pilates with BHE (best husband ever). His work schedule is really weird right now so he often has random time off that affords him the opportunity to work out in the mornings after school drop-off. Having that accountability is crucial for me. My doctors are adamant that I exercise because of the proven benefits it holds for mental health. I can definitely tell a difference on the days that I don't exercise so I'm really trying to follow through.<br />
<br />
Another thing I've realized lately is that I'm just plain bored. I'm a stay-at-home mom with both kids in school, and although I'm involved as room parent and on the PTA boards, I still find myself needing more. More than volunteer work. So, why don't I get a job you ask? Because, BHE's schedule is such that we would need a team of babysitters to manage if I worked. Not that other families don't manage life like that but it's just not where we are right now.<br />
<br />
In my former life I was an adjunct professor of sociology. I think one day, perhaps even one day soon, I would like to go back to that. I love working with college students and academia is my happy place. I've been in love with sociology since my senior year of high school, and although I haven't been in the classroom for seven years I still love it and soak in whatever comes my way in the social sphere. It continues to be an important part of my life. Right now though I'm working on an essay about the inter-generational transmission of trauma. I have first-hand experience with this as the child of a Vietnam veteran. I'm also interested in looking at literature on the generational impact of parental cancer experiences on children. So, instead of being bored I may just start camping out in coffee shops to write. I think it would be beneficial to me and hopefully I could find someplace to publish what I come up with, like a patient-care or veteran-care publication.<br />
<br />
That's life right now, trying to keep my mind busy so it doesn't wind up where it was a few months ago. I have an extraordinary life with extraordinary opportunities and I want to live a life that reflects that. It might always be a struggle for me but I pray that it's not. Especially having beaten cancer at such an early age, I should have a unique experience with gratefulness. Here's to living a grateful daily life.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-12305011277247939082018-02-27T21:05:00.001-06:002018-03-08T17:47:35.187-06:00This is 40<div>
It's a few hours until February 28 and that means I'm almost 40. I don't really know how to feel about it other than it's another year I get to intentionally live my life. Having cancer at 35 gives one a different perspective on the meaning of birthdays. Treatments are judged on a 5-year survival rate. I was diagnosed just before turning 36 so I have one more year before I hit that 5-year mark. Not that a 5-year survival rate is that appealing to someone so young, as opposed to someone in their 70s or 80s. I'd rather have a 40- or 50-year survival rate. Thanks. </div>
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Anyway, back to my birthday. Tomorrow I'm getting my hair done. I need a new style so what better time than a landmark birthday? We're not doing anything fancy for dinner or a party. We chose instead to meet my twin sister and her husband at a beach in Florida last week and it was fantastic. Besides recovering from the flu, I spent two days reading an actual book with my feet in the sand. I took a nap without being disturbed. We tried to swim with manatees, though the water was too murky to see them. The guys spent hours on the balcony watching curling while my sister and I watched trash TV. We went to a piano bar and danced with the snowbirds who thought we were cute and young. We ate all kinds of fried seafood. We just spent time being us. It was wonderful even in the face of my depression and anxiety.</div>
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Though I continue to struggle I'm finding things that help, like saying "yes" even when I want to say "no." These days it's even difficult to say yes to friends who want to spend time together, though I know it will make me feel better and it's the best thing for our friendship. I didn't think I'd be dealing with this at 40. I thought confidence and wisdom and experience would win out over mental illness but chemical imbalances can't be fixed by experiences alone. So I take my meds and keep plugging along, even though every single day I'd rather stay in my bed. It's hard to be the wife and mother I want to be when depression is overwhelmingly controlling my mind. And it makes me feel guilty because I have nothing to be depressed about. My life is amazing and I try to remind myself of that. So for my 40th year I wish for health -- health of mind, body, and spirit. I wish to be the person I want to be and know I can be. I wish to dwell on others more than I dwell on myself. And I wish to be rid of these negative thoughts and feelings that so heavily weigh me down. So I hope this is 40. A year of joy, happiness, participation, and love. I know I can get there. It's an uphill battle but I'm determined. </div>
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Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-48886970791373155982018-02-07T18:00:00.000-06:002018-02-12T18:54:14.653-06:004-Year AnniversaryI don't know what it is about time or what the magic number is for any individual, but for me it seems to be four years. Today is the 4-year anniversary of my breast cancer diagnosis. These dates can be tough. Anniversaries -- reminders of what you went through and what you continue to deal with. For me this day was something else. It was a day I had an appointment with my psychiatrist who's been treating me for anxiety and depression. She's also a breast cancer survivor. So we talked. We talked about how we found our cancer, how it was revealed to us, our interactions with doctors, family, friends. We laughed at the common ridiculousness of some of it and we got choked up at the common pain of it. For about half an hour we were just two survivors talking. And then there's that word "survivor." We both agreed that it's a hard label to carry. There are many survivors out there and many who have gone through much more difficult things than we have. Earlier I wrote a post entitled "We're All Surviving Something." We talked about that too.<br />
<br />
This anniversary came and went without much notice because I'm currently battling something bigger than the ghosts of cancer. I'm battling a pretty serious bout of depression. I've dealt with anxiety and depression my entire life. Most people would be surprised to hear that. I've become pretty adept at hiding it. Lately though if you look close you can see I'm not okay. Cancelling plans, skipping things that used to be important to me, backing out of commitments or simply not taking on new ones -- I can't "do" life right now. Just one week ago was the lowest I'd ever been. I'd fought depression and anxiety during grad school and again after our first child, but this was a deeper, darker, more blunt version of what I'd ever gone through before. A week ago I confided to my psychiatrist that I had been having feelings of hurting myself. They were strong and pervasive. Hear me clearly -- I wouldn't do it. I would never put my family and friends through that. But, for the first time in my life I understood how people get to that point. They don't want to die. They just want the darkness to stop.<br />
<br />
One week ago my doctor adjusted my medications and we made some plans for bringing light back into my life -- things like exercising everyday (blah), reaching out to friends, saying yes to opportunities, and practicing mindfulness. It's work. Hard work. Because all I really want to do is crawl into my bed and maybe read a book, but mainly just be in my bed. It's a very comfortable bed and bedroom and it's my favorite place on the planet. I'm feeling better this week. I've confided in some friends and family what I've been going through and they've been supportive -- some even confessing that they've been in the same place. The brain is a marvelous and miraculous thing. It's also a dangerous minefield when its chemicals go awry. I'm thankful to have access to an excellent medical and counseling community. I know so many others don't. So if you're one who's suffering and fighting the fight like I am, know you're not alone. Life is hard. And whether it's circumstances or a chemical imbalance causing anxiety and depression it's nothing to be ashamed of. We need to normalize our talk of such things. If we did we might just save some lives.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-77652119192776573892017-09-26T20:09:00.001-05:002017-09-26T20:09:35.128-05:00Retelling the StoryIn my last post I talked about triggers and I guess this is similar. I put off scheduling my MRI because honestly I didn't want to go there. I didn't want to feel medicalized again and I didn't want them to find something. Let's just say my oncology psychiatrist wasn't going to let me get away with that. As I sat in her office for my regular appointment she picked up the phone, called her oncologist, and scheduled me for an appointment. I was surprised and somewhat blindsided but I actually felt relieved. So I went for my appointment yesterday. I thought they would do the MRI but this was just a consultation and they'll schedule my MRI for sometime next week. It's hard going to a new clinic and doctor because you have to retell your story. It's been three and a half years since I was diagnosed with cancer and time really does help heal the emotional wounds. Retelling helps open them back up.<br />
<br />
In a way I feel guilty because I had stage one cancer. No mets, no chemo, no radiation. I "just" had both breasts cut off and reconstruction done. And I think that's what other people think when they look at my situation, that it could have been so much worse. But at age 35 I lost my breasts and will spend the rest of my life without them. As my husband often says about difficult things, "That's not nothing." So I retold my story, about how I found a lump, had an ultrasound and mammogram, how they did the biopsy and discovered it was cancer, and how I decided on a bilateral mastectomy. Then there's the myriad of test results, the discussion of my reconstruction, and the physical exam. I don't care about the exams anymore. I don't consider what I have to be breasts so all modesty is gone from that standpoint. But it makes me feel like a "patient" again and that's always a little bothersome.<br />
<br />
What I am thankful for regarding my appointment is that my doctor was so kind. She herself had breast cancer and there's nothing that replaces that degree of understanding. Also, her clinic is the only in town that has a breast MRI machine (Aurora Breast MRI System) that targets just the breasts so I'm thankful to have that option.<br />
<br />
Lastly, some exciting news is that I was selected to attend a retreat for breast cancer survivors called <a href="http://castingforrecovery.org/">Casting for Recovery</a>. It's a 2.5 day retreat involving support groups and fly fishing instruction for breast cancer survivors. I've never been involved in a therapeutic support group so I'm somewhat nervous but looking forward to being around a group of women who get it and want to talk about it. I've also always wanted to learn how to fly fish so I'm pretty excited!Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-58827427760600309902017-08-31T10:11:00.000-05:002017-08-31T10:11:21.513-05:00Trauma, Triggers, and Just Trying to DealIt's been three years since my final breast reconstruction surgery. That year we scheduled it for the first week the kids went back to school after the summer. I'd spent the previous several months making the best of our summer all while still recovering from my bilateral mastectomy and living with tissue expanders solid as rocks in my chest. My muscles didn't yet function normally (and still don't), I was still experiencing tremendous nerve pain. My emotional healing hadn't even begun. I was solidly in the anger and sadness stages of grief. It was a bizarre time. And it was exactly three years ago.<br />
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Three years sounds like a long time. And I thought it felt like a long time until this week. I just didn't see it coming, but yesterday it hit me like a freight train. When I was diagnosed, our son was 8 years old and in the second grade. His teacher was absolutely precious and has become one of my most admired people on earth. And she walked the cancer journey with me. I hardly remember the second half of that school year because so much of it was consumed with appointments, surgery, recovery, and procedures. I didn't realize how many feelings were tied to that classroom, this precious teacher, that missing time and experience as room mom. Three years later I'm back in that space. My daughter has the same teacher and classroom. It's an absolute blessing. I'm room mom again and it feels like my opportunity for a re-do of the year I lost with my son in that room. Not until I sat with my counselor yesterday and the tears started flowing did I realize what a huge trigger this first week of school would be. Being back in that space, remembering telling their sweet teachers about my diagnosis, seeing them cry and pray and worry for us all -- the memories and feelings are overwhelming right now.<br />
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To add to the anxiety-inducing memories is the fact that every three years I need an MRI to rule out implant rupture. My irrational brain has gone into panic mode -- what if they find something wrong? What if they find additional cancer? What if? What if? What if? My rational brain knows everything is fine. I'm healthy. There are likely random cancer cells in my body and I have no control over that other than to be as healthy as possible. So I try to eat right, exercise, and be mindful of my thoughts and actions. But it's hard, friends.<br />
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This week among the flood of back-to-school practicalities, I'm giving myself permission to freak out a little. I've been through something big and that's never going to change. It's ok to grieve what I lost and will never get back. It's ok to be mindful of future risks but it's also good to be grounded in reality. My cancer will most likely not return. There are so many women who don't get to say that. I'm thankful that I do. But I just need a little space to open my heart and brain and be mindful of what I've been through. Getting the thoughts out on this blog helps a lot. I hope that others will read it and no matter what their trauma or triggers you'll realize you're not alone. There are millions of us out here relating.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-8440041515239212912017-08-04T11:42:00.001-05:002017-08-04T11:46:07.385-05:00Living with Anxiety<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/UFCrKGL88Uw" width="480"></iframe><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fce5cd;">Anxiety<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />How do you always get the best of me?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I'm out here living in a fantasy<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I can't enjoy a goddamn thing<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Anxiety<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Why am I never where I am supposed to be?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Even with my lover sleeping close to me<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I'm wide awake and I'm in pain<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Watching the sunrise slash through the blinds<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Dust in the room hovers over mine<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Lying here in silence<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Wife and child still sleeping deep enough to dream<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />And oh, I'm a lucky man today<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />But so afraid that time will take it all from me<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Anxiety<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />How do you always get the best of me?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I'm out here living in a fantasy<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I can't enjoy a goddamn thing<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Anxiety<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Why am I never where I am supposed to be?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Even with my lover sleeping close to me<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I'm wide awake and I'm in pain<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />It's the weight of the world<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />But it's nothing at all<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Light as a prayer, and then I feel myself fall<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />You got to give me a minute<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Because I'm way down in it<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />And I can't breathe so I can't speak<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I want to be strong and steady, always ready<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Now, I feel so small, I feel so weak<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Anxiety<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />How do you always get the best of me?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I'm out here living in a fantasy<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I can't enjoy a goddamn thing<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Anxiety<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Why am I never where I am supposed to be?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Even with my lover sleeping close to me<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I'm wide awake and I'm in a pain<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />A crowded room is a burning battlefield<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />If I don't move, I'll come undone<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />My heart beats harder, a hammer striking steel<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Will I walk now or be a "Wait and Run"?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Anxiety<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />How do you always get the best of me?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I'm out here living in a fantasy<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I can't enjoy a goddamn thing<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Anxiety<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Why am I never where I am supposed to be?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Even with my lover sleeping close to me<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I'm wide awake and I'm in pain<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I'm wide awake and I'm in pain<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />I'm wide awake and I'm in pain</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , "arial";"><span style="background-color: #fce5cd; font-size: 13.4px;">When I first heard this song I was floored. I'd never heard anxiety so perfectly described. The line about "out here living in a fantasy" really resonates with me. My anxiety is never more apparent than when my life is going really well. Doesn't make sense, does it? For those of us with clinical anxiety (a chemical imbalance in the brain) versus situational anxiety (massive stressors in life), even when life is perfect we still struggle. Like the song above describes, we lie awake and feel pain for no reason. Our brain tells us lies and works in overdrive 24/7. We see a car swerve in front of us and immediately start planning our own funeral for after the inevitable wreck that's about to happen. And these thoughts happen all day every day. It's a miserable way to live. Other times it's like a gray smog. The harsh, extreme thoughts may not be there but there's a dullness in our brain, like a cloud hanging over every minute. We do the things we love, surrounded by those we love, and yet it doesn't bring joy. It just passes time. Currently I'm somewhere in between the extreme thoughts stage and the grayness. My brain has adjusted to the euphoria of my new meds, the ease and excitement they provided in my life. And now it's time to visit the reality of what's working, what's not, and what needs to be adjusted. It's hard. It's really hard. I just got back from an epic girls trip with SJ and though I look at the activities and time we spent together and logically know that it was an awesome trip, I kind of feel like that "meh" emoji from the popular new movie (which we watched and liked). I expected euphoric highs over fun adventures but all I got was gray. It's so very frustrating. I have hope that things will be better, possibly even soon. Maybe even today or tomorrow. Because that's what anxiety also is. Good days and bad. And it's usually unpredictable. At least this is my experience. So why share all of this here? Because so many people struggle with it and we don't talk enough about it -- in adults and even more so in children. And they experience the same thing. Did you know that? I know because I've experienced it all my life and now my son is in the same boat. I hate that for him but at least I know what it is and he's been getting the help he needs for a while now. So let's be there for each other. Let's admit that we struggle too. And if you read this and have no idea what I'm talking about that's awesome. I'm sure there are other struggles you have. And we can talk about those as well. I suppose I'm tired of the silence. There's a difference between privacy and hiding. Let's make a promise not to hide.</span></span></span></div>
Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-14813011599614519742017-07-22T21:13:00.001-05:002017-07-22T21:13:32.733-05:00Now I'm SurvivingYesterday I had my last appointment with my beloved oncologist. She is a precious person. She is brilliant, compassionate, and constantly reading, learning, researching, striving to gain the latest knowledge to serve her patients in the best possible way. You might be thinking, "Don't all doctors do that?" No. No they don't. Ours is a medical family and I've been around medicine for almost 20 years, long enough to know that doctors like mine are true gems. I've been lucky through my cancer journey to have had several -- my medical oncologist, surgical oncologist, internist, and oncology psychiatrist. But in my life I've had ones that simply saw the patient and not the person. When you've had cancer you need doctors that see the person.<br />
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It's been more than three years since my cancer diagnosis and I'm now considered a "survivor" at my cancer center. This means that by all accounts my cancer is gone and I'm on a 6-month follow-up schedule for blood work and med checks. I could not be more thankful for this! I'm well aware that many people have not experienced this same journey and it's humbling. </div>
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My oncologist is moving out of state next month. She said she'd gladly take me with her but I don't need her anymore. She underestimates my sentimentality and attachment. Ha! In reality though, we put our lives in their hands. When I got my diagnosis and heard the words "it's cancer" my world stopped spinning and I lost all control. Then the sprint of labs, tests, doctors appointments, etc. had me clinging to life and sanity with white knuckles. My oncologist spent hours with us walking through different scenarios, possible complications and solutions, and treatment plans. She consulted colleagues and championed my cause. She and my breast surgeon were like a tag-team of a lifeline during that time. My life was in their hands, and although my cancer was stage 1 it was still the scariest point in our lives thus far. And they were there 100%. </div>
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The funny thing about the attachments we feel towards doctors is that they don't often understand it. At least the good ones don't. Because they do their jobs so well that they are both wildly talented in their medical skills and bedside manner. They give patients what they need and want without extra effort. They're built that way as doctors and human beings.<br />
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I anxiously await this next chapter -- the one where I rarely go to the cancer center and my oncologist doesn't actually know me. And while I know logically that my cancer will likely not return the rest of me still assumes it will one day. Because that's what cancer does to us. It takes our control and fills us with doubt. But I won't let it win. I can't live my life that way and I need to believe it myself when I tell my kids it's very unlikely that my cancer will return. So I'm taking my meds, trying to be physically and mentally healthy, and making efforts to advocate for others touched by this disease. There are complications -- weight gain and fatigue from my meds, the heaviness of walking with others through hard times, the memories and anniversaries of my own. But these are necessary experiences and I'm thankful that I'm in the aftermath and no longer fighting. Now I'm surviving. </div>
Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-73431526942286086292017-05-30T09:48:00.001-05:002017-05-30T09:48:46.602-05:00How I Became a Morning Person and Other Changes in My Life<br />
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Meds. The answer is meds. The end.<br />
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Just kidding, sort of. If you read my last post you know I've struggled for a long time with anxiety and depression. Some of it was situational but most of it is a result of the brain I was dealt. Yay! Thankfully, with the help of a wonderful counselor and psychiatrist I'm on a great track now. I've seen so many changes in myself that it's somewhat shocking to realize what parts of me were the result of my anxiety and what's different now that it's under control. So I wanted to share with you some of these things because I know many of you are where I was just a few months ago -- fighting to get out of bed in the mornings, wishing you could just stop the irrational thoughts just for one day, hoping that today will be the day you can just relax and enjoy life.<br />
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How life has changed:<br />
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1. I'm now a morning person. I'm writing this at 7:00 am on my front porch, curled up in a hoodie and blanket, enjoying the cool West Texas breeze and the sounds of birds as they wake and start their day, too. And I've been up since 5:45. WHAT?! Even as I read this I annoy myself. I have never understood you morning people. I literally thought there must be something wrong with you to enjoy waking up before the sun let alone do anything productive during that time. Seriously, I got up and started *looking* for something to do. This is the opposite of my life before meds. Before my anxiety (and associated depression) was "fixed" I would drag myself out of bed to get the kids off to school, fix myself my morning Spark, then sit and watch whatever was on my DVR. [Disclaimer: I don't work outside the home.] I'd do this all while procrastinating living life. Projects, deadlines, obligations, basic responsibilities -- they all got ignored because it felt like climbing a mountain to do any of it. If you've never experienced this you just won't understand. But if you have, right now you're yelling YES!!! at your phone or computer. Hi. I get you.<br />
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2. Speaking of procrastination -- I DON'T ANYMORE! For my closest friends and family reading this, pick yourself up off the floor and continue. Can you even believe it?! My <i>entire</i> life I have been a procrastinator. I thought that was just who I was, something annoying about my personality, the way I was born. And it <i>was </i>the way I was born. But it was a symptom of my anxiety. My counselor told me this truth months before I started new meds and I believed her then but didn't have much confidence I could change that trait myself. I did have some plans in place which helped but it still felt like a huge mountain hike when executing those plans. Now I'm on it. Totally doing life when I need to do it, and actively pursuing new activities and obligations with excitement and hope. Who knew? (Answer: My counselor and psychiatrist. Duh.)<br />
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3. I'm not "sick" anymore. Again, my <i>entire</i> life I've been "sick." Not actually sick with specific ailments like my friends with auto-immune diseases or certain infections. I mean, there's my blood clotting thing and my sleep apnea thing and the cancer thing, but none of those things caused me to feel sick. I just felt sick almost everyday -- fatigue, headaches, nausea, dizziness, etc. I would often cancel plans with friends, forgo parties, shirk obligations, and more because I just didn't feel well. That's all gone now! Praise tha Lort! But really, praise the Lord! Before my meds were changed I'd start my day around 10 am and be exhausted by 2 pm. That's a really short window, folks. Anxiety depletes mind, body, and spirit. I spent so much energy just getting out of bed in the mornings and focusing my body and mind on basic daily tasks that by the time I had to do something real like play with my kids or go to an event I just couldn't do it. Now I'm up for it. I'm up for yoga. I'm up for lunch with new friends. I'm up for bike rides. I'm up for a last-minute party. My friends and family are confused reading this because you're thinking that's always how I've lived. True. Sometimes I could follow through with such things. But it would exhaust me to the point of needing two days to recover. That's no exaggeration either. Now I don't need to recover. And I'm not climbing that mountain to execute either. I'm on steady, level ground the entire time.<br />
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4. I'm a better wife and mother. I think I was pretty decent before but it's hard to live up to your potential when you're trying to manage anxiety and depression 24/7. It was torture to play with my kids. And they're awesome kids. Unless it was something I really enjoyed and was at just the right time they didn't get my attention. Even typing that makes my heart hurt. My kids have heard "no" literally hundreds of times after asking me to do something with them. Don't get me wrong, I don't think parents need to be their children's playmate every time asked, but I do think we've missed out on some memory building and bonding because I just needed to be left alone. Now I'm up for it. No, not for Pokemon or Minecraft or the other insufferable things kids are into these days, but I'm up for swimming, painting, crafting, backyard campouts (we did this one just last night), and family movie time. We have a long list of summer activities and I'm up for all of them! I don't work outside the home and the last few summers I scheduled so many camps and activities to keep the kids busy outside the house. This summer we're all about Camp Mom. And though we're just on day two I think I can handle it. As for being a better wife, bless BHE's kind, gentle heart. God chose the right person for me to marry because I don't know many others who would put up with me. I'm like the duck floating along looking peaceful but whose legs are going nuts under the surface. Those legs are my brain. Or how my brain used to be. To cope I would shut myself away whenever possible. I would avoid work functions, social things, even parties with our closest friends. I just couldn't slow my brain down enough to deal with it. He was nothing but patient, loving, and understanding through all of it. I am truly blessed by him.<br />
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5. I'm much better organized now. I'd always been somewhat organized out of necessity but I'd slack off with it and procrastinate and then things would pile up. You should see me now! Even the kids are super annoyed by my calendars, schedules, and lists. At least they act like they are. Well, little SJ actually loves it. Tween-angst-monster CB waged a massive protest in which he slept all night in the bathroom (we gave zero cares). Now even he's getting on board with the schedule. He's my mini (poor buddy) so he also struggles with anxiety. He flourishes with structure but he thinks it's the enemy. He just doesn't see it though everyone else does. CB is the sweetest, most affectionate kid but if you poke the beast you better watch out! And other people exerting control over his schedule definitely pokes the beast.<br />
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Lest this sound like medication has made my life perfect let's not forget side effects, because every medication and treatment regimen has them. I'll talk about those in my next post. If the things I've written here ring true for you and you're ready to get some help with anxiety and/or depression shoot me a message. I can recommend locally or even do some research and help you find resources where you are. And please, if you know of friends or family who are struggling with these things -- or breast cancer -- share my blog. I firmly believe that I need to use my experiences for good in order for them to have meaning. I've seen God use them in my life so I want to be on board with that.<br />
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<br />Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-925353462693382862017-04-15T22:10:00.001-05:002017-04-15T22:11:35.376-05:003 Years Later...I'm Doing Just Fine, Finally<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I don't know why I've taken this long to blog. In fact, I've written several posts and not published them because I either couldn't find the right words or I just had too much life going on. Life is still going on but it's just recently that I've gotten the help I've needed to see that it's not "too much." I suppose one of the main reasons I'm writing tonight is because for a long time now I've worried that strangers might visit my page and wonder what's happened to me. I know this because I did the same when I was first diagnosed. I'd find women who blogged through their cancer experience as a form of therapy and then nothing. And my stressed, anxious mind thought the worst. So, here it is -- I'm officially alive and doing just fine! I don't say that lightly. Since my diagnosis three years ago I've had several friends and many acquaintances diagnosed. Some walked a very similar path to mine. Others didn't. That's the reality of cancer. I'm thankful for what my reality is. I've had the luxury of abandoning this blog for a long time because I've been physically healthy. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Health. What a complicated thing. I went through a phase about a year after my double mastectomy and reconstruction where I deemed it insane if I didn't do everything possible to get/stay healthy. I joined a gym, got a trainer, and learned how to use my chest, arm, and ab muscles again. Because a mastectomy changes all that. I ate a low-fat, high-protein diet and lost 15 pounds. Then I saw the results BHE (Best Husband Ever) was getting with a low-carb diet and switched to that. I lost another 20 pounds. I was doing things I hadn't done in years. I was playing with my kids more, taking on physical challenges, and making an effort to support others like me struggling through the aftermath of breast cancer. I was in a really great place. Or so I thought. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The thing about trauma is that it disrupts your life and forces you to focus on survival. When I was diagnosed my entire world turned to tests, appointments, procedures, surgeries, and recovery. It was perfectly normal to be anxious, angry, depressed, sad, lonely, and anything else I wanted to feel. Because grieving trauma is complex and we're allowed a lot of variation in how we deal with it. The problem arose when I realized all those feelings existed before I even knew I had cancer. I had been struggling for a long time and I knew it. The cancer just gave me a legitimate reason to say I was struggling. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So what happens when the cancer is "fixed" (that's not really a thing, by the way)? For me I attacked life. I got on that treadmill and literally chanted "f-you cancer" while I ran. That should have been a red flag that I was perhaps dealing with a deeper level of anger than was healthy. I lifted weights and progressed to levels I didn't think I could. And I would leave the gym convinced that I was doing my job to keep the cancer away. It felt amazing. People commented on my weight loss, on the way my body was changing, on the inspirational way I was handling recovery. And inside I was both loving and hating it. Every day it felt like climbing Mt. Everest to get to the gym and within six months I stopped climbing. The fear of commitment, of failure, the way my brain has been wired since birth -- it all caught up to me and I was back where I was before cancer entered my life. I was struggling to function and "be." All the while, even now, friends reading this would have no idea that any of this was churning in my mind. So I kept at it, getting the kids off to school, doing nothing for half the day, throwing clothes on to pick the kids up, and occasionally gathering myself enough to look like I had my life together. During this time I was also taking our son to counseling and finding the right meds to help his severe anxiety. He is my carbon copy and I hate that for him. After three years of doing this with him and telling him how important it was, how his brain is just wired differently, how it's nothing to be ashamed of or hide, I realized that I was lying to him. Because I wasn't getting the help I needed. So last November I asked his therapist to recommend someone for me to see. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It was painful taking that leap. I didn't want to talk about hard things -- cancer, childhood, expectations, failure, the irrationality in my head that I know constantly tells me lies. But I knew I had to. It's been several months now and it's helped. I just kept telling her how I shouldn't be struggling so much. There's nothing in my life that warrants this feeling that every single day is like running a marathon. And she agreed, suggesting that maybe the med I've been on for the last eight years was no longer working. And maybe the Tamoxifen (my daily hormone-blocking cancer drug and major mind screwer) was changing it's effectiveness. I discussed it with my oncologist and she referred me to a new oncology psychiatrist at my cancer center. I thought it wouldn't hurt to try this thing out, especially since the onc/psych would be more aware of what would/wouldn't interfere with my cancer med. I left my first appointment with her more hopeful than I'd been in the last few years. She was a breast cancer survivor herself and listened and affirmed every emotion and hardship I was facing. She changed my one med to three different ones and instructed me to do yoga as my first task. I thought only people with serious mental disorders -- schizophrenia, bipolar, etc. -- took these types of meds but in the last several weeks I feel like my eyes have been opened. I'm playing with my kids again. I'm getting up in the mornings excited and ready to tackle the day (and doing yoga). I'm not skipping out on social things and I'm actually seeking them out instead. I feel like the self I always knew I was but couldn't make me be. Again, anyone reading this who knows me will probably be shocked by much of this. Why? Because I've been crafting my mask from a very early age. But I'm done with it. I'm still seeing my counselor, psychiatrist, oncologist, and taking my new meds and I'm more hopeful about life than maybe I've ever been. It's hard to describe unless you're been there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So why am I pouring all of this personal information our there? One, because I don't think we talk enough about mental health. I was born this way. I was raised by two parents who were raised by fathers struggling with PTSD from WWII. My own father had untreated PTSD his entire adult life after two tours in Vietnam. My siblings all struggle with some degree of anxiety and depression and we're starting to see it in our children as well. These are not the brains we would have chosen for ourselves but it's what we have and it doesn't make us any less valuable to society. Trauma is generational and I refuse to willingly pass it on to my kids. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Another reason I'm posting this is because cancer treatment, the surgeries, diagnostics, and drugs can subtly or profoundly alter our brains and ability to cope with even the slightest stressors. I'm thankful that it's now required that cancer centers screen for mental health stress at every appointment. In fact, I indicated a very high stress level at my last appointment because I had to wait forever for lab work and they sent a clinical psych intern to talk to me and make sure I was ok. Haha! It's a start. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I don't know who reads this blog or if it helps anyone. But hear this, friends -- whether you are someone I know or a complete stranger I am here. If you made it through this entire post (bless you) you did me a huge honor by listening. If you're struggling with cancer, either in the current throws or you're a 20-year survivor, take that leap. Say "screw it" to our culture that looks at mental illness as weakness. Did anyone tell you your cancer was a weakness? No. (Unless they were a horrible person.) Take care of your brain just as you would any other organ. If it needs help go get it. And if you don't know where to start or fear you can't afford it talk to your doctors and make them fight for you. They will. And if they don't they're not good doctors.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Tomorrow is Easter. In the Christian faith Easter is everything. It's the entire basis of our faith, the resurrection and new life, the chance of rescue from evil and pain. Whether you are a Christian or not, why not use this opportunity to commit to a rescue. If you are struggling it doesn't have to be that way.</span>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-46515415125139273692015-05-20T10:45:00.001-05:002015-05-20T12:44:10.854-05:00The First to KnowWhen BHE (Best Husband Ever) and I first tried to start a family, it didn't take long before I was pregnant. We were surprised and thrilled and terrified all at the same time. I was sailing along in a doctoral program, BHE in medical school, and everything was right in our world. I miscarried a week after discovering the pregnancy. Six months later the same thing happened again. We were beyond devastated. After each miscarriage, we locked our doors, turned off our phones, and took time to deal. Our lives had stopped for a moment and we couldn't bear to see everyone else carrying on with theirs. That's the nature of difficult times. It goes like that for everyone -- the cruelty of knowing what it feels like to suffer loss. Although we were in our later twenties at the time, we were the first in our group of friends to know what a miscarriage felt like.<br />
<br />
A few years later, as others began families, I remember a good friend taking me aside and apologizing for not understanding before what we went through. Unfortunately, she had recently been added to the group of "knowing." There's a strong familiarity among sufferers, and even stronger when your suffering is so similar. Something I've been thinking about since my breast cancer diagnosis last year is that this whole scene will eventually replay itself. Years from now a close friend will be diagnosed and will say those same words. She'll apologize for not understanding what I had gone through this past year. It will be a completely unnecessary apology, but it will still come. I hate that reality. It's the last thing I'd ever wish for someone. I don't want other women to understand what I've been through because it means that they are now walking that road. That's the difference between sympathy and empathy. Over the last year, I've been the recipient of both, and both have their merits, but when you're in the midst of suffering there's little more valuable than empathy from someone who's been there. My doctors have been fantastic but their comfort only goes so far. It's the women who bear the same scars as I do who gave the most comfort. Specifically, another mom in my son's class who had been through it all just a few years earlier, and my plastic surgeon's wife who was in the midst of treatment when I was diagnosed. These women answered personal, detailed questions, validated my raw emotions, and laughed with me at the absurdity of it all. Because of the empathy that they showed me, I can now show it to others. I never dreamed that this is the way that I would be able to serve people, but the service is a blessing. It's something good that comes out of something so very ugly and brutal. I'm not aching to be a major fundraiser, turn my closet pink, or pass out ribbons every chance I get. I'm just trying to help other women like me -- those who are shocked, terrified, and trying to navigate the tightrope that is breast cancer. I know that there will be plenty more women in years to come and I hate that fact.<br />
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A common question that people ask when they see good come from tragedy is whether the affected would change history if given the chance. My honest answer? Of course! If I could go back and somehow never get cancer I would in a heartbeat. I am so blessed by the friendships, insight, and perspective that I've gained through this but I'd just hope that those things would somehow evolve without this dreadful cancer stuff. So I'm telling you, it's okay to wish it never happened! No person has to be a hero, a martyr, or anything else in the face of hardships. You just have to <i>live</i>. Don't just <i>exist</i> through it -- <i>live</i> through it. Do the best with what you have at the time. For current cancer patients and survivors still coping, sometimes your best is staying in bed and crying. We all have those days and it's normal, expected, and perfectly fine. If you can't get past this point though, reach out! Contact me, a close friend, a stranger in a support group, someone. You are not in this alone! Millions of women are empathizing and millions more are sympathizing.<br />
<br />Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-43101638166526803562015-04-15T22:34:00.001-05:002015-04-23T15:39:27.536-05:00Practical Matters: Mastectomy Prep & Useful Gear<span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Something that I never thought about before I had cancer was the preparation that goes into surgery and/or chemo. I didn't have chemo so I can't personally speak to that, but I did have quite a bit of time (two months) to prepare for my bilateral mastectomy. I scoured websites for advice on helpful tips and gear and here's what I came up with. Obviously, every person is different with varying timelines, access, and means, so take this list for what it is -- what was helpful to me and may be helpful to you or someone you love.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;"><b>Must Haves</b></span></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Front closure sports bras (zipper or hook & eye -- I found mine at Walmart but have seen ones at Academy, too)</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Ice packs (the little round ones for kids work great!) -- Only use these if your doc okays it. Some don't want patients to use them because you won't be able to tell if your skin is getting too cold. I didn't have issues with that and found them to be immensely helpful in relieving muscle pain.</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Loose fitting button up shirts</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Loose fitting button up pajamas and/or oversized tank tops that you can pull up from your feet</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Lanyard with clip (to wear in the shower and hang your drains on). I ordered and used a product called the Prody Drainage Bulb Holder (</span><span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">http://www.amazon.com/indivdually-Individually-0814-8220-Bird-Cronin/dp/B00IK4PD9Q) and it was by far one of my most useful post-surgical items.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Face wipes -- it's difficult to do anything, let alone lean over a sink to wash your face in those first days after surgery.</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Baby wipes -- for everything else when showering is too hard</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Alcohol swabs (to clean drain port after emptying)</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;"><b style="background-color: #fce5cd;">Might Make Things Easier</b></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">4x4 cotton gauze pads (the drain sites hurt so I covered mine with gauze and that helped keep the pressure from the bra off of them)</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Surgical tape (Nexcare makes a cushioned tape that is awesome)</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Neosporin (in case your drain sites need it)</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Dermaplast spray (this makes any hurting incision feel better and disinfects)</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">I slept in a recliner for the first two weeks. It had an easy to access and use electric button. There's no way that i would have been able to reach or have the strength to manage a traditional/manual recliner lever. If a recliner is not an option you'll need lots of pillows to prop you up since laying flat will put a lot of pressure on the drain sites. You won't be able to sleep on your stomach or side for a while.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">I used a waterproof pad under my sheets in case the drains leaked. The only time this happened was in the hospital but it made me feel better about not messing up a mattress/recliner.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fce5cd; color: #b45f06; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Do you have any advice for surgery prep or recovery gear? I'll add more as I think of it but please feel free to leave comments so I can add your info as well. And please ask questions if you have them!</span></span>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-21468146563644288502015-04-15T22:13:00.000-05:002015-04-15T22:13:28.421-05:00And...One Year and One Day Post-Op<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtn1ww4oj8rTitbqTjaEK5t7SyGSBtH91c1N2_TvRRrQFxfBVx5tQK_D3FpBm77I7OhNPODUF8CyYcxVN5WFx70VZFYwXX6k-t6s7bPlJ1xTuOB9-P0lry2apzLBKsF5h88WgId9C8Ym5R/s640/blogger-image-1802601900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="341" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtn1ww4oj8rTitbqTjaEK5t7SyGSBtH91c1N2_TvRRrQFxfBVx5tQK_D3FpBm77I7OhNPODUF8CyYcxVN5WFx70VZFYwXX6k-t6s7bPlJ1xTuOB9-P0lry2apzLBKsF5h88WgId9C8Ym5R/s400/blogger-image-1802601900.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-72905703568313200892015-04-08T13:37:00.001-05:002015-04-08T13:37:19.428-05:00One Year Post-Op <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp_0spTnr4REXw79zN65UTwowEMbZfxVX7xVUkOZg7vZW_-_XFbtTV1C67zt-k6Td6ZylkKejHN7kYValuK2fdIDapgbwgM7gbGiMk1EjLPv4byxlhyphenhyphenyKoPadFgQmSL8J69Ysre88ryYsq/s640/blogger-image--250956332.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp_0spTnr4REXw79zN65UTwowEMbZfxVX7xVUkOZg7vZW_-_XFbtTV1C67zt-k6Td6ZylkKejHN7kYValuK2fdIDapgbwgM7gbGiMk1EjLPv4byxlhyphenhyphenyKoPadFgQmSL8J69Ysre88ryYsq/s640/blogger-image--250956332.jpg" /></a></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-79970545309049968112015-02-07T21:13:00.004-06:002015-02-07T21:13:49.133-06:00One Year LaterIt's officially been one year since I received my breast caner diagnosis on February 7, 2014. I can't believe what the past year held, but I'm also thankful for what it didn't. It didn't hold surgery complications, infections, radiation, chemo, a bald head, a suppressed immune system, or any of the other potential risks and side effects of cancer treatment. I'm thankful that a year later I'm moving on with my life. I still take a pill (Tamoxifen) everyday and the side effects aren't fun, but with the help of an SSRI (Celexa) and a healthy diet I'm now handling the side effects fairly well.<br />
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I've actually been working on a different post all week but I'm not quite finished, so I wanted to make this short post to remember this day. It's been busy. I spent several hours at my son's school helping his Destination Imagination team with a project. Then we had lunch as a family at Torchy's Tacos. I had a short nap (thanks, Tamoxifen), cleaned the house, and made preparations for my sister's baby shower that I'm hosting tomorrow. It was a completely normal day and I couldn't be more grateful! Today could have gone much differently, the way it's going for thousands of other young moms still battling this awful thing. I think about you. I'm wishing you the peace that I feel, the "no evidence of disease" label, and perfectly normal days. I know that this thing might come back one day and I'll be ready to fight it again. Until then, I'll cherish the happy busyness with our young family and continue on my way.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8629615337983495914.post-86281364614497604752015-01-24T22:28:00.002-06:002015-02-07T21:20:33.168-06:00The First Part of The Story: Cancer In My 30sI recently wrote a guest post for my friend Shawn Albright's blog. I discuss facing cancer as a parent of young children and the importance of embracing our "stories." Head over and check it out in it's original form. Take a look at Shawn's posts while you're there -- it's good stuff! Full disclosure: Shawn was my senior prom date (just friends) but I promise that doesn't bias my opinion about his writing. ;)<br />
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<a href="http://www.shawnalbright.com/guest-post-first-part-story-cancer-30s/">http://www.shawnalbright.com/guest-post-first-part-story-cancer-30s/</a><br />
<br />
"There was this show that was on when I was in junior high
(1987-1991) called “thirtysomething.” (I
assume that title format was creative genius at the time.) Here’s what I knew:
the show was about people in their 30s and I wasn’t allowed to watch it. I
couldn’t imagine what was so exciting in the lives of these old 30-year-olds
that I wasn’t allowed to see. What happens in your 30s anyway? Nearing the
“old” age of thirty seven I can now safely say – plenty! There have been the
typical things – career-building, house-buying, baby-having – and some
not-so-typical, like my current cancer-having thing.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m one of the rare, special women who have had the
privilege of being diagnosed with breast cancer before the age of forty – at
just shy of thirty six. It hasn’t even been a year since my diagnosis so my
feelings and emotions of it all are still undeclared at best. I don’t know if
I’m currently in or done with the processing stage but it doesn’t usually make
me nauseous nor nail-spitting angry to think about anymore so I suppose that’s
progress. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our two children were 8 and 3 when I was diagnosed. That’s
what having cancer in your 30s is. It interrupts parenthood and careers and
begins to corrupt the story that you had so carefully crafted of your impending
long, happy life. I haven’t until just now, as you are reading this, shared one
major thought that burst from my shocked, terrified brain that day I was
diagnosed; a thought about my family and their precious lives that I so cherish;
a thought too cruel to utter -- <b><i>what if I’m just the first part of their
story?</i></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I imagine that is the most common worry that enters any
mother’s head when faced with a cancer diagnosis. What about my family? What
would they do without me? Would they remember me? Aren’t they too young to
remember me? What if I was just his first love? And the list goes on. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mind raced to cope. As we told people and they grasped
for words of wisdom and ways to help, we simply asked for prayers of peace and
comfort. Peace and comfort. I have to believe that as those prayers were
answered my initial panicked question – <b>What
if I’m just the first part of their story?</b> – gave way to a more peaceful, more
comfortable <b><i>maybe</i> I’m just the first part of their story. </b>Somehow thinking
that I might have a purpose in all of this, regardless of the outcome, calmed
me. I don’t know that I ever actually accepted that this was a true
possibility…that I might die, that my family might eventually have another wife
and mother to finish out the story that I started. I think the stream of
reassuring test results kept those possible realities in check and the sprint
of appointments, decisions, surgeries, and procedures took care of the rest. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few weeks from now will mark one year since I was
diagnosed with breast cancer. For the most part, when I look at the last ten
months, it plays out like some surreal dream from which I’m still trying to
wake. I will live the second half of my life having already experienced what we
typically think of as reserved for grandmothers. In my 30s I have lost a major
part of my womanhood and will never again look or feel “normal.” I will forever
have the possibility of recurrence tucked away in my mind. I fear that the
anger and disappointment associated with that will always be with me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s now that I realize there is power in recapturing that
initial terrifying question for myself – <b>this
really is just the first part of <i>my</i>
story. </b>My cancer experience is forever part of me now. It is something to
grieve and when I’m ready I hope that I can accept it. But it’s just the <i>first part</i> of my story. I believe that
the second part will be cancer-free and that I will be the one finishing the
story of our long, happy life together…well beyond our 30s!"<o:p></o:p></div>
Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08563793871983114238noreply@blogger.com0