Surviving Breast Cancer

Driving the Camel: Installment #15

~ Deb Vilas ~ Leave a comment

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Heading South

We arrived at the beach house, where Marianne and her family had returned for the weekend. We gathered around the kitchen table telling stories of our adventures, but I already felt removed from the day’s events.  My thoughts turned inward as I anticipated saying goodbye to Garth. I knew that when the iced tea was gone, that Garth would be driving back to Clair and his farm, and that I may never see him again.

When the time came, I dragged my feet as I walked him out to his car.

“You know I wouldn’t have taken just anyone caving,” Garth said.

“Yeah, you said you hadn’t done it in a long time, What made you say yes to me?”

“It was just something about your voice,” he answered. “I liked your voice and your spirit.”

He surprised me with a hug so hard that I thought I might break in two.

As he drove off down the beach road, I thought about the many types of love we experience, if we are lucky, throughout our lives. The depth of feelings generated by  the unexpected connection forged with Garth was not unlike some of the strong emotional currents I have often felt with children passing through my care in hospitals. I’ve often wondered if it’s just me. Do I fall in love a thousand times too easily? Or do others feel the pangs and elation that I do when my spirit resonates with someone else’s, stranger or friend, child or adult?

One thing for sure, it was not easy to part with such a wonderful new friend and to leave the beauty and peace of Lang’s Beach.  But leave I did. Matt and his family awaited me in Christchurch and Naomi waited in Kaikoura. Naomi had been another guide on our kayaking trip. She’d since visited us in New York, and now it was time to check out her stomping grounds on the South Island. Then, hard to imagine now, I would be heading home.

The plot twist for this leg of my  journey was all my bad. I managed to miss my plane by misreading my itinerary. As Marianne and her husband drove me to the airport, I figured out the mistake. My heart sped up as I realized that there was no way in hell I was going to make my plane. Marianne pulled up across the street from the terminal and popped the trunk. Our goodbye was hasty as I grabbed my suitcase and futilely ran across the street and through the glass doors, trying to breathe deeply and slowly to calm myself down.

The ticket agent smiled at me as I struggled with my suitcases and my passport.

“Don’t worry, you can just hop on the next plane in an hour.”

“How much will that cost?” I asked warily.

“Nothing. This isn’t a problem,” she answered.

And much to my amazement and relief,  it wasn’t. Catching the next departure, I settled into a window seat on the small commuter plane. It was a short flight through bright afternoon skies,  the South Island rising up to greet me as the plane touched down in Christchurch. A shuttle bus gave me a glimpse of the city as it made multiple stops on the way to  the hotel, a sleek, modern box not too far from the airport. I splurged on room service for dinner and then sank gratefully into the clean sheets, setting my phone alarm for early the next morning.  

The ringtone of Natalie Merchant’s Wonder wafted into my consciousness at 7am. I was so excited to see Matt, and I also wanted to make sure that I had time to eat breakfast and write in my journal. A few hours later, as I waited for  in the lobby, I wondered what it would be like to hang out with him and Helen. Would we click the way we had out on the Strait? Would it be awkward? How much time could they spend with me and how much time would I be alone? I assumed they were busy people between work and having two kids. That relentless anxiety of being on my own crept in, smudging over the recent accomplishments of  my alone time at Lang’s Beach.

But all worries evaporated when I saw Matt. I hugged him unabashedly and our friendship commenced right where it had left off six years ago.

Matt’s mother-in-law and his twin eleven month-old daughters awaited us in the car. We toured Christchurch, stopping at the makeshift temporary church that the diocese erected when the 2011 earthquake rendered the original Christ Church uninhabitable. 185 People died in the second deadliest earthquake in the country’s history, and the city had far from recovered. The devastation of the city was heartbreaking. Two years following the earthquake of 2011 and there were still many empty lots filled with rubble and ruined buildings gaping in despair. Matt said it will take twenty years to rebuild.

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We ate lunch in Lyttelton before we followed the winding road to a sweet, small town on the coast. The neighbor’s cottage abutted  Matt and Helen’s property on a quiet country road flanked by horse meadows and a dune- fringed beach. The cottage overlooked an enchanting garden, fully equipped with a tub and a fire pit underneath for outdoor bathing.

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Worries about being lonely were unfounded and quickly soothed. The cottage provided the perfect balance of privacy and proximity to Matt and Helen’s cozy home.  A routine quickly formed – tea and cereal in the garden, accompanied by birdsong, and the occasional squawk from the neighboring rooster. I meditated and journaled before skyping in with Mark. Then, I would close up the cabin and trot around the corner to Matt and Helen’s house, hitching open the quaint latched gate to their yard, and ruffling their dog’s ears as I passed her on the porch.  

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Over the week, I enjoyed witnessing the rhythm of their family life. They had a brilliant schedule for the twins, with Matt taking on the lion’s share of parenting while Helen worked as an administrator at the airport. The presence of Helen’s mom made it possible for Matt to spirit me away for some outdoors sightseeing, which was such an unexpected treat for me.. Matt had some adventures lined up  for us and we discussed the possibilities over dinner that first night. We settled on plans for more cave exploration and a day trip to Arthur’s Pass in the South Andes Mountains.

Our drive out to the mountains gave us plenty of time to catch up on each other’s lives and get to know one another better. Much like this New Zealand adventure, my camping trip on the Johnstone Strait in British Columbia with Matt had been an amalgamation of firsts for me: first attempt at ocean kayaking, first camping trip, first vacation with a friend without Mark along. Like a younger version of Garth, Matt was a skilled guide accustomed to amateurs. He knew how to meet me at my skill level and scaffold me to higher performance and more endurance. His patience, kindness, and sense of humor boosted me out of my comfort zone, and I was able to withstand eight-hour paddles in rough water. In a few short days, I went from tentative paddling in a double kayak to coasting solo on the wake of a giant cruise ship, yelling “Yeehah!”

 

During my cancer treatment, I’d recalled my initial fears of that adventure and how I had faced them with Matt’s support. The memory of how far I had come, the confidence in my body, and the strength that I developed on that kayaking trip, all became a reminder for me as I faced scary firsts in treatment. I told myself repeatedly that I could face the unknown and do scary things with the right support. Meeting up with Matt on the other side of the world now, after surviving cancer, felt like coming  full circle. Our conversations on the mountain drive gave me the opportunity to thank him for all he’d done for me back on the Strait and explain how it reverberated throughout my medical experience.

A panoramic view of mountains, foothills, and clouds surrounded us, as we pulled into the parking lot adjacent to the cave trailhead.  I grabbed my gear and headed to the public bathroom to change into appropriate caving apparel. Matt had supplied headlamps, neoprene gloves and booties, fleece leggings, long underwear and “jumpers,” waterproof outer gear, and woolen hats. As I pulled on my layers, I thought about the trust I placed in him to keep me safe, first on the Strait, and now entering into an underground cavern. I had trusted the doctors at the hospital as well, as I followed the dark pathway of their many-layered regimens for ridding my body of cancer. Garth came to mind too, and how he’d met my trust with so much appreciation, respect and humor.  A synergy between vulnerability, trust and risk taking unfolded before me in all of these experiences. The Universe was asking me to do my part, while supplying all the necessary support in order to make all things possible. I strapped on my headlamp and headed out to meet my next adventure.

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Dear newcomers to my blog,

Driving the Camel is a memoir that I am publishing as a serial on this blog. It follows my adventures as a child life specialist during a transformative year of my life when I battled breast cancer and travelled the world. It includes reflections on my past work as a child life specialist, my personal life and stories of the wonderful people I met on my travels. You can find previous chapters in the side menu categories (or scroll down on mobile devices) under “Driving the Camel: Adventures of a Child Life Specialist.

Driving the Camel: Installment #12

~ Deb Vilas ~ Leave a comment

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 Alpacas and Chooks

The house where Garth and Clair had recently retired  perched on top of a gentle hill, their farmland spreading out below. Cattle chewed grass by the side of a pond surrounded by cattails and high grass. As we pulled into the unpaved driveway, a black lab with a greying muzzle wiggled in delight as she approached the car. A great blue heron  perched on their well pump. It didn’t ruffle a feather as we passed it. Three alpacas peered at us from behind a fence. I turned to Garth.

“Are you sure Clair won’t mind being surprised by an unannounced guest?” I asked.

“Clair loves guests!” he bellowed. I wondered if she really did, or if Garth might be a bit clueless about the stress that unexpected guests can put on a wife. But the moment I stepped into their home, I could see he was far from clueless. Continue reading →

Driving the Camel: Installment #10

~ debvilasconsult ~ 8 Comments

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Dear newcomers to my blog,

Driving the Camel is a memoir that I am publishing as a serial in this blog. It follows my adventures as a child life specialist during a transformative year of my life when I battled breast cancer and travelled the world. It includes reflections on my past work as a child life specialist, my personal life and stories of the wonderful people I met on my travels.

Cave Man

One morning mid week, I was struggling to figure out the electronics of the kitchen stove. The electric teakettle was easy, but I couldn’t figure out the touch buttons on the range to save my life. I reached for a book of manuals that Marianne kept amongst the recipe books. As I opened it, a small slip of paper floated to the floor.

It said simply, “For cave tours, call Garth” with his number scribbled in pencil.

“This is no accident,” I told myself. I had always loved caves, at least from the standpoint of a visit to a tourist trap in Bermuda when I was 11 years old.

I dialed the number and was greeted by a robust voice,.

“Garth here.”

I told him that I was interested in touring a cave.

“Well, I haven’t done THAT in a long while!” he said. “What is your level of expertise?”  Continue reading →

Driving the Camel: Installment #9

~ debvilasconsult ~ 4 Comments

 

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BeachCombing the Soul

Each day at the beach held a gentle routine. The solitude became less and less threatening as I relaxed into it, walking the beach twice a day, cooking simple meals, feeding the goldfish that swam in a large planter by the deck, sleeping, and writing. The mornings found me waking early as the first rays of sun reflected off the water and shimmered across my upturned face. I arose eagerly and walked the length of the beach, pants rolled to my calves, enjoying the surprisingly warm water at the edge of the tide. I marveled at the plucky seabirds, pipers and oyster catchers running alongside searching for their morning meal in the wet sand. They felt like the perfect companions. I’ve always enjoyed beachcombing, and the treasures underfoot competed with the rumbling surf for my attention. There was so much beauty everywhere that it was hard to know where to look.  Continue reading →

Driving the Camel: Installment #8

~ debvilasconsult ~ 1 Comment

 

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Homesick

 

Once the conference began, I was surrounded by like-minded professionals, everyone eager to learn and share.  In order to earn my keep, I was slotted to present three times on three topics, the first a workshop on play techniques to use with angry or withdrawn children. The audience was receptive and participants volunteered readily to assist me in demonstrating several activities. They shared what made them angry, hurled wet toilet paper at a paper target, and erupted a play dough volcano with glee.  Continue reading →

Driving the Camel: Installment #7

~ debvilasconsult ~ 6 Comments

 

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Chapter 6: 17 Time Zones

Three planes and over 24 hours later, the North Island of New Zealand came into view as the plane made its way down through the clouds and circled for a landing. Excitement began to tilt the scales of anxiety as I disembarked and made my way through customs. Robyn, a member of the conference planning committee, had planned to meet me and escort me to the hotel. I scanned the group of people awaiting loved ones. I assumed that Robyn would be holding a placard with my name on it. No such luck. I milled around for about five minutes, before I heard a woman’s voice calling me.

“Dib?” her New Zealand accent changing e’s into i’s. Her cheerful smile and mom-like warmth were exactly what I needed to see,

I hugged her like a long lost friend.

“I can’t believe you came all this way to speak at our little conference!” she exclaimed, brushing her hand through her pageboy light brown hair.

“How could I turn down such a wonderful invitation?” I answered.

Robyn’s generosity along with that of the other conference planners was pleasantly overwhelming. The initial invitation to speak at the conference came from Marianne, the founder of the Hospital Play Association in New Zealand. Via e-mail, without ever having met me, she made an astounding offer. Not only were they going to pay my way to come to New Zealand, but she had heard that I was writing a book. She owned a house at Lang’s Beach on the North Island and asked if I would like to stay on for a month to do some writing. The dream of this house had been a rallying point for me during medical treatment. I would lie on the linear accelerator table receiving daily doses of radiation and picture my toes in the sand and a journal in my lap.

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My hotel room on the upper floor overlooked the city harbor, where fleets of sailing boats graced the waters. A gift basket of New Zealand teas welcomed me as I entered the room. I unpacked and fell happily into the king-sized bed and slept.

Marianne was a wonderful host in Auckland. She supplied me with a list of places to go and things to do. She picked me up at the hotel the morning after my arrival and we toured some volcanoes, along with Robyn’s Hospital Play department at the local hospital.

The volcanoes were lovely and afforded great views, but nerd that I am, I loved seeing the lay of the land in Robyn’s hospital even more.  In New Zealand, hospital play specialists have different training than American child life specialists. For the most part, they have backgrounds in early childhood education, and certification through the Hospital Play Specialist Association. Their departments are funded by both the Department of Health and the Department of Education, and their programs must meet the curricular requirements of early childhood education.  This allows for an approach steeped in a thorough grasp of child development and how children learn.

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I was pleased to see that every one of the hospital playrooms mirrored best practice in early childhood education.  Each playroom recognized the bicultural nature of the country, embracing literacy and cultural objects from both the tangata whenua (people of the land – Māori) and the tangata tiriti (the people there by virtue of the Treaty of Waitangi – non-Māori). A huge handmade sign welcomed visitors in several languages, including  English, Maori, Samoan, Hindi, and French. Beneath it stood a table laden with baskets. Each basket held items from nature, shells, rocks, pinecones,  inviting exploration and touch. Continue reading →

Driving the Camel: Installment #6

~ debvilasconsult ~ 3 Comments

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Part Two  Outside my Comfort Zone

 

Chapter 5: Right on Time

9 months passed more quickly than I’d expected. Being Auntie Deb, writing, attending treatments and doctor appointments, hosting visits from well wishers, and navigating medical plot twists and side effects filled my days. One plot twist in particular was almost funny if it weren’t so worrisome. Beginning with the second round of chemo, within 24 hours of every infusion, my right breast would turn bright, stoplight red. After a trip to the emergency room and a few days in the hospital with a truckload of antibiotics, the doctors told me I had cellulitis.  From then on, after each chemo round, I would awaken the next day feeling like a warped version of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and start yet another round of antibiotics. And yes, I wrote a song about that too.

To counteract my daily battles, Mark did his best to schedule things at night and on weekends that we could enjoy together, especially nights before surgery and chemo.  We went to many plays, concerts, lectures and baseball games during that time. Toward the end of my radiation treatment, we escaped for a few days to visit his family in Florida and take in spring training, And even though I fell asleep for a portion of many of our outings, the distraction and Mark’s hand in mine were a balm to my heart and healing body.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the end of treatment snuck up on me and whacked me on the head, none too playfully. What I thought would be a huge milestone to celebrate turned into a marshy landscape pitted with hidden sinkholes. After gliding through treatment with a positive attitude and no shortage of energy, the very end of treatment rolled over me like a tank. It took extraordinary energy to brave the crappy winter weather and walk each day to and from radiation therapy. We had record low temperatures and snowfall that year. Getting anywhere in the city was a brutal task. I was exhausted, deeply sad, and once more, highly anxious. Continue reading →

Driving the Camel: Installment #5

~ Deb Vilas ~ 4 Comments

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Chapter 4: You Have to Point it Down

Of course not everything revolved around my cancer. Life has a way of constantly unfolding in and around crises, and one of my dearest friends was on the cusp of a wonderful life transition. I’d known Isabel since my days in graduate school when we acted as course assistants for a beloved professor and mentor. When I received the call to teach at the college, I’d invited Isabel to co-teach with me. Our friendship had grown from there. We’d shared many meals deep in conversation about our lives, sipping sake and sharing our mutual adoration of food. She encouraged me to step out of my comfort zone and we’d gone on yearly vacations together, exploring places I had never even thought of visiting.  But all throughout those fun times, she had always wanted to be a mother. As an early childhood educator, she visited the homes of families and performed assessments for infants and toddlers with suspected delays. Isabel loved babies more than anyone I knew, but at the age of 46, had yet to find a mate who shared her dreams of family.  

The year before I got sick, Isabel made the announcement that she would go it alone and began the laborious process of applying to be an adoptive parent. I drove her to the adoption agency located in Pennsylvania, so that she could make a video to be shown to prospective birth parents. It was a sunny spring day and we enjoyed escaping the city as we headed southwest through New Jersey. Continue reading →

Driving the Camel: Installment #3

~ debvilasconsult ~ 4 Comments

 

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Chapter 2: Plot Twists

I did my best to spread out appointments and procedures between the members of my support system. I didn’t want any one person to feel burdened, especially Mark. He would have enough on his plate taking care of me at home. My friend Sharon accompanied me to my pre-surgery checkup, and my sister-in-law brought me to get the radioactive isotopes injected.

As part of my own self care regimen,  I took selfies of me with each person to accompany me. I snapped photos of the intimidating machine they used to guide the placement of the radioactive seeds and the nuclear scanner I rode like a carnival ride following the isotope injection.  I wanted to document my progress and witness my own milestones of treatment. No matter how much support I had from friends and family in waiting rooms, I faced the painful procedures alone in a skimpy hospital gown.

There comes a time when every cancer patient is stripped of their own clothes and identity. We may be in the presence of medical professionals, but we are profoundly alone. In those moments, we must rely on ourselves and our own coping skills, which can take the form of tears, desperate prayers or stoically enduring the pain and humiliation. If we are lucky, we have access to other more concrete coping techniques.

As a child life specialist, I had helped children and families document their treatment through photos and homemade books.  Children illustrated their stories and dictated their own narratives. I  prepared many children for painful procedures, and provided distraction and comfort to them while they faced injections, spinal taps, bone marrow aspirations, sutures and the setting of broken bones.  With their parents’ help, we practiced how to blow bubbles to relax, how to make choices about where to look during the painful part, and what toys or books might take their minds off  their pain and fear. I used guided imagery to help them imagine themselves on a beach or at an amusement park, instead of on a cold, hard, bed in an emergency room. 

I remember 10 year-old Nikki well. An ambulance transported her from school, where she had seriously injured her right arm. She arrived at the pediatric emergency room  on a stretcher, her arm heavily bandaged. She was surprisingly calm, and I wondered if perhaps she was in shock. Her parents had not arrived yet, and the doctors couldn’t wait for them. They moved her onto a hospital gurney. I stood on the other side of the bed, close enough to speak quietly as the doctors bustled around her.

“Hi Nikki. I’m Debbie. Do you know where you are?”

“The hospital?”

“Right, the ambulance just brought you in from school. The doctors need to look at your arm to see how to help you feel better. Do you want to tell me a little bit about what happened?”

Nikki looked a little abashed. “I was joking around with my friends in the girl’s bathroom. I climbed up the wall of the stall to tease one of them in the next stall. I don’t know what happened, but I fell. My arm got cut somehow on the toilet paper dispenser.”

“Now that’s original!” I smiled.

“Yeah,” she grinned sheepishly.

“Well, you will have a good story to tell.” I said. “My job is to help you understand what the doctors will do, and if you want, to give you something more fun to focus on while they fix you up.”

As I was speaking to her, the doctors began to unwrap the bandages that swathed her arm. I almost gagged at the sight of a large, ragged tear on the inside of her upper arm. The muscle and fat hung from the bloody gash. I took a deep breath and refocused on Nikki’s face.

“So, first the doctors are going to wash your arm with a lot of sterile water, to make sure that there aren’t any germs before they close your wound. They are going to use a really big syringe to squirt the water, but there won’t be any needle attached. Do you want to watch, or would you prefer to imagine yourself someplace fun, like at a beach?”

“Beach,” she said quickly. I was frankly relieved. It should always be a child’s choice about whether or not to look, but her wound was ghastly. Even I didn’t want to look!

“Okay, so I want you to take a few nice, deep breaths with me, okay?”

I demonstrated some slow belly breaths, and she complied.

“Do you want to close your eyes, or look at me while I help you imagine the beach?”

Nikki chose to keep her eyes open as I began to guide her into a make believe scene.

“Okay, I want you to keep breathing nice and deep. Imagine that you are standing on a vast, beautiful beach, looking out at a bright blue ocean. Who would you like to be with you on the beach?”

“My mom,” she said.

“Okay, so your mom is with you. You are both in your favorite bathing suits. The air is warm and sunny, and a gentle breeze is blowing. I want you to dig your feet into the sand and tell me what it feels like.”

“It feels hot on the top and cooler underneath the deeper my toes go.”

We continued along this path. I supplied prompts and she filled in the blanks, her eyes locked on mine as the doctors irrigated her arm. This child’s ability to block out the fear and pain, even during the actual suturing of the wound, was remarkable.  She stayed on that beach during the whole procedure, calm and engrossed in the fantasy.

I thought of Nikki and her bravery and took long, deep breaths as the radiology tech squeezed my breasts one at a time into the unforgiving machine and the needle pierced my skin again and again. Continue reading →

Driving the Camel Installment #2

~ debvilasconsult ~ 6 Comments

 

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Driving the Camel; Adventures of a Child Life Specialist

Installment #2

Chapter 1: Two for One Sale continued

…..But today it was my turn to be the patient. As I pushed my way through the revolving doors of the very hospital where I had provided solace and healing, it struck me that I was the one in need of these things. Who was going to take care of me, the caretaker?  It was such an odd homecoming, familiar yet strange. The actual building I entered had not even been in existence when I’d worked there. But it held the same smell and the decor was familiar, as were the uniforms of the security guards at the information desk.  

Entering the lobby as a patient, without the authority of an employee ID badge, I felt like a lobster shedding its shell, soft, pink and vulnerable waiting for a new protective coat of armor to form. I had taught children and parents so many coping skills over the years. Would these skills be available to me now, or would terror hijack all of my working synapses and block my access? A rip current of anxiety carried me along a shoreline just out of reach. I could feel my feet scrambling for solid ground.

At the check in desk on the 4th floor, I supplied my birthdate, those eight digits that granted me access to the world of treatment.  Like a POW stating name, rank and serial number, I would repeat those numbers countless times over the coming months. Mark and I found seats on one of the many couches in the waiting room. Although most seats were filled, there was a hush to the large room. Patients and caregivers sat in small groupings, sipping coffee, reading magazines, texting quietly on cell phones. One woman appeared clearly ill, a greyish pallor smudged over protruding cheekbones. Overdressed for the spring weather, she huddled in her scarf and coat, a hat pulled low over her forehead. She tried her best to curl into her chair, her eyes closed in exhaustion. Was that going to be me soon? Others looked no different than me, dressed for work, no outward signs of illness or distress. Mark pulled out his blackberry and zeroed in on work emails. That and his bouncing foot were his only tells.

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Soon enough, we sat across a desk from Dr. Fodor, while he drew an anatomical diagram of my breasts upside down, so that we could see it from our seats.

“You have three tiny tumors,” he began. “Two here, and one here. They are what we call “in situ,” Stage One. So first of all, I want to tell you, you are not going to die from this. “

I looked over at Mark and our eyes met in shared relief.

“Now our data shows that there is no difference in outcome between a mastectomy and a lumpectomy for this type of cancer. So we recommend a bilateral lumpectomy along with a sentinel node removal and biopsy, followed by four weeks of radiation. You should be done with this whole business by the end of the summer.”

“Thank God!” I thought. No horrible decision to be made between a mastectomy and a lumpectomy. No chemo. It was mid May, and as a professor I didn’t work summers. This already felt manageable. Dr. Fodor, sporting a bow tie and the lanky build of a basketball player, exuded calm reassurance. This was no big deal. He saw this every day.

“So, what do you think about next week?” he said.

My heart sped up. “Surgery? Next week?”

“Yes, let’s get you on the schedule for next week and get this started. My assistant will give you all of the pre-op information, so that you’ll know what to expect and what you need to do to get ready.”

Mark and I walked out of the doctor’s office an hour later with a schedule for surgery and pre-op appointments. Dr. Fodor had explained that in addition to routine blood work and an EKG, I would need to be injected with radioactive isotopes, scanned, and have seeds placed in both my breasts to localize the tumors and sentinel lymph nodes so that he would know where to cut. It was a lot to take in, but I didn’t have a lot of time to think about it.

The very next day, I boarded a plane to Denver to attend the Child Life Council’s annual conference. 

The CLC is a membership organization for the field of Child Life. It oversees certification, provides support and resources to child life specialists, and runs an annual conference. This year, the Council had awarded me a scholarship for Innovations in Play, and the Disney Corporation would  underwrite my trip. I had two presentations to give, both on the topic of play. In addition to the scholarship, the CLC had recently hired me as the project leader to design and conduct an international survey on the state of play in North American hospitals. My career was beginning to expand beyond the walls of the small college where I taught courses in play and child development for child life specialists and teachers. I was excited and a bit overwhelmed by the tasks that lay ahead. Cancer certainly hadn’t been part of the bargain when I signed up for these opportunities. But there was no turning back now.

I sat on the plane, reviewing my presentation notes and drifting in and out of focus. Thoughts were ricocheting around my head like pachinko balls. The running monologue followed no linear path, and went something like this. “Holy Sh*t! I have cancer! Weird, I don’t feel sick. How the hell am I going to concentrate on presenting to over 200 people? What if I cry? Holy Sh*t! I’m having surgery next week! How big a chunk is Dr. Fodor going to take out of me?  What if Dr. Fodor is wrong? What if these damn tumors metastasize and kill me? Will I be able to go on vacation in August like we planned? How the hell am I going to get all of my work done for the CLC?  Will I be able to meet their deadlines? Is radiation going to hurt? My skin is so sensitive and my mother had such a hard time with radiation. Will it be worse for me?”

My mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer 6 years earlier. She had a tough time with post surgery complications and the radiation had left her scarred and in chronic pain. But thankfully, she was alive and kicking at the age of 80. A great role model for me, Joyce projected an infectious sense of joy and a thirst for learning and growing. I would definitely be relying on her life perspective in the coming months.

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Arriving at the hotel, I was greeted by texts from my 2 co-presenters, who were eager to gather to rehearse our presentation. I had never met Loxy before, as she worked with Caitlin at a children’s hospital in Texas. But I knew she was more than a child life assistant and co-worker. She was a dear friend and mother figure to Caitlin, who had moved to Texas knowing no one. Caitlin, with her freckles and strawberry blonde hair, was one of those precious gems in my life, a student who had graduated and turned into a close friend and colleague. Continue reading →