Are you there, God? It's me, Andi.

The thing I have discovered about living with the OC is that I have a special direct line to the person upstairs.  In hindsight, of course that was always there. But I treated it kind-of like the business card you pick up at the used car dealership, tossing it into the bottom of my bag and forgetting about it until it came time to do the annual “purse purge.”  These days, I’m dialing the number a lot.  Like a really lot.  First thing when I wake up in the morning, as I’m sitting at the light on South Congress, in between obsessing that the person at Einstein’s is not going to get my bagel order right, and—of course—right before I try to calm my spirit enough to sleep each night.  Here are a couple of recent exchanges:

God:         “What’s on your mind this morning, precious child of the Universe?”

Me:          “Oh you know, I am worrying about the weighty problems of the world--like whether or not the drug that I know you will provide to make me well will make my hair fall out again.” 

God:         “I can see how that might worry you, dear one.  But don’t you see, when I allow you to stand without the things you like to hide behind, I have given you the chance to lead with your soul.” 

Me:          “But I don’t want to have to worry about leading with my soul.  I want to be cute enough to catch a Cowboy.”

God:         “With all due respect to Cowboys everywhere, really, Sloan?  Is that really what you are worrying about a time like this?”

Me:          “I’d be lying to you if I said I wasn’t.”

God:         Insert extended, pregnant pause.

The thing about REALLY walking through life in a way that faith is a true part of it is that you don’t get to hide behind your own b.s.  And it takes some getting used to.  Here’s another recent conversation playing out in my head:

Me:          “I’m not sure what the end of this might look like when all is said is done.  I do know I definitely want to be surrounded by loved ones.  And I want to be at home.  I’m wondering if somehow Heathen could be in the backyard and people could walk him in to my room so I could pet him when I am scared.  Oh yeah, and do you think the spray tan people will get nervous about liability and refuse to spray my bald head, because I am simply not going to lay around without my tan.  I’ve already gotten Wittenburg to promise that she will see that I am sprayed to the end, but will she really sue them over that if it comes to it?

God:         “Have you learned nothing?  I am trying to teach you about faith and how silly vanity is.  And besides, I have promised you a long life…and to give you hope and a future. And you know that Heathen has gained a lot of weight and won’t possibly fit through the back door.  Perhaps you should consider retro-fitting the French doors in the kitchen.  But you know he’s not exactly house-broken…do I need to remind you about the trailer fiasco?”

 

Talking to God about anything and everything and knowing He is listening is a FUN thing I am so glad I know about cancer.

 

Carrying a Big Shtick

What kind of Cancer blog would this be if I didn’t devote at least two posts to my formerly shiny noggin? There are lots of pretty horrific side effects from repeatedly injecting your veins with poison. Many of them are permanent. Why is losing your hair (not permanent) the one that proves so difficult for so many? I don’t pretend to know the answer. It obviously has a lot to do with traditional notions of beauty. But the whole issue of “hair/no hair” goes much deeper than that. I am about to admit something that I have never said out loud. I think it makes me shallow … or crazy … or both. [Sidenote: One of the things about being on a first name basis with the “C” is that you constantly analyze whether you are the most screwed up person on the planet or it’s just the “C” talking.] Those of you who know me know that I have never worn a wig and rarely a hat. I could just never wrap my arms around the idea of walking around with removable hair on my head. But for all of the trauma initially attached to losing my hair, my transition to the new “style” was pretty easy. I was very oddly comfortable being shiny-headed from almost the beginning. I would like to attribute that to my amazing self-confidence. That, of course, is the comfortable answer. It’s more twisted than that. I realized something psychologically screwy going on the first time my hair started growing back. I remember noticing a woman who was obviously going through treatment and almost fondly remembering when I wore that hairdo. I don’t think I was self-aware enough at the time to understand why seeing her in her baseball cap was evoking that emotion in me. I just sort-of filed that scene away. Fast forward to the Recurrence. When I lost my hair the second time, I shed a couple of tears when two years of re-growth was shaved. After that, I do not think I cried over it again. I now realize that is because I use my baldness almost simultaneously as a crutch and a weapon. Let’s be honest. It is the ultimate sympathy-getter. It was my badge of courage. Powerful. Silencing. What kind of person would dare to hold me accountable for anything when I am bearing such a huge and visible burden? But now I am in that “in between” phase. I no longer look like a poor, long-suffering Cancer victim. Now I look like a boy/girl with a VERY bad, way-too-short haircut. Now it is time to start learning to walk through life as me again. No more extra slack. No more sympathy for sympathy’s sake. Just me. Responsible for the impact my actions have on those around me. I have gotten a little used to being the victim everywhere I go. I am going to have to start working on a new shtick.

Trying to get the sympathy vote is another "fun" thing I wish I didn't know about Cancer.

Chia Pet

I am sitting at the kitchen table at my parents’ house. I have been dreading this moment for eight weeks. It is “SHD”—shave head day. My hair is about to fall out. For the past three days, tiny strands multiply in my hair brush. I wash my hair and small clumps stick between my fingers. A brave friend went camping the weekend her hair was to fall out and let nature scatter it to the wind. I am not that strong. Losing my hair makes the fact that I have the “C” so tangible. My secret made so public. PJ has a pair of scissors and an electric razor. My hair is long. And blonde. I think it is my defining characteristic. It is what makes me feel like a girl. I want to donate it to Locks of Love. Carrot bunches it into a dozen pony tails pulled tight at the top. Someone cuts them off at the roots. One by one. We wrap them in paper towels and put them in a Ziploc bag. PJ is running the razor over my head. Clumps of my remaining hair fall to the floor. Incredible sadness. I cannot stop crying. Irreversible, unavoidable step. PJ is being so gentle. I know it is hurting him to hurt me. I regret not thinking to schedule an appointment with a hairdresser to spare him that. I walk to the bathroom and look in the mirror at the new me. I do not look like me to me. I like my eyes.

I have spent approximately 270 days of my adult life bald. This doesn’t include the other 510 days (and counting) that I have walked around looking like a Chia Pet. I have lost my hair twice. The first time was the hardest. Dr. Cold to me: “You have Cancer. We do not know if we can cure it.” Me to Dr. Cold: “Yes, but will the treatment make me lose my hair?” Crazy vanity. Emotion wasted on something so trivial. Tears over nothing … that felt like such a HUGE something. Learning to accept my shiny noggin is another “fun” thing I wish I didn’t know about Cancer.

Dr. Cold

I cannot think of anything interesting to write about today. Everyone always wants to know how I first knew I had the “C” so I guess I will tell that story. I am foggy on the exact sequence of events. I don’t even know if it was July or August. I think it was July but my mom, Carrot, has written that it was August. She is probably right. Strange how I cannot mark the single most important day in my life with certainty. I remember going to Doctor #1 because I had a pain in my side. I remember being scared that they would want to take blood. I am terrified of needles. Hundreds of sticks later and it still takes all the courage I can muster to stretch my arm out and get poked. I still can’t do it without “medicinal support.” Handfuls of Ativan. I remember lying on the table getting the sonogram which was supposed to show that I had a gallbladder problem. I remember Sonogram Tech #1 saying to Sonogram Tech #2, “Look at all of that in there!” I remember being given two big glasses of barium to drink. I remember Carrot being impressed with how quickly I got it down. I remember walking down a long hall to a CT machine. I don’t remember anything else about that first day. I am told that after that we went into a room where Doctor #1 told us that he thought it was the OC. I can recall absolutely nothing about that conversation. Back home. Terror so overwhelming that I cannot process it. Doctor #1 brings the results of the CT scan to my parents’ house. Doctor #1 talks to my dad, PJ. PJ comes in with a book. He shows me a statistic. “45% of people diagnosed with the OC live five years.” Lying on my stomach in bed. Pushing on my abdomen. I feel something hard and like a sausage. I convince myself I am constipated. I talk to the brother of a friend at MD Anderson. He is one of my angels. He arranges to get me into MDA the following Monday. He asks if I have had a CA-125. I don’t know what that is. I don’t yet speak the language. I will learn it quickly. I wish I didn’t know it. Getting a CA-125 requires getting stuck. I don’t want one. He asks if I have noticed any bloating. While he is talking, I pull my shirt up and look at my stomach. It looks like I have swallowed a watermelon. How had I not noticed that? I try to suck it in. I try to remember all of the big meals I have eaten in the past couple of days. It is probably because I have been eating too much. I cannot suck it in. We drive to Houston. It is Sunday night. Carrot and PJ are trying to make me feel better. They drive to find the hospital so we won’t be late for our appointment. I see a bald, skinny, gray-skinned, cancer-ish looking man hooked up to his chemo bag rolling down the street in a wheelchair. I freak. Is that going to be me? I am nasty to Carrot and PJ. I snap at them. They are solid. My rocks. This will become a pattern. I am mean and they are understanding. Keeping their fear hidden for me. We spend the night at La Quinta. I am so afraid I literally cannot speak. We get to MDA. We ride the elevator to the eighth floor. I fill out lots of forms. Still speechless. I am only 37 years old. Too young. I am holding the films from my CT scan. I have not looked at them. I do not know that in just three minutes my life will never be the same. An intern will walk in and matter-of-factly state to me, “As you know, there are three tumors. One on your ovary and two in your abdomen.” I do not know that there are three tumors. I still do not know if that is because I had blocked the conversation with Doctor #1 or because I had not yet been told. I cannot breathe. At all. I lay down on the floor in the examining room. I tell the intern I need Ativan. I feel as if I am literally going to explode. I grab my purse and swallow Ativan. The intern is panicking. She doesn’t know what to do with this reaction. She gets Doctor #2. He is cold. I nickname him “Dr. Cold”. He leads me out of the exam room into a conference room. I ask to see my parents. They are brought in. I ask Dr. Cold if I can be cured. He says he does not know. He does not blink.

Speaking the language and Dr. Cold are two other “fun” things I wish I did not know about Cancer.

Borrowed Skirts

You have really not lived until you have peed yourself in public. While marching in a parade. In front of 2000 people. One mile from your car. In a white skirt that you borrowed from a co-worker. Which she borrowed from a friend. They say ovarian cancer whispers. Peeing yourself is pretty much of a shout-out. When your body does something really funky—like spontaneously relieving itself —get it checked out. I don’t know what it is with the “C” but it likes to show its ugly head by embarrassing the crap out of you—literally. Don’t ignore it. Chances are it’s not the “C” but you don’t know until you know.

Ignoring the signs is another “fun” thing I wish I didn’t know about Cancer.

Sage Envy

It is supposed to rain today and I have sage envy. As I was driving home from my walk around Town Lake this morning I couldn’t help but notice that my entire neighborhood was afire with the most beautiful sage blossoms I have ever seen. Flowers in every hue of purple. Lots of them. Sage is my very favorite plant. I love when it bursts into bright bloom and unexpected beauty jumps out of nowhere. Shortly BC, I planted a sage plant in my front flower bed. Then the OC happened. Like so many areas of my life, the sage plant was neglected and left to flourish on its own. As I turned the corner onto my street this morning, I couldn’t wait to see the pretty purple flowers in my own garden. But there were no blooms. Just weedy-looking grayish-green. It’s interesting, really. My little sage plant. It’s easily four times taller than it was when I planted it in the months right BC. Its roots have taken solid hold in the ground and it has been strong enough to withstand a summer of stifling heat. But no blooms. All of my neighbors’ plants have blooms. My life with the OC feels like that. Since that horrible day in July, my life has been an exercise in survival. Period. That has been the very hardest thing. For just about three years, my friends have been planning trips, embarking on life-altering self-improvement plans, online dating, getting new jobs, changing their hairstyles, taking risks, having adventures … the list goes on and on. Mostly I have been waiting. Waiting to bloom. I don’t have words to describe what it feels like to watch life passing you by and wanting to jump head-first into the current but you can’t because you have to take care of this thing called the “C”. You have to have treatment. You have to be sick. You have to be bald. You have to learn to live with the side-effects of the treatment. You have to be afraid, brave, positive, strong … Wash. Rinse. Repeat. That many times through the Spin Cycle takes it toll. And there is always that feeling your real life has to wait until your life with the “C” is over. So much treading water that eventually you feel like you have forgotten how to swim. All of the things that make life flashy on the outside cease to exist. Those flashy things are what makes life fun and exciting and full of hope. But just like the sage plant that has endured what must be one hundred days of consecutive 100+ degree heat, my roots have become stronger. I’m not very glimmery on the outside these days but the things that don’t show so much are taking root. Strength. Courage. Empathy. There are some weeds growing in that flower bed, too … self-pity most of all. I am working hard to yank those out. Now I just need to figure out how to get my bloom on.

This entry is for Chris B. I think he’ll get it. Forgetting to bloom is another “fun” thing I wish I didn’t know about Cancer.

Bobbing for Apples

I found NF's blog. One of his FB friends referenced it on his FB page. NF mentioned it over dinner but thought maybe I shouldn't read it. His sweet Maggie died when the Cancer spread to her lungs. If I die from the OC, that is what will happen to me. The first time you contemplate your own death, it is like bobbing for apples in a giant barrel of ice water. You want to get in and out as soon as possible because the brain freeze happens quickly and it's painful. You try it once or twice and then push the bucket aside. But it's big. And right in the middle of the kitchen floor. You trip over it constantly, determined not to move it because that would mean touching it which would mean looking at it. You can't figure out how to stop stubbing your toes. Finally you realize that you need to pick up the damn bucket. I have been stubbing my toes for about three years. Stubbing your toes is another "fun" thing I wish I didn't know about Cancer. I think I have finally moved the bucket to the back deck. It's sitting in the sun. The ice has started to melt. I walk around it and peer in every once in awhile now. I stuck my arm in it up to my elbow. Not ready to stick my whole face in it yet. I hope I will be if the time comes for that. Moving the barrel to the corner was a big step. It feels good. It feels like the beginning of peace.