Archive for November, 2005

Time

Wednesday, November 30th, 2005

I spent a lot of time in the infusion center today. Four hours to be exact. Which is a long time for a 90-minute infusion. There is always some delay and often I wait up to an hour before Herceptin begins to travel through my veins. But today was slow. Maybe there was a back-up because of the Thanksgiving holiday. Or maybe there are a slew of new chemo patients this time of year. Or maybe this is the usual business of chemo and I’ve been lucky to get in and out so quickly in the past. Regardless, I still felt lucky today — despite the long afternoon spent in the waiting room and then in pink chair #7. I felt lucky to have those four hours. Lucky to have received the gift that still causes me my most emotional moments — the kindness of those who surround me.

Nicole is a pediatrician at Shands Hospital. She is a new friend and already a good friend. Knowing I had my treatment today, she walked across the hospital campus to the infusion center and she sat with me — for all four hours. We talked about cancer and medicine and our jobs and our husbands. We talked about parenthood (Nicole is a soon-to-be mom) and baby names and our spunky grandmothers and their kind, peaceful ways. We talked about faith and religion and so much more. It was a calm afternoon for me, in the midst of a room that was hectic with activity. Surrounded by the continuous motion of nurses and patients and visitors, the hum of a dozen or more separate conversations, and the rolling of IV poles with their near-constant beeping, I felt focused and relaxed with Nicole seated across from me. And that’s the gift — to be distracted from the magnitude of the day by a friend who sits and talks and is just simply there.

I talked with my Ohio friend, Amy, today. She just completed her third chemo treatment, and she has three more to go. She is discouraged and while half-way there, she can’t visualize getting to the end. But even in her despair, she talked about how amazed she is by what others are doing for her — caring for her kids, cleaning her house, supporting her. This kindness comes at a cost — the cost of cancer — but it is refreshing and invigorating. It helps us pass the time. It helps us appreciate the time. It helps all the time.

Time will heal our wounds. The pain will fade. The struggles will be memories. But I think the friendship and the love and the support will live on. These gifts are the stuff that get us through the hard times and the stuff that keep us going.

We are the lucky ones, really. Lucky we have the chance to witness the true wonder of good people. Lucky to have friends like Nicole.

Jacki Donaldson

Posted in Gratitude, Herceptin, My story | 5 Comments »

Run for life

Wednesday, November 23rd, 2005

I Run for Life

(Melissa Etheridge)

It’s been years since they told her about it
The darkness her body possessed
And the scars are still there in the mirror
Everyday that she gets herself dressed
Though the pain is miles and miles behind her
And the fear is now a docile beast
If you ask her why she is still running
She’ll tell you it makes her complete

[Chorus:]
I run for hope
I run to feel
I run for the truth
For all that is real
I run for your mother your sister your wife
I run for you and me my friend I run for life

It’s a blur since they told me about it
How the darkness had taken its toll
And they cut into my skin and they cut into my body
But they will never get a piece of my soul
And now I’m still learning the lesson
To waken when I hear the call
And if you ask me why I am still running
I’ll tell you I run for us all

[Chorus]

And someday if they tell you about it
If the darkness knocks on your door
Remember her remember me
We will be running as we have before
Running for answers
Running for more

It’s been one year since they told me about it — one year ago today. The day before Thanksgiving. There have been sad moments and dark moments and moments that seemed to last a lifetime. But mostly, I look back and wonder where the year has gone. I credit my busy little boys who kept me distracted by their innocence and wonder and beauty (and their mischievous antics too). Without even knowing it, they gave me perspective. They still do. And they make me laugh. One night we sat in a restaurant — my three boys with their blond hair and me with my new, dark, very short hair. Someone glanced our way and Joey told me, “Mommy, they think you are the Daddy.” Priceless.

John. He has wiped my tears, listened to my worries, saved me on days I couldn’t find the strength to function, and offered endless advice and comfort and wisdom — all while balancing work and school (he graduates with his Masters on December 17th) and his generous household duties that even on a good day, I don’t handle well — he cooks, gives baths, reads books, and puts Joey and Danny to bed. He has had his own difficult road to travel on this cancer journey, but without the support system I have. The spouse of the cancer patient doesn’t get much attention — but John deserves it. He is a life saver.

My mom and sister. I am blessed simply to live in the same city as them. To see them every day. To share talks and walks. To shop and have lunch. To bask in the joy of our little miracles — Joey, Danny and Jordan. But to have them cushioning my fall for the past year is a true gift. They made life easier. They held me up. They dried my tears. They lost sleep for me. They loved me. They amaze me.

There are so many others — family and friends and acquaintances — who have helped me get through this year. I am thankful for every person who has warmed my heart, held my hand, shared in my sorrows, and lifted my spirits. I am thankful today and tomorrow and every day.

And as I give thanks this Thanksgiving, I begin my second year as a cancer survivor. And I continue to run for life.

Jacki Donaldson

Posted in Family, Gratitude, Hair loss, Kids, My story, Resources | 4 Comments »

Nothing but normal

Monday, November 21st, 2005

I got my clean bill of health today. My mammogram and ultrasound both showed nothing but normal tissue. And I walked out of the doctor’s office with nothing to worry about. No sinking feelings. No anxiety about a biopsy. No fear. No gut feeling that cancer lives in my body. That was last year — at this very time of the year. This year, I am off to a smooth start. A relief, to say the least.

Last Thanksgiving, I was terrified. This Thanksgiving, I am thankful. Truly thankful.

Jacki Donaldson

Posted in My story, Tests | 3 Comments »

Rest in peace

Sunday, November 20th, 2005

I don’t know Dori. But I know her story and I know her battle and I am pretty sure I know how she’s felt at times while battling breast cancer. And that makes me feel like I know her. So learning that Dori died this morning, I feel like I’ve lost a friend — despite having never met her or even talked with her.

Dori kept a web journal, similar to this one, and hers was one of the first “blogs” I discovered after my diagnosis last November. I saw pictures of Dori’s bald head as I anticipated how my head would look with no hair. I read about her reactions to chemo when I feared the toxic drugs that would drip into my own body. I learned about her son and the baby girl she and her husband adopted from China. I borrowed from her strength and her spirit and her faith — which really were amazing given the road she travelled.

Dori was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1998 at the age of 34. She was treated and she survived. But in the back of her mind, she feared that cancer would return. And it did — less than two years later. And ever since, she has been battling breast cancer and its spread to other parts of her body. Until this morning.

I am happy for Dori, who just recently stopped the constant chemotherapy that was preventing her from a quality life. She is at peace and she is free from pain. But I am mad that cancer robbed her of so many years. And I am sad for her husband and her kids and her family and her friends who must live on without her. I know she will be missed. I will miss her.

And tomorrow — one day after Dori’s passing — I go for my first mammogram since I was diagnosed. It seems like a strange pattern — Dori dies and I seek a clean bill of health. It’s all so sad, so confusing, so unpredictable.

Yet one thing is clear. Dori paved the way for many women — I am just one of them — and while she is not here to write in her journal or hold her babies or build a life with her husband, she is still a powerful presence. A strong soul. A spirit that lives on and on.

Rest in peace, Dori.

Jacki Donaldson

Posted in Death & dying, My story, Survivors | 3 Comments »

Living in the moment

Saturday, November 12th, 2005

There are three blogs I read regularly — all three written by women with breast cancer. Adriene was diagnosed at about the same time as me, and is recovering from a mastectomy and reconstruction and chemotherapy. Her hair is short and dark now like mine and I follow her progress because it’s similar to mine and because she is a beautiful writer and photographer. Sandee, another woman and mom of three is undergoing chemotherapy regularly to manage breast cancer that has spread to various parts of her body over the span of several years. As chemo takes a toll on her daily life, she continues to fight and to inspire others through her words. And Dori, a mom of two who has been battling breast cancer and its spread, has just welcomed hospice into her home as she has chosen to stop the constant chemotherapy that is robbing her of a quality life. She is brave and courageous and her spirit is powerful and touching and uplifting.

Visiting with these women through their journals is motivating and encouraging. It allows me to find meaning in my own personal struggles and triumphs. It helps me harness the power that cancer has over me and the fear it instills in me. It helps me to live in the moment. To enjoy every moment. To be thankful for every moment.

Thank you Adriene, Sandee, & Dori.

Jacki Donaldson

Posted in Chemotherapy, Hair loss, Inspiration, My story, Survivors | 5 Comments »

Answers

Wednesday, November 9th, 2005

Today I got some answers. I learned that the bump on the roof of my mouth appears to be normal and is maybe just a swollen gland. My dentist says the tissue looks pink and healthy and the bump should go away on its own. He will check me again in six weeks or so when I go for a cleaning. If it continues to worry me, he will look at it again.

I also learned from my OB/GYN that I am anemic. My iron should be at about 14 and it’s 10.8 which is moderately low and is perhaps why my fatigue is so extreme on some days. I will take an iron tablet each day and will investigate this further when I see my oncologist in a few weeks. Otherwise, I got a clean bill of health from this visit.

My day ended with my sixth dose of Herceptin. Tracy visited with me in my private infusion room and the time passed by quickly — a blessing given that I’d been in the care of doctors since 9:45 AM.

When I returned home at 5:15 PM, I was greeted by Danny’s warm welcome as he raced into my arms, hugged my tightly, and flashed his oh so sweet smile. He brightened my day!

Jacki Donaldson

Posted in My story, Side effects, Tests | 4 Comments »

Fear

Tuesday, November 8th, 2005

About a week ago, I felt a small bump on the roof of my mouth, approaching where my throat starts. I could feel the bump with my tongue and then it would disappear or flatten a bit and I’d forget about it. Then it would come back but disappear again.

So tomorrow I am going to the dentist to have it examined. It could be a canker sore, something swollen from the cold and cough I had recently, or something completely not worth worry. But I worry about everything and anything that pops up — literally pops up, like this bump. I am hoping the dentist looks at it and says “no big deal” but I worry he’ll say he needs to take a piece for biopsy. And then will begin the same path I went through one year ago — the quest for answers about a suspicious bump. So I am unsettled tonight. Writing helps.

After the dentist tomorrow I go for my annual GYN visit which means I’ll get a breast exam and a PAP test — both screenings for cancer. Then I go for chemo and spend the rest of the day treating cancer. The theme of the day — cancer — is not so comforting.

This is when I have my darkest moments — at night. Right now my boys are sleeping. It’s quiet. And my mind wanders. I think this wandering will never really end and is a result of facing a life-threatening illness. Before cancer, I may have ignored this little bump in my mouth. Now I think the worst.

Jacki Donaldson

Posted in My story, Side effects, Tests | 4 Comments »

Clarity

Thursday, November 3rd, 2005

My friend Amy in Ohio is about to receive her second chemo treatment on Friday. She is dreading the day after feeling poorly from her first dose. Her hair has started to fall out, she feels mentally defeated, and she is not sure how she will make it to February, when her treatment ends. I sent her an e-mail the other day. These are some of my words:

“Don’t forget that no one can be strong all the time. We all have strong days and weak days and days in between. You are stronger than you know but that might not be clear to you until you are able to look back on the worst of this journey.

One day at a time! And somehow, February will creep up on you, just as one year is creeping up on me even though there were days I thought I would not survive.”

I’m not sure how it happens, but as time passes, the bad moments do seem to blur. I guess it’s like the pain of childbirth that for me, I can���t even describe anymore.

I can remember how repulsed I felt each time I walked into the infusion center for my first chemo regimen (the one that poisoned my body, took my hair, and landed me in the hospital two times) but it’s not crystal clear anymore. I can remember the bloated feeling I felt in my body after those chemo treatments and from the steroids that I was given prior to each of my four doses. But it’s a distant memory and only when Amy complained of her response to chemo did I recall how uncomfortable I was riding in the car with my mom and my boys on several occasions, my pants fitting tightly and my stomach swollen from drugs. I remember feeling generally unwell but the specific feelings are not so clear anymore.

I have gained clarity through this trek, though. My thoughts are not so cloudy anymore. My emotions are not so unorganized. And my fears and worries are easier to explain. I do not fear the unknown as much as I once did and I am confident that if cancer comes back, I can fight it again.

It’s taken almost one year to reach this point, the point at which the unpleasant moments are getting foggy and my path forward is getting more and more clear. Amy will reach this point too. I promise you will, Amy.

Jacki Donaldson

Posted in Inspiration, My story, Side effects, Survivors | 4 Comments »