I could not have written it any better. And it’s so fitting for today, when I feel down and emotional and troubled — a world away from how I felt when I wrote my last entry. There is no specific reason for my anxiety today — other than this: I am surviving cancer. And in six months, when my Herceptin treatment ends, I will be surviving in a whole new dimension. I’ll be on my own. And that’s scary.
Thanks for sharing this article, Adriene.
My friend Nicole was with me when this picture was taken at the infusion center today. She said I look happy. Scary may be a better word, but it’s still an important photo for the story it tells.
I sit in a pink chair, usually with my feet propped up and a blanket on my lap, every three weeks on a Wednesday afternoon.
There are pink curtains between each pink chair in the infusion center but I’ve never seen these curtains closed. They remain open and allow for conversation, observation, for the building of community among patients.
I have a port on the right side of my chest, a port that I numb with a cream called Lidosense one hour before my infusion so I can’t feel the thick needle that pierces my skin.
The drug Herceptin drips into the clear tube, into my port, into my jugular vein, and into the rest of the bloodstream. After 90 minutes, saline drips into my body through this same method in order to clean the tube out of Herceptin and to push the remaining drops into my body. Then an injection of blood thinner follows to prevent clots at the site of my port.
The tube is taped to my shirt so I don’t get tangled up in it.
My red bracelet alerts nurses to my allergies to sulfa drugs, the antibiotic cefapime, tegaderm tape, and latex.
I wear shirts to chemo that zip or button so my port can be easily accessed.
My hair is dark and curly, only significant given the fact that it was once naturally blond and straight. My photo albums, yearbooks, framed pictures, driver’s license, credit card photo, campus IDs, and memories capture my previous look. This is new and different and still shocking to me.
My hair is growing. In the five months since my Herceptin therapy started, my hair has changed quite a bit. See photo in July 27 entry.
I clip my hair in the front to manage my new curls that have a mind of their own.
And Nicole is right. I look happy. I am happy. Despite the reason I sit in this pink chair every three weeks and despite the fact that I am fighting to live long enough to see my boys grow up, I am still happy.
Jacki Donaldson
The story of my fight with breast cancer is spreading. When I first started writing in this web journal, my purpose was merely to keep family and friends informed of my progress. Then I realized that writing was part of my therapy. My “blog” still serves both purposes — my faithful readers can check in on me at their leisure and when I write (and read the responses from readers), my worries subside, my mood improves, my strength gets stronger. And somehow in the past year, my blog has gained a new purpose. It has led me to a whole network of people I have never met — people who have found me on the internet through their searches for information on cancer. People who say I’ve motivated them, informed them, helped them. And they help me just the same. Just knowing that someone has benefited from reading my words inspires me. It makes me feel my struggle is worthwhile. Some of these people leave comments on my site, some send me personal e-mails, and some have linked my site on their own sites.
And here is one site where my site is featured:
http://www.breastcancer-treatment.us/your_fight_jackidonaldson_story.html
Perhaps my story will spread further. Perhaps others will gain perspective or knowledge or insight or strength. Perhaps as my story spreads, hope will spread. That makes me happy.
Jacki Donaldson
Tomorrow, my baby boy will be five years old. The baby who made me wait 40 weeks and four extra days for his arrival into the world. The baby who stretched my stomach until the 50 pounds I gained rendered it unrecognizable. The baby who stalled on delivery day and had to be forced by a vacuum and an episiotomy into the hands of a doctor who had predicted an eight-pound baby and shockingly caught one who weighed 10 pounds and nine ounces.
Joey made his big entrance on January 3, 2001. And since that day, everything about him has been big. His emotions are big. His energy is big. His demands are big. His imagination is big. His heart is big. He is big. He weighs 55 pounds, wears size 7 jeans and size 10 jammies. His shoes are size 2 Wide. Somehow my big baby boy is now just a big boy. The baby who once needed constant comforting now comforts me. He told me the other night as I tucked him into bed, “mommy, I like your hair that way.” I thanked him, my heart overflowing with love for this guy. He told me not to change it. I asked him what he meant and he said, “don’t let it grow. I like it just like that.”
The baby who once needed constant care and attention now picks out his own clothes, brushes his hair and teeth, can make his own cinnamon toast, rides a bike with training wheels, and is content to play quietly for an hour in the yard with his new pirate ship. The baby who grew to be a shy, reserved, sensitive toddler has evolved into a child who, despite his delicate personality, plays beautifully with his preschool classmates and thrives in his school routine.
The baby who once was unknown to me — hidden in my tummy and offering up only kicks and tumbles — is now the boy who has warmed my heart and softened my soul. He fills my whole body with joy (and sometimes frustration and anger too). He has changed my whole world, my whole being, my whole life.
I am still in awe of Joey, all these years after I first held my new baby boy. He is beautiful. He is amazing. He is five.
Jacki Donaldson
Photo: me, my first baby boy (Joey), & my second baby boy (Danny, 2 1/2)
I don’t think I’ve ever made a New Year’s resolution. And I’m not officially making one this year — but I am going to try to get back on the path of exercise. Lately, I feel like I’m slipping from the solid grip I once had on my own physical fitness.
Months ago, I was exercising every day — sometimes twice a day — and I became tired. So I took the advice of friends and even my oncologist who told me to back off a bit — to abandon the “I-have-to-exercise-every-day” approach and to embrace the “two-or-three times-a-week is enough” approach. After all, my body was busy fighting cancer and responding to treatment. I shouldn’t push myself. I should rest my body more. I should exercise only moderately, I was told. So I exercised moderately — just several times each week and with no strict fitness goal in mind. And it may have helped with my fatigue. But it has not made me feel good. My clothes fit tighter. My body feels softer. I miss the mental release of exercising each day. I find myself thinking about my lack of exercise way too much. So I’m going to do something about it. I’m going to exercise every day.
I don’t know exactly how I will accomplish my exercise task. It seems that the older my kids get, the harder it is to find a good routine. Sometimes I walk in the morning, sometimes I walk at night. Sometimes I walk the hills in my neighborhood and sometimes I walk on my treadmill at home. Sometimes I have kids with me. Sometimes I have only my MP3 player. My ideal routine would include a morning workout — by myself, followed by a shower and a whole day ahead of me. I know that can’t happen unless I get out of bed very early and beat the rush of the day. I’m not sure I have the passion for this. But I do know I have the will to get my butt back in gear. Somehow. Some way. Today.
Jacki Donaldson
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