Covering the Bases

“I am not worried about malignancy,” my GI doctor told me this morning during our discussion about what may be wrong with my gut. Still, given my cancer history, and in order to cover all the bases, she has ordered a colonoscopy. This means that for an entire day, I can consume only clear liquids and clear foods—which, I assume, means jello only, because are there really any other see-through foods? Then, I get to drink a special potion that will put me on the potty for much of the day. The next day, I’ll get knocked out so my doc can examine my colon through a tube of some sort. Lovely.

I am not really looking forward to having a colonoscopy at age 42 (so much earlier than the test is typically prescribed for preventative purposes). I am, however, hopeful that the test will reveal a healthy colon.

Not worried about malignancy.

Just covering the bases.

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Cancer Is Not My Main Worry

There’s a little, teeny, tiny piece of me questioning whether cancer might once again live in my body. The question stems from a year’s worth of undiagnosed tummy trouble manifesting itself sometimes in simple discomfort and other times in downright pain. Some days, my stomach is tight as a drum, pushed out so far I think it’s going to pop. Other times, I feel bloated, full, and cramped. It’s all so unpredictable, and I have yet to pinpoint anything specific that is twisting up my insides. Doctors have not found any real answers, either. They did diagnose pelvic floor dysfunction, but apparently, the gut issues are a separate beast. The good news is that a battery of tests have revealed that my esophagus, cardia, pancreas, gall bladder, and a few other organs are in fine shape. That brings me peace. Really, it does. But I kinda wish the professionals could spot something, anything that might help me fix what ails me. One doc thought maybe chemo drugs were to blame, but another said it’s unlikely — if chemo drugs were to muck up my system, it would have happened at the time of treatment, not almost 8 years later.

Tomorrow, I meet with my GI specialist for a round-up discussion about all of my normal test results and about what the next step will be. I fear there will be no next step, that I will just live in this state of blah, eating only minimally because it’s the only thing that makes me feel better but is surely not a healthy remedy.

Cancer is not my main worry — it’s just that I’ll never totally excuse its possibility since it’s happened to me once already. Not knowing what’s wrong is my No. 1 concern.

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23 Best Breast Cancer Blogs of 2012

Thank you for this honor, healthline.com:

Cancer Blog is full of thoughtful comments about life with a dark passenger: breast cancer. Jacki has recovered from the physical blight of her cancer, but it is clear in her powerful posts that once it has made an entrance, life is never the same. She has a singular take on the aftermath of this illness, and her photographs and pithy reflections put everything in perspective.

My Breast Cancer Blog speaks of one woman’s daily life, but after a few minutes of browsing, readers will discover that Jacki’s experiences are those of survivors everywhere. Thanks for putting words to them!

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The Beauty of Every Breath

I submitted this piece for publication on a blog featuring positive-outlook stories. The editors there wanted a more developed finished product. This is too rapid-fire, they shared, and apparently, it doesn’t allow the reader to fully absorb the content. I like it as is, though, so I am publishing it here instead of elsewhere.

I was diagnosed with cancer at the age of 34. I was a married mom of two little boys—3 years old and 18 months at the time my fingers slid across a hard, pea-sized lump in my left breast during a morning shower—and at the time, I was pretty sure my days were numbered. I was most certain of this at night when I watched my babies sleep and tried to breathe away the crushing anxiety that filled my chest. Nighttime led me to create a turnover document for my husband—you know, the kind you’d leave for the person taking over your job. Instead of explaining a workplace filing system or a list of key company people, I jotted down the names of the schools our children would attend, the best places to buy shoes for growing feet, the times at which to schedule doctor check-ups. I was prepared to leave my family, and I wanted everything in place before I departed.

It’s been eight years since that November day when a doctor told me over the phone, “Unfortunately, cancer cells were found” and my medical madness began. There’s been surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, more drug therapy, physical therapy, antidepressant therapy, two hospitalizations, one blood transfusion, side effects, and more. I’ve been bald, bloated, and bitchy over the whole ordeal, but mostly, I’ve been inspired and maybe even a little thankful cancer crashed into my world (I know, gasp!) because without the disease, I might have just plodded along through life not really appreciating the beauty of every breath.

My anxiety started turning to calm the day a mommy friend anonymously left a bundle of spirit-lifting books on my front porch. This gift was followed by comfy socks in my mailbox; brownies sent from across the country; meals delivered to my doorstep; a quilt lovingly crafted and autographed by friends; and a whole string of presents, flowers, cards, emails, visits, and phone calls too numerous to list.

Cancer has given me more than overwhelming love from others. It gave me better hair; less stress; friendships with all sorts of cancer warriors; a writing and editing career (it all started with my ramblings on my Breast Cancer blog); a ninja-like ability to navigate the medical system for every ache, pain, itch, or twinge; a true admiration for life-saving doctors, the ability to push my body to new limits (I never thought I could run a half-marathon, but a few years ago, I did); and a relationship with my kids (now 11 and 9) that while sometimes characterized by chaos and conflict, is mostly beautiful. The beauty sinks in at night, when I watch them sleep and realize the anxiety is gone, and the turnover document has no place in our lives.

Some may think I’m wacky, thinking of cancer as a gift, and I admit, if it comes back, I am certain I will change my tune. For now, though, having survived for much longer than I’d anticipated, I’m thankful.

That’s all.

Just thankful.

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