my Breast Cancer blog

2004, age 34 — this is my story
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Why girls have so much stuff

Posted on 5/16/2006 By

9 Comments

Joey asked John last night, “Why do girls have so much stuff?” Hiding his laughter and feigning a serious tone, John asked Joey what he meant. Joey said, “Why do girls have boobies and bras and pants and shoes and shampoos?” I am not sure what John told Joey — I’m not sure if John even knows the answer. I do know John and I are still laughing today at this question, posed by a five-year-old who is trying to figure out this confusing world. Sometimes he can’t figure out the complexities; sometimes he gets it right on. Like the other day when Danny asked me while we were driving in our van, “Mommy, are you winning?” I told Danny that driving is not a race — even though a car had just passed me by — and that I do not try to “win.” I told him some cars drive faster and some cars drive slower but that we should all go the speed limit. Joey piped in and said, “Danny, actually, the cars that are going faster are the ones who are losing because they are going to get pulled over and get a ticket.” What perspective. Now he just has to grasp this girl thing. Maybe that won’t ever happen. All I can do is tell him why I have so much stuff. Because it makes me feel good.

But “stuff” alone doesn’t make me feel good. Simple joys do the trick too. Like watching Danny yesterday as he learned to pump his legs while swinging. And watching him today learn to start himself on the swing, without a push from anyone. He is a whole year younger than Joey was when he learned this daunting task. Danny is not even three years old. Close, though — he will be three on May 30th and he talks constantly about his party where he wants to invite Wyatt and Jayda — two five-year-olds from preschool. He invites everyone, really. At the pediatrician’s office one day recently, the doctor asked Danny his age. He said, “Gonna be three. Want to come at my party?” I’m not sure what will come of this party, which I think I will have one afternoon on the school playground. But joyous it will be. I know that for sure.

Other simple joys — a new job I was just recently offered at www.thecancerblog.com. I will work part-time writing posts that relate in some way to cancer. They can reflect news and information and personal perspective too. Oddly, several people contacted me during the same week asking if I would write for them. They found me through this blog, liked what I’ve written, and offered me jobs. I could only accept one and am honored, flattered, happy that I will get to write not only for pay but for an audience that may benefit from what I can offer. I also found out today that my site is featured as one of the top 10 sites for breast cancer information on http://breast-cancer.toptensources.com/TopTenSources/Default.aspx. And I may do some volunteer guest articles and Q & A sessions for some other sites.

More joy: a training/exercise routine that has me actually noticing a few muscles I never knew I had, a ban on candy in our house that we hope will encourage healthier eating, and a check-up with my surgeon that revealed that my breast thought to be infected is not in fact infected.

When it rains, it pours. Downpours of simple joy.

Jacki Donaldson

Why I do this

Posted on 4/26/2006 By

4 Comments

Danny was 18 months old when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. He was oblivious about what was happening to my world and therefore it did not affect his world. He has been virtually unphased by what has dominated my days for almost 18 months. I think he processed every happening as normal. He must have thought that all mommies take off their hair at night and put it on in the morning; that all mommies have a port, or a “stone” as Joey calls it, sticking up from under their skin; that all mommies disappear quite regularly — for endless medical appointments, yet Danny has never known the purpose of my disappearances. Until now.

Danny is almost three years old. He is catching on and noticing and trying to figure out what has just dawned on him — that mommy keeps seeing the doctor. As I was about to depart for my Herceptin treatment today, Danny asked me, “Where are you going?” I told him, “to see the doctor.” He replied, “Why do you keep doing that?” “Doing what?” I asked. “Going to the doctor,” he said. I told him I do this so I can stay healthy. So I can keep sickness away. He was happy with my response and continued eating the scrambled eggs he had helped make.

Danny is growing up — and I know that is partly why he is analyzing my whereabouts. But he also was my companion Monday for a visit with my oncologist which may have opened his eyes to this medical world. While in the exam room, Danny watched me remove my shirt and bra and put on a gown. He said, “Is the doctor going to check your boobies?” He was stunned when I told him “yes” — completely unaware of the history I have with these boobies. And yesterday he knew I had yet another appointment — counseling this time — and he was left at home with the other guys in his life. Which is what happens often.

This thing I do — this continual doctoring — is about to end. I have just four more Herceptin treatments and then my 52-week regimen will cease. Other than check-ups every few months, I will be free of constant treatment and monitoring. Just as Danny is catching on, the process that he is trying to understand will end.

What a blessing for him.

Jacki Donaldson

Watching

Posted on 3/28/2006 By

23 Comments

I found this recently and included it with some baby gifts I mailed yesterday.

If I had my child to raise all over again,
I’d build self-esteem first, and the house later.
I’d finger-paint more, and point the finger less.
I would do less correcting and more connecting.
I’d take my eyes off my watch, and watch with my eyes.
I’d take more hikes and fly more kites.
I’d stop playing serious, and seriously play.
I would run through more fields and gaze at more stars.
I’d do more hugging and less tugging.
~Diane Loomans

I keep looking back at this passage, thinking about how important it is. The message is so simple, so right. I’ve known since Joey was born that I wanted to appreciate every little moment — even the frustrating ones — because life is short and one day, my kids may not want anything to do with me. So I tried to enjoy the clinging boy who was always by my side and rarely socialized with other kids. He kept me from visiting with moms at playgroups because he needed my full attention. He kept me distracted at activities and events with his shyness and refusal to participate. While overwhelmed by this sensitive, stubborn personality, I tried to also love these moments when my baby boy wanted only me.

It’s hard to be completely in the moment all the time. It’s hard to offer undivided attention always. It’s hard to stop correcting behavior that seems so disruptive at times. It’s hard to seriously play — especially at the end of the day, after ten whole hours of togetherness with my boys, when they want to run around as dinosaurs. With me as Stegosaurus. But it’s so important. I know that.

So today, for a moment, I took my eyes of my watch and I watched with my eyes. I ignored the pile of unfolded clean laundry that had been sitting in the laundry room for hours and I sat outside in the back yard and watched Joey and Danny play. I really watched. I absorbed their actions and their sounds and their peace.

Joey sat on a small plastic chair at a small plastic table. He had covered the table with trucks — both big and small — and a pile of dirt and a stack of grass blades he plucked out of our yard that has just started returning to a nice shade of green. Joey loaded his trucks with dirt and grass and he told me he was making a salad — a dirt salad with grass. He asked me if I wanted some. I told him I did.

Danny sat some distance from Joey near his sandbox. He too had a collection of trucks and he filled each one with sand. He was silent in his play — focused and intent and looking very official wearing a crown made of teal-colored wrapping paper. He later joined Joey, asked if he could sit down, and was delighted when Joey allowed him to play. My boys don’t always play nicely together and seem to spend more time fighting than agreeing. But for this moment, they were happy and content and beautiful. I am glad I was watching.

I don’t want to look back years from now and wish I’d done things differently with my kids. And I’m glad that I can now appreciate the close bond I had with my clingy little guy. Because just yesterday when we went to the park, he accepted an invitation to play with a little boy and he never looked back at me. I watched him, though, aware of his every move. Aware of my own sadness about my boy who is growing up and away from me. Aware of my joy that he is thriving now in ways I could never have predicted. Aware that I need to keep watching and connecting and playing and hugging. Even when Joey gets out of bed four and five times each night and tests my patience. Even when Danny rattles me when he shouts at the top of lungs to get my attention. Even when both boys go crazy at the same time each time I try to talk on the phone and when Joey tells me “you’re mean” when I don’t buy him a toy and Danny calls me “stinky butt” when he doesn’t get what he wants. I know I will miss these moments one day — funny as it may seem.

So for these days I have now — with two little boys who fill me with love and joy and frustration like I’ve never known — I will cherish these moments. And I will always be watching.

Jacki Donaldson

Immortality

Posted on 3/15/2006 By

3 Comments

I heard a woman in the Cancer Center waiting room today say to a man I assume was her father, “When I was 18, I thought I was immortal.” I thought the same thing, that I was immortal, at age 34, just before cancer flashed in front of my face and reminded me that I am not. And today, looking at the man I think was this woman’s father, I felt deep in my gut a sad realization that life passes by so quickly. I know this from watching Joey grow in no time from a chubby, cuddly baby into a long, lean five-year-old who is about to perform in a school musical this weekend. And from watching Danny, my second chubby, cuddly baby who asks each day, “Am I three now?” I tell him, “Not yet. In two months.” He asks, “Is it a long time?” and I tell him, “Yes, for you, it’s a long time,” all the while knowing that for me, two months is nothing but a just quick passage of time that will end with Danny’s third birthday and will make me long for the days when my babies were babies.

Life moves at a fast pace. I’m sure it did for this man in the waiting room. I heard him reminiscing about his younger days. I heard him say, “When I was the captain of a DC-3,” and he talked about flying planes and landing planes and airports. Today, this man is elderly. His skin is wrinkled; his posture is slumped. He looked fragile, and it made me sad to witness an image of aging, knowing this is what happens as time ticks on. And it made me sad to see him in the pink infusion chair, receiving treatment for an illness that is undoubtedly threatening the life that is already passing him by. But I am also inspired by this man who is fighting for those precious moments in life. He had no sadness about him. Perhaps with age comes a wisdom that the passing of time is an OK process, the way life is meant to be. And mortality comes with life (cancer or no cancer) and being reminded of it is not such a bad thing but a wake-up call to appreciate the teeny tiny moments that pass by so quickly. Like when Danny said to me last night at the dress rehearsal for Joey’s musical, “Mommy, you are pretty.” Or when I poured his cereal into a bowl the other day and he said, “Good job, Mommy!” So while I regret that my boys are growing so quickly and I am aging right along with them, I also would not trade these phenomena for anything. So when I have moments of sadness about mortality, I will focus on the gift of life that allows me to watch my babies grow up, however startling and swift the process may be.

I am thankful today for the glimpse of the man in the waiting room. I am thankful for the life I have with two little growing boys and one big boy who takes care of them while I receive my Herceptin treatment. And I am thankful for my Herceptin treatment and the fact that it is likely giving me more life than I may have had without it.

My heart

Posted on 3/13/2006 By

3 Comments

“In a small number of women, Herceptin alone or in combination with chemotherapy can lead to serious heart problems including ventricular dysfunction and congestive heart failure . . . Women considering Herceptin should have their heart function evaluated by a physician before beginning treatment. Once on Herceptin, women should be closely monitored for any heart problems that may occur.” (From: http://imaginis.com)

Today I had my heart monitored for Herceptin-related problems. I first had this done in July, prior to the start of treatment. I learned at that time that my heart was normal and healthy and strong. Today I learned that nothing has changed. My heart is still normal and healthy and strong. Herceptin has not affected my heart. From what I understand, if my heart has not suffered up to this point, it is likely that nothing will happen as a result of my next seven treatments. A victory. A relief. The good part of my day.

The not-so-good part of my day involved multiple attempts at effective discipline with my “spirited” Joey — attempts that leave me frustrated and angry and full of questions about how to best guide a five-year-old with such stubborn tendencies. Today Joey teased Danny, refused to listen to much of anything, talked back to me, laughed at me when I spoke firmly with him, slammed doors, and told me more than once, “Mommy, I am mad at you.” None of these behaviors is odd for Joey — they are sprinkled into many of our daily moments — but there were more of these moments today and they drove me to the edge of my emotional capacity.

And then I distracted Joey with arts and crafts. Joey said to me the other night, “Mommy, what do you know a lot about? Arts and crafts?” I told him, “yes, I guess I do.” This came right after he asked me to tell him a story about space — like his Daddy does every night before bed. I told him I really don’t know much about space. Arts and crafts I can handle, though. So I dug out two shoe boxes — one for Joey and one for me. We tipped the open shoe boxes so they faced us and we made three-dimensional type scenes. We cut and glued and taped and talked. Joey is still proud of the boat he made — complete with steering wheel — and the ocean he made from blue paper and the rocks he made with kidney beans and the fence he made with white ribbon. And I am still proud that for one hour, I was able to engage Joey is an activity that kept our threesome mostly calm and quiet and focused.

I am not sure that distraction is the best discipline method — but I’m not completely sure about any other method I’ve tried either. Distraction does work in the short term — it stops the behavior and allows us to start fresh with a new activity. I don’t know if it teaches anything, though. But I don’t know either if Joey is capable right now of learning the life-long lessons I want him to know. Sometimes I think, “the kid is five — he should know better.” Other times I think, “he is only five — maybe he can’t know better.” And so goes the dilemma of parenting. There is always a different perspective, another opinion, a new way of thinking. I think for now I will go with the philosophy that says, “Don’t try to fix everything — just get through it!”

So get through it I will. With my heart full of love for this guy who makes me both crazy and proud. With my heart that is healthy and normal and strong. Thank goodness for that.

Jacki Donaldson

In the spotlight

Posted on 3/6/2006 By

7 Comments

Danny

I don’t know whether or not the Cure by Design fashion show last night was a success — because I didn�’t get to see the show. I spent all my time behind the stage where I dressed and undressed, had make-up applied and touched up, mingled with the other models, ate snacks, and mostly did not partake in the free-flowing champagne that was offered to me every time I turned around.

This is what I do know: My family tells me that the show was great and touching and powerful. Some of them cried. Some took pictures and video. Some escorted little people outside when their attention spans faltered. All of them told me I did well (they have to say that!) and all of them report that many of the models did obviously partake in the champagne! Perhaps I should have too. Maybe the distractions would have been not so distracting.

I have never known the experience of standing on a stage and looking out into an audience. Now I know. The lights on the stage are bright. The lights in the audience are dark. The result: I could not see anything but total darkness when I looked into the crowd. I could hear people screaming and clapping and responding to me, but I could not see a thing. Combined with the arrows that were taped on the stage that I had to follow and the three stops and turns I had to make, I am sure I looked a bit like a deer caught in the headlights. I felt like one. I think I loosened up a bit on my second and third appearance on the stage (I modeled two different outfits and then had a grand finale moment too) but overall, I now know that I am not a spotlight type of person. Not without champagne anyway.

I also know that I will always remember this experience, not for the momentary discomfort it may have caused me, but for the life-long effect it will have on me. I will remember the 100 cancer survivors who walked with me on that stage and the individual stories of some of them. I will remember the children, some as young as two, some bald, and some with newly growing hair, who marched on stage with more courage than I will ever have. I will remember my family and friends in the audience who cheered for me. I will remember that I cried when I got home after the show. And I will remember that all money raised will help others with cancer so that they can one day showcase their survivorship on a bright stage with a dark audience.

I don’t know if I will do the show again. I do know that Danny has more of a knack for modeling than I do. And that’s why his picture appears here and not mine. I can’t compete with this guy, who incidentally was one of the little ones escorted outside to play by this fountain of water while I fumbled my way across the stage.

Jacki Donaldson

About God

Posted on 2/27/2006 By

7 Comments

Jacki and Joey

Joey talked to me about God tonight. I wrote what he told me, word for word. I stopped typing after a bit, and Joey kept talking. He was passionate and convincing and reluctantly concluded his sermon in order to brush his teeth and go to bed!

“God loves people more than birds. Two little boys went walking to find Jesus and they didn’t have any cars so they had to walk. They talked together and they saw Jesus in the church learning about God. And God made anything and everything, everything you see. God made your chair. God made everything, everything in your house.

God made a house upon the rocks
And the rocks came tumbling down
And the rain came up and the floods came down
And the rain came up and the floods came down
And the jiggly ark was jiggling on the ocean

So that’s when God sent the big ol’ flood.

The animals came by two by two
And they came by three by three
And then they came by four by four
Then they came by five by five
Then they came by six by six
And then the boat was in the waves
And the floods came up and the rain came down.
They sailed for 40 days.

God has a special thing for everyone to know which is God’s favorite thing to do. Every year God tells Noah to build a house for someone. So you don’t know this but Jesus comes down and you don’t see it but you notice there is more wood than you think. He made the picture. He made the blinds. He made the lamp. Just imagine if he didn’t bring us anything, there would be no earth. There would be no us. And we wouldn’t really know what we were doing. We would be dead. Our brains would be gone. We wouldn’t be living. Wouldn’t that be scary?

And here is one more thing: Jesus comes down and gives Santa the presents to give to the kids. God made the serpents. He made the bad guys. You know why? He is the best guy ever. He can do anything for you. He loves us. He said he is our best friend. He wants to give us fun and food. When we die, we go and have fun with him, with G.G. and Riley in Heaven.

Let there be light. Let there be fish. Let there be space. And then everything came. Let there be gators. Let there be sharks. And everything came.”

Note:

G.G. is Joey’s great grandma who died when Joey was 2 years old. Riley is Joey’s grandma’s dog who died when Joey was almost 4 years old. Right now, Joey is 5 years old.

The hours that follow

Posted on 2/22/2006 By

6 Comments

In the hours that follow each Herceptin treatment, I have a routine of sorts. Not a purposeful routine. Things just seem to fall into place the same way each time, making every third Wednesday afternoon strikingly similar to all the other third Wednesday afternoons.

I leave the infusion center when my treatment is complete, feeling no ill effects, and I walk to my car. As I drive home, I call John and the boys to tell them I’m on the road and will soon be home. I return home, get a running hug from Danny and a passing glance from Joey, and ask John promptly about what I missed during my 3-4 hour absence from the most important guys in my world. John usually tells me that they wandered in the outdoors or visited Home Depot or just played at home. I always want more details than I get — I want the play-by-play rendition of what I see every day but miss so much when I am away. But I settle for the basics. Do I really need to know, after all, who ate what and who said what and who was happy and who was sad? And could I, myself, accurately recall all this detail if asked? Probably not. So I jump back into the swing of things — which includes dinner and bath and book, an easy bedtime for Danny, and a not-so-easy bedtime for Joey. And then I tend to myself.

I get undressed for a shower and look for the first time since my infusion at the small round bandaid that covers the port that is buried underneath the skin on the right side of my chest. I peel the bandaid off and see the tiny red dot where the IV needle poked me, sat in my skin for a few hours, and then was pulled out. It no longer bleeds but it looks sore and irritated. It is not painful really — but it gives me a queasy feeling to look at it and this is the first tangible reminder of my treatment earlier in the day.

There is something about tending to my own medical needs that makes me queasy — like pulling off the bandaid and really thinking about this foreign item under my skin. I have felt like this when removing bandages after surgeries, when applying ointment to my own wounds, when merely considering the thought of giving myself an injection. And I feel this when I first go the bathroom after my Herceptin treatment. Herceptin has a unique odor and I can smell the drug as it exits my body. It repulses me — and is my second reminder of what occurred hours before this moment.

And then, perhaps because of a physical reaction to Herceptin but mostly due to a mental habit, I take one Zofran pill — to combat the nausea I begin to feel or think I feel. It’s all I need. I never go on to feel any nausea during the three weeks that follow treatment. Life continues on normally. I have normal happy thoughts and normal sad thoughts and thoughts about whether this drug is making me feel bloated (Joey told me tonight, “When I see this loose skin on your tummy, I think there’s another baby in there.”) and thoughts about new diets and health regimens I’d like to follow once my treatment ends.

I conclude my routine by writing this entry.

And then my night resumes like any other night. I get ready for bed. I relax. I call my mom. I talk with John. I watch TV. I mentally prepare for another day with two busy boys who will keep me completely and fully occupied for each day that follows until my next infusion takes place. And I do it all over again.

Jacki Donaldson

Excitement

Posted on 2/1/2006 By

6 Comments

Last week, Danny stood on the side rail of an empty Target shopping cart and pulled the red plastic and metal structure over. It knocked him to the floor and when I saw him, after being prompted by his screams, he was flat on his back with the cart balancing on his chest. Shoppers gasped and Target red shirts surrounded me, offering assistance and kindness. An ambulance and fire truck responded, just to be safe, and it was determined that Danny was just fine. He went home with a plastic fire hat, stickers, and a complimentary blue slushy from the Target staff. When I said to him later that day, “Danny, that was scary,” he said, “No, it was fun.”

Last week, Joey and Danny had their teeth cleaned. Going to the pediatric dentist is always exciting for me because my boys are perfect, well-adjusted, kind little men during their visits (they sometimes are not this way which is why dentist appointments are such special occasions). They get their teeth cleaned while I wait in the waiting room with no complaints, no cries for mommy, no problems. I get to read magazines and sit quietly and peacefully. When they march out to meet me, prizes and toothbrushes in hand, the dentist tells me they are so good and so cute and so sweet. And this time, the dentist also told me that Joey has two loose bottom teeth. Exciting! Especially for a boy who just turned five a few weeks ago. So each day we wiggle Joey’s loose teeth and wonder when they will fall out. We talk about the tooth fairy and what she might bring Joey. We are shocked by this milestone that just happened upon us.

And today, I had another Herceptin treatment. Not so exciting. I slept and am happy for the rest. And I am happy that for now, the excitement of Danny’s ambulance adventure and the thrill of Joey’s loose teeth outweigh the enormity of cancer treatment.

Jacki Donaldson

Baby boy

Posted on 1/2/2006 By

7 Comments

Jacki and Boys

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)

Run for life

Posted on 11/23/2005 By

4 Comments

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

Medicine & love

Posted on 10/8/2005 By

4 Comments

I have a card hanging on my refrigerator — it’s a card with a picture of roses and a pink breast cancer ribbon. It’s from my friend Nicole in Ohio — she sent me a beautiful bracelet in the mail the other day with this pretty card. Joey just noticed the card today. He looked at it and said, “Is this cancer?” I asked him what he meant and he replied, “Is this card cancer?” He must have recognized the pink ribbon which he has seen around our house and in the community too — especially since this is breast cancer awareness month. I told him the ribbon signifies cancer. And I asked him if he knows what cancer is. He said, “It’s medicine and love.” I think he’s right in a simple sort of way. For him, cancer translates into medicine. For almost a year now, he has been shuffled around during my endless doctor appointments. He sees my port and knows that’s where medicine goes. He saw me in the hospital connected to tubes full of medicine. He sees my pill case that sits on the kitchen counter. He knows medicine made my hair fall out.

And he knows cancer means love. How could he not? He’s seen people deliver meals and send flowers. He stood on the front porch with me when friends delivered my hand-made quilt and and he watched me open my new bracelet from Nicole.

The love is endless — as is the medicine. And Joey’s wisdom continues to amaze me. I never knew a 4-year-old could be so smart.

Jacki Donaldson

Patience

Posted on 9/25/2005 By

5 Comments

On Thursday, Joey received an award at school — for patience. He and four other children were presented with certificates — this happens once per month where one child from each class is awarded for a certain character trait. This month’s trait was patience, and all five winners were called to the front of the chapel at Abiding Savior Lutheran Church / Preschool where teachers presented the certificates and the director read aloud a special message for each person. Danny and I watched Joey standing proudly (and several feet taller than the other kids) next to his teacher and we listened as the director read, “Joey always waits patiently when it’s someone else’s turn to talk or do an activity. He is never pushy and he never complains.” The bible verse chosen for him was, “It is better to be patient than powerful; it is better to have self control than to conquer a city.” Proverbs 16:32.

This verse is perfect for Joey — it is completely him. And on the day I sat in the chapel, hearing it for the first time, I felt that this verse was somehow intended for me too. It seemed that the director was speaking to me — telling me to be patient with my new job, patient with the transitions in my life, patient with life in general. Maybe she was speaking to both of us — Joey for his patient character and me for the patience I need to embrace.

I have two favorite quotes that help guide me in life. One quote is, “Be kind. Everyone is fighting a battle.” The other is, “Be patient. Miracles happen every day.” How fitting.

Jacki Donaldson

My little soldier

Posted on 9/6/2005 By

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My Little Soldier.Danny listened to his teachers today like a little soldier. Today was his first day of school, and he accepted this new experience like a champ. I dropped him this afternoon in his class, and he took his teacher’s hand and never looked back. He marched onto the playground, in line with his new toddler friends, and he joined Joey and the big kids in the sand pit. He lined up at naptime, marched back inside, and rested on his mat with his favorite blankets, in a darkened room with lullaby music swirling around him. His teacher rubbed his back, he fell asleep, and he woke up to a snack of Oreo cookies and juice. After he gobbled up his snack, he said, “more bite for me.” His teacher told him maybe next time he could have more.

Danny will attend school two afternoons each week. I had not planned to send him to school so early in his life but I am beginning a new job at the preschool and Danny and Joey get to take part in the festivities while I work. I will work Wednesday and Thursday afternoons for now and will alternate working with the 2-3 year-olds (Danny’s group) and the 4-5 year-olds (Joey’s group). Today I was mostly with Joey’s group because I wanted to test Danny’s ability to go it alone. He conquered the task.

I considered asking about jobs at Joey’s preschool a few weeks ago. And I never did. But a sign appeared on the school door last week soliciting interest in working in the extended care program. I inquired about the opportunity and so did another mom. Neither of us want to work much so we will share each week. She will work three afternoons and I will work two. It’s perfect. I get to be productive, in a minimal way, and my kids get to play with other kids, for free. I get paid and Joey gets a discount on his tuition. He will still go three mornings per week for his Pre-K program — the afternoon play is just a bonus for him. And I think this is just what Danny wants. Each morning we take Joey to school, he says, “me school too.” He is in heaven, and his teachers today said he was right at home in his classroom.

It amazes me how different two kids from the same parents and the same household can be. Joey was clearly not ready for school until this year, at age four, and I am still sensitive about how this new experience affects his delicate personality. Danny, at age two, is a go-with-the flow kind of guy who takes to change easily and happily agrees with new routines. I am more like Joey. And I strive to be more like Danny. He is my little hero.

Jacki Donaldson

Boys with hats

Posted on 8/31/2005 By

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Herceptin. Herceptin. Herceptin. Herceptin.
Herceptin. Herceptin. Herceptin. Herceptin.

My hats were once so important to me. Now they are scattered all over the floor of my bedroom closet. Once my daily camouflage for what cancer had done to me, my hats are now toys. Joey and Danny play with them and toss them around and wear them — sometimes one at a time and sometimes they pile as many as they can on top of their little blond heads. The hats hold no real significance to them — they are just playthings and while Joey can recall that I wore them at one time, the emotion wrapped up in the pale blue sleep cap and the black Nike ballcap and the yellow bucket hat is lost on him. I consider this a blessing — that one day, he and Danny will likely have very little memory of this cancer adventure and that they may only remember what fun it was to wear so many hats.

Jacki Donaldson

Uncertainty

Posted on 8/3/2005 By

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I have been feeling tired for the past few days, so tired I can hardly hold my eyes open once afternoon rolls around. Worried that my blood counts may be off again, I went today to have a CBC (complete blood count). It was normal, even more normal than it was last time I was checked. My white blood count is 6.8 or 6,800 with the normal range falling between 4.0 (4,000) and 10.0 (10,000). So I am well. I told the nurse there must be some other reason for my extreme fatigue. She guessed that maybe I am pushing myself too hard. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s the double, sometimes triple workouts I’ve been doing each day. It’s not that I’m obsessed. I just have been feeling so strong lately that my usual workouts (walking 2.5 miles per day) seem like warm-ups. So I keep going. Or I walk again later in the day. And then I walk again on some days. I consider this my comeback, a return from illness and weakness. I’m alive. And I’m celebrating. But now maybe my body is telling me to slow down, to halt the celebration a bit. Or maybe it’s something entirely different that is making me so tired. Maybe it’s Joey.

Joey is the love of my life. And he is the one person who challenges me and tests me and zaps my mental reserves. He has always been a “spirited” child, a child with more of everything, more energy, more enthusiasm, more defiance, more tantrums, more outbursts, more whining (and more love and sweetness and kindness too). John and I have spent 4 years trying to determine how to best channel Joey’s energy, redirect his inappropriate behavior, and praise what he does well. We seem to always fall short. We’ve relied mostly on time-out and removal of privileges. Both work for short periods of time but there’s no long-term learning. So we’re trying something new. I am a bit uncertain about this approach but it’s apparently researched and seems to works with kids with severe to mild behavioral issues. My therapist armed me with packets of information on this technique. The basic philosophy is that behavior that is rewarded will be repeated and behavior that is ignored will eventually fade away. So when Joey shares with Danny or listens to what we say, we will reward him verbally and perhaps with a small token or favorite activity. When he whines and kicks and screams, we will not respond. We won’t make eye contact and we will focus our attention on something entirely different. We won’t ignore harmful or destructive behavior, but his annoying, bothersome behaviors will not receive attention. Research shows that we will see an increase in this poor behavior at first and then will see it decrease. Sounds simple enough. It always seems easy on paper. Then the moment arrives, we choke, and we fall back into our old routines.

Tonight we were out to dinner and Joey asked for candy once he had finished eating. Since he just had two cavities filled today, we said “no.” We should have told Joey “no” and then not said anything more. Move on. Talk about something else. I had already read about how to do this. But Joey kept asking and we kept saying “no.” We kept justifying our answer and telling him why he could not have candy. He persisted and we responded. We paid too much attention to his negative behavior. We need to do better. We need more practice.

Maybe tomorrow will be better. When I’m not so tired.

Jacki Donaldson

Hats off

Posted on 6/8/2005 By

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quilt.My hat is off. My wig is off. I am now a short-haired brunette and today I am confident. I went to a hair stylist this morning who colored my hair a bit — she added a bit of reddish brown to even out the color — and shaped it up around my ears and neck. She played with gels and pastes and tried to find something to give me texture and lift. Hairspray did the trick. And a blowdryer applied to the wet hairspray makes my really short hair stick up a bit. This makes me feel okay. I didn’t like the completely flat look but this new look is okay.

I unveiled my new style at Joey’s preschool when I picked him up. The reaction was positive. Joey said, “you don’t look any different.”

I feel different — with this new length and new color. But I feel free too — free from hats and wigs and cancer. Free to be my new self. Yeah.

Photo: My niece (Jordan) has more hair than I do.

Jacki Donaldson

Transition

Posted on 6/6/2005 By

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Joey is a champ. He went to preschool for the first time today — after 4 1/2 years of staying at home — and he did so well. He cried a bit when I said “goodbye” but the teachers told me he recovered and had a great day. He played indoors and on the playground, had circle time, made a lion out of a paper plate and construction paper, went to the chapel — where he said a guy named GOD talked to the kids — ate a snack, fed the classroom fish, went to the potty, and then gave me a big hug when I arrived to pick him up. Since we’ve been home, he’s told me about a boy named Zachary and how he helped clean up when the “clean-up song” was played. He got a sticker for being a good boy, and he told me how he really likes his teacher’s hair. He wonders how she’ll wear it the next time he sees her.

I think Joey will see his teacher again tomorrow. I had intended to send him to school on just Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays but I think the continuity of going each day may be a more solid start for him. Once he settles into his new routine, I can cut down on the days if necessary. This way, Joey will get to experience the theme of each day — bible day, craft day, water day, pizza day, and music day.

This transition for Joey — and me — has been in the making for quite some time. I thought it would be hard for me to see him go and I have long thought he would resist the whole notion of school. But today, I think we both were ready. Joey was confident and did well. And I was confident and did well. And for the first time in two years, Danny got hours of individual attention. Danny hopped up on Joey’s bed and snuggled all the stuffed puppies and alligators and dragons that Joey usually keeps to himself. Danny giggled and smiled and squealed with delight.

And we are delighted to have Joey home — to know he survived his first day of school and to witness his new excitement about this phase of his life.

Jacki Donaldson

Reaction

Posted on 6/3/2005 By

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The other day Joey emptied all of our video cassette tapes from their boxes. He made sure each box had an opening at its top and bottom and he slid the boxes on his arms and legs. Each arm and each leg had a display of about three boxes. He looked a bit like a robot, his arms and legs held firm by boxes. He shuffled when he walked and he created all sorts of stories about these boxes. Mostly, they were “protectors.” Like armor, maybe. He likes knights and swords lately so it makes sense.

Joey wore his boxes with me to the grocery store. He struggled into the van and managed to buckle himself into his car seat. When we arrived at the store and he was wobbling through the parking lot, he said, “Let’s see how many people look at me.” He knew people would look. He knew his attire was different and out-of-the-ordinary and he wondered what reaction he would get. And people did look. Some smiled and some had blank stares. Before long, Joey peeled his boxes off — he was starting to sweat — and walked through Publix as he usually does, asking for cookies and candy and balloons.

I wish it was easy for me to remove my wig and walk freely in public with my short, dark, and curling hair. Something makes me not ready. I know part of it is that I don’t love what I see when I look in the mirror. My whole appearance is different. I feel naked without my shoulder-length, blond hair. I wish I could see this time in my life as a new beginning, with a new look. But instead I feel self-conscious and hesitant to unveil what lies beneath my borrowed hair and hat.

I wish I was more like Joey. I wish I could walk into the grocery store, proud of my new hair and eager to test reactions. One day.

Jacki Donaldson

Pleasure

Posted on 5/28/2005 By

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Exercise brings me pleasure. I feel better when I exercise — like I’ve accomplished something that I know is good for my body and my soul. I like to sweat and see the accomplishment soak into my clothes. I like to take a shower and feel clean again. This practice motivates me, refreshes me, relaxes me. Exercise is the one constant I’d like in my life. I don’t always get it, though — at least on my terms. But then I have high expectations.

I bought a jog stroller recently. I had a grand plan to take Joey to preschool and then come home and walk the hills in my neighborhood with Danny in the stroller. He liked his cousin Jordan’s jog stroller and he sat peacefully in the cozy seat. So I bought him his very own, navy blue, cozy stroller. And he refuses to sit in it. He wiggles and whines and chants “wanna walk.” So plan B is to come home and walk on my treadmill — while Danny plays and I watch him. I am not sure what plan C will be.

This has been my saga for four years — ever since I became a mom and realized my time was no longer my own. I’m not good about exercising in the evening so my routine usually involves kids, during the day. And my routine has changed so many times. I once exercised while Joey napped. Then he stopped napping. Then I’d push him in a stroller. Sometimes he would cooperate and sometimes he would not. I tried going to a gym and leaving Joey in the child care area. He cried the entire time. For awhile after Danny was born, I would exercise while Joey played and Danny slept. And for a long time, I’d push them together in a double stroller. Now Joey is too big for the double stroller. And Danny doesn’t seem to like strollers at all.

Since cancer arrived in my life, exercise has not been a priority — I just could not physically do it. But for the the past two weeks, I have been walking while Danny naps and Joey watches a 30-minute library video. While he learns about snakes and alligators, I sweat and hope like crazy that I can finish before he becomes impatient. It works for now. But everything changes and this will not last forever.

I am not sure what my long-term exercise plan will be. I guess I have to think in the short term, lower my expectations, and try to do what I can each day. This is hard for me — I like a plan and a routine and somehow, motherhood (and cancer) don’t always allow for structure.

I just finished walking on my treadmill — 3 miles. Danny is napping and John and Joey are at the movies. That works — for today.

Jacki Donaldson

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