November blues

Tomorrow is Taxol treatment #7 of 12. If all goes well I should have my last chemotherapy treatment 2 days before Christmas. I wonder how many weeks after that until I start the recovery process. I'm tired of being fatigued. Taxol and alcohol don't mix; I miss wine, beer, and Irish whiskey. I like the taste and I like the buzz. Maybe I can take coffee, my other allowed drug of choice with maybe some heavy cream to Thanksgiving dinner, something a little on the decadent side.

Yesterday I ran to an old friend from my old church at the grocery store. She asked me where I was going for Thanksgiving dinner. I told her I would be going to my mother-in-law's house. We traditionally go there but this year it makes it especially easy for me and Mr D (when we have turkey at home Mr D usually cooks it). I said that I would be making last night's dinner though. I told her that my last chemo would be Christmas week and went on to tell her more about my breast cancer battle. She was honest with me and told me that I looked like I was in chemo and she had tears in her eyes. I don't know if they were for me or not. I told her that my oncologist held a lot of hope for my beating this thing. I hope that if her tears were for me that it comforted her.

I'm beyond tears. I know that I will live or I will die. Early this fall a member of that old church my friend and I attended died after losing her battle with cancer that came back. I see ten-year survivors and then I see J. Maybe I reminded L. about J. Maybe that is why L. was crying. I know my own battle with cancer transports me back to the deaths of my mother and father. Mom got sick in November 35 years ago and died 2 months later of pancreatic cancer. Dad lived 25 years longer and died at age 89 on a November day. The sky darkens, the leaves fall, and this November I am surrounded by nurses, doctors, and phlebotomists. I feel my lack of health and remember my mother and father surrounded by the same type of people. True, their prognoses were much different from mine. I have hope, right? Still, somehow my suffering brings me in communion with theirs. I have to remind myself that they are not suffering now, that they live with God now, but it doesn't negate the memories. The death is not the hard part, it's the dying.

I love roses

I love roses. They bring me hope. Rose bushes are feisty plants. I am not a great yard caretaker. One of the bushes that was planted before we moved here 30 years ago lives among the blackberries. It has been cut back to nothing and still returns with beautiful flowers. Here in Seattle if the weather has been mild it is not unusual to see roses in December. One of my favorite saints, St. Therese of Lisieux, said that she would "let fall a shower of roses" spending her heaven doing good on earth. There is something about a rose that reminds me of God's promises and his love. When I am down I go for a walk and see a rose and remember.

It's reading recommendation time again. My lack of energy has led to lots of time for reading books both on my Kindle 3G Wireless Reading Device, Free 3G + Wi-Fi, 6 (okay so mine's a Kindle 2) and at the library. I like reading both non-fiction and fiction.

Non-fiction:

• A great book that casts some doubt on current gender studies:

• Joy is not found in money, possessions, and high-powered careers.

Fiction:

• Read if you need to survive a science fiction universe. It's fiction, honest.

• Told from the point of view of a boy reared entirely in one room for the first 5 years of life.

• Spenser novels by Robert Parker. I consume these like potato chips which I would eat if my stomach would let me.
• You can't go wrong with Precious Raomtswe of the Number One Ladies Detective Agency. Take your mind off of your cares with a trip to Botswana.

Sit back, have a cup of coffee or tea and enjoy.

Beyond Words

Yesterday I felt well enough to go to mass. I usually go to the 11:30 am Sunday mass because I like to sleep later than the morning-people parishioners. It's usually a pretty quiet mass since the families with children for the most part attend the 5pm Saturday or 9am Sunday contemporary music masses. We have the organ and the traditional choir. This time the 11:30 was full of life. We had four baptisms, four new infants brought into the faith. We had a lot of kids counting the friends and families of the newly baptized making our normally sedate mass exciting.

Baptism is new birth in Christ. I don't remember my own baptism. My parents brought six week-old me to the font and I was reborn, marked with the cross of Christ. When we have baptisms at Holy Rosary I feel reborn. When the sponsors and parents make the baptismal vows for the babies we the assembly renew our own baptismal vows. We are sprinkled with the same Holy Water in which the babies were baptized. What a new beginning to the week!

Hazzard's back home

Hazzard is home. Mr. Dermody picked him up from the vet's yesterday evening. The lab work doesn't look good but for now, Hazzard does. I'm enjoying his company. He's eating and drinking and even popped outside for five minutes. It's a little chilly so I don't blame him for coming back in. He likes warm sunny days, so do I.

It's one day post chemo for me and it's not too bad. I'm fatigued but that gives me a great excuse to sit on the couch with Hazzard and Lady. They are all about relaxing.

I don't want to say good-bye to an old friend

Hazzard the cat

Here I am another two days before chemo. Life doesn't stop just because you have cancer. My sixteen year-old cat Hazzard is fighting kidney problems. I've talked about him before. He had one eye removed in January and has been doing pretty well for an elderly kitty since then. Just this last week he started failing so we dropped him off yesterday at the vet's for IV fluids. We are hoping to get him out of this crisis but we are also realistic. We'll find out tomorrow or Thursday what the verdict is. If it's Thursday, my husband will need to pick him up because I might not be feeling well enough.

I got to visit Hazzard at the clinic today. He loved being pet and being around me. I wanted him to know that we had not abandoned him. I also told him that I knew all about IV's. Whatever happens to him I want him be comfortable, the same thing I would want in his dilemma. You've heard about living in the moment? I was living in the moment but I was also living in Hazzard's kittenhood. We had to keep him separated from our adult cat Stormy who had Feline Leukemia Virus until Hazzard was fully immunized. He had to stay in a room in the basement with visits from us. Hazzard was so smart that he figured out how to escape via the ductwork. Take that Dermodys! As you can tell from his advanced age Hazzard never became infected. We have three younger cats from age 4-10. Hazzard has put up with them all as kittens with grace and aplomb. I know that he's led a rich and full kitty-life but it won't be any easier to say good-bye to him whether he dies this time or his during next health crisis. I love you Mr. Hazzafrazz.

The privilege of going to church

I'm able to make it to church every other week now. Right after chemo, I'm too nauseated and fatigued. It makes me appreciate going to mass more than ever. I miss weekly Eucharist and I miss my church friends.

Yesterday was my day to go to mass. I arrived in my pink scarf, a sign, a person with cancer who made it out of the house. I saw many people I haven't seen in months. One of our number, a woman in her eighties had injured herself in a fall and had a long rehabilitation. It was so good to see her. I had been afraid that for her this would be the fall that disabled her for life. Thank God it wasn't. Another woman had also been out for months with health problems. She was back. There were a couple of women behind me in the pew that I didn't recognize so I introduced myself. They were an adult daughter from Seattle and her mother from out of state. The mother noticed me as one of the afflicted and asked how I was doing. It turns out that she had fought a similar battle against breast cancer ten years ago and she is now fine. She asked me to repeat my name and told me that she would pray for me and that she really meant it. We talked about how important it is for us to have people praying for us. She said that she could feel the prayers of those who had prayed for her. I can't feel prayers but my heart knows that friends, family, and even strangers are praying for me giving me courage and hope.

The mass proceeds from Liturgy of the Word to Liturgy of the Eucharist. We pray the Eucharistic Prayer and we sing the communion procession song of the day. I walk forward realizing how privileged I am to receive Jesus. I eat the bread and drink the wine that are His Very Self. I go back to my pew and reflect on how Jesus is coursing through my body and that everyone in that communion procession is receiving Jesus as well. We are truly the Body of Christ and we are meant to be transformed.

How does Christ being infused in me transform me? What does it mean for my life? As a person with cancer it means that my cancer is not just about me. It is about my friends, family, co-workers, fellow parishioners, doctors, nurses, technicians, receptionists, and phlebotomists. All are affected by my diagnosis and all need love. I know that I can't take care of everyone's feelings; that's not my job. I need to be a calm presence when I can and receive the love and care of others when I can't, when I need someone to be a calm presence. I need to be transformed by Christ.