Laura's Landing Place

In January, May 17th seemed so far off. And now, it's a few hours away. Tomorrow is the day I will become new. I will say bye bye to the God-given part of me that needs to be retired and removed, and will meet my new "breast" after tissue is taken from my lower abdomen and re-worked to create it. I put the word breast in quotes because the new one will never be a real breast, it can't possibly be. The real one is a miracle of life that worked hard to nurse two babies and help me give them the best start in life I could possibly give. The new one will be a miracle too, but of plastic surgery, and this one will also work hard, to keep me feeling and looking normal. Those babies? They are now ages 17 and 15, beautifully healthy, and one of them actually still remembers with a smile that amazing nursing bonding time between her and her Mamma. My daughter was late giver-upper of nursing, and I let it go on for longer than most people feel comfortable with. I was one

So, I'm happy to tell you: The "dirty dozen" is DONE!!! Yesterday was my final nasty taxol infusion, and it came just in time. Pretty soon I can start feeling better again and begin climbing out of this deep crater created by chemo.  At the moment, it is Friday night, and I'm still flying high and energetic from the steroids I got yesterday -  a little tease of feeling almost normal - and I want to take advantage of it before it wears off and I'm dumped back into the bunker for awhile. Which will be tomorrow sometime... The past 12 weeks, as the taxol has been cumulatively (presumably!) killing the rogue cells, it has of course caused some unwelcome casualties in it's wake. Like.... the dent in my couch. From my ass being on it for hours on end. And...I've become a CNN junkie, watching the most incredible reality show that chronicles the mess of this country politic, but I won't go there right now. (But O my God - whatever your politics might be, can

I'm experiencing the hardest part so far, I think. At this point I'm 8 treatments in, with 4 to go, and I definitely feel it. This is the slog. Very low energy, sleeping a lot, stomach problems, headaches and constant nosebleeds are my daily deal. And just like the oncologist predicted, the medication that causes a screeching halt in new cell production also kills things we'd rather have left be.... so what that really means is I've fallen straight off a steep cliff and slammed head first into sudden menopause. Well, maybe it was face-first, if all the zits are any indication. It ain't pretty, people. Even though I can't ignore what this body of mine is doing, I'm staying focused on the completion of this.  Something I've come to understand is that we are conditioned to be devastated by a breast cancer diagnosis, from our medical care providers to family and friends' reactions.  But it doesn't have to go that way, and I personally I reject that

When I had my check up with the medical oncologist 2 weeks ago, he seemed skeptical that I'd not fall apart when I lost my hair. "Even the toughest nut can have a hard time with it," he said. Dammit man, it's just hair, it'll grow back. I did hold on to it as long as I practically could, but when it got to the point of no disguise, and taking me an extra hour to get ready to go anywhere because it was fiercely falling out, I was done with it. Some people do it themselves, but I didn't. I went to see a stylist who specializes in working with people with hair loss. When she sat me in the chair, it was facing the mirror, and she asked me if I wanted to spin the chair so I didn't see it happening. NO WAY! I ABSOLUTELY WANT TO SEE THIS! I mean, when else in life would I ever shave my head? I MUST SEE this process! It was methodical, starting on the right side of my head at my temple, and zip zip, one strip gone.  As she worked her way from one side to the oth

I've been dropping my DNA all over town, little bits of me separated away, strand by strand. It began with just a few, and has become handfuls of hair, so that now I have to wear it tied up to keep from leaving a trail everywhere I go.  My formerly substantial ponytail has dwindled to less than half its original diameter. The hair that still remains gets sparser by the day, and I'm at the point now that it's time to just cut it off. I'm ready. I have an appointment to get that done this week. I remind myself that with each strand of hair that I lose, I get closer to finishing this treatment and closer to well. It's all part of the trip down into the tunnel.  I haven't reached the deepest part yet, but I can tell you the descent has been getting steeper lately. So many changes with this body of mine.... nothing unmanageable, just uncomfortable - stuffy nose, sensitive gums, hoarseness of voice, low appetite, stomach pains, easily winded, head fog, intense fat

When I learned that my cancer needed chemotherapy, I came to it with very strong ideas about how things were going to be: I will continue to work.  I will not allow this to dominate conversation. I will not feel sorry for myself. I will not complain. I will make sure my son and daughter are solid in their assurance that I'm fine and that I will be better than ever afterwards. And all that is well and good, except it didn't leave any wiggle room, it was too rigid. I realize now that I need more of a sliding scale, if for no other reason than to mitigate the guilt I feel when I'm not functioning at 100% and it affects others.  But I guess the biggest reason is that I need to acknowledge that this is a very unpredictable animal and I need to be prepared for that.  Because it doesn't matter how much research I do, or talking to others who've been through it, or having lived through it when it was my Dad - nothing could adequately prepare me to be in the center of this e