Saying Goodbye to Melissa

Although I never met her, I prayed for Melissa Dockery every single day.  We both had breast cancer.  Just a week before I started treatment in the Fall of 2010, Melissa began treatment.  Our mutual friend, Anne, introduced us to each other via e-mail and Caring Bridge.  It shouldn't be this way, but Melissa died today.

My initial diagnosis was about the same as Melissa's, and we mostly e-mailed back and forth about our experiences with chemo and what was working for us to help with energy or nausea.  It was somewhat comforting to know another person going through similar treatment, and Melissa became a friend or a sort-of e-mail pen pal.

Within a couple of months, I learned our journeys were taking very different routes when they found Melissa also had esophageal cancer.

 As I continued and finished my breast cancer treatments, Melissa continued on with treatment after treatment for esophageal cancer which eventually took control of her body.  She kept such a positive attitude through it all.  In the midst of treatments, she traveled to New York City and also made a recent trip to San Diego with family, and she lived life to the fullest.   Melissa was smart, and as an ER doctor at UAMS, and she knew from her medical training that esophageal cancer was brutal and left no survivors.  She took advantage of the good times and focused on the people in her life, because she knew the most difficult times were ahead of her.

It has been a somber week for me as I have thought about Melissa and hospice, and it has taken me back to where we both were a year and a half ago.  I am very sad for Melissa's family, and I pray a peace that passes understanding for them as they deal with her loss.  I still say it just shouldn't happen this way when a person is still in the prime of working and living life.   But cancer isn't fair.

For the time that I knew you, I thank you for being the encourager that you were, Melissa.  You will be missed.

Just Us--Part of My New Normal

One of the fun parts of life with grown children is that Barry and I don't mind going off and doing things on our own.  We've actually taken several vacations without the girls, and we liked it!  This past Sunday, we went to church, had a nice lunch and then did a little shopping--just the two of us.  It was so pleasant with no one giving us their opinion, and it was amazing how easy it was to decide where to eat and where to shop!

As we went from place to place, I was struck with the realization of how good I felt.  I realized I am able to go and do without it taking a toll on me physically.  It's amazing!  Unless a person has been through chemo or radiation, I believe it is difficult to understand what it can do to disable you.  In the days following a dose of chemo, I can remember my legs literally shaking when I would stand for too long a period of time.  There were achy joints and bones that were relentless for days.  There was nausea, breathlessness, puffiness, racing thoughts, and just a feeling of being dog tired.  And yet, there was determination to get better and beat this thing.

And as time has gone by, I have gotten better and better and better, and now it's almost as if it was all just a very bad dream.  Oh, I know I will still have doctor's appointments every three months for a while to make sure the cancer hasn't crept back in, but I can't tell you how good it feels not to see a doctor each week, not to have blood work.

This realization hit me in the face as we were shopping, and I thought, "I feel good, and I'm not tired!"  I knew I wouldn't have to take a nap to recover from being out for the afternoon, and that felt wonderful.  I don't want to ever take for granted feeling good and being ABLE--I feel blessed to be out and about.  I am grateful for so many things.  Truly grateful.

I'm trying to get back to normal in other areas of my life that had to take a hiatus, but some things are slow upon returning to normal.  I need to lose weight, for instance, but that hasn't happened so far, and it will just be a topic for another day.  One area that I truly miss is singing in the church choir.  I haven't gone back to singing in the choir yet because I can't bear the thought of wearing a choir robe and having a stole up around my neck and then having hot flashes on Sunday mornings.  It's hot enough for me wearing short sleeves and sandals, and there truly might be a scene if I start throwing off my choir robe or other articles of clothing in the midst of a flash!

Since I've not been singing in a choir each week, my voice is not in as good a shape as it should be, and now we've promised to sing a duet at church in the next couple of weeks.  Barry and I practiced our duet this evening, and I could tell my voice wasn't as strong as it was before chemo.  I remember it being very weak during chemo, and I hated that.  I think it was inflammation, and I literally had difficulty speaking loudly without coughing.  Right now I believe the problem is lack of practice and lack of use.  After we finished going through the song a couple of times (and by then I was a little hoarse), I told Barry I was concerned about how I sounded.  He said, "Surely you know you sound good?"  I said, "I know I'm better than the average bear, but I just don't want to embarrass you."  And then he got me.  He said, "I'm never embarrassed by you.  When we sing together, we're like oxygen in air, we just go together."  Oh my.

Even though I'm feeling good these days, it may take me a while to get everything back to normal in my life, and I realize there are things that will have to be a "new" normal.  Regardless, I think I'll be just fine as long as I have my oxygen to help me!  Yes, I'm grateful, and I don't want to take anything for granted.

Easters and Deviled Eggs

I've always believed that every true Southern Belle needs a deviled egg plate and to know how to make deviled eggs.  I'm sure there are hundreds of recipes.  One of the local grocery stores where I live has a plate lunch, and last week one of the ladies behind the counter said to me, "And we have stuffed eggs today, too, Sweety."  Stuffed eggs?  I'd never heard them called that, but it works.

As Traci and I were talking tonight about deviled eggs and Easter things and the different ways people decorate and hide eggs, I was reminded of several Easters when my mom, my brothers and sisters and I would go to my grandparents' house when they lived in Heavener, Oklahoma.

My Papa was in charge of maintenance at Heavener High School,  and the three-bedroom home they lived in was right across the street from the school.  Once again, we all thought it was the coolest thing for them to live right on campus!  The house was situated on the edge of a field that was used for football parking, and the stadium loomed large in the distance.  I remember it being brand new at the time, but that was in the early 70's. 

One year, the City of Heavener had a community-wide Easter egg hunt on the Saturday before Easter, and my sister, Cheryl, who was maybe five or six at the time, found a prize egg!  She won a big, stuffed rabbit and even got her picture taken for the newspaper.  She was so very excited, and the rest of us were so very jealous.  Some weeks later, my Nanny and Papa mailed her a copy of the newspaper clipping showing this tow-headed little girl smiling shyly at the camera along with the other prize egg finders.

One Easter when I was in sixth grade, I saved up my money and bought some pierced earrings in the shape of white gold crosses.  My ears weren't pierced at the time, but I knew my Aunt Judy could do just about anything that had to do with cutting or fixing hair, and surely piercing ears wouldn't be an issue for her.  We went to Ben Franklin's and bought the largest needle they had (no kidding).  We numbed my ear with ice, and then Aunt Judy placed half of a potato behind my ear lobe and pierced both of my ears.  Yes, it hurt, but I was never so proud than to have those shiny crosses in my ears on Easter Sunday morning.

As to the deviled eggs, I remember us dying 12 dozen eggs one year.  There were a lot of us grandchildren, and it took quite a few eggs to fill our baskets.  After church that day as my Nanny, my mom and my aunts were finishing up on the lunch preparations, all of the kids hid and hunted eggs.  We had been at it for a while when I remember my Aunt Kaye Kaye coming out back to ask us for our cracked eggs.  We didn't want to give up the eggs, but they were needed for deviling in the kitchen.  As we looked through the baskets, some of the younger cousins cried to keep their broken eggs, but after some discussion and egg swapping, the crew reluctantly gave up our cracked eggs.  After all, they were difficult to hide without getting grass stuck in them.

My Traci can't believe we used eggs that had been on the ground, that had been cracked open and that had been out of refrigeration for hours.  But we did, and I lived to tell about it.  I don't remember any of us getting sick from the double use of the Easter eggs either.  My family was just being resourceful.  Granted, many of the eggs were tossed out, but the better ones found their way onto the lunch menu.

It's funny, but one thing I do remember seeing was a little bit of Easter egg dye every now and then on the whites of the eggs on the deviled egg plate. I ate around that part.

Nanny & Papa

Whenever my grandparents would call me during college or after I was married, they always had a slight inflection in their voices--a special tenderness when they said my name.  My Papa would just say, Vicki, but he would say it as if he were talking to a little girl.  Perhaps he saw me as the same little girl he had seen grow up from a baby.  My Nanny would call me, Vicki Ann, and she would also have a different pitch to her voice when she said my name.  Just thinking about their voices right now brings tears to my eyes because I feel transformed to the little girl they were seeing in their minds' eye.  My Papa has been gone now for more than a dozen years, and today is the day my Nanny died.  She was nearly 86.

Nanny was only 15 when she married Papa, a mere child bride--at least that's what she always called herself.  She had my mother when she was 16, and then my mother had me at 19.  Nanny was a 35-year-old grandmother and was much too young to be called a "Granny" or a "Grandma", but the name "Nanny" seemed appropriate for her, and that's what I called her as the first grandbaby.

I almost feel as if I grew up with her in some ways.  I remember her being a hard worker who didn't mind getting her hands dirty.  My grandparents ran a country store/gas station during my early childhood, and the store was near a railroad crossing where trains would switch cars.  I remember the haunting sounds of train whistles blowing at night and the clanking of the cars hitting each other as they were disconnected and reconnected.  I also remember seeing hobos sleeping propped up against the gas pumps occasionally, and Nanny would tell us to stay away from them.  But she'd send Papa out with some biscuits or some other type of food to make sure they didn't go away hungry.

Nanny's parents died fairly young of TB, and she quit school in 8th grade.  She got her GED years later after her children were grown.  While she lived in Oklahoma, she went to then Carl Albert Junior College to get every college credit hour she could.  I remember her working for Head Start as a cook and a driver, and she took a few of us grandkids with her at times (This was before privacy and seatbelt laws.)  I remember her driving a white station wagon with the back end of it chock full of children.  She flew over those dirt roads, and I recall the smell of the dust as it came through the car's open windows.  She also did a good job cooking at Head Start, but I remember the car rides the most.  Perhaps she put the fear of God in me with her driving?

She cooked for church camp, too, and I was proud that my grandmother could cook for all of the campers from the church.  That takes preparation and talent.

When I was in junior high, she and Papa moved back to Arkansas to work at the School For the Blind in Little Rock, and I helped them move into their apartment on the school grounds.  I thought it was so cool that they lived right there on campus.  Papa was in charge of maintenance for the school, and Nanny started out as a house parent.  She eventually got her Master's degree at UALR and had her certification in teaching the blind.  She taught at the school for many years before retiring.

I remember going to visit them in Little Rock on many occasions to sing at their little church, and Papa would take my car each time and fill it with gas, and at least one time I remember finding some extra spending money in the middle of my Bible when I got back to college.  They loved me.  When boom boxes first came out, Papa bought one that I swear was about three feet long, and at a special concert when I was in junior high, he propped that thing up on a seat in the front row just so he could get a better recording of me singing.  I think he still had the same boom box when he recorded me singing in college! 

Nanny and I USED to be the same height (5'7"), but she had scoliosis issues and eventually had to have a rod placed in her back.  Eventually the rod was removed, and she began to shrink, so she was a tiny, short person as she aged.  We also wore the same size shoe, but Nanny had bunions, and I can't tell you how many really nice pairs of shoes I inherited that were only worn once or twice.  She liked cute shoes, but cute wasn't always comfortable.  I've often told Barry that if there is anyone I was most like in the world, it was my Nanny.  I favor her and my build is very much how hers was some years ago.

My grandparents had to endure the loss of two of their daughters to cancer--one to liver cancer and one to uterine cancer.  It wasn't fair for their girls to be taken from them at 40 and 45, but cancer isn't fair, and it doesn't care about the age of its victims.  I know when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, it broke my Nanny's heart.  I believe she saw it as another death sentence for someone she loved.  My mother and my aunt faithfully printed off my CaringBridge posts for her and put them in a notebook so she could see how I was doing on a regular basis.  If I didn't give an update often enough, I got a phone call about it.

Both of my grandparents showed love for their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren by "doing" for them whenever they could, and they DID for all of us as often as their bodies, their time and their money would permit.  Honesty and integrity were important qualities to both of them, and they were so proud of all of us.  And in turn, I'm proud to have been their granddaughter.

Today I am thankful that Nanny, the child bride, is once again with my Papa, her Prince Charming.  And I know I'll see them again someday in Heaven.

Imps and Rubber Snakes

Anyone who knows my husband, knows that he can be a bit impish.  I'm not sure if it's because he works with young kids or if it's just his nature (I feel it's the latter), but I often accuse him of acting like a 5th grader.  No offense intended to any 5th graders, but you do hope they grow up and out of it.

When we were in Gulf Shores last weekend, we had no specific agenda other than lazing around, enjoying the beach and the ocean and of course, eating great seafood.  We hadn't been to Souvenir City in several  years, so after dinner one night, we decided to wander through the store.

We stopped right inside the shark's mouth to get a photo of Barry and his mom, and I sent the picture to our girls since this has always been a fun place for them since they were very young when we would go there on vacations.

We walked up and down the aisles, and we actually found  a few items of interest.  This place has everything a person can imagine that could be made out of a seashell or a coconut husk.  In addition to the treasures from the sea, there are t-shirts, trendy sandals, postcards, logo coffee mugs, toys and prank items--you name it.

At one point, I noticed a young mother following a boy of about three or four, and he was wreaking havoc with the things within arm's reach on the shelves.  Although his mom walked behind to try and corral him, it was easy to see the boy was in control.  We rounded a corner with Barry ahead of me but just behind the boy and his mother.   I noticed several items on the floor that the boy had played with and dropped, and I had actually picked up a few things to return them to the shelves.

About this time was when Barry and I heard a loud, "Barry Dean!  Did you do this?"  We turned around and saw Barry's mom holding her chest and looking down at a rubber snake on the floor at her feet.  Of course she thought he did it.  Made sense to me.   I had already blamed him a few minutes earlier when the same young boy "lost his manners" just ahead of us.  Could have been Barry, but he swears it wasn't.

I'm sure it was the little boy.

Strength and a Clear Scan

Good news first--my PET scan came back clear! Unless you've had cancer or taken care of someone with cancer, this may not mean as much to you, but it means the world to me and my family. I was able to get my scan on Wednesday morning, and then I drove over to Methodist Hospital to pick up the CD of the scan so that Dr. Peacock could look at it along with the report on Thursday morning.

I didn't sleep well the night before the scan, and knowing that I couldn't have anything to eat beforehand, I kept dreaming I was eating candy through the night, of all things! I'm not even a candy eater, and it made me very nervous in my dreams that I kept eating something I wasn't supposed to have. I didn't sleep well the night before my office visit, but I did dream that I got good news.

When I got to the cancer center yesterday, I noticed a Relay for Life sign on the wall with my name that some sweet ladies who work there had purchased. Very sweet. My brain was thinking, "I wonder if they put up the sign just to try to make me feel better?" Crazy, I know, but that's how my mind works.

While I was waiting for Dr. Peacock, his assistant took my vitals and then left. After a bit she came back in and told me the doctor wanted me to put on a gown. I said, "Well crap. That doesn't sound good. He just examined me last week." I reluctantly took off my shirt and bra and donned the gown, wondering what the doctor was looking for. When he came in the room, I know my heart was racing, and he began to explain the test results to me.

One of the things I have always appreciated about Dr. Peacock is that he never talks down to me. As the medical terms rolled off his tongue, my cloudy brain tried to decipher if he was saying "yes" or "no" to any additional cancer. While he talked, he looked at the scar on my breast and then again at the scars under my arm where my lymph nodes were removed, and he seemed satisfied. I finally said, "So there is no evidence of cancer?" And he said no, that the PET scan showed thickening of the scar line, and he was 100% sure it was as a result of my radiation treatments. Whew! Was that all? I'll take a thickened scar any day!

He didn't know exactly why my tumor markers were elevated, but it could be due to inflammation of some kind. Losing weight and eating bright veggies and more whole grains ought to help with that, and you should see the world of color I just bought at the grocery store!

One of the things I didn't want to Dr. Peacock to see (as he has lectured me about skin protection while out in the sun) was a strip of sunburn on my arm where I missed with the sunscreen last weekend. I didn't figure he'd examine me again, so when he had me put on the gown, he saw the skin peeling on my arm and of course he asked me about it. Busted. But I promised him I tried to cover up and that most of me got slathered with 100 SPF!

It's been a whirlwind week of fear, anxiety, relief and now elation. I've been given another shot in the arm of that feeling where you don't want to take things for granted ever again.

And tonight, Traci took Barry and me to dinner to one of our favorite places, The Bourbon Street Grill. Our regular waitress is Mary, a black girl who went to school with Traci and who has three kiddos. We enjoy having her wait on us, and we ask for her whenever we eat there. She knows about my cancer journey, and we've gone to the restaurant to celebrate on several occations. Mary asked me how I was doing, and I told her about my good news this past week. She hugged my neck and said, "You might think this is weird, but I think about you sometimes, and I wonder how you're doing." She said she feels as if she knows us better than most of her other customers. This was about the sweetest thing she could have said to me. I thanked her for thinking about me, and I asked her that whenever I come to mind like that for her to please just say a little prayer for me. She said she would.

The cirlce of life is tough, and it doesn't always follow along with our plans. I didn't expect cancer to interrupt my life at age 49 and to follow on my heels as it's done. I'm sure I'll be guarding against more cancer for the rest of my life, however long that might be. My grandmother, my sweet Nanny, is in the hospital right now in Little Rock, and she's in extremely critical condition following surgery on Wednesday. She's lived a long, sometimes hard, but a very good life, and she will be 86 next month. I was her first grandchild, and she was just 34 when I was born. I have many fond memories of her, and if there is anyone in the world who I am most like, it's her. She was always a strong woman.

I'm strong, too, and I am one fortunate gal, and I know it.

Elevated Tumor Markers

I have two friends in hospice care right now, and I feel a bit self-absorbed even writing about my slightly elevated tumor markers. I saw the radiation oncologist last week, and I had a great report. My blood pressure was good, I felt good and I was glad to be finished with another doctor's visit. The next day I saw my regular oncologist. Blood was drawn for my CBC, my complete metabolic panel and my tumor markers. The CBC was done right away, and the numbers were all good. The CMP came back on Thursday morning, and those numbers were also good.

The results on the tumor markers take a bit longer as they take the blood and mix an antibody with it to see how it reacts. Those results came back on Thursday afternoon, and they were up from last time, so the doctor was setting up a PET scan to check for more cancer. I wasn't expecting this news, and we had just arrived at the beach for our mini-vacation that Barry won last summer in a Facebook Contest about Gulf Shores. We stood in the parking lot of the condo, and Barry held me as I cried. I couldn't shake the sadness, and I literally wept for two hours. I even texted Traci and Kelsey the results because I knew I couldn't talk to them without crying. It was tough.

After hearing from my prayer circles, I started feeling better. I knew there was nothing I could do about the situation while I was at the beach, so I put on my PMA (positive mental attitude) and enjoyed the rest of the trip. It also helped that I saw dolphins swimming by each day. Who wouldn't have a good attitude when they see that?

For the technical explanation of my tumor markers, when I finished chemo last March, my numbers were at 35.5. Normal is 38 or below. A few weeks after my last chemo, my numbers rose to 39, and that's why Dr. Obaji sent me for a PET scan in May. The scan was clear, so my higher numbers didn't mean anything at the time.

At my next visit, my numbers were in the mid-30s, and then in November, my tumor markers were at 37.5--creeping back up. Last week, they were 40.2, so I'm on my way to get a new PET scan this week. Once again, you can think you've escaped from the clutches of cancer, but it will find you if only to freak you out for a week or so until you know what the heck is happening inside your body. Although time is moving, it is standing still for me as I ponder the what ifs.

And in all honesty, my life has resumed a normal ebb and flow over the past months, and I like it. There are things I want to do and that I will do, but it's almost as if a limiter has been placed on me until I hear the results of the scan.

My friend, Tracy, described me this week to another cancer survivor, and she said, "Vicki's the kind of person who is an over-achiever, someone who has to have the highest score on everything. It's probably the same way with her tumor markers!" I'm hoping she's right. (Although I don't know if this is how I would describe me, lol.)

I do know that I'm going to be okay on this journey. I'm sitting here thinking about my friends in hospice, and I'm praying for their comfort and for their freedom from fear. I'm praying for their families, too.

Cancer really bites and it is no respecter of persons, and I don't like it disrespecting me or my friends and family. Please pray that I have a good PET scan and that cancer will leave me alone. Forever!