I owe the title of this blog to one of those who commented on Leroy's blog recently about the anxiety that scans can bring. . . . scanxiety. I knew exactly what she meant.
I wrote this brief "poem" below last Thursday, when I was laid low by pre-scanxiety. Today I am home again, after having my CT scan this morning and having blood drawn for testing. And of course I've looked at the CT pictures, and I can see the new "damned spot" in the abdominal wall, although (by my inexact measurements) it only seems to be 1/3 again larger (from 1.5 cm to 1.9 or so). And something is going on with my kidneys - one of them didn't light up in the contrast dye. I don't know what that means, but I don't like it. Sometime today, I'll talk to the surgeon, Dr. M, and see what his response is to the scan, and what he thinks about my kidney. Until then, I'm going to grade some papers (yes, I do give homework early in the semester!) and sit under the sunlamp for a while.
Am I anxious? Yes, unfortunately.
What is to be done with all of my anxiety?
It fills my body, from tense toes to aching neck and head.
I long for my lost, if false, immortality.
I weep for the body I could count on
To carry me through the day reliably,
To think the thoughts needing thinking,
To shoulder the walking, talking, opening, eating, being
Of daily life.
Where can I put my anxiety?
In my mind, I release it, over and over again,
But the body stores it against my will and
Suddenly I am laid low by tension in all of my body,
Making it impossible to go through my day as planned.
I weep for the body I have lost, already.
Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts
Monday, January 22, 2007
Saturday, December 30, 2006
A Medical Update - My Gallbladder Cancer
I haven't written much about my medical state since the "spot" was removed, and I've been waiting to have a little more information before posting. I also know that some of you, my good friends and family who read this regularly, keep track of my scheduled doctor appointments, so I wanted to describe what's up for January.
First, I'm having a "second opinion" (I think of it more as a consultation) at Dana Farber Cancer Institute in Boston on Friday, January 19. I think of it as a consultation because I don't doubt the diagnosis, although I know that pathologists can be wrong. Mostly, I want to talk with an oncologist who has worked more with gallbladder cancer, just to get a sense of his/her medical opinion about the course of my disease. Patty and I contacted a doctor friend who contacted a doctor colleague at Dana Farber earlier this month asking who is "expert" in this cancer there, or in the U.S. His response was that no one there, or in this country, is expert in gallbladder cancer. (Raising the question several friends have asked: "Is there an expert in gallbladder cancer outside the U.S? I don't have an answer.) Anyway, I've already had all of my records sent to them, and if they had a cancellation in the meantime, I may go for the appointment sooner.
Second, my next CT scan will be Monday, Jan. 22, with my oncologist appointment two days later, on Jan. 24. (Unfortunately for me, with post-scan anxiety, that's the soonest the new oncologist, Dr. J, is willing to see me post-scan.) At that appointment, we'll look at the whole picture and either he'll recommend that we begin treatment, or that we continue "watchful waiting." Of course, those of you who know me know that I'll be coming home that day with the scans, which I'll study on my computer to see what I can see, before the radiologist issues a report.
Third, we have been tracking my tumor marker (through a blood test called CA 19-9) more closely in the weeks since my last scan, largely because of the "spot" and the discovery that it was cancer. Some information about this blood test:
1. Not everyone with gallbladder cancer has this blood test register. Tia told me that her current reading is "3" despite her current mets, and the doctor simply said that the test is meaningless for her.
2. The numbers can get very high when someone is really sick. My numbers were all below 100 before November, I know of folks with readings in the 3,000-4,000 range who are not symptomatic, but have mets, and I have read of folks with readings in the 10,000 range who are very sick.
3. Anything below 37 is considered "normal."
4. My readings have been going up, but not awfully. Here they are:
Nov. 22 - 137
Dec. 4 - 182
Dec. 12 - 190
Dec. 27 - 212
When the oncologist called yesterday with the blood test results, he talked with Patty and I missed him on my cell phone, but he apparently pointed out that this last was about a 10% increase. I personally was hoping my numbers would go down following the removal of the "spot," but that doesn't seem to be happening.
What's next? That depends on the scan on Jan. 22, and how I feel. If the scan indicates visible spread, and my CA 19-9 numbers continue to climb, I will probably begin treatment. If the scan is clean once again, I continue to feel good, and the CA19-9 numbers haven't changed much, then I probably won't begin treatment. There are obviously other possibilities, but we can see what things look like on my next appointment.
On the discussion boards, I've been reading in the last seven months about others with this disease who go downhill rapidly. I see more clearly now why my doctors were apprehensive about our trip to the southwest last summer, three weeks after my surgery and diagnosis. Since gallbladder cancer frequently doesn't respond to chemo at all, I also see why my self-report on how I feel is a real indicator of what should be done medically. Knowing that makes me a little anxious when I don't feel good; then I have to remind myself that I had days when I just didn't feel good before my diagnosis of gallbladder cancer! But it also makes me anxious when I have any digestive drama, and in the last few weeks, I've had a weird sensation in my middle a handful of times that feels like something being constrained, moving through a narrow opening. It's different from indigestion, and it passes pretty quickly, but it makes me worry about my bypass, about the cancer spreading in some way that would interfere with the ability of my GI tract to do its job.
Aside from that anxiety, I am feeling good, with my energy consistent, my body feeling strong, and my spirits generally good. I have two and a half weeks before I'm back on campus (although I have preparation to do for the new semester), and I hope to do some fun, crafty things and to relax a little over that time.
First, I'm having a "second opinion" (I think of it more as a consultation) at Dana Farber Cancer Institute in Boston on Friday, January 19. I think of it as a consultation because I don't doubt the diagnosis, although I know that pathologists can be wrong. Mostly, I want to talk with an oncologist who has worked more with gallbladder cancer, just to get a sense of his/her medical opinion about the course of my disease. Patty and I contacted a doctor friend who contacted a doctor colleague at Dana Farber earlier this month asking who is "expert" in this cancer there, or in the U.S. His response was that no one there, or in this country, is expert in gallbladder cancer. (Raising the question several friends have asked: "Is there an expert in gallbladder cancer outside the U.S? I don't have an answer.) Anyway, I've already had all of my records sent to them, and if they had a cancellation in the meantime, I may go for the appointment sooner.
Second, my next CT scan will be Monday, Jan. 22, with my oncologist appointment two days later, on Jan. 24. (Unfortunately for me, with post-scan anxiety, that's the soonest the new oncologist, Dr. J, is willing to see me post-scan.) At that appointment, we'll look at the whole picture and either he'll recommend that we begin treatment, or that we continue "watchful waiting." Of course, those of you who know me know that I'll be coming home that day with the scans, which I'll study on my computer to see what I can see, before the radiologist issues a report.
Third, we have been tracking my tumor marker (through a blood test called CA 19-9) more closely in the weeks since my last scan, largely because of the "spot" and the discovery that it was cancer. Some information about this blood test:
1. Not everyone with gallbladder cancer has this blood test register. Tia told me that her current reading is "3" despite her current mets, and the doctor simply said that the test is meaningless for her.
2. The numbers can get very high when someone is really sick. My numbers were all below 100 before November, I know of folks with readings in the 3,000-4,000 range who are not symptomatic, but have mets, and I have read of folks with readings in the 10,000 range who are very sick.
3. Anything below 37 is considered "normal."
4. My readings have been going up, but not awfully. Here they are:
Nov. 22 - 137
Dec. 4 - 182
Dec. 12 - 190
Dec. 27 - 212
When the oncologist called yesterday with the blood test results, he talked with Patty and I missed him on my cell phone, but he apparently pointed out that this last was about a 10% increase. I personally was hoping my numbers would go down following the removal of the "spot," but that doesn't seem to be happening.
What's next? That depends on the scan on Jan. 22, and how I feel. If the scan indicates visible spread, and my CA 19-9 numbers continue to climb, I will probably begin treatment. If the scan is clean once again, I continue to feel good, and the CA19-9 numbers haven't changed much, then I probably won't begin treatment. There are obviously other possibilities, but we can see what things look like on my next appointment.
On the discussion boards, I've been reading in the last seven months about others with this disease who go downhill rapidly. I see more clearly now why my doctors were apprehensive about our trip to the southwest last summer, three weeks after my surgery and diagnosis. Since gallbladder cancer frequently doesn't respond to chemo at all, I also see why my self-report on how I feel is a real indicator of what should be done medically. Knowing that makes me a little anxious when I don't feel good; then I have to remind myself that I had days when I just didn't feel good before my diagnosis of gallbladder cancer! But it also makes me anxious when I have any digestive drama, and in the last few weeks, I've had a weird sensation in my middle a handful of times that feels like something being constrained, moving through a narrow opening. It's different from indigestion, and it passes pretty quickly, but it makes me worry about my bypass, about the cancer spreading in some way that would interfere with the ability of my GI tract to do its job.
Aside from that anxiety, I am feeling good, with my energy consistent, my body feeling strong, and my spirits generally good. I have two and a half weeks before I'm back on campus (although I have preparation to do for the new semester), and I hope to do some fun, crafty things and to relax a little over that time.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Feeling my anger and other feelings . . .
Over the past two and a half weeks, as I anticipated first the CT scan and its results, and then the removal of the pesky spot, I have been awash in feelings. Most of them have not been fun to be awash in, and I am looking forward to the possibility of other feelings coming up now that the "pesky spot" has been removed.
In the 1980s, I attended, and then helped to lead, a series of psycho-spiritual workshops called "Opening the Heart." We did many exercises at those workshops to help participants feel and release "stuck" feelings, feelings left over from past experiences, but not fully felt and released from the body. As I have been awash in my anger, sadness, and anxiety about my gallbladder cancer and the tests and appointments of recent weeks, I have been grateful for what I learned at Spring Hill (which was the name of the organization running the workshops in the 80s and 90s, but which has since closed). The Opening the Heart workshops were created by Robert and Judith Gass, and are sometimes still offered at the Omega Institute in New York.
That's the background for how I've tried to handle the anxiety, fear, anger, and sadness that have spent too much time in my body over these past few weeks. First, I felt a lot of anxiety about having the CT scan and learning whether or not there was sign of the spread of the cancer, meeting a new oncologist, and worrying about how much longer I'll live, and when the cancer will begin to spread. And I've been worried about the now-removed, annoying, changing, spot in my abdomen. I've written about the anxiety before in this blog (see September 15 especially). But some of these other feelings have gained a new intensity around the cancer diagnosis during the last few weeks.
I have been feeling anger, red hot anger at the cancer. Last Friday I was baking cookies for the church Christmas fair, and I realized I was feeling really mad at the cancer. Mad because I love baking cookies, and I want to be baking cookies for many years to come. If you don't know me, and don't know how much I love to bake, this probably sounds really strange, but it's true. Last summer after my diagnosis, my friend Maria kept asking me if I was mad yet, and I kept replying that I didn't see that there was anyone to get mad at. Well, now I'm mad at the cancer, as illogical as that might be. But then feelings aren't known for their logic, are they? . . .
I have also been feeling sadness about the cancer, sadness about some of the things I'm mad and anxious about. How dare the cancer threaten to end my life prematurely? I don't want to die now, to stop baking cookies, to stop teaching, to stop loving and parenting my kids and loving Patty and my friends. I am not ready to die! I resent how this disease has sabotaged my life, and changed the focus of how I live. I want my life back! Well, I guess I'm still more mad than sad, although I know the sadness is there, too.
Feelings, feelings about the cancer, feelings of being cheated and robbed and held hostage by wayward cells that have forgotten their true nature. Yes, I am having feelings, and mostly now I am mad!
In the 1980s, I attended, and then helped to lead, a series of psycho-spiritual workshops called "Opening the Heart." We did many exercises at those workshops to help participants feel and release "stuck" feelings, feelings left over from past experiences, but not fully felt and released from the body. As I have been awash in my anger, sadness, and anxiety about my gallbladder cancer and the tests and appointments of recent weeks, I have been grateful for what I learned at Spring Hill (which was the name of the organization running the workshops in the 80s and 90s, but which has since closed). The Opening the Heart workshops were created by Robert and Judith Gass, and are sometimes still offered at the Omega Institute in New York.
That's the background for how I've tried to handle the anxiety, fear, anger, and sadness that have spent too much time in my body over these past few weeks. First, I felt a lot of anxiety about having the CT scan and learning whether or not there was sign of the spread of the cancer, meeting a new oncologist, and worrying about how much longer I'll live, and when the cancer will begin to spread. And I've been worried about the now-removed, annoying, changing, spot in my abdomen. I've written about the anxiety before in this blog (see September 15 especially). But some of these other feelings have gained a new intensity around the cancer diagnosis during the last few weeks.
I have been feeling anger, red hot anger at the cancer. Last Friday I was baking cookies for the church Christmas fair, and I realized I was feeling really mad at the cancer. Mad because I love baking cookies, and I want to be baking cookies for many years to come. If you don't know me, and don't know how much I love to bake, this probably sounds really strange, but it's true. Last summer after my diagnosis, my friend Maria kept asking me if I was mad yet, and I kept replying that I didn't see that there was anyone to get mad at. Well, now I'm mad at the cancer, as illogical as that might be. But then feelings aren't known for their logic, are they? . . .
I have also been feeling sadness about the cancer, sadness about some of the things I'm mad and anxious about. How dare the cancer threaten to end my life prematurely? I don't want to die now, to stop baking cookies, to stop teaching, to stop loving and parenting my kids and loving Patty and my friends. I am not ready to die! I resent how this disease has sabotaged my life, and changed the focus of how I live. I want my life back! Well, I guess I'm still more mad than sad, although I know the sadness is there, too.
Feelings, feelings about the cancer, feelings of being cheated and robbed and held hostage by wayward cells that have forgotten their true nature. Yes, I am having feelings, and mostly now I am mad!
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
This Pesky Little Spot
Finally, I have news. After the news of my doctor visit last Wednesday, I didn't post over Thanksgiving weekend because I've been anxious to talk to the surgeon about removing the spot in my abdomen along my scar. I finally talked with Dr. M today, and he's going to do day surgery with local anesthesia next Monday, December 4.
The oncologist doesn't seem worried about this spot, the radiologist didn't even comment on it in his report, and I'm not sure that Dr. M is worried about it, either. But he gets that I'm worried, and he's going to remove it. On the CT scans from mid-November, there's a side view where the spot is really clear, and it's connected to two "bright lines" that make me wonder if they are blood vessels feeding the spot. I could be completely wrong, and I hope I am, but I am very clear that I want it out. I guess I've mentioned that!
In the last week, I've discovered a new blog, the "Assertive (Cancer) Patient." The author, Jeanne, has a wonderful way of encouraging cancer patients to be involved and assertive in their treatment. I've certainly discovered the importance of speaking up for myself, making sure I know what's going on, and also trusting my instincts. Jeanne's main page begins by noting that reasons to be assertive are:
* You will get better care.
* You will probably live longer.
* You will feel better about yourself and your illness.
So, whether I'm right or wrong to be worried about this "spot," I know I'll feel better once the surgery is over. And now that I have an appointment, I can think about other things. Like surviving/thriving six months post diagnosis! Like the plans Patty and I just made to go to the Virgin Islands in March for a winter break! Like living longer than my doctors ever imagined when they diagnosed me six months ago.
The oncologist doesn't seem worried about this spot, the radiologist didn't even comment on it in his report, and I'm not sure that Dr. M is worried about it, either. But he gets that I'm worried, and he's going to remove it. On the CT scans from mid-November, there's a side view where the spot is really clear, and it's connected to two "bright lines" that make me wonder if they are blood vessels feeding the spot. I could be completely wrong, and I hope I am, but I am very clear that I want it out. I guess I've mentioned that!
In the last week, I've discovered a new blog, the "Assertive (Cancer) Patient." The author, Jeanne, has a wonderful way of encouraging cancer patients to be involved and assertive in their treatment. I've certainly discovered the importance of speaking up for myself, making sure I know what's going on, and also trusting my instincts. Jeanne's main page begins by noting that reasons to be assertive are:
* You will get better care.
* You will probably live longer.
* You will feel better about yourself and your illness.
So, whether I'm right or wrong to be worried about this "spot," I know I'll feel better once the surgery is over. And now that I have an appointment, I can think about other things. Like surviving/thriving six months post diagnosis! Like the plans Patty and I just made to go to the Virgin Islands in March for a winter break! Like living longer than my doctors ever imagined when they diagnosed me six months ago.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Just Under the Surface
I lost it today. Had a phone call from the office manager for the new oncologist. (Did I mention that I HATE changing doctors?) It turns out that he is not willing to see me on the same day that I have the CT scan, and in fact, wants to wait until the radiology report on the scan is available. Yeeeks! That is at least three-four days . . . I've been feeling "normal" lately, feeling that I'm handling everything well, and the conversation with the new oncologist's assistant sent me into a tailspin.
So, my CT scan is still scheduled for Nov. 17, but I don't see the oncologist, Dr. J, until the following Wednesday, Nov. 22. That's right, the day before Thanksgiving. His assistant tried to schedule the appointment for the day after Thanksgiving, and I said I simply could not wait that long. "This may be my last Thanksgiving," I said to her. "I can't spend the day in total anxiety about the scan results." I haven't spoken with her before, and felt incredibly frustrated with the conversation, and with the fact that the folks in charge couldn't have coordinated the transition better. I have had the two appointments for at least a month; couldn't they have let me know sooner about the new plan? Couldn't they have let me know so that all of this wouldn't be happening just as Thanksgiving arrives?
For the last three weeks, I've been teaching, and advising students as they plan their courses for next semester. I've been talking with them about graduating next May, or December in a year, or even in four years. I've done it without thinking every single time that I hope I'm alive when this future event happens. I've been feeling good, feeling "normal" (in the new normal sense of the word), and then today I was right back in my fear and anxiety.
I've read in Leroy's blog and the blogs of others with cancer about the difficulty of waiting for test results. I experienced it myself last July when I had to wait a day and a half to talk with the oncologist after my CT, and I felt anxiety in my body like I had never, never experienced before. Then Dr. S (my former oncologist) said he could see me the same day, and that felt so much easier, more manageable. Now I'm back to the waiting, knowing already now, weeks away, that I'll need things to distract me from my anxiety about the test results.
So, all of this fear and anxiety under the surface. The new normal for me. Things seem so fine, feel good in so many ways, and then the uncertainty of my future jumps up again and smacks me in the face. And I want to say to all of you who love me and are reading this that I am feeling good. My energy is good, my body feels as if it continues, still, to heal from the surgery, but I can walk faster, longer, better than I could two months ago, and I don't get tired so fast. The little spot in my abdomen that I talked with the surgeon about a few weeks ago continues to trouble me at times, but I feel good.
It's just this pesky uncertainty, the not knowing, the not knowing what the cancer is doing. I continue to visualize the cancer dancing, skipping, flowing, moving with whatever locomotion it wants, to the beautiful sunset. What does the future hold? What wiil be the outcome of this next scan? I don't know.
So, my CT scan is still scheduled for Nov. 17, but I don't see the oncologist, Dr. J, until the following Wednesday, Nov. 22. That's right, the day before Thanksgiving. His assistant tried to schedule the appointment for the day after Thanksgiving, and I said I simply could not wait that long. "This may be my last Thanksgiving," I said to her. "I can't spend the day in total anxiety about the scan results." I haven't spoken with her before, and felt incredibly frustrated with the conversation, and with the fact that the folks in charge couldn't have coordinated the transition better. I have had the two appointments for at least a month; couldn't they have let me know sooner about the new plan? Couldn't they have let me know so that all of this wouldn't be happening just as Thanksgiving arrives?
For the last three weeks, I've been teaching, and advising students as they plan their courses for next semester. I've been talking with them about graduating next May, or December in a year, or even in four years. I've done it without thinking every single time that I hope I'm alive when this future event happens. I've been feeling good, feeling "normal" (in the new normal sense of the word), and then today I was right back in my fear and anxiety.
I've read in Leroy's blog and the blogs of others with cancer about the difficulty of waiting for test results. I experienced it myself last July when I had to wait a day and a half to talk with the oncologist after my CT, and I felt anxiety in my body like I had never, never experienced before. Then Dr. S (my former oncologist) said he could see me the same day, and that felt so much easier, more manageable. Now I'm back to the waiting, knowing already now, weeks away, that I'll need things to distract me from my anxiety about the test results.
So, all of this fear and anxiety under the surface. The new normal for me. Things seem so fine, feel good in so many ways, and then the uncertainty of my future jumps up again and smacks me in the face. And I want to say to all of you who love me and are reading this that I am feeling good. My energy is good, my body feels as if it continues, still, to heal from the surgery, but I can walk faster, longer, better than I could two months ago, and I don't get tired so fast. The little spot in my abdomen that I talked with the surgeon about a few weeks ago continues to trouble me at times, but I feel good.
It's just this pesky uncertainty, the not knowing, the not knowing what the cancer is doing. I continue to visualize the cancer dancing, skipping, flowing, moving with whatever locomotion it wants, to the beautiful sunset. What does the future hold? What wiil be the outcome of this next scan? I don't know.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
What, Me Worry?
What does a person with cancer worry about? Everything! Or, at least it seems that way. I started to call this entry "What do people with cancer worry about?" but I realized I can't speak for everyone. Well, I do know some of the things others with cancer worry about, because I read them online. Reading Leroy's blog, and comments there, reading the discussion boards of others with gallbladder or bile duct cancer (cholangiocarcinoma), I see that lots of folks are worried about their treatment not being effective, or, if in remission, that their cancer will come back. Many of us with cancer, and our friends and family members, are worrying about suffering, and about dying before our time. Those of us not currently having symptoms of our cancer worry about the symptoms returning. We worry about needing treatment.
I am definitely in that group, worrying and then trying not to worry about twinges in my abdomen, a small ache here, soreness there. Last week, I had indigestion for a few days, and it brought me back to the week before I was hospitalized last May. (I want to say now that I think, logically, that my indigestion was caused because I kept forgetting to take the Protonix prescribed by my doctors, the only drug I'm still on post surgery. Protonix is a "proton pump inhibitor" drug that inhibits the production of stomach acid, and keeps indigestion down.)
So, my indigestion story: Last May I was called to jury duty, and finally sat on a jury. At lunch on Monday, they set us loose, and I went down the street and, for lunch, bought a turkey sub which happened to come with tasty raw onions. Later, I had indigestion. Foolishly, on Tuesday I bought the same lunch, forgetting about the indigestion. Two days later, my urine changed color, and three days after that, my skin began to itch. So, my "story" about my blocked bile duct is that the final straw was caused by those raw onions! Obviously, the cancer had been growing for a while, and I don't "blame" those onions for my blocked bile duct, but the association is there for me. Once my bile duct was blocked, nothing tasted or sat quite right, and I had a rough week before going to the doctor's office. Having indigestion for two days last week reminded me of those days and brought up my fear about a repeat of the days before my hospitalization and then my surgery.
I worry about the future. I worry about teaching next fall, about staying well long enough to continue with my life, to see Lucy move into junior high school, and then high school, to see Nathaniel compete in gymnastics for many more years, to grow out the two front teeth he's lost, and develop into a young man.
I worry about getting a bad CT scan and then needing chemo. Then, I worry about the effects of the chemo, and I try not to worry, because I don't want to anticipate how my body will react. I worry about worrying, and then I try not to worry. Some days since my last clean scan, I have thought only occasionally about cancer, about having cancer, and some days I can't seem to think about anything else.
After I wrote the first part of this, I had a conversation with Patty about this Sunday's sermon. (Patty is a minister, so most weeks, she has a sermon to write for Sunday service.) Our conversation reminded me of the Serenity Prayer, one so central to Alcoholics Anonymous, and one which speaks to so many of us. I think it's what I need to remember when I worry.
God,
Grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
The Courage to change the things I can; and
The Wisdom to know the difference.
I can't change what's happened in my body, but I can change how I feel about it. And when I worry, I can recognize that what I worry about is out of my control, and release it. I also want to remind myself that my goal since my diagnosis has been to live in the moment. When I worry, I project into the future and let go of the present moment. Serenity. Leting go of worry about the future. Being in the moment.
I am definitely in that group, worrying and then trying not to worry about twinges in my abdomen, a small ache here, soreness there. Last week, I had indigestion for a few days, and it brought me back to the week before I was hospitalized last May. (I want to say now that I think, logically, that my indigestion was caused because I kept forgetting to take the Protonix prescribed by my doctors, the only drug I'm still on post surgery. Protonix is a "proton pump inhibitor" drug that inhibits the production of stomach acid, and keeps indigestion down.)
So, my indigestion story: Last May I was called to jury duty, and finally sat on a jury. At lunch on Monday, they set us loose, and I went down the street and, for lunch, bought a turkey sub which happened to come with tasty raw onions. Later, I had indigestion. Foolishly, on Tuesday I bought the same lunch, forgetting about the indigestion. Two days later, my urine changed color, and three days after that, my skin began to itch. So, my "story" about my blocked bile duct is that the final straw was caused by those raw onions! Obviously, the cancer had been growing for a while, and I don't "blame" those onions for my blocked bile duct, but the association is there for me. Once my bile duct was blocked, nothing tasted or sat quite right, and I had a rough week before going to the doctor's office. Having indigestion for two days last week reminded me of those days and brought up my fear about a repeat of the days before my hospitalization and then my surgery.
I worry about the future. I worry about teaching next fall, about staying well long enough to continue with my life, to see Lucy move into junior high school, and then high school, to see Nathaniel compete in gymnastics for many more years, to grow out the two front teeth he's lost, and develop into a young man.
I worry about getting a bad CT scan and then needing chemo. Then, I worry about the effects of the chemo, and I try not to worry, because I don't want to anticipate how my body will react. I worry about worrying, and then I try not to worry. Some days since my last clean scan, I have thought only occasionally about cancer, about having cancer, and some days I can't seem to think about anything else.
After I wrote the first part of this, I had a conversation with Patty about this Sunday's sermon. (Patty is a minister, so most weeks, she has a sermon to write for Sunday service.) Our conversation reminded me of the Serenity Prayer, one so central to Alcoholics Anonymous, and one which speaks to so many of us. I think it's what I need to remember when I worry.
God,
Grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
The Courage to change the things I can; and
The Wisdom to know the difference.
I can't change what's happened in my body, but I can change how I feel about it. And when I worry, I can recognize that what I worry about is out of my control, and release it. I also want to remind myself that my goal since my diagnosis has been to live in the moment. When I worry, I project into the future and let go of the present moment. Serenity. Leting go of worry about the future. Being in the moment.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Fear, Anxiety and Trepidation
Actually, I'm trying not to feel any of those things as my next CT scan approaches. Some of you know that I was originally scheduled for the next scan today, September 15. However, a few weeks ago, the oncologist's assistant called me to say that he would be out of the office today. I am rescheduled for the CT scan, followed quickly by an appointment with him, both early on Monday, Sept. 18. So, for those of you praying hard for me today, keep it up, and know that the test is still a few days away. And, for those of you watching and waiting, I promise to post something by the end of the day on Monday so that you will know what's in my near future, medically speaking.
Trying not to feel fear and anxiety, trying not to think about cancer, trying not to worry about whether or not the cancer has spread, and the CT scan will indicate that the time for chemo has arrived, is incredibly, impossibly difficult. Still, I'm working on it.
Work this week has been a good antidote to worry. Thinking about and teaching my classes, looking ahead to the next few weeks of material to cover, connecting with friends and colleagues in the city; all this has helped fill my mind so that I'm not thinking about cancer. I also devised a new routine for work weeks. On the night before I go to work, I am not reading any gallbladder discussion boards, not reading stories of the struggles of others with their chemo and with this disease, not reading any of the descriptions of gallbladder cancer. A simple discipline, but I felt that I slept better and greeted each day with a clearer mind.
And, I am trying not to suffer over my suffering. That phrase came back to me this afternoon, and I actually discovered its source by googling it. Turns out it's not from the Bible, not from a Buddhist teaching (although many of them are about suffering), but it is from the Book of Runes. Many years ago, as a spiritual discipline, I drew one rune each morning to focus my meditation and give me some words of wisdom as I began my day. It seems that Rune #21, Thurisaz - Gateway, is the source of this line. It reads: "When you are undergoing difficulties, remember: The quality of your passage depends upon your attitude and upon the clarity of your intention. Be certain that you are not suffering over your suffering."
Since this out-of-control situation began, I have been powerfully aware that the only thing I have control over is how I respond to this hand dealt. I see these lines as reminding me that, even as this weekend unfolds and I go for the test and appointment on Monday, how I anticipate and respond to what happens is up to me.
I don't know that I want to use a visualization presented earlier in the text about this rune, but it is intriguing to contemplate. "Visualize yourself standing before a gateway on a hilltop. Your entire life lies out behind you and below. Before you step through, pause and review the past: the learning and the joys, the victories and the sorrows - everything it took to bring you here. Observe it all, bless it all, release it all. For in letting go of the past you reclaim your power. Step through the gateway now."
Having written all of this, I feel as if I've come full circle. I hate having cancer. I hate feeling the fear, anxiety and trepidation, and then feeling I need to rein them in. I hate having the life circumstance that makes me face all of this. The things I used to fret about; relationship difficulties, completing all of the work I would commit to do, struggling to find time to exercise and eat well, the endless list that marks so many of our lives in this day and time, they all seem like such small things. I want my life back. The life I had before cancer.
Trying not to feel fear and anxiety, trying not to think about cancer, trying not to worry about whether or not the cancer has spread, and the CT scan will indicate that the time for chemo has arrived, is incredibly, impossibly difficult. Still, I'm working on it.
Work this week has been a good antidote to worry. Thinking about and teaching my classes, looking ahead to the next few weeks of material to cover, connecting with friends and colleagues in the city; all this has helped fill my mind so that I'm not thinking about cancer. I also devised a new routine for work weeks. On the night before I go to work, I am not reading any gallbladder discussion boards, not reading stories of the struggles of others with their chemo and with this disease, not reading any of the descriptions of gallbladder cancer. A simple discipline, but I felt that I slept better and greeted each day with a clearer mind.
And, I am trying not to suffer over my suffering. That phrase came back to me this afternoon, and I actually discovered its source by googling it. Turns out it's not from the Bible, not from a Buddhist teaching (although many of them are about suffering), but it is from the Book of Runes. Many years ago, as a spiritual discipline, I drew one rune each morning to focus my meditation and give me some words of wisdom as I began my day. It seems that Rune #21, Thurisaz - Gateway, is the source of this line. It reads: "When you are undergoing difficulties, remember: The quality of your passage depends upon your attitude and upon the clarity of your intention. Be certain that you are not suffering over your suffering."
Since this out-of-control situation began, I have been powerfully aware that the only thing I have control over is how I respond to this hand dealt. I see these lines as reminding me that, even as this weekend unfolds and I go for the test and appointment on Monday, how I anticipate and respond to what happens is up to me.
I don't know that I want to use a visualization presented earlier in the text about this rune, but it is intriguing to contemplate. "Visualize yourself standing before a gateway on a hilltop. Your entire life lies out behind you and below. Before you step through, pause and review the past: the learning and the joys, the victories and the sorrows - everything it took to bring you here. Observe it all, bless it all, release it all. For in letting go of the past you reclaim your power. Step through the gateway now."
Having written all of this, I feel as if I've come full circle. I hate having cancer. I hate feeling the fear, anxiety and trepidation, and then feeling I need to rein them in. I hate having the life circumstance that makes me face all of this. The things I used to fret about; relationship difficulties, completing all of the work I would commit to do, struggling to find time to exercise and eat well, the endless list that marks so many of our lives in this day and time, they all seem like such small things. I want my life back. The life I had before cancer.
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