“An old friend, and a Rosary from a stranger…”
Tonight I went over to visit my sister and my mother for dinner. I’m finding I treasure every moment with family members and savor every word. It’s tough trying to maintain a conversation when your mind is preoccupied with an urgency regarding your future.
My husband is out of town attending a business meeting in Destin, Florida, and I’m glad he had an opportunity to get away, attend meetings, and get some rounds of golf in. He has been a rock through this journey, and without him, my wonderful sister, and tremendous friends, I could have easily burrowed into a hole and hid.
As I approach my impending radiation and chemotherapy, I’m bombarded with questions for myself. I find that I’m trying to avoid thinking about the results, the effects or anything related to my upcoming journey. I still haven’t googled a single thing regarding the chemo drugs I’ll be on, the effects of radiation, and anything regarding lung cancer and statistics. I’ve garnered what information I need to know from the Doctors, the Nurses and the few friends I’ve seeked advice from. I need to remember what the lovely school nurse at AHS, Janelle Carrigan told me: ‘This story is 100% yours” so disregard any information or statistics. Those of you who know me well know I’m a unique, goofy individual. I don’t know how things will evolve, but am hoping and praying my results are as pleasant, goofy and unique as I am. It would be a wonderful coordination and sweet surprise that’s par for the course for my existence!
A very dear friend of mine stopped by tonight. Teri Ramsey and I have been friends for over 30 years. She works at a funeral home in St. Joe and has been following my blog. She brought me a KU rock, an Angel of Hope, gifts from she and her sister, and the most special gift, a Rosary. What’s amazing is she had printed off my blog at work and a co-worker, Judy, happened upon it. I don’t know Judy. However, this tremendous woman read my blog and then excused herself. She returned and handed Teri a Medugorje Rosary to give to me. I felt blessed a complete stranger provided me with such a token of love and hope. When your life is in upheaval, your mind distressed, your body weak and your heart is broken, the smallest tokens provide smiles and happy thoughts.
I’ll end this blog with a sincere “Thank You” to all who have sent gifts, cards, plants, flowers ,food, gifts, e-mails, texts and Facebook messages. You know how much I appreciate and love each and everyone of you. At some point, you know I will reciprocate.
Love and Prayers,
Julie
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
"A popped IV, and The 8th Wonder of the World..."
“A popped IV, and the 8th wonder of the world”
Today was the day that they did the mapping, or simulation of the radiation treatment. The 8th wonder of the world, also known as my sister, Janie, accompanied me to the RAD/ONC center today at KU Med. I still have a tough time processing just a year ago everyone in my family who treaded those hallowed KUMC grounds was excited to see my nephew Michael flourish in his medical schooling. Now, we’re there for a life-altering situation. It creates the oddest sensation.
Once I got there, they started an IV and then I sat in the patient waiting room until a young man named Seth, and his med school trainee, Gabby came to get me. I plopped down on the table and they ran me through the CAT scan. They monitor your breathing, and I just simply started counting and controlling my breathing so it would be consistent. I remember looking at the top of the donut shaped monstrosity of a machine I was in the midst of, thinking how fabulous science was. That’s the science nerd in me that allows me to divert my attention away from my situation and process other information as a distraction. I had to lie prone on my back, with my hands gripping two bars above my head. Just imagine lying in bed, and having to have your hands touch the wall behind you. After a brief bit under the whirling motor, they yanked me back out of the giant “cheerio” and put dots under both armpits and on my sternum.
When you’re being mapped, you must remain still. I am still amazed how poised and calm I’ve been through all these tests. At any rate, when they put me back in and administered the IV dye, the motor started again. All of the sudden, I felt gooey, wet stuff on my left hand. My IV popped out, and all the liquid oozed down my hands. With a sense of urgency, I pondered if I should raise my head and tell them, as I never experienced the metallic taste that accompanies these tests, nor felt the warmth through my body. I wondered if this IV popping out would affect their tests and simulation. I finally, after a few seconds, decided to tell them and simply raised my head and said: “My IV popped out.” The radiation student Gabby came out and said the Doctor had seen what he needed to see, wiped up the messy goo, and told me we were almost through. She then proceeded to start marking me with the ink. I asked her if it was like acupuncture and she replied she didn’t know, but would assume so.
I’m finding I’m making myself get out of my house more often. At first, I just wanted to crawl into a hole and make this bad episode of a nightmare disappear. I had a board meeting at my local country club tonight and hadn’t planned to attend. However, about ten minutes prior to the meeting, I decided I needed to make myself go. I’m extremely passionate about golf; it’s my summer therapy. I had a tough time at first walking into the meeting. My dear friend and summer golfing partner Patty Flynn is our bookkeeper at the club, and it was difficult seeing her. I also had a tough time seeing Kathy, another golfing partner and board member. I was surprised I lasted as long as I could during the meeting. I sat through the entire meeting, gave input when I could, and avoided even talking about my situation until the end. Once I gave Patty my update, I suddenly found myself back in my nightmare, and exited the meeting early.
I start Radiation on Tuesday, March 17th, and am unsure when the chemo will begin, but will find that out in the next day or so. The sweetest oncology nurse, Vici, reminded me to wear my green that day. She has the most tender, sweet voice that reassures my frightened soul. When life gives you news that creates doubt and confusion regarding your future, you find comfort in the smallest, strangest things. It’s a different aspect towards life. I’ve always treasured life, and counted my blessings. Nowadays, I continue to see the positives and blessings in life. I just tend to cherish and ponder things a little longer.
I'm blessed I have tons of friends and family reaching out for me. It's helping me to stand tall again.
Love and Prayers,
Julie
Today was the day that they did the mapping, or simulation of the radiation treatment. The 8th wonder of the world, also known as my sister, Janie, accompanied me to the RAD/ONC center today at KU Med. I still have a tough time processing just a year ago everyone in my family who treaded those hallowed KUMC grounds was excited to see my nephew Michael flourish in his medical schooling. Now, we’re there for a life-altering situation. It creates the oddest sensation.
Once I got there, they started an IV and then I sat in the patient waiting room until a young man named Seth, and his med school trainee, Gabby came to get me. I plopped down on the table and they ran me through the CAT scan. They monitor your breathing, and I just simply started counting and controlling my breathing so it would be consistent. I remember looking at the top of the donut shaped monstrosity of a machine I was in the midst of, thinking how fabulous science was. That’s the science nerd in me that allows me to divert my attention away from my situation and process other information as a distraction. I had to lie prone on my back, with my hands gripping two bars above my head. Just imagine lying in bed, and having to have your hands touch the wall behind you. After a brief bit under the whirling motor, they yanked me back out of the giant “cheerio” and put dots under both armpits and on my sternum.
When you’re being mapped, you must remain still. I am still amazed how poised and calm I’ve been through all these tests. At any rate, when they put me back in and administered the IV dye, the motor started again. All of the sudden, I felt gooey, wet stuff on my left hand. My IV popped out, and all the liquid oozed down my hands. With a sense of urgency, I pondered if I should raise my head and tell them, as I never experienced the metallic taste that accompanies these tests, nor felt the warmth through my body. I wondered if this IV popping out would affect their tests and simulation. I finally, after a few seconds, decided to tell them and simply raised my head and said: “My IV popped out.” The radiation student Gabby came out and said the Doctor had seen what he needed to see, wiped up the messy goo, and told me we were almost through. She then proceeded to start marking me with the ink. I asked her if it was like acupuncture and she replied she didn’t know, but would assume so.
I’m finding I’m making myself get out of my house more often. At first, I just wanted to crawl into a hole and make this bad episode of a nightmare disappear. I had a board meeting at my local country club tonight and hadn’t planned to attend. However, about ten minutes prior to the meeting, I decided I needed to make myself go. I’m extremely passionate about golf; it’s my summer therapy. I had a tough time at first walking into the meeting. My dear friend and summer golfing partner Patty Flynn is our bookkeeper at the club, and it was difficult seeing her. I also had a tough time seeing Kathy, another golfing partner and board member. I was surprised I lasted as long as I could during the meeting. I sat through the entire meeting, gave input when I could, and avoided even talking about my situation until the end. Once I gave Patty my update, I suddenly found myself back in my nightmare, and exited the meeting early.
I start Radiation on Tuesday, March 17th, and am unsure when the chemo will begin, but will find that out in the next day or so. The sweetest oncology nurse, Vici, reminded me to wear my green that day. She has the most tender, sweet voice that reassures my frightened soul. When life gives you news that creates doubt and confusion regarding your future, you find comfort in the smallest, strangest things. It’s a different aspect towards life. I’ve always treasured life, and counted my blessings. Nowadays, I continue to see the positives and blessings in life. I just tend to cherish and ponder things a little longer.
I'm blessed I have tons of friends and family reaching out for me. It's helping me to stand tall again.
Love and Prayers,
Julie
Monday, March 9, 2009
"Two weeks ago today..."
“Two weeks ago today…”
Two weeks ago today, my world turned upside down. I vividly remember getting the phone call in my classroom. I repeated to the nurse on the line what she just informed me: "I needed to come up as soon as possible after school." I'm positive the fear was present in my face, and I saw my students and paraprofessionals faces as they watched my mind immediately begin processing and knowing that the news had to be bad or else there wouldn’t be such urgency.
The drive up to the Drs. Office took forever, and I remember debating on whether I should call my husband or not. I decided not to. I also was texting a friend, asking her to pray as I waited in the patient room. I was in the patient room all of maybe 3-5 minutes. When the Doctor pulled the chair up next to me, in close proximity, I remember saying: “It’s not good, is it?’ I remember the compassion in his face when he told me it was not. He explained a few things about the biggest tumor, and then sent me down the road to see the pulmonologist. I do remember asking him if I could call my husband. I simply told Wes “You need to come up to the Doctors office right now.”
Today, I was at the Doctors office at the exact same time as I was two weeks ago, and I thought to myself how time has changed in these two weeks. On a physical front, time has left my sleeping habits in disarray, my eating habits almost non-existent, and my motor skills a tad bit slower, as if I’m in a daze. On a mental front, time ekes by so slowly. I find it tough to be able to complete my KU college coursework, which, as someone who has always loved to write, is tough to process. Usually, I can whip out an assignment rather quickly once I get my organization outline processed, and pinpoint and sequence what I want to write and how I would organize my paper. Now, it takes longer. I’m working very hard to complete as much KU coursework as possible, as I know once the radiation and chemo begin, my fatigue levels are going to change.
Time also stands still in a sense when your world flips. I find myself taking the long way to work. I’ve always been a “fly by the seat of my pants, fast moving train” persona. Now, it makes me giggle out loud to see how patient of a driver I’ve become by accident of diagnosis of cancer. I’m moving in slow motion and want time to stand still. I’ve decided I’m a better driver now that I have cancer. Before diagnosis, I might have darted out in traffic if a car was of some distance from me. Now, I patiently wait for them to pass, and then go on my way. Cancer makes me a better driver. I move slower, more cautious and am alert to my surroundings.
It’s weird what dealing with a disease that affects your mortality does to you. On one hand, you become very reflective and introspective. You see the silver lining in life. You rationalize, empathize and equate things in a total different manner. You also question “Why?” What allowed this horrible curse to inflict my body so pervasively? Did I deserve it for smoking? Did my family history have anything to do with this? Can the medicines buy me more time? Will the daddy of all nodules shrink? Where's this going to end up? The questions bombard my inquisitive mind. It’s amazing the introspection that coincides with news like this. I’m still waiting to wake up from this nightmare. I’m feeling fleeting moments of normalcy, but more and more, I know the waters are going to get even choppier with medicine. I pray and hope I’m strong enough and youthful enough to battle all the wonderful new medicine they're armed to help me with. They're going to be aggressive, and I'll have to pull up my former college-athlete competitiveness too. Game on, Wayne...Game on, Garth...
Perform a random act of kindness today.
Love and Prayers,
Julie
Two weeks ago today, my world turned upside down. I vividly remember getting the phone call in my classroom. I repeated to the nurse on the line what she just informed me: "I needed to come up as soon as possible after school." I'm positive the fear was present in my face, and I saw my students and paraprofessionals faces as they watched my mind immediately begin processing and knowing that the news had to be bad or else there wouldn’t be such urgency.
The drive up to the Drs. Office took forever, and I remember debating on whether I should call my husband or not. I decided not to. I also was texting a friend, asking her to pray as I waited in the patient room. I was in the patient room all of maybe 3-5 minutes. When the Doctor pulled the chair up next to me, in close proximity, I remember saying: “It’s not good, is it?’ I remember the compassion in his face when he told me it was not. He explained a few things about the biggest tumor, and then sent me down the road to see the pulmonologist. I do remember asking him if I could call my husband. I simply told Wes “You need to come up to the Doctors office right now.”
Today, I was at the Doctors office at the exact same time as I was two weeks ago, and I thought to myself how time has changed in these two weeks. On a physical front, time has left my sleeping habits in disarray, my eating habits almost non-existent, and my motor skills a tad bit slower, as if I’m in a daze. On a mental front, time ekes by so slowly. I find it tough to be able to complete my KU college coursework, which, as someone who has always loved to write, is tough to process. Usually, I can whip out an assignment rather quickly once I get my organization outline processed, and pinpoint and sequence what I want to write and how I would organize my paper. Now, it takes longer. I’m working very hard to complete as much KU coursework as possible, as I know once the radiation and chemo begin, my fatigue levels are going to change.
Time also stands still in a sense when your world flips. I find myself taking the long way to work. I’ve always been a “fly by the seat of my pants, fast moving train” persona. Now, it makes me giggle out loud to see how patient of a driver I’ve become by accident of diagnosis of cancer. I’m moving in slow motion and want time to stand still. I’ve decided I’m a better driver now that I have cancer. Before diagnosis, I might have darted out in traffic if a car was of some distance from me. Now, I patiently wait for them to pass, and then go on my way. Cancer makes me a better driver. I move slower, more cautious and am alert to my surroundings.
It’s weird what dealing with a disease that affects your mortality does to you. On one hand, you become very reflective and introspective. You see the silver lining in life. You rationalize, empathize and equate things in a total different manner. You also question “Why?” What allowed this horrible curse to inflict my body so pervasively? Did I deserve it for smoking? Did my family history have anything to do with this? Can the medicines buy me more time? Will the daddy of all nodules shrink? Where's this going to end up? The questions bombard my inquisitive mind. It’s amazing the introspection that coincides with news like this. I’m still waiting to wake up from this nightmare. I’m feeling fleeting moments of normalcy, but more and more, I know the waters are going to get even choppier with medicine. I pray and hope I’m strong enough and youthful enough to battle all the wonderful new medicine they're armed to help me with. They're going to be aggressive, and I'll have to pull up my former college-athlete competitiveness too. Game on, Wayne...Game on, Garth...
Perform a random act of kindness today.
Love and Prayers,
Julie
Sunday, March 8, 2009
"A tough Mass, Stevie, and siblings..."
“A tough Mass, Stevie, and siblings…”
In the last three months, I’ve felt a void in my life. I returned to church, faithfully starting in early December. I never missed a week until my husband took me away to the Elms last weekend. I am a Catholic, and a prayerful individual, and very spiritual. I’ve had a few friends and family help prompt my way back to church, and I’m thankful that I’ve made the effort over the last several months. As one friend said: “Church is a good port in a storm.” While I’m not sure what type of storm is forecast, I find myself with an inner peace that I’ve made attempts to renew my faith. Mass today was very difficult, but also somewhat soothing.
Right now, I’m overwhelmed with all the thoughts, prayers, well wishes, hugs, smiles and all the gestures that have been bestowed upon me. While receiving news regarding cancer is devastating and nearly debilitating, it’s also presented itself with a comfort in that people express their heartfelt sorrow, enthusiasm, prayers, wishes and positive thoughts endlessly. It’s a blessing to know how much you mean to people. One person, in particular, is someone I’ve never met. His name is Stevie, and he’s one of my niece Sarah’s best friends. He’s enduring some rough waters in his own life, and I find it amazing that a teenager, who has a full platter regarding his mother’s health, is e-mailing me inspiration and hope. It makes me think of that saying: “Six degrees of separation..” Friends of friends or friends of family that inspire and pray for you truly adds comfort in the midst of turbulent times.
I saw my oldest brother Dave and his wife Martha today. It’s the first time I’ve seen them since the news. It was not easy, but hugs were huge, warm and comforting. I’ll end this brief blog with what my brother Tom reminded me of: He said many people go off to fight wars, and many come home stronger from the journey. I hope that’s true.
I’ve a wonderful family. I’ve a sister that I’ve always been very close to, and am growing even closer through this journey. Family and friends are a blessing in tough times, and I’m blessed to have such supportive family and friends.
Love and Prayers,
Julie
In the last three months, I’ve felt a void in my life. I returned to church, faithfully starting in early December. I never missed a week until my husband took me away to the Elms last weekend. I am a Catholic, and a prayerful individual, and very spiritual. I’ve had a few friends and family help prompt my way back to church, and I’m thankful that I’ve made the effort over the last several months. As one friend said: “Church is a good port in a storm.” While I’m not sure what type of storm is forecast, I find myself with an inner peace that I’ve made attempts to renew my faith. Mass today was very difficult, but also somewhat soothing.
Right now, I’m overwhelmed with all the thoughts, prayers, well wishes, hugs, smiles and all the gestures that have been bestowed upon me. While receiving news regarding cancer is devastating and nearly debilitating, it’s also presented itself with a comfort in that people express their heartfelt sorrow, enthusiasm, prayers, wishes and positive thoughts endlessly. It’s a blessing to know how much you mean to people. One person, in particular, is someone I’ve never met. His name is Stevie, and he’s one of my niece Sarah’s best friends. He’s enduring some rough waters in his own life, and I find it amazing that a teenager, who has a full platter regarding his mother’s health, is e-mailing me inspiration and hope. It makes me think of that saying: “Six degrees of separation..” Friends of friends or friends of family that inspire and pray for you truly adds comfort in the midst of turbulent times.
I saw my oldest brother Dave and his wife Martha today. It’s the first time I’ve seen them since the news. It was not easy, but hugs were huge, warm and comforting. I’ll end this brief blog with what my brother Tom reminded me of: He said many people go off to fight wars, and many come home stronger from the journey. I hope that’s true.
I’ve a wonderful family. I’ve a sister that I’ve always been very close to, and am growing even closer through this journey. Family and friends are a blessing in tough times, and I’m blessed to have such supportive family and friends.
Love and Prayers,
Julie
Saturday, March 7, 2009
"Normalcy..."
Tonight, my husband and mother-in-law went to my nieces wedding. I went over to my mothers house and had pizza with my mom and brother, Tom. I was surprised I had an appetite. I ate 4 pieces of pizza, 2 cookies and a big glass of milk. I'll admit in the last few weeks since being diagnosed, food has been repulsive, and I've lost a few pounds. I'm getting an appetite back, and I'm not sure if it's my plan of trying to help prepare my body for the chemo and radiation, or nervous eating. I almost have a gut ache I ate so much.
I had an hour of solitude at home after I left moms house as Wes and Geri (my mother-in-law), went to the wedding. I had time to reflect, looked up some of my KU coursework, and life was typical for a few, brief moments. It was a wonderful feeling. Even as I type this now, it's a simulation of my normal routine..being on the computer either doing KU coursework, listening to music, or playing on Facebook. It's a temporary feeling of normalcy, and I like it. I wish it was going to be permanent.
I know I'll go to sleep tonight and wake up tomorrow, still harboring the fears of having lung cancer. I keep trying to tell myself they can shrink the tumors, that medicine is progressing, and I'm such an odd, unique person that my case will indeed, be different. I've got a world renowned specialist spearheading the chemo. I've a good radiologist. I've got a team that's cutting edge, and I need to remember those "facts." I had a friend tell me to avoid reading the statistics of any type of cancer, as my story is 100% mine. I need to focus and keep those words in my mind at all times.
Love and Prayers,
Julie
I had an hour of solitude at home after I left moms house as Wes and Geri (my mother-in-law), went to the wedding. I had time to reflect, looked up some of my KU coursework, and life was typical for a few, brief moments. It was a wonderful feeling. Even as I type this now, it's a simulation of my normal routine..being on the computer either doing KU coursework, listening to music, or playing on Facebook. It's a temporary feeling of normalcy, and I like it. I wish it was going to be permanent.
I know I'll go to sleep tonight and wake up tomorrow, still harboring the fears of having lung cancer. I keep trying to tell myself they can shrink the tumors, that medicine is progressing, and I'm such an odd, unique person that my case will indeed, be different. I've got a world renowned specialist spearheading the chemo. I've a good radiologist. I've got a team that's cutting edge, and I need to remember those "facts." I had a friend tell me to avoid reading the statistics of any type of cancer, as my story is 100% mine. I need to focus and keep those words in my mind at all times.
Love and Prayers,
Julie
"Second by Second..."
My lovely husband termed this the best: "It doesn't go away." You go to bed with it at night, you wake up with it, and it is omniscient in our narrative of life right now. I had a beautiful surprise when I arrived home from KUMC yesterday--A beautiful poster made by the students at school hanging in the entryway to my kitchen. I'm known around the building to be a super KU fan, and of course the colorful Jayhawk and praying hands were very symbolic and meaningful to me.
I'm so glad Wes has his mother here with him right now. She's provided wonderful conversation and a great support to us both. Her granddaughter is getting married today, and I'm grateful they will have a diversion of happiness.
I've found comfort in talking about and channeling what information I seek. I've talked to several cancer survivors and take pleasure in hearing their inspirational stories. I wish this was a nightmare I could soon wake up from, but with one look at the bloodwork bruises I know the bruises do not lie.
I've found myself driving around to places that present solitude to me. The Missouri River has been a place I can garner some peace. I've also sat in the parking lot of my local country club several times looking at the golf course and reflecting. It's as if I'm searching for a safe haven. I'm unsure of my future, and am living not minute by minute, hour by hour or day by day, but rather second by second. It's tough what happens to the mind. I'm struggling with knowing I've always been a pretty funny, spontaneous and zany character that had the most tremendous zeal and zest for life. I'm struggling with the sadness that I'm not only processing, but what it's presenting to others. I've always hated to see others suffer and I truly hate that I'm the culprit of these loved ones suffering. It's an endless cycle.
Preoccupation is a good thing. I've pretty much painted the inside of my entire house in the past, as my husband hates to paint. We've had to have some construction done on my bathroom in the last week, and when I woke up this morning, my husband had already painted it. Oh the things I'll do to make him paint!! :-)
Keep the prayers and strength coming. I'll bounce back soon. Yea, you'll see the feisty lil Jules real soon. It's just gonna take a wee bit.
Love and Prayers,
Julie
I'm so glad Wes has his mother here with him right now. She's provided wonderful conversation and a great support to us both. Her granddaughter is getting married today, and I'm grateful they will have a diversion of happiness.
I've found comfort in talking about and channeling what information I seek. I've talked to several cancer survivors and take pleasure in hearing their inspirational stories. I wish this was a nightmare I could soon wake up from, but with one look at the bloodwork bruises I know the bruises do not lie.
I've found myself driving around to places that present solitude to me. The Missouri River has been a place I can garner some peace. I've also sat in the parking lot of my local country club several times looking at the golf course and reflecting. It's as if I'm searching for a safe haven. I'm unsure of my future, and am living not minute by minute, hour by hour or day by day, but rather second by second. It's tough what happens to the mind. I'm struggling with knowing I've always been a pretty funny, spontaneous and zany character that had the most tremendous zeal and zest for life. I'm struggling with the sadness that I'm not only processing, but what it's presenting to others. I've always hated to see others suffer and I truly hate that I'm the culprit of these loved ones suffering. It's an endless cycle.
Preoccupation is a good thing. I've pretty much painted the inside of my entire house in the past, as my husband hates to paint. We've had to have some construction done on my bathroom in the last week, and when I woke up this morning, my husband had already painted it. Oh the things I'll do to make him paint!! :-)
Keep the prayers and strength coming. I'll bounce back soon. Yea, you'll see the feisty lil Jules real soon. It's just gonna take a wee bit.
Love and Prayers,
Julie
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