The mysterious lump on the other side has completely disappeared - no trace of it on MRI. I am now officially out of treatment. Next appointment in July, then in October and every three months after that for 2 years, then every 6 months for 5 years. After that, annually for another 5 years and then, if I'm still around, they will finally kick me out of the clinic. Hurrah! Or as my oncologist says, 'Watch and wait'....
Party on I say...
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Parachute parenting
Before all this started I sometimes, I admit, used to look at my children and think I wasn't doing too bad a job. 'Polite and friendly' I'd have them repeat before they went to other people's houses. Now I'm lucky, make that very lucky, to get an either or.
The other day I sat and looked at them as the four of us (me, Emily, Luc and the au pair) had dinner and realised that they are slipping out from my hands, out of my control. The boundaries have become so blurred in our new family unit that no one knows what they are supposed to do, or be, any more. Loose cannon Luc deliberately goes out of his way to say things to shock or irritate whoever is closest to him and moody Mimi has a line in back chat that is seriously grating. I just about have the energy to perform basic tasks again - such as getting dressed, and even going to the office to answer the phone and print out wine lists - but have nowhere near the energy required to provide, consistent, 'firm but loving' parenting. Their role models for the last 9 months have been a largely absent father, a horizontal mother, and a 24 year old French student. Consistency has been replaced with whatever provides an instant solution and firm with the 'becauseIsaidsodon'tanswermebackoryou'llbegroundedforaweek' method - neither of which seem to be working for me. I feel as if I'm finally getting back into the game but someone has moved all the goalposts.
Work has been good - some kind of return to normality - and we are hopeful that our new full timer who starts tomorrow will turn out not to be an existentialist or a psychopath but can make wine move from one place to another without too much bother.
Francois is pressing me to go to France and spend some time with an old friend who lives by the sea on Ile d'Oleron and breathe some iodine (another old French convalescence remedy). This is probably not in the best short term interests of the children, but if I don't get my energy levels up it won't be in their long term interest either - so I think I am going to take him up on it.
Holding off booking anything until I get the results of my MRI which will show me what's happened to the ufo on the right...
The other day I sat and looked at them as the four of us (me, Emily, Luc and the au pair) had dinner and realised that they are slipping out from my hands, out of my control. The boundaries have become so blurred in our new family unit that no one knows what they are supposed to do, or be, any more. Loose cannon Luc deliberately goes out of his way to say things to shock or irritate whoever is closest to him and moody Mimi has a line in back chat that is seriously grating. I just about have the energy to perform basic tasks again - such as getting dressed, and even going to the office to answer the phone and print out wine lists - but have nowhere near the energy required to provide, consistent, 'firm but loving' parenting. Their role models for the last 9 months have been a largely absent father, a horizontal mother, and a 24 year old French student. Consistency has been replaced with whatever provides an instant solution and firm with the 'becauseIsaidsodon'tanswermebackoryou'llbegroundedforaweek' method - neither of which seem to be working for me. I feel as if I'm finally getting back into the game but someone has moved all the goalposts.
Work has been good - some kind of return to normality - and we are hopeful that our new full timer who starts tomorrow will turn out not to be an existentialist or a psychopath but can make wine move from one place to another without too much bother.
Francois is pressing me to go to France and spend some time with an old friend who lives by the sea on Ile d'Oleron and breathe some iodine (another old French convalescence remedy). This is probably not in the best short term interests of the children, but if I don't get my energy levels up it won't be in their long term interest either - so I think I am going to take him up on it.
Holding off booking anything until I get the results of my MRI which will show me what's happened to the ufo on the right...
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Useful books for cancer warriors
Anything by Pema Chodron
Reading the wise words of this buddhist teacher is like someone stroking your head - A big thank you to Suzanne B for giving me my first Pema Chodron, When things Fall Apart. Good for anyone having a crisis - not just a life threatening one.
It's Not about the Bike by Lance Armstrong
Lovely neighbours Alison and Roger gave me this months ago but I only read it last week. Couldn't face it before - perhaps there's a time for everything - but I wish I'd read it earlier. Top cyclist Armstrong battled the worst form of testicular cancer at age 28, with mets in his brain and lungs, and then went on to win the Tour de France several times. Inspiring just isn't the word. What I like about it is the fact that he takes nothing for granted. He doesn't claim that his positive attitude is responsible for beating the disease - as he says - plenty of positive people die, and plenty of miserable ones live on. I also love the way he describes his return to fitness saying to himself, If I can still move, then I'm still alive....so he kept on moving.
Reading the wise words of this buddhist teacher is like someone stroking your head - A big thank you to Suzanne B for giving me my first Pema Chodron, When things Fall Apart. Good for anyone having a crisis - not just a life threatening one.
It's Not about the Bike by Lance Armstrong
Lovely neighbours Alison and Roger gave me this months ago but I only read it last week. Couldn't face it before - perhaps there's a time for everything - but I wish I'd read it earlier. Top cyclist Armstrong battled the worst form of testicular cancer at age 28, with mets in his brain and lungs, and then went on to win the Tour de France several times. Inspiring just isn't the word. What I like about it is the fact that he takes nothing for granted. He doesn't claim that his positive attitude is responsible for beating the disease - as he says - plenty of positive people die, and plenty of miserable ones live on. I also love the way he describes his return to fitness saying to himself, If I can still move, then I'm still alive....so he kept on moving.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Mirror, mirror
Meant to say that since coming back from Cheeseland I have endeavoured to stick to an incredibly healthy Gillian Macwhateverhernameis style three fruit and fibre filled meals a day. No alcohol - (the latest link with breast cancer study has taken all the fun out of drinking for me), no dairy, no refined sugars or flour and at least a bit more exercise than before...and yet this morning I weighed two pounds MORE than I did at the beginning of the week. How is this possible? I am completely distaught as now even my new jeans (size Grosse) are feeling a little tighter and the cords which fell off me in January are now refusing to do up. Combined with my thick thatch of tight curls I look like a cross between a prize poodle and shaun the sheep. The cancer curse continues.
Back in business
Now that the third replacement for Blandine in the office has bitten the dust, I have no choice but to step into the breach and go back to the office - starting on Monday. I can't believe it but until Francois finds a suitable long term replacement it's going to have to be all hands on deck. Have lectured children extensively about their role in this (not fighting, being nice to the au pair, doing their homework before I get home) but fear it is falling on deaf ears. My child tolerance threshold is very very low after two weeks of interminable holiday and I think we shall all breathe a sigh of relief on Monday morning. Except perhaps the au pair who is as yet blissfully unaware that her work schedule is about to double.
Anyway my dreams of entering a state of delicious convalescence - in comfortable yet attractive lounging suit stretched out on the sofa with a good book and a pile of DVDs - have been swiftly replaced with visions of me tearing hair out before Excel spreadsheets and potentially researching divorce lawyers....oh well - at least it will get me away from the kids.
Anyway my dreams of entering a state of delicious convalescence - in comfortable yet attractive lounging suit stretched out on the sofa with a good book and a pile of DVDs - have been swiftly replaced with visions of me tearing hair out before Excel spreadsheets and potentially researching divorce lawyers....oh well - at least it will get me away from the kids.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Born Again
It's hard to know where to start after such a long break from blogging - but as the begging emails are starting to stack up I thought I'd better check in.
Before the ski holiday I was nervous as hell. For some reason I doubted my ability to leave the country - I had a vague feeling that someone would point a finger at me as I went through the security gate and shout 'Go Back, you have cancer...!' completely illogical but until I stepped foot on foreign soil I didn't realise how deeply entrenched the fear was.
The sense of liberation I felt as we drove out of the airport in our squashy car rental took my breath away.
I decided that despite the dodgy legs and complete lack of stamina, I was going to force myself to ski every day, even if only for half an hour. Day one was scary as hell. I clipped the skis on and had to slip down a tiny but steep alley to get to the lift. My legs started to shake and I was sure I was going to fall. I kept worrying about the insurance policy we had and whether it would cover me for repatriation after chemo if I broke my leg. I snowploughed down the slope like a five year old and then had to stop for five minutes to stop my heart from beating so fast.
Poor Francois put paid to all fantasies he may have had about careering over the black runs and acted as my personal 'moniteur' - a complete star - and coaxed me down one blue piste, after which I had to call it a day. The next day was brilliantly sunny (the only one as it turned out) so I knew I had to make it to some of the higher slopes which involved a couple of red runs. Still some serious wobbling and a pathetic topple in the powder as I barely had the strength to lift my skis - but I managed about an hour and so the week continued...through blizzards, fog and pouring rain...until on Friday I managed to ski for a couple of hours straight without a tremor - and realised I was smiling.
The kids had a fantastic time - the children's village was superb and we barely saw them - dropping them off for a three course lunch at 11:45 and only picking them up at 5:30 after a 3 hour lesson and some apres ski activities. My apres ski sadly consisted of eating a plate of pasta in the appartment and collapsing in bed by about 9pm. Francois said I'd be sitting at the table looking quite ok one minute and then suddenly I looked as if I was going to fall over at which point I literally just collapsed into bed, usually before the children. I think I'd have done better if I wasn't also fighting a horrendous head cold (typcial), but I was so chuffed with my skiing and spending some rare quality time together as a family that it didn't matter.
We spent the weekend with friends in Geneva and determined not to lose the muscle strength I'd gained, I walked each day for 2 hours. Have come back completely determined to get in great shape. Now that the chemo, surgery and rads are over it feels as if I've been given a chance to live over again, but this time I'm going to do it right. The doc puts my five year survival rates at between 70% and 80% which would have completely freaked me out only a few months ago, but now they seem like rather good odds, and no reason not to live every day to the full. On Saturday night in Geneva, in a clapped out old bed, I slept for 10 straight hours, for the first time since last July.
Now looking forward to the next holiday, and the one after that. Whatever the MRI on right boob shows up next week, I know that I can handle it.
Before the ski holiday I was nervous as hell. For some reason I doubted my ability to leave the country - I had a vague feeling that someone would point a finger at me as I went through the security gate and shout 'Go Back, you have cancer...!' completely illogical but until I stepped foot on foreign soil I didn't realise how deeply entrenched the fear was.
The sense of liberation I felt as we drove out of the airport in our squashy car rental took my breath away.
I decided that despite the dodgy legs and complete lack of stamina, I was going to force myself to ski every day, even if only for half an hour. Day one was scary as hell. I clipped the skis on and had to slip down a tiny but steep alley to get to the lift. My legs started to shake and I was sure I was going to fall. I kept worrying about the insurance policy we had and whether it would cover me for repatriation after chemo if I broke my leg. I snowploughed down the slope like a five year old and then had to stop for five minutes to stop my heart from beating so fast.
Poor Francois put paid to all fantasies he may have had about careering over the black runs and acted as my personal 'moniteur' - a complete star - and coaxed me down one blue piste, after which I had to call it a day. The next day was brilliantly sunny (the only one as it turned out) so I knew I had to make it to some of the higher slopes which involved a couple of red runs. Still some serious wobbling and a pathetic topple in the powder as I barely had the strength to lift my skis - but I managed about an hour and so the week continued...through blizzards, fog and pouring rain...until on Friday I managed to ski for a couple of hours straight without a tremor - and realised I was smiling.
The kids had a fantastic time - the children's village was superb and we barely saw them - dropping them off for a three course lunch at 11:45 and only picking them up at 5:30 after a 3 hour lesson and some apres ski activities. My apres ski sadly consisted of eating a plate of pasta in the appartment and collapsing in bed by about 9pm. Francois said I'd be sitting at the table looking quite ok one minute and then suddenly I looked as if I was going to fall over at which point I literally just collapsed into bed, usually before the children. I think I'd have done better if I wasn't also fighting a horrendous head cold (typcial), but I was so chuffed with my skiing and spending some rare quality time together as a family that it didn't matter.
We spent the weekend with friends in Geneva and determined not to lose the muscle strength I'd gained, I walked each day for 2 hours. Have come back completely determined to get in great shape. Now that the chemo, surgery and rads are over it feels as if I've been given a chance to live over again, but this time I'm going to do it right. The doc puts my five year survival rates at between 70% and 80% which would have completely freaked me out only a few months ago, but now they seem like rather good odds, and no reason not to live every day to the full. On Saturday night in Geneva, in a clapped out old bed, I slept for 10 straight hours, for the first time since last July.
Now looking forward to the next holiday, and the one after that. Whatever the MRI on right boob shows up next week, I know that I can handle it.
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