radiation | Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

Time’s moving at a different pace now that I’ve been home for almost two weeks. I dove right back in to the end-of-school-year hustle, graduation parties, goat wrangling, 4-H preparations, laundry, softball practice, office work and what’s for dinner. I have been feeling fine, with just a little less stamina for it all and a few reminders in my body and mind of the toll the past few months has taken on me. The girls are officially out of school, reminding me how fun it was to be eight and ten under the heat of the summer sun and that’s good medicine.

Below is last week’s column, a little repeat from what you heard from me last week, and a bit of a reflection on my treatment process and what it meant to ring that bell.

Here’s to less cancer talk in the future and more commentary on the wildflowers and cows.

Ring the Bell

I’m sitting at my kitchen counter after braiding hair and reminders to brush teeth and find shoes and get backpacks and hurry up now. The floors aren’t swept and I’ve cleared a space for myself among the crumbs, water bottles and art supplies to tell you I’m no longer counting my life in weeks, because I’m home now.

After 33 proton radiation treatments and 6 chemo treatments over the course of 6 1/2 weeks, I rang the bell in the radiation department at Mayo Clinic on May 13^th. This bell is the bell of hope, not necessarily indicating that one is cancer free, but a declaration that a course of treatment has been completed or endured with every confidence, prayer and medical advancement in the works for that outcome.

Every weekday for those six weeks I lay on the table in the radiation room and they put a mask on me that went over my face and shoulders and strapped my head and upper body down nice and tight so I couldn’t move while I waited for the proton beam to be available to zap me and the tumors in three different places. The mask in radiation treatment is treated as a big thing, for lack of a better way to say it. It’s created as a cast over your face to fit perfectly and the care team worries about claustrophobia and takes comfort level seriously. Every day of the week they put that thing on me, and I lay still for anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour, closing my eyes, listening to music and waiting for the “we have the beam,” voice to come over the speakers in that big room. In the three adjacent, identical rooms, there were three other people at the same time doing the same thing—strapped to a table, waiting on a beam. And then dozens of others in the waiting room, or on their way there, or making plans for their first or last visit. There are only 48 active proton radiation therapy centers in the US, so the machine at Mayo Clinic runs from 8 am to 11 pm every weekday, like clockwork.

As I entered the radiation room for the final time a tech asked me if I wanted to take my mask home with me, which some people do, as a reminder of what they conquered or for a Halloween costume or something. I said no, you keep it. Burn it. It’s over. But as I lay there getting my final zaps, I changed my mind, a little because I wanted to explain the process to my curious family and a lot because I wanted to burn it myself.

When I walked into the treatment room for the first time back in late March, I was about as annoyed as a person can get with my circumstances. Which was better than scared and better than angry. But I was sick of talking about how the process was going to make me feel, both physically and mentally. I was sick of the waiting and the explanations and all the tests and pre-appointments and answering the question, “Where are you from?” and “Where are you staying?” and “How are you today?” Me, the Queen of Small Talk and Chatter and Banter, didn’t find myself filling any awkward silence with my voice. I stepped in each elevator and just stood there, quietly, like a normal person. And when someone cracked a joke about sardines in a can or close quarters, I just wished they wouldn’t. I sat to get my blood drawn,or followed a staff member out of the waiting room and I didn’t do the work I typically feel so compelled to do in trying to make people comfortable with conversation. I just didn’t have it in me.

And when I read the long pamphlet laying out the schedule and expectations on how the treatment plan was going to go, complete with annoying side-effects and annoying appointments, finished off with a ringing of a bell, I couldn’t see myself participating in that ceremonious action. I wasn’t going to do it.

I know now I felt that way then because ringing the bell meant that this was happening, and at that time I was trying to hang on to every shred of normal I could hang on to like every strand of hair that has fallen out of my head since then. But as the weeks went on and I trudged down those hallways and stood in those elevators and sat in those waiting rooms and became a seasoned visitor to the radiation room, I softened to the experience.

Was it perspective, seeing those around me who are sick and fighting harder? Was it that I got more comfortable with my circumstance? Was it that I realized staying annoyed wasn’t going to make it easier? Was it the routine of it all bringing me closer and closer to the finish line? I’m not sure, but I became more myself in the process eventually, opening up, picking my favorite front desk lady and radiation therapist and giving people directions and smiling and sometimes even laughing in the elevator. When my husband joined me on my last trip through the parking garage and down the elevator and through the long hallways, I felt like grabbing his hand and skipping all the way.

So yeah, I changed my mind about that bell. There’s a reason it’s there.

Because this time has taken me away from my family for longer than anyone wants to be away, but I get to go home with shrinking tumors and bring with me what this time has given me:

Four new songs

Time to slow down and understand who I am in the quiet

An interest in watercolor painting

The Cher autobiography

Visits with my cousins, aunt and uncle and my far away friends

A little stress fracture in my foot from wandering to all the nearby pretty places and consequently, a better pair of walking shoes

An unreasonable annoyance with parking garages and construction

An appreciation for Kwik Trip Gas stations

More adoration for my husband and all he is

Appreciation for the messy and noisy parts of my life propelled by my daughters
A heart and body full of gratitude for my village

Heartburn and hair loss

Faith in the process

Hope

Thank you for all the love, notes, emails, calls, prayers and gifts along the way. If you need me, I’ll be making the preparations for the ‘burning of the mask’ celebration.

Before I share this week’s column I just want to send a heartfelt thank you to everyone who has reached out the past week with support and love regarding this recent development in my cancer story. Every word has been held closely to our hearts and we love you.

We are home now and packing for a family spring break trip and when we get back I’ll be headed straight to Rochester for 6 1/2 weeks of radiation with a small weekly dose of chemo for good measure. I have a place to stay there and a good doctor who says we have like a 95 percent chance of getting rid of it this go ‘round. So I’ll take those odds and I’ll cuss a little and head that way to do the thing with all your words of encouragement as my wings.

The following column I wrote on my phone in between scans and pokes and prods last week. I turned it in three minutes to deadline while the girls were at home with my parents and then Chad’s parents. Dealing with health issues and kids who are old enough to be worried is new for me. I hope I do right by them.

(Also, before I left, Chad put on a timer for three minutes and let them say as many and whatever cuss words they wanted in that time, which is probably not the best parenting choice, but I would highly recommend. In fact, I’m about to go do it myself…)

Anyways, here’s to zapping some tumors and being pissed and annoyed and grateful and worried and hopeful…and here’s my letter to my daughters.

Dear Daughters,

I’m writing to you 694 miles away from the ranch, drinking coffee from a paper cup with your dad outside a big hospital. We drove all day yesterday to get here, or I should say, your dad drove all day while I managed what we were going to listen to, where we would stop to eat and how to get there.

I’ve spent thousands of hours driving thousands of miles beside this man, for dozens of reasons. This reason, in particular, is so doctors can take pictures of the inside of my body to make a plan to get rid of cancer that has slowly crept back into our lives.

Yes, it’s in my body, but it affects our lives, your lives especially. It means that for a time I will have to be away, and I won’t get to drive you to school, or pick you up, or make you supper, or do your hair, or argue with you about bedtime and cleaning your rooms. And that’s hard for me and you, too.

But it’s all just temporary. A blip. And it gives you a chance to spend more time with your grandparents, who love you and want to help. And your aunts and uncles, too. And your dad, which will be fun, you’ll have him to yourself for a bit, even though he’ll probably make you do the laundry. You’ll make memories through this bump in our ordinary lives, and they will be good ones, even though I know you’re nervous.

This is what I’ve learned in my life — that good stuff comes from the hard stuff. Almost always the best stuff actually. And I want to say I’m sorry you have to learn it early, daughters, but actually I’m not. The earlier you can learn that life, no matter how much we’ve tried to make it comfortable and uncomplicated for you so far, eventually has a way of showing us we have limited control, and we need to manage what we have carefully.

What does that mean exactly? You’ve probably heard the phrase, “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.” And that sounds cute, because lemons can be sweetened easily with sugar. But real life lemons vary in scope and scariness, like losing a friend or missing a buzzer-beating shot or failing a major test or crashing a car or getting sick or your mom having cancer.

But the lemonade part is the attitude you choose to keep at the forefront of your actions. And it’s also the people who love you and how you love them back in the hard times.

So here’s a real example of how you can make lemonade now, dear daughters, while I’m gone for a couple of months zapping this cancer: stand by your dad in the kitchen and let him teach you how to cook your favorite supper. Or pick a new recipe every week to try together. He will love to show you, and you will gain a new skill. Then break the rules and pile in the big bed together to sleep every night. Shoot more hoops together because it makes you happy, play more cards because it makes you laugh.

Or, when Nana is here, ask her to bring her sewing machine and make a fluffy pillow together. Or read your dragon book to her at night and ask for one more chapter.

Have Grandma Beth take you shopping, that’s her love language. Ask Papa Gene if you can help him feed cows and cut the twine with your little pocket knife.

But most importantly, I think, is to be helpful. Do the dishes without being asked, and turn the music up loud and sing while you do it. Learn to fold your laundry, and put it away. Take care of your pets, give the dogs more attention. Wipe the bathroom sink after you brush your teeth. Organize your drawers. Being helpful makes you feel useful and more brave and less scared.

I know, I’ve been practicing it my whole life. I’m practicing it right now actually.

Dear daughters, in your life you will be the driver and the one who needs to be driven, and we are lucky to have people in our lives willing to take the wheel. Learn from them, let them love on you and be grateful.

It’s all gonna be in the rearview mirror soon, kids. And we’re going to be sweeter for it.