Good Things about Terminal Illness

1.      I never have to go to work again.

2.      I will never set foot on a weight scale.

3.      I can eat anything I want but of course I don’t want anything.

4.      I can be crabby and everyone still loves me.

5.      I can be nice and everyone will cry.

6.      I never have to mow the lawn again.

7.      I will never wear a wig again.

8.      I’m done with doctors, insurance, and hospitals.

9.      My brother is super nice to me. Even though he would like to tackle me and eat a raw onion in my face like the old days.

10.  I get to tell everyone that I love them and why. Best Part.

Reactions

“I think she knew for a long time.”

“That would be like her.”

“It’s a joke. She is going to say surprise and laugh.”

I didn’t know. I suspected I was really sick. I was leaning towards Crohn’s disease. My tummy was upset and I gained water weight but from feeling ill to actual diagnosis was only three weeks.

When I really knew was after my CAT Scan on Thursday April 10^th.  The technicians were their usual cold and efficient selves. After the scan, the two—male and female—rushed to my side to help me. They oozed support and compassion. I knew then what the diagnosis would be cancer—terminal. That was confirmed on Friday by my oncologist. The surprise was the short time given. Neither, Mom or I expected that.

Many people are praying for me. I asked for prayers of comfort and for my family. Must have worked. My pain levels started dropping at 8:00 A.M. Sunday and continued decreasing with each prayer service in my connected churches. I could feel strength rushing through my body. It’s Monday and I feel relatively pain free.

Absolutely wonderful. Thank you.

Haircut

Matthew’s Barber Beauty and Nails cut my hair today. Specifically, James of Matthew’s cut my hair. I walked into the shop. Some lady with mounds of curly black hair underwent a trim by James’ deft hands. He looked up. “Can I help you?”

            By sign language I indicated a cut. He nodded and said something about a few minutes wait. I sat down and picked up a magazine with countless celebs plastered on the front, flipped a few pages, and slapped it back down on the coffee table.

The shop was long and narrow. On one side, two barber chairs lined with a wall of photos and mirrors. A rather large mirror, opposite James and his client, poised at an angle separated two areas—the barber on the left and to the right, two Asian women sat in the service area of a nail shop. It appeared that past the nail stations were one or two foot spas. Not interested in the shop, I looked back at the Barber brushing hair off of the lady’s shoulders. She thanked him then stepped around the giant mirror to a seat in front of a manicurist.

James smiled and motioned me over to his chair. I started talking before I got up in my usual nervous rapid fire manner and pulled the wig off my head. “I’m a cancer patient. My hair grew back some then since October seems to be retreating again. The wig wiggles when the hair is long.” I pointed to the back and sides. “It drives me nuts and the wig clips dig holes in the side of my head. Hairdressers don’t get it that is why I am here in a barber shop. I need a boy cut. You are a barber? Your name is Matthew? You own this place?” I plopped my fanny into the chair removed my glasses, stuffed the wig and the glasses into my open purse.

“Here let me take those for you. Can I set them here?” He pointed at the counter. I nodded. “I’m sorry the hairdressers don’t get it. I have shaved a few cancer patients.”  He flipped a polyester wrap around my neck and body. “I’m James. Matthew retired six years ago. He opened the place in ’78 so I kept the name. Sometimes people call me Matthew, I don’t mind.”

“Well, James. I need the back shaved close. Longer towards the top. Ears cleared but sideburns for the wig clips. The front layered if possible. I wear wigs all the time now…but at home. Well, I like to relax. A little boy’s cut was what I had in mind.”

James ran a comb through my hair. He was in his late forties early fifties I would guess—although, I am terrible at guessing the ages of men over thirty.  Heavy set about five-ten and bald—male-patterned bald—hair on the sides and a smooth race track on top with just a few hairs. He parted my hair in the center then look front toward the mirror.

 I caught a glimpse of his view of me then I saw the large mirror in back. It was angled in such a way that as I look forward I could also see the back of my head and the top—a site I had not seen in decades. Though I had tons of hair on the sides and back, almost all was gone from top of my skull. I sported a similar race track as the barber.

He must have seen my shocked expression because he moved in front of me to block the mirror and started clipping the sides then pulled out the trimmer for the back.  “Your hair is really curly back here. Is that natural?”

“Yes.” Not really. I had some curl to my hair all my life. When the re-growth started after chemo it was straight then one morning a few months later, I got up and it was curly. I thought it looked good enough to go to Ireland without wigs. A decision I regretted after I viewed my photos.

James slipped a handheld mirror into my hand. “Is this okay?”

The cut was smart, exactly as requested. A boy cut with some wispy sides to look feminine. The baldness not so pronounced with the sides and back cut short. My hairs matched.

After giving back the mirror, I grabbed the wig, shook it, and stuck it back on my head.  Artificial hair stuck out in all directions. I used the wig brush to beat the cap into submission.

James chuckled.  “I didn’t think you could get a style out of that.”

I smiled into the mirror back at him.

“That is a lot more hair.”

“There are people in my life who have never seen me without this wig. What do I owe you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Thank you. I will be back.”

Last Weekend

Spectacular weekend. No I didn't do anything special. I did however get my list of weekend chores completed. Things like—filling the bird feeder, polishing shoes, sealing the tile in the shower—that kind of stuff.  I finished grocery shopping, went to church, had dinner with Mom, watch a recorded show, and found time to write.

  Sounds ordinary. It was. Ordinary is new for me. Not since chemotherapy started, over a year ago, have I had the kind of weekend described above. Two weeks before, I went to Apple Hill on Saturday and then became too sick on Sunday to go anywhere. In September, I scheduled twenty minute naps throughout the day just to function. Six months prior, I did not function. I worked and slept, occasionally eating.

Today, I am almost, but not completely, normal. Well normal for me. The result is a small feeling of—dare I say—happiness. To me I have had a profound revelation that my happiness is tied into how many active hours of life that I can squeeze into a day. So many years I have believed that the feeling of blessedness related to my attitude, other people, events, things, and the weather.

It is no surprise to anyone that knows me that I am a miserable and obnoxious sick person.  Those of you that can rise above a devastating illness and wear a smile, I salute you. I expect more out of breathing in and out. I expect a strong healthy body. When I lost my strength, my health, and cognitive capabilities, I nearly did not fight the good fight.

I am thankful I am finding me again.

My weight is...

I have been careful not to really discuss my diet these last few weeks. Partly I didn’t want to sabotage myself also I still hate to use the word Cancer. When I started this blog, I weighed over 265 pounds. That is the weight of 6’4” San Francisco 49er Tight End, Vance McDonald—to put things in perspective.  I fasted, raw-vegan-ed, juiced, and walked. In one year I dropped below 210.

Perhaps I would have hit my goal of 185 which happens to be 5’10” SF Giant Pitcher, Sergio Romo if not for the complete immersion into my mortality.  The best diet in the world will not stop destruction of prolonged years of stress.

My first indicator was a stress related heart attack a month before my husband’s death. Test showed no heart disease thanks to my healthy diet. But the stress took its toll.

After the passing of Paul, I ran off to Taiwan to mend. The month overseas helped me find my smile and reduce my fits of crying. Once I returned the world of work and bills, life piled up on a fairly battered ego. I found a lump in my left breast eleven months after my heart attack. My job ended. I returned to my home to deal with the cancer treatments that are brutally administered to kill the mutant cells.  The doctors pulled me off of the raw vegan to prevent bacteria entering my body and placed me on cooked comfort foods. 

My weight jumped from 208 to 247 in less than four months. Between surgery, chemo, and radiation, I could not stay awake longer than four hours, my left arm could not move higher than my shoulder, and I had less hair than Bruce Willis.  Chocolate, my best friend.

I found a new job. New responsibilities within my church and interests. In May, I started to reclaim my diet and my body. 

My biggest challenge was not my diet but my belief. After Paul’s untimely death, my heart attack, and subsequent cancer, I no longer thought about the future. The future held nasty possibilities—strokes, more cancer, if not cancer more tests for cancer, more discussions about cancers, death, dying, mortality, the end.  Wow. Heavy.

I did what I needed to do. I went to Neptune Society, paid for my funeral, and moved on with my life. ONE DAY AT A TIME.

Today’s Menu:

Breakfast: ½ c Raisin Bran w/almond milk.  Coffee with agave syrup and almond milk.

Snack: Blueberry Bagel at regional meeting. No cream cheese or butter.

Lunch: Veggie Sushi, Seaweed Salad, and wait for it…apple strudel… bad, delicious but bad.

Snack:  Cantaloupe.

Dinner: 2 Fig Newton cookies at church bible study.

Snack: Carrots.

Hawkeye

I am eating spoonfuls of It’s Soy Delicious non-dairy frozen dessert. It looks like ice cream and tastes like chocolate and nuts.  I am celebrating finding my earring or rather my dog Poindexter finding my earring.

A few days ago, I wore a pair of gold and onyx medallion-shaped earrings. My mother purchased them a few years back. I love the look but the onyx is too heavy and due to the price of gold these days the hooks are too light. They forever fell out of my lobes. Aware of the problem, I took extra care to remove the earrings as soon as I came into the house. Or so I thought.

That evening, I came into the bedroom to start my bedtime ritual only to find one earring missing. I retraced my steps. (Sure you have done this yourself.) First the car, perhaps it popped off when I unhooked the seatbelt.  The bathroom where I pulled off my I-know-you-cannot-tell-I-had-cancer-treatments wig. The hallway, the area rug, the bed, the shower, toilet, everywhere. The earring disappeared into Monday night.  It had value especially as it had been a gift from Mom but I just went through this last month with my diamond studs. I have one but lost the other.  

The expert finder of lost things was Paul, my husband. When we first dated, he earned the nickname—among others—of Hawkeye. I swear he could find a silver earring back in shag pile carpeting at eight paces. A true talent.  Without his help, my recovery rate for things is sadly low. I gave up on finding a quarter-sized gold disk anywhere in the house.

Today, I dug through more boxes of Paul’s things for the storeroom, setting aside photos for uncle John, toys for nephew Kodie, and worthless correspondence to the recycle bin. For a long time I held his high school yearbook. Opened one page and then another later in the day. What does one do with a yearbook? We have no children or grandchildren to pass things along. His parents are dead. His friends own the same album. This question bugged me all day.

Netflix provided me with a diversion for a couple hours. I discovered a Kevin Spacey and Robin Wright series, House of Cards. Well acted and produced, I lost myself and my memories in a political drama which was not too intellectually challenging. 

My dog put up with the drama for as long as he could. The sun set and the temperature dropped below ninety degrees. Dex wanted to play. After some whimpering and herding on his part, I tossed his Frisbee in the dusky eve. He leaped and spun for joy.

I thought. It is not so terrible to keep a yearbook mixed in with the photo albums. It is as unlikely it would be opened in the next ten years as it had been in the last. I do not need to give away or toss everything to move on with my life…it’s just a book.

Dex flipped the ignored Frisbee on my foot which caused drool to spill off the edges onto my naked foot. I bent down to retrieve the toy and saw the glisten of gold next to my heel. Without seeing the object itself, I knew I found the earring—the onyx one not the diamond—in the grass. Perhaps Monday, we had played Frisbee before I changed from my work clothes. Unlikely, but possible.

I had my earring. I properly thanked Poindexter with a “good boy” and a pat on the back.

Today’s Menu:

Breakfast: Watermelon.  Coffee with agave syrup and almond milk.

Snack: Watermelon.

Lunch: One soy corn dog and salad.

Snack: Watermelon.

Dinner: Vegetarian pot stickers, mung bean sprouts.

Snack: It’s Soy Delicious non-dairy frozen dessert Chocolate and Almonds.

Curls

I have naturally curly hair.  Yesterday I didn’t and today I do.

Rewind a year ago, I sat in a conference room with eight other women in various stages of cancer. All of us meeting for the first and last time to listen to a nurse explain what we will face as a cancer patient.  The patter stayed lively and bright as each PowerPoint slide depicted the possible treatments with inevitable side affects we would face. Skin lesions, vomiting, death, surgery, diarrhea, fractures, and so on, covered in some detail. We looked at the floor or the walls to avoid eye contact with anyone. This was personal…until she mentioned hair.

A collective gasp echoed through the group. One lady asked over and over and over whether her hair would fall out. The not-so-patient nurse explained that it depended on which of the chemo combinations you were given. A woman that wore the tell-tale knit cap said that this would be her third fight with cancer.  Each time her hair fell out. The nurse quickly stated that not all would have the same results. The oldest woman in the room leaned in and said, “Why wouldn’t you just shave your head?” More gasps. I thought her solution brilliant.

I waited till after my first chemo. The next morning, I showered and a clump of hair came off in my hand. Sicken by the sight—I quickly threw up, dressed, and drove down to Super Cuts. There I spent ten minutes arguing with the young Asian hair dresser that I really wanted my head shaved. Finally a man in the next chair, told her to just do it. She listened to the man.

That was a year ago.  Throughout the process, the medical professionals said my hair would probably come back darker, thicker and curly.  The opposite had been true until this morning.

I dried my hair after a shower and soft curls appeared all over my head.  Yesterday no curls. Today curls. Does that make sense to anyone? Like everything else in the cancer process, accept and move forward. Amen.

Today’s Menu:

Breakfast: Coffee with Agave nectar and almond milk. ½ c Rasin Bran w/ Blueberries and almond milk.

Lunch: All you can eat buffet at Tokyo on Greenback. Fish egg sushi, Seaweed salad, marinated mushrooms, banana, watermelon, sponge cake, apple slice, and an upset tummy.

Snack: 8 red vines. More upset tummy. Save me from buffets. I was full with the plate of Seaweed.

Dinner: Homemade sprouted mung beans, sprouted golden flax seed, ½ c noodles, red marinara sauce, warmed and combined.

Blog snack: raw carrots

Sad

My mother approached my great-grandmother, decades ago, on the occasion of the death of GG Mapes’ youngest daughter. Mom asked how she dealt with the loss, having buried two husbands and all but one of her seven children. My great-grandmother turned and gave her the oddest look, paused for a long time, then gave some answer appropriate for a minister’s wife—a response meant to sooth Mom’s soul.

I never believed she spoke what was on her heart.

This morning, I recognized her odd look in the mirror.

Thursday, a dear friend died. He was forty-six years old. Recently, you may have lost someone that was also young. Perhaps you just started your grieving of a sudden death, or you like Spyros’ friends and family have held the grief inside since his November cancer diagnosis. Although the quick end came as a blessing for one suffering with immense pain, it did wrench the hearts of those who loved him.

For me, it seemed to be the last gasp of sadness that I could draw in. My mirror reflected that.

Friday at the memorial service, friends will hold hands, hug, cry, celebrate a short life remembered, and part.

I can only accept the truth that this not the final stage of our lives. I will hold Spyros again. For now, I cannot feel sad anymore. Not about Spyros, others we have lost, or my darling’s ongoing suffering—battling diabetes. The joy must be in touch of my husband’s breath on my cheek. The puppy growling in his sleep. The surprise delivery of flowers from a friend.

The blessings in my life are small and powerful—all I need to end the sadness of everyday living. Maybe that was exactly what my great-grandmother said.

God Bless Your Family

Wheatgrass

  One Pound Off This Week! August melted eleven pounds for a total of thirty-two lost since I started the diet.
  This week I added wheatgrass powder to strawberry-banana smoothies. If I have not covered wheatgrass, let me do that now. Wheatgrass supplies the body calcium, chlorine, iron, magnesium, potassium, phosphorous, sulfur, cobalt, zinc, dripping in chlorophyll that can reduce symptoms in people with obesity, hypertension, pancreatitis, and may inhibit cancer cells. Every raw-diet book, without exception, extols the virtues of wheatgrass. It is the Holy Grail of the plant kingdom.
  Simple to grow, wheat berries – wheatgrass seeds – can be soaked overnight in a jar then drained to sprout within six hours. Cover the sprouts with dirt in a pot six inches or more deep and presto! You have wheatgrass. It takes about three days to have seven inches of harvestable wheatgrass.
  Now here’s the part I didn’t like. Cut and wash the grass then grind it in a device similar to a meat grinder to squeeze out one ounce of wheatgrass juice. OR Go to Jamba Juice and have them do it for you at $1.95 per shot. OR Head down to your local health food store for powdered wheatgrass at $1.50 per ounce. The wheatgrass juice powder only loses ten percent of its potency in powdered form. I did the last two options.
  Oh, I also grew the wheatgrass for my dog, Poindexter. He wanders outside, passes the planter and snips off a few blades munching down the healthy goodness. Dex does not need a meat grinder. He has excellent canines. Cats like it too.

Down the Rabbit Hole

When I started this diet I had no idea what new worlds I would find. Did you know that fruitarians exist? They eat only fruit. This is new information to me but part of an amazing labyrinth of raw-vegetarians juicing wheatgrass, dehydrating sprouted seeds to make raw breads, composting, and organically growing – refugees from the communes I read about in the Sixties that became successful all-natural entrepreneurs. Since this quest started, I have found organic wheatgrass farms in New Zealand and a Californian raw “baker” that ships overnight just about any healthy food craving you may have. “Curiouser and curiouser!”

The really bizarre stuff is found in the last half of each book. Just check the chapters on cleansing. You will find page after page detailing the joys of a clean and healthy bowel. How do you obtain such a thing? Glad you asked. The answer is by fasting, enemas, and high colonics. The detailed pages usually include sketches of someone on a slant board inserting a bulb into the underside of well you know. After flushing out the offending items from your system, you are to insert wheatgrass juice to hold for twenty minutes or so then expel. Apparently, this is the key to curing disease.

Now if one book mentioned it in passing… Ha! Sorry. If one book mentioned these procedures, I could have ignored it but all the books including The Cure talks about clearing the intestines. I visualized Steve Martin and Sarah Jessica Parker leaving the colonic spa in LA Story, Parker jumping up and down, reenergized and Martin walking funny, violated.

I am trying to be enthusiastic about juicing and have successfully sprouted lentils and sunflower seeds. But try as I might the idea of someone else or me, for that matter, inserting a green-water-filled bulb in my fanny is repulsive at best. Don’t let this scare you away from some really good health tips and information. The Hippocrates Diet states that specific cleanses are needed for those who are ill. Perhaps if I had colon cancer, colitis, or ulcers, maybe my desire – scratch that – my need could overcome the repulsion. I’m only seeking a lighter weight body through good nutrition...

 "and it really was a diet, after all."

No Plateau – Five Pounds Lighter

Yes indeedie. I lost five pounds this week. This is the forty-first day of the diet including the first week I just added water to my daily routine. With a total loss of twenty-seven pounds, I am averaging – are you ready – 0.65 or three-fifths of a pound per day. That is better than my average weekly loss with Tops, Weight Watchers, Slim Fast, South Beach, or any other program I have done and I have done many.

This past week I included a lemon-water fast followed by a two-day watermelon cleanse. According to “The Cure,” by Dr. Tim Brantley, you must break your fast with one week for each day fasting. I fasted three days so I cannot fast for three weeks. I remember a woman I worked with at Spartan Shops, San Jose State University – Marilyn Railsback. Every Wednesday, Marilyn sat at lunch sipping on tepid lemon-water, talking with the group, ignoring the mounds of food and desserts we stuffed into our mouths. We all thought she was a little off. Now I know she had much more respect for her body than I ever had. A weekly fast now seems the logical move for my system.

Annette passed along four more books relating to this diet. I finished “The Hippocrates Diet” by Ann Wigmore. Similar to “The Cure,” she discusses the elimination of certain diseases from the body through proper diet. In fact, last three books, including Dr. Tim’s, talked so much about how cancer, heart disease, and diabetes all stem from processed food, I felt guilty for feeding poor Poindexter canned dog food. Many of my friends pets died of cancer, making me ask if that could have been avoided by feeding carnivores raw meat like nature intended.

If we could turn back time, I would join Marilyn in her weekly fast and change my diet and my then-boyfriend’s too. We could have stopped the onset of Paul's diabetes or at the very least lessened its devastation. If we could…