HERE WE GO AGAIN

Here we go again on this rollercoaster ride.

A few days ago I found a new lump where I had my previous one. The feel of it sent shivers down my spine and weakened my knees with fear. For a moment there, my vision darkened and it felt like my heart fell to my toes. I was trying hard to remember all the encouragements I received, all the brave words I uttered but they almost eluded me.

The doctor has advised me to observe the new lump for two more weeks. He seems somewhat hopeful that it is just an effect of the radiation. In the meantime, I choose to focus on God's promises.

Thankfully, it is just a ride and I know it. It's a momentary play of emotions and sensations but I know that below me is solid ground where I can firmly plant my feet on.

RECLAIMING LIFE

My chemotherapy is done and so is my radiation therapy.

I am getting ready to go to church with my family, just as I have been doing for many Sundays of my life. Today, it has sweeter meaning because I have a better understanding of what family is, what love is, what Christianity is, what life is all about.

It is so ironic that it was when I was at the lowest point in my life that I understood all of these things and embraced them passionately.

I know the road ahead is tough. I never meant to trivialize cancer and what it has done to me and my family, to other people's families. I am sure there will be days of doubt and uncertainty.

Days of pain.

Days of wondering why.

Thankfully, I now have a deeper knowledge of God’s grace and His pleasure to bless me. I am home with my family. I am surrounded with relatives and friends who care for me and want to see that I get well. I have learned to value myself more.

I have all I need to reclaim my life.

THE CANCER SHOW

Today I was interviewed for The Cancer Show. It's a documentary about cancer survivors in Cebu that was put together by a dear old friend, Bien Fernandez. I was interviewed by Meanne Alcordo Solomon, herself a survivor.

My segment was supposed to be an insight into the life of a survivor who is currently undergoing treatment. I came in with my usual hat and scarf and was asked to remove them towards the end of the show, to show my spanking new hair growth.

In the second half of the segment, the directors asked to interview my husband on his perspective as the spouse of a cancer patient. Bong was very candid and I could not help but notice some of the audience wipe some tears from their eyes.

THE CANCER BLOG AND MY 15 SECONDS OF FAME

It’s safe to say that I have had three therapies for the treatment of my cancer: chemotherapy, radiation therapy and "blog therapy." Among the three, the last one has provided me with the most satisfying relief while coping with this rollercoaster ride I’m now in.

In the beginning, this blog was meant to be nothing more than a personal journal for my children and future grandchildren to read. However, weeks into my treatment, friends would send me text messages asking how I was, and so this blog became my way of updating them about what I was going through.

Eventually, as post came after post, and as days turned into months, friends, relatives and strangers alike started telling me how they were touched by the stories that I had to tell. At this point, blogging had evolved from being my way of venting out feelings into sharing anecdotes and insights with hopes that someone else other than me would find healing and hope through my daily encounters, struggles and triumphs. My cancer journey had become not just my own, but everyone else’s who cared to share the walk with me.

Today, my other blog, Canvas and Manuscript and I are featured at www.thecancerblog.com in an item entitled Cancer Survivor Blogs Life as a Canvas. I don’t know where this will take me and the stories that I have told here, but if its my way of sharing “to the ends of the earth,” then so be it. I am more than grateful that I have been given this opportunity of telling the world that, among other things, God is good and life can be beautiful and meaningful during, and after cancer.

A DOSE OF RADIATION

As I am nearing my thirtieth and last dose of radiation, I decided to take a video of the whole seven-minute-or-so process. The session normally begins with the nurse retracing the markers on my chest and axilla. When the lines have been redrawn, the nurses spend some two to three minutes to make sure that the red tracer lights are perfectly aligned with the lines on my chest. After that, they all leave the room and the shots of radiation are administered from two separate angles.

Next week, on my last week of radiation treatment, the radiotherapist will give me direct radiation shots on my mastectomy site for five days. I heard somewhere that this new practice of administering a concentrated dosage of radiation on the last week of treatment actually reduces the possibility of a recurrence even more.

CANCER STORIES AND HAPPY ENDINGS

For so long as I can remember I have always loved reading books.

Books have always been a major part of my life. They have brought me to unknown places, introduced me to some of the most interesting people that I would otherwise never meet. I have always been thrilled by how words would plunge me into images of formidable stone castles, alien territories and of course, the anticipated happy endings. Love stories, ghost stories, espionage, history…I love them all.

These days though, I am reading "books" of a different kind.

At the Cebu Cancer Institute, every morning for the past twenty days, as I patiently wait for my turn at the radiation room I have been "reading" people.

Occasionally, I "read" about the young wife who is brought in by ambulance every morning from the Seaman’s Hospital, and her husband who has taken a leave from his work to be with her. In the first few days of my treatment, she would be brought in on a wheelchair with a smile for everyone. Lately, however, she has been wheeled in on a hospital bed with an increasingly dazed look on her face. Her husband who is always clad in a baseball cap and shorts, is equally dazed as he holds up the bag of blood attached to his wife. I have heard the whispers that her cancer was too advanced when it was discovered and that they are now taking desperate moves. I can just imagine him endlessly mulling over the irony that he spent long months away from her so that they can build a happy future together. Only to come home to her now this way.

On other days, I "read" about a doctor’s wife whose breast cancer has just recurred, this time on her bones. She is a little older than me and everyday she comes in with her mother. I "read" about the mom who is a nutritionist and has much advice to give us. After all, not only is she a dietician but also a doctor’s wife. She could spend hours and hours talking to all of us about the wonders of broccoli and the wisdom of going to a surgical oncologist and not just a surgeon. What touches me though is that every so often, when no one seems to be looking, she would stare lengthily in space with a blank look and tears in her eyes, slowly shaking her head in what must be regret that she didn’t know enough to prevent her daughter’s recurrence.

Some days, I "read" about the middle-aged school principal who has come from Iloilo for treatment for advanced Lung Cancer. Her husband has been a smoker all these years and the secondhand smoke is what must have brought this upon her. I "read" about the absence of any sort of blame that she might hold on her husband, understanding how deep her love for him must be.

Most recently, I have been "reading" about the new patient from Iloilo, who is a nurse. She first had breast cancer four years ago but, optimistic person that she is, she was sure it would not return. Just this summer though, she found another growth on her left breast. Before she could complete chemotherapy for the second cancer, she found another recurrence on the first site. She told me the other day that someone told her that she has the gift of healing and she attributes her cancer to a failure to complete a session on Pranic Healing that she once conducted. Or something to that effect.

I "read" about how cancer has changed these people’s lives. I "read" their words, their thoughts, their silent prayers. I "read" their trials, their disappointments, their dreams. I try to catch the underlying fears behind the brave fronts…the unspoken mother’s love for a sick daughter…the young husband’s silent resolve to give his wife the best possible care, never mind that he doesn’t know where the next thousand pesos will come from…the stories behind the empty looks that cross everyone’s face, every once in a while.

As I read these stories, I watch for every opportunity I get to hopefully change as many endings as I could. I tell these people about God’s faithful provision in my life. I tell them about the father heart of God and how it is not in His character to inflict pain on His children. I tell them about the true gift of healing that is God’s pleasure to give. I tell them that it’s okay to put ourselves first this time, and that our families and concerns will take care of themselves. I tell them to go ahead and receive openly the love and support that other people give. I tell them that a positive attitude can make so uch difference. I am hoping that as they change their outlooks and seek God as their healer, they will find their own healing. After all, I always loved happy endings.

Everyday, so much stories unfold before me. Everyday, I leave that place a little more enriched by what I have learned. Everyday, I thank God a little more for my ever-growing assurance that He is in control of my life.

Ten more days of radiation therapy, and reading lives, to go.

CELEBRATING LIFE

For many months before today, I would turn the thought over and over in my head, of how I would break the happy news of a clear bonescan to everyone. I was eagerly looking forward to it because somehow, I had that confidence that all things would turn out well. I was excited with the thought that everyone would be a part of my answered prayer.

Today, as I finally held the scan results in my hand, the words floated before me: No scintigraph evidence of bone metastasis. These were the very words I had been eagerly looking forward to breaking to everyone. However, the passing of my father-in-law earlier in the day seems to have clouded over the thought, and much more so the joy of it.

I fell to wondering, how is it that I could not find the joy that I was so looking forward to share, upon knowing that my cancer had not spread? Could it not be possible that I mourn the family's loss while at the same time celebrate my gain? As my kids could not help but ask, is God giving all the bad days in a downpour so that we can have only good days after? If we have another loss immediately after, does that make us destined to be like the family of Job?

I pondered upon all of these things as I walked into the Cebu Cancer Institute for my radiation treatment this afternoon. I was pretty much lost in thought when I rounded the corner at the end of the hall where two little girls accidentally bumped into me. About three or four years old, their head gears gave them away. Their colorful scarves were edged with synthetic curly hair and they had no eyebrows, just like me.

I took a seat on one of the corridor benches and continued watching them. They were giggling as they badgered each other, while being spoonfed with instant noodles by their mothers. Apparently they were waiting for their turn in the chemo room. I was amazed that these two innocent beings could find amusement and joy in such a place. Even in a place of pain and discomfort, they could find a reason to laugh and play. While many of the older patients there with me dragged their feet around and were often lost in their thoughts, these two thin, bald, wonderful little girls were having a blast! I felt so much compassion and admiration for them. At the same time, I was immediately overwhelmed with gratitude that my children are all well and they need not go through what these two little girls have to. I realized I still have so much to be thankful for and laugh about.

Holding this thought while holding the tears down, I then felt a different kind of joy. I began to understand in a meaningful way how joy is not always borne out of laughter and happy circumstances. True joy is instead borne out of a deep understanding that even if days are not sunny, even if things don't go the way I plan, it does not change the fact that God had proven Himself faithful to me, and that I am blessed. Joy is not a feeling after all, but a lifestyle of gratitude and hope.

In the midst of death and loss, I choose to rejoice that God gave me a new lease on life.

MY HALF-TIME REPORT

Right now, it feels like I am in between the two halves of a basketball game. The first round of treatment through chemotherapy has just ended and I am gearing up for the second round with radiation treatment that will follow in the next week.

In the meantime, the lights are out and the cheerleaders are entertaining the crowds. I am catching my breath, making up for some lost time and making the necessary connections that will make me breeze through the next half.

I am working on my healthy lifestyle. Eating well, sleeping long enough, exercising. And maybe the most important in the whole scheme of lifestyle change, I am learning to let go of extraneous things. I am choosing to say no to responsibilities that cause me unnecessary stress. If something comes up and I get a bad feeling inside, I pass it up. If I offer to help someone and she doesn't want it, I don't feel bad anymore. I simply let it go.

I am enjoying the mundane things in life and savoring the moments I have with family and friends.

Being able to choose my priorities, my commitments, my concerns makes me feel happier, healthier, more in charge of my life. It's good for my health, it is good for my soul.

ROOTS AND WINGS

There are two lasting bequests we can give our children. One is roots, the other is wings.
Jonas Salk

Yesterday, my son went off to college. Armed with his bags, his papers and my heart, he eagerly settled into the dormitory building that would be his new home. It is almost laughable because his university is only two hours away from where we live, but for me, it seems like a continent away. I know that he will be coming home most weekends, and yet, somehow, this new chapter in his life seems to be the beginning of his eventual flying away from the nest.

When I was younger, I thought that parenting was all about nurturing, caring, building up. I thought that my primary duty was to shield my children from all emotional and physical discomforts. No one told me that it would actually be a lifetime process of having to let go. I still remember the anxiety when, the first time I held him in the hospital nursery, the nurse came in to tell me that it was time to return him to his crib. From letting him go then, to watching him take those first steps knowing that he is likely to fall, to now sending him off to college, I have learned that parenting after all means letting my kids learn how to maneuver through life on their own.

There were days when his trials and heartaches seemed too big for his little shoulders, but I knew that I had to stand aside so that he will learn. I remember one night a few months ago, when we found out about my cancer, from my room I listened to Kiko cry himself to sleep. I wanted to go to him and comfort him, to promise him what he wanted to hear, but I knew he needed this time alone with God. I knew that I had to simply let go and let him find himself, and God's grace, in this adversity.

Today, he is again full of hopes and dreams, excited for the days ahead.

I would like to think that we taught him the best that we can. We gave him responsibilities at a young age. We complimented him when he did something right and disciplined him when he broke the rules. Now, the time has come to trust that we have done what we can and taught him well enough to make it on his own. I am hoping that his roots were cultivated deeply enough to keep him grounded in God's Word and His purpose. Also, that his wings were strengthened enough by the values and lessons we taught him so that they can take him as far as his dreams will go.

Gone forever are the days when he would rush to me and hug me after an afternoon in preschool. I remember savoring the “doggy” smell he inevitably took home with him everyday. In those days, I was the center of his universe. As the years went by, his world grew bigger and bigger and I knew my importance would become less and less of a need for him. It is a difficult thing to let go of the strings a little more, but it is something which I have to do.

Protecting him is no longer under my control. Forcing him to memorize his multiplication table and to eat his vegetables seem so trivial now. From now on he’ll be making all his own choices and I will continue to support him. But my dreams for him will have to take a back seat to the dreams he has for himself.

I will just have to trust that the world will be kind to him, and if not that he will be strong enough to fight for what should be his.

SOME OF THE HAPPIEST PEOPLE ON EARTH

I entered the room full of strangers, a little uncertain of what to expect but definitely sure that I wanted to be there. After filling in a form and getting my pink ribbon at the registration table, Bong and I found two empty seats on a nearby table. We settled down to observe the people who were clustered in several small groups around the room. They were all animatedly talking and many of the women glanced at me with a smile, as if they have known me for years.

When dinner was served, a tall lady approached me with a smile and took the seat beside mine. She introduced herself as Fely. I am sure she wanted to move around and talk to her friends but it seemed like she had decided to sit with me that night and make me feel welcome. We began talking and I found out that she was first diagnosed with Stage 2 Breast Cancer almost ten years ago. After a radical mastectomy, she underwent chemotherapy for four months. The years that followed saw her have another mastectomy, four surgeries, a metastasis to her bones, and another round of chemotherapy. Today, she is still taking medications and is still uncertain about her health but quite happily working as one of the regional heads of a government office serving indigent people.

After dinner the program began. There were some testimonials, an induction of officers, some speeches, a slideshow. Then, I and three other women were called to the front of the stage to give our pledge as new members of Bosom Friends, a breast cancer survivors’ support group in our city. After the swearing in, the President congratulated us and I couldn’t help but think of what Bong was likely to sardonically say: is that Congratulations for being a new member or for having breast cancer?

As I made my way back to my seat, an old lady of about seventy stood up, grabbed my hand and gave me a long hug. She held me at arms’ length and kept smiling at me for a few moments more, with tears in her eyes. Then she put her hand on my cheek. I was suddenly moved to tears as I totally understood and embraced the compassion, encouragement and affinity I am sure she wanted to express to me. I suddenly had a deep longing for my mother to hug me and all I could do was say to the sweet lady, Thank you.

About to take my seat, Fely called me aside and introduced me to Araceli, who unconsciously fixed her wig as she held out her hand to me. She told me that she just sneaked out from the hospital for a few hours, where she had already checked in for her chemo cycle the next day. She was first diagnosed with Stage 1 Breast Cancer four years ago but a few months ago she found out that the cancer has come back, this time a Stage 3.

At the end of the evening, all the Bosom Friends formed a big circle in the middle of the room, hands held together. Then they started swaying to the music as they sang, If We Hold On Together. I looked at all of them a little self-consciously while imagining Kiko and Angela rolling their eyes as if to dare me to join in the song. I did join the chorus, kids and found myself enjoying it.

After the song, we all posed for a final picture. After numerous hugs and exchanges of cell phone numbers, I started to feel like I was surrounded by some of the happiest people on earth. This bunch of women, ranging from their early forties to their late seventies, came from all walks of life…a bank employee, a dean from U.P., a housewife, a pastor, a doctor, a retired principal. Some were recovering, some were in treatment, some were terminally ill. I could not help but marvel at what they all shared in common: an infectious zest for life, a hopeful optimism, a sincere willingness to share and an attitude of thankfulness and acceptance. Never mind that each one had many more medical issues and physical challenges to surmount, along with the occasional lop-sided breast prostheses and very uncertain outcomes.

Now I am one of them.

CANCER MOVIES TO WATCH

My Life Without Me: This is about a young working mother named Ann with two daughters and a husband. She lives with her family in a tiny trailer in her mother's backyard. After she collapses one day she goes to the doctor who gives her grave news. She tells no one. Ann's emotional journey leads her to unexpected places and gives her life new meaning: the tender moments, the volatile emotions she must keep inside, the recognition that she has the power to understand, examine and fully live her own life.

Sweet November: Each month free-spirited Sara starts a new relationship. Her task is to take a month to make one man become a better person, and then she moves on. While November rolls around and Sara targets a busy Tycoon, she does not plan on falling in love. But they do, and as a result, Nelson learns the painful secret behind the brevity of Sara's romances.

The Family Stone: A comedy with heart. This story is about an annual holiday gathering of an unconventional New England family. Before the holidays are done, relationships will unravel while new ones are formed, secrets will be revealed and the Stone family will come together though its extraordinary capacity for love.

The Doctor: Jack is a doctor who has it all. He is then diagnosed with throat cancer. Now that he has seen medicine, hospitals, and doctors from the patient's perspective, he realizes there is more to being a doctor than surgery and prescriptions.

Fine Things: Bernie Fine, a is a home loving New Yorker. One day, while walking the floors he meets Jane, a little girl who has lost her mother. When they find her mother, Liz, Bernie is enchanted with her and they become involved and eventually marry. Liz becomes pregnant, but their joy is short lived as after their son, Alexander, is born Liz is diagnosed with Leukemia.

Wit: This is a story about a woman who isreceiving treatment for ovarian cancer. She is in the hospital bed showing what life is like for a cancer patient, most likely going to die from her disease, to hold on to her wit.

Stepmom: Jackie and Isabel have nothing in common--one is the ideal mother, the other is struggling to be any kind of mother--until circumstances force them to share a family and put aside their mutual hostility for the sake of the children. They discover how precious life, love and the ties that bind them really are in this tale about the intricate circumstances surrounding what happens when a man's new wife learns from his former wife that she is terminally ill with cancer.

A FEW FLOWERS AND CANCER

Today I walked back through my life again, retracing my steps for the thousandth time since the day I knew I had breast cancer. It has become some sort of a right of passage for me, as I decisively move on to wellness. It is not because I am running out of time, but because now I could appreciate and use time in a new way, and I want to empower myself for personal growth, fulfillment and balance ...whether long or short the future may be.

Ten years ago today, I know exactly what I was doing. I was painting. I had a one-woman-show scheduled for the end of that year, and I was frantically working towards coming up with thirty artworks to display. I was trying to enjoy the process of making paintings that bore my soul while feeling the pressure of the critics’ write ups that would come the day after the show opened.

It seems like a lifetime away now, my days as a painter. In the succeeding years of teaching, ministering, raising my kids, growing our school, it seemed like the most logical thing to do was to give up on painting. After all, being an artist required too much of me. In creating art, I had to be true to myself and yet be brave enough to receive what my audience had to say. It was like setting myself up on a platter for all the world to scrutinize and cut up. And so, because I was not sure of myself, the joy of filling up a canvas with colors, of watching the pigments come together to create magic, slowly faded into a memory.

Thankfully, one of the great blessings of cancer in my life is that all these months of introspection has taught me to love myself in a way that I never did. Instead of letting this illness destroy me, it has taught me that I do have redeemable qualities, skills and wisdom to share.

This morning, I dug up old photos of my “masterpieces”. I no longer feel emptiness nor uncertainty now while looking at them. I reacquaint myself with each artwork, and even if they are no longer mine, I am no longer wary but proud that they will always be an extension of who I am.

I wonder how they are now still touching lives in different offices or homes all over the world, and this makes me more eager to paint again.

DAY 122 A.D.

Today is the 122nd day since my life was so drastically split into two: BC (before cancer) and AD (after diagnosis). It's my 122nd day as a cancer survivor.

I have a new mantra:

My cancer is dead. My cancer is dead. My cancer is dead. My cancer is dead. My cancer is dead. My cancer is dead. My cancer is dead. My cancer is dead. My cancer is dead. My cancer is dead. My cancer is dead. My cancer is dead. My cancer is dead. My cancer is dead.

Long live me!

HEAD OUT OF THE SAND

I had my last shot yesterday to pull up my white blood cell count and so the protocol for my fifth chemo cycle is officially now over. I have one cycle more to go but ironically I am starting to feel scared. Pretty soon, all treatment will be over and then I begin my journey as a cancer survivor on my own. There will no longer be doctors and nurses to check me up every few days. There will no longer be meds to boost my immune system. I will have to deal with the state of counting my days in terms of survival rates and statistics. I will have to deal with the wondering why this ever happened to me and why I did not do what I needed to do way back when I knew something was wrong. I will have to deal with the asymmetrical image I see in the mirror everyday. I will have to be vigilant and fight off the fears on my own.

I need to pull my head out of the sand quick.

POSTING FOR POSTERITY

Since I am almost done with my chemotherapy sessions, I decided to post some sort of a photo journal for posterity...

7:00 a.m.
Getting ready for the hospital for an overnight stay. It's my second to the last cycle so far and I am nearing the finish line...yahoo!

7:15 a.m.
Bong goes to the Admitting Section and I wait in the Waiting Area. I am not allowed in the Admitting Section to avoid any exposure to infection.

7:25 a.m.

I am off to my room. One of the procedures I hate is having to be wheeled in to my room when I can very well walk.

I try to bribe the orderly to let me give him a ride on the wheel chair this time. I have done this over a dozen times since my surgery in January but noone has taken the bite.

7:30 a.m.
All chemo patients here don't go through the normal SOP of passing through ER before admission and so I am in my room now waiting for all the necessary pre-admission procedures. Meanwhile I set up all my "survival equipment" while waiting for the nurse. I brought some homework to kill idle time.

8:20 a.m.

I always request for Ritchie, the nurse from the second floor who is better than the residents in inserting the thick needle into my vein. (I am selfishly glad he didn't make it to the Big Brother auditions!) Today, however seems to be a challenge even for him because practically all the veins on the back of my left hand are weak and blackish from all previous chemo sessions.

Because I had a mastectomy and lymph nodes removed from my right axilla, they are not supposed to do any procedure on my right arm, even for blood pressure monitoring, at least in the next ten years. So its not an option for the I.V.

After the third attempt to insert the needle, the back of my left arm is swollen so they have no choice but to insert just below my open palm. They warn me that it will be painful because the skin there is thin. Let's do it, I say.

9:30 a.m.
Finally, the needle is in. Ouch that hurt!

10:00 a.m.
Talked to my friend Deah. Her husband, Juray and daughter, Iya will be coming over the weekend. She asked me what I want from over there and I started fantasizing about the Donuts and Cinammon Rolls that she sends me. Maybe not this time, Dey. Then she said she was just thinking about Krispy Kremes. Maybe I should venture out of my diet for a day when Juray comes...hmmm...

12:00 p.m.
Doc Jesena arrives and gets down to work. She greets me by saying I am looking better and better everytime she sees me. She first gives me a sedative, but as always it doesn't put me to sleep. Then she proceeds with administering my three medicines for chemo. The last one she gives me is Taxotere, the most toxic of all my meds. She has to monitor it closely, watching the drip constantly because the medicine is quite dense and oily and many of her patients go into cardiac distress while it is being administered.

She seems tensed doing this so I try to draw her out by engaging her in small talk. She tells me about her own cancer scare, about treating depressed and difficult patients, and the health challenges of her two daughters. I tell her about how God has played the greatest role in my postive outlook and how I hope she can let me share this to some of her other patients. I also asked her to look around for children suffering from cancer because I want to give them scholarships in our school.

Finally I am done and the the IV comes off.

5:00 p.m.
Bong goes to the house to check on the kids for a while. In the meantime, I take a few moments to thank God for all his blessings, for all the great friends who I know are praying for me and to visualize the medicines eradicating all remaining cancer cells in my body, if any. Bong arrives after an hour and a half or so.

7:30 p.m.
After a dinner of raw veggies and water, I am off to dream land, as the meds are starting to take effect. Bong goes down to the ICU to visit someone who just had a brain tumor removed. Good night.

The nurses monitor my pulse and blood pressure all night to rule out any cardiac reactions.

Next day...

9:00 a.m.
I am finally discharged from the hospital. I pass by the grocery to grab same parsley and bananas for my green smoothies, and some goodies for the kids.

10:30 a.m.
Since my doctor said that I should relax, what better way to do it than shop for a while. I take a look at some hats ( my new favorite things) and some books (my all time favorite things.)

After lunch I pass by the school to check on the enrollment and grab a few more "homework", and to chit-chat with the teachers and parents there.


3:00 p.m.
I am finally homeward bound.