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Losing My Religion

Yesterday afternoon, shortly before 12:30pm, I nursed my sweet baby girl for what I can only pray was not the last time.

I sobbed silently, my tears dripping onto her curls while a swarm of my closest friends and family buzzed around the kitchen.  I was losing my religion in the living room and the day was only halfway over.

My mother is back and stayed with Nugget while Nugget’s Daddy worked from home. Barbara and Martha took me to chemo.  Despite having loaded up on Ativan, I cried most of the way there.

I wore a top that would provide easy access to my port, which had been slathered with theemla cream and covered in saran wrap for at least an hour.

Patients are only allowed to have one guest accompany them to the treatment room.  I had two, who would not take “just one” for an answer.  Marla, my oncology nurse, happily pulled up another chair to accommodate my posse.

Then a senior patient, as all the other patients seem to be, swung the treatment room door open and announced, “Well!  All the good chairs have been taken.”  I wondered if I’d gotten one of the good ones.  I hoped so!

Marla drew the curtain so she could access my port.  I told Barb and Martha that they would be watching, because I couldn’t really get a good look at the action and wanted to be sure my friends suffered along if there was indeed any suffering to be done.  There was not.  I think it was worse for them.  Then the two of them chatted about how they’d like to be nurses except for, well, all of the gross stuff.  Cute scrubs had been really, really appealing, but simply couldn’t trump dealing with blood and needles.

The dynamic duo was relentless in their efforts to keep me entertained.  As I was showing them my phone that Nugget had rendered the antenna unretractable on, Martha cracked, “Your phone has an antenna?”  I replied with a smart, “Shut your trap!” which sent senior patient #2, coughy McHacksalot, into a rage of laughter and then into a, well, fit of coughing and hacking.  Note to self – keep wiseass cracks down to a dull roar in the treatment room or suffer the wrath of coughy McHacksalot.

Treatment went fairly well.  I had no reaction to the test dose of Bleomycin.  I took the extra dose of Ativan she offered.  (duh!)  At one point I was having some pain, almost like a burning sensation when I took a deep breath.  so Marla switched my iv bags and checked my lungs.  Whatever it was, it subsided and I finished Day 1 of treatment with no real issues.

She Is Sick

I met her in the Fall of 1999. I hadn’t set eyes on her until I showed up with my moving van in the Southie alleyway. The house where we would become roommates. A mutual friend put us in touch as I needed a place to stay and she needed a help on the rent.

We didn’t actually live well together. Sure, we were cordial and hung out a bit, but she wasn’t more than a roommate. I’m kind of that way with girls, to be honest. It takes me a long time to let someone “in.”

The next year I got engaged and my then fiance lived just 8 blocks away, so I moved out. This is when she and I became close friends. We exercised together, commuted to work together, met for happy hours, had sleepovers. She worked her way “in” and we’ve never looked back.

She is my son’s Godmother. She is my husband’s confidante in all things, “WTF is up with my wife?” She is my girl. She holds my secrets and my heart.

And she is sick.

Yesterday, my girl found out her biopsy results. She has cancer. The Big C. It’s in her breast and her lymph nodes. This is all she knows. She’s scheduled to see the oncologist tomorrow and on Saturday, Team A will get together with her for her self proclaimed “pity-party.” We’re going to figure out where to go from here.

I’m trying very very hard to not make this about me. But I’m scared. And I’m pissed. I’m fucking irate. I’ve cried a lot of tears and I’m sure more will be shed.

But on Saturday and every day that I’m with her, I will be her strength, no matter what it takes. Hell, if it comes to it, and she’s in throes of chemo and she loses her hair, I’ll shave my head with her. I’m in. I’m so in and will fight with her.

She’s my girl.

And she’s sick.

*********************

originally written on thursday, 9/23.

An update. Initially, A’s MRI and CT scans showed that she had no more cancer. She was due to have her lumpectomy tomorrow, her 37th birthday. Instead, she had another biopsy on Wednesday last week and found out the cancer is spreading. So instead of the lumpectomy, she’s going for the double mastectomy. Losing both ladies. In16 days. And chemo right after. Fucking sucks, to be honest. I’m pissed off all over again. Her one positive note – she said “at least I’ll never again have breast cancer.” How’s that for a positive spin. She’s goddamn amazing.

I Miss Her, But I Did Not Know Her

I think my title sums up how I feel.  My heart has been aching for the past year for a person that has been there since I was two, for twenty-eight years of my life, and now she was gone. She was my cousin. She was there before my sister. I don’t remember life before her.

I feel guilty that I didn’t take the time to get to know my cousin. Sure, I did the family obligations, the birthdays, holidays, and weddings. But it wasn’t until I was at her funeral that I realized how much I had missed out on. I felt awful because she used to drive me crazy. I found her very annoying at times. While everyone talked about the saint she was, I felt so guilty about I used to feel about her.

Denean was different, she always was.  She was an old soul before she was in high school.  I think she knew even then. In 1998 we got the call, my mom, best friend and I, while we were working at my mom’s practice: Denean had Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma.  It’s treatable, she will beat it.

But, still I think to myself, it’s cancer and she’s only 17.  Through treatment and chemo and losing her hair she remained positive. It was as if she was God’s own army, it was amazing.

Remission with follow-ups came next for five years and then there was a lump.

Breast Cancer.  Denean had a biopsy and yes, at the age of twenty-three she was diagnosed with breast cancer.  A double masectomy and a hysterectomy followed, plus lots of chemo and radiation. Then remission again. She had won, we had won! It was a good day.

Then two days before her brother’s wedding, another lump.  This one was bruised and ugly.  Breast cancer again.  With no breasts.  It had spread.  Lymph nodes, bones, tissue.  Her mother, my aunt and a nurse, asked a doctor how long we would have with her. 5 years, he told her, 5 years at best.

My cousin was twenty-five at the time.  She wouldn’t live to see thirty.

But we were all selfish. We expected her to win, to beat it. She always did.

Looking back, we missed it.  She knew she was dying and she planned for it. My only regret in life is that I didn’t plan for it, too.  My best friend told me to spend time with her while I could and I didn’t. I did once I realized what was happening, but I regret that I didn’t before.  Three weeks before she died, I rushed home with my two-month old baby to be by my cousin’s side.  Until the day that I die, I will be grateful that I had that one week with her. I got to make jokes with her about her ICU nurses, see her sarcastic sense of humor one last time.

I will carry that week with me always.

Denean left the hospital September 17, 2009 and three weeks later she died on Sunday, October 4th, 2009; her father’s birthday.  Her funeral was standing room only. The women and the real men wore pink to honor her.

Denean was that person that you read about in People Magazine.  She fought cancer three times, she put herself through school and she taught to special needs kids–it was her passion. But her most important job of all was that she lead so many people to Christ.  She helped start a prayer group in her high school that started out with 10-20 people. Today, it is well over 200 people.

To say it is an honor to have known her for her entire life would be an understatement.  I feel blessed by the hand of God to be related to Denean.

Thank you for this forum.  It feels amazing to talk about her.

Denean, if by the Grace of God you are reading this, I love you and I miss and I will forever feel blessed to have the honor of being your cousin. I think about you every day and will miss you until the day I die.

Sweet Baby, Hold Back Your Tears Now

The first night after my breast cancer chemo treatment was awful.  Nugget sobbed hysterically in my arms, giving way to heavy sighs between her defeated attempts for true comfort until she finally fell asleep.  I cried, and cried, and cried.  Between the tears i apologized over and over to my sweet baby girl for being sick.

Last night was thankfully less painful.  She fell asleep with my mother and only had to be quietly lulled back down once.  Thank god for small miracles.

As for me, I felt pretty nauseated yesterday and today, and the meds to combat that make me tired.  Today, I really started to feel exhausted.  We went out for some quick errands this morning, but I’ve since spent the remainder of the day in bed.

A Letter I Can’t Send: Dear Mama and Daddy

Dear Mama & Daddy,

Well, here it is…September again. It seems like it should get easier. And some years it even does. But, for some reason, this year is hard. Mama, September 3 is now and forever will be the day you went away. And Daddy, September 21 will always be the day you left.

I miss you both so much. Daddy, you never got to meet Tabitha, but you would have been crazy about her. You would have called her “Sport Model”. You would have goosed her in the ribs with your finger stub just like you did me, and she would have hated it and loved it at the same time just like I did. I wish you could have known her. And I hope that you can see her from where you are.

Mama…oh God, where do I start? I hate, hate, hate the cancer that took you away. I’m glad you’re not hurting anymore, but my God. You always said that you wouldn’t want Grandma to come back because it would mean she would have to suffer again. I can’t say that. I’d take you back in a heartbeat and give you medicine to help you not suffer. I’m so sorry that I didn’t wake up that morning when you called me. That morning when your pelvis was broken and you tried to get up to use the bathroom. The doctor said that you falling back on the bed didn’t break your pelvis. That your pelvis was broken before you ever tried to get up because the cancer was in your bones. But still. If I could have a do-over, I sure would take it.

And Daddy, don’t think that all my guilt is reserved for Mama. I haven’t forgotten that time I ran off for a week and worried you so much and left you alone. You remember that song by Travis Tritt? Tell Me You Didn’t Say Goodbye? Well, I still can’t hear that song without losing it. Even after all this time.

Mama…Daddy…I’m sorry. I wasn’t the daughter I should have been. And I didn’t realize it until it was too late. I hope there really is a Heaven. And I hope that the two of you are together there. And I hope that you both can see all the way into my heart and know that even though I failed you both miserably, I always loved you and thought you were the very best parents anyone ever had. And I hope to see you both again someday.

Charles Franklin Brunson

March 1941 ~ September 1995

Virginia Faye Brunson

January 1943 ~ September 2008

Tears For Fears

I’m not even sure to where to start.  Remember that fever?  It finally went away.  Then it came back.  A second set of bloodwork later, the doctor still thinks it’s viral.  I get a chest x-ray to rule out pneumonia.  Next is a CT scan,  then a biopsy.  The biopsy has to be done under general anesthesia by a mediastinoscopy, and a bronchoscopy is thrown in for good measure.  Now they think I have Hodgkins.

I know that there are readers who will get this so much more than others that have already heard it from me.  My biggest fearWhat if I have to have chemo and stop nursing my daughter?  It’s going to break her little heart (and mine) if she looks up at me, her mama, with her pleading, beautiful blue eyes and signs for her nursies and i have to say no.

I can’t say any more than that right now.  I just can’t.  This fear is crippling me and the tears won’t stop.