grief

All This And Poppy, Too

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , 1 Comment

It’s snowing, soft flurries floating on the air current, meandering to the ground rather than falling. It’s a temperature that, when I was a child, would be “too cold for snow.” Little me didn’t understand that and believed it was one of those things adults say to mask the truth. There are many of those statements – it tastes just like chicken, how will you know unless you try it, it doesn’t hurt, your skirt is cute, they’re just jealous – among them.

I’m editing a rom-com manuscript today and struggling a little because nothing feels very funny these days. Women are about to lose the right to vote. Trump has declared himself a king. The national parks have, again, been de-staffed. The new head of health and human services thinks people who take antidepressants (etc) should be moved to camps and that black children should be “re-parented.” And the Arab countries have finally realized that Trump actually does want to put slot machines in Gaza. This would be an SNL skit in any other world. 

A woman just walked by with her dog. The dog is not walking.

The bakery across the street is really pushing king cakes. In news that’s probably the least controversial you’ll hear today, I think king cake is dry and tasteless. Sorry to all those who look forward to the cake. You can have my piece. 

I’m drinking a dark chocolate mocha today, an unusual choice since I’m really not a coffee drinker but something about the dark chocolate appealed. Perhaps it’s just my body’s attempt to assuage the grief I’m feeling about all the ways this administration is attempting to hurt the most vulnerable among us.

A little girl sitting at the table next to mine said to her companion, “You’re so beautiful.” Isn’t that lovely? 

Last week, my daughter rescued some betta fish from a pet store. Half of the 10 fish in the display were dead. My daughter purchased the rest to save them from spending their remaining time trapped in little plastic cups. We own a very large (55 gal) aquarium and all the stuff – filters, heaters, lights, water plants, etc. – so all she needed was substrate and food which we did not buy from that pet store. Instead, we went to an aquarium specialty store in Monroeville (Elmer’s Aquarium). The fish are now happily swimming around, hiding amongst the plants, eating the brine shrimp Haley drops into the water every day. Who knows how long they’ll live but saving them felt like a little victory in our house last week. My daughter is, however, banned from ever entering a pet store again.

In honor of ‘Love Your Pet’ day (as if we pet owners actually need to designate a day to lavish unreasonable amounts of attention on our beloved pets), I am thinking of my sweet girl, Poppy. We rescued her in 2013. She’d been born into a terribly abusive home and came to us at about 12 weeks, emaciated, recovering from multiple broken bones, with various scars that puppies should never have. The vet told us to feed her as much food as she was willing to eat so we left a bowl of food out for her to nibble on at will and she began to fill out. 

She could jump as high as my shoulders and one time, jumped as I was bending to say hello to her. We collided. She was fine. I had a broken cheekbone. She was very, very sorry. Later in her puppyhood, she was playing with Tristan and bit through his eyelid. He came downstairs to tell me that he could see me when his eyes were closed. It was weird. A doctor glued it back together for us. She was sorry then too.

Shortly after she moved in, she bolted for the door as it was closing and caught a toe, breaking it. The vet said it would take a few days for her to get used to her pink cast. In less than an hour, she was running around the backyard, back to full functionality. 

When we took her camping, she was so afraid we’d leave without her that she sat by the car until bedtime the first night. She was happy, though, to climb into the tent with us, sure that we wouldn’t be able to slip away without her knowledge. Then, around 2AM, she finally had to pee so badly she ran out of the tent without her leash. When she was finished, she trotted back, pleased as could be, and curled up in her tent bed which she had apparently decided was our new home. (Also, our campsite was absolutely full of garter snakes but she didn’t even notice them.) 

Illustrative of her boundless enthusiasm and energy, when she was diagnosed with cancer, she put up with all the vet appointments and treatments without complaint, remaining as loving and enthusiastic as she had ever been. At one point, because she had fallen off the sofa, we made the decision to keep her on the floor. She complained – grumbling in the standard pitbull method – about the lack of petting until one of us sat on the floor with her at all times, giving her regular snuggles and pets. We also took turns sleeping on the floor beside her so we could bring her water or carry her outside to pee during the night. 

She’s been gone almost two months. We miss her most in quiet moments when entering a room and realizing she’s not there to thump her heavy tail, when we drop a random bit of food on the floor that no one wants (a lettuce leaf or piece of dry pasta) but she would eat to make sure the puppies didn’t get it, when we read the mail without teeth marks from her wrestling it to the floor, when lying on the sofa without her heavy body pressed on top, her head on our hearts. 

Wishing you the kind of joyous love that Poppy shared with us. 

Much love.

All This And Poppy, Too

Scanning for Fear or the Fear of Scans

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I allowed scan-xiety to get the better of me. 

Most cancer patients – in news that will surprise absolutely no one – experience some level of scan-xiety. We remind ourselves not to worry. We deep-breathe before our appointments and sweat out the wait for our results. Some of us have nightmares. Some don’t sleep well for days before their scans. We bargain with ourselves and our gods, hoping against rational thought that our pleas will ensure that this latest scan will be clear. 

For a variety of health reasons that are not cancer-related, I have had many scans over the past 20 years and never really worried about them, until that first time, in December, 2023. Since then, I’ve had five or six additional MRIs (and that’s without counting the extra two I got in September). I’ve sort of lost count from the monotonous sameness of the experience, though, if I cared to, I could go back through my electronic record and count the results. 

The facts show, without elaboration, that I don’t currently have cancer. My liver resection and chemotherapy eliminated it. So, how did I allow scan-xiety to take over, to control my waking hours, my sleepless nights, my infrequent dreams? I honestly don’t know, though, clearly, I’m not alone in that experience. 

Part of me wants to blame my VeryBadCancerTM with its high (70-80%) recurrence rate but that isn’t fair to the many people with more common and more treatable cancers. They, too, experience the gripping anticipatory grief of scan-xiety. We’re a large and growing population of individuals who both hope and dread those quarterly, semi-annual, or annual scans. 

Every single time I get an MRI, I analyze the technicians’ behaviors, even knowing that they are not foreshadowing my future. Why, I ask myself, did the tech tell me that they hoped I’d feel better soon? I feel fine. Oh my god. What did they see on the scan? TAKE CARE? Why did they say that? It’s back, isn’t it? They’re wishing me well because they saw another growth. 

It’s relentless – the imagined pity, the casual humanity turned to sympathy by my overactive brain. It wasn’t so bad in September. Having just finished chemo, I assumed that the cancer would be, at least temporarily, beaten down. Something about these most recent scans, though, took hold of my psyche, shook me to my essence, encouraged me to dread, instead of hope.

Again, my scans were fine. I’m still hanging in, cancer-free, but it – the scan-xiety – cost me this time in a way that I need to remember. It cost me moments of joy and peaceful nights. It cost me in snapping, anxious words and absences when I should have been present. 

I am determined not to pay that high price again but it is so much easier to profess that goal than to apply it. The strategies are all in my scan-xiety avoidance toolkit: yoga, mindful breathing, therapy, exercise. The problem, you see, is that, like most people, I, and so many other cancer survivors, have a lot to lose. The difference between us and the average healthy person is that we have experienced the real possibility of an earlier than expected death. But, to quote Cordelia, “I think I like this little life, this silly little life.” 

It isn’t just the pain and discomfort of surgery and chemo and possibly radiation that frightens me. I’ve done that before – well, not the radiation. I know what to expect – even from the radiation, having watched my husband endure it – and I know I can do it again and again, even the vomiting, if I have to. It’s not the words that could be in any of our futures: incurable, inoperable, terminal, palliative. 

It’s the pain to be endured by my children, my extended family, my found family and friends – but most horribly AGAIN by my children – that really makes me fear my scans. My (adult) babies are strong and they love each other deeply. I know that, if, through some future scan, I receive my ‘notice to quit’, my children will support each other, will be ‘okay’ but I would give a lot to prevent them from enduring another parental cancer death. 

It’s a lot to ask and I’m not sure who, in fact, I would be asking since I’ve been, previously, very clear on my uncomfortable relationship with the possibility of an all-powerful deity who occasionally pops down to help you find your pen but allows a lot of kind, gentle, loving people to die of cancer every year. 

With all due respect to your beliefs, please miss me with the “God needs them” and “they were called home” business. I hope those thoughts comfort believers but they offer nothing to me when compared to the idea of my children having to stand by my bed, watching cholangiocarcinoma turn me yellow and poison my blood. I don’t know if God was present in the room when my husband gasped out his last. 

I do know, though, that my children were there, at Ken’s beside, and they suffered – and still suffer – from the experience of watching their father die after watching him fight to live. Since none of us know what the future holds for us, I am determined to embrace the lesson that this scan’s anxious moments taught me – I need not die before I’ve finished living. 

Much love.

Scanning for Fear or the Fear of Scans

31 Gratitudes at the End of an Infamous Year

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I’ve been thinking recently about gratitude. In particular, I’ve been pondering what gratitude feels like, how we express it, what it means to be grateful. Initially, I planned to write some profound thoughts. In a year absolutely packed with grief, sorrow, anxiety, and hope, thoughts are plentiful, if not actually profound. The ability to write them down is oddly absent. As such, in place of those pithy thoughts, I have made a list (who doesn’t love a list?!). 

I am filled with joyous gratitude for:

  1. My family and friends, biological and found
  2. Healthcare workers in all their various and lovely forms
  3. Butter toffee cashews
  4. High-top converse
  5. My 90-something neighbors
  6. Being able to compliment others
  7. Sunny days, warm and cold
  8. Hugs
  9. Fall leaves
  10. Spring blooms
  11. Dogs
  12. Cats
  13. Richard Armitage’s voice
  14. The rest of Richard Armitage
  15. Whoever wrote Hot Frosty
  16. Time spent beside a crackling fire
  17. Laughing until my sides hurt and my eyes are wet
  18. Walking 
  19. Noah Kahan
  20. Acorns
  21. Hummingbirds
  22. Corny tshirts
  23. Yoga with Adriene
  24. Crochet
  25. Community
  26. The coffee shop
  27. Writers
  28. Books
  29. Homemade cookies
  30. The neighborhood fox 
  31. Homemade hot cocoa with fresh whipped cream

What’s on your list?

Much love.

31 Gratitudes at the End of an Infamous Year

A Litter of Acorns

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In a move that probably surprised no one except me, the trees have shed their leaves. I see them on the ground but I don’t recall the events that led to their arrival on my doorstep. Further shocking news: garland and holiday lights now adorn Walnut Street. The city is preparing to celebrate the annual Light-up Night, formally beginning our holiday season. Where did the year go? If any of you find it, can you report back? 

My daughter and I spent a recent afternoon planting spring bulbs. It was a popular activity among the neighbors, resulting in many comments from the people walking themselves and their dogs up and down our street. “Can’t wait to see them in six months.” “Love your butterfly garden.” were among the most validating comments. Having to pick off the sticker seeds liberally coating our clothes and gloves was not, however, a satisfying end to the effort.

My nextdoor neighbor was undoubtedly pleased that we also raked leaves. When we don’t rake them quickly enough, they blow into his yard and then, my friends, THEN he has to get out the leaf-blower to send them back to us. Community is having a neighbor who uses his leaf-blower every day and being sad that one day he’ll no longer do so.

As I was walking to the coffee shop, I passed a young woman holding a bright red leaf in her hand like it was a trophy. I understand the feeling. The desk in our entryway is currently strewn with bright leaves and perfectly round acorns, while my phone is filled with pictures of fall wildflowers still blooming in our yard. 

About a year ago, I joined BlueSky (@deborahz.blsky.social) as I was considering moving on from Twitter (yeah, I’ll never be calling it by that other name, except perhaps to make fun of it). With the election over, that other space has become toxic, with bots adding “your body, my choice” to women’s posts. Since there aren’t effective reporting/blocking tools anymore, I’ve officially left that place and am trying to find community amongst the butterflies of BlueSky. So far, it has been very welcoming, as well as delightfully weird, like early-days Twitter when accounts used to do things like quote entire novels to each other 140 characters at a time. I love the nerdiness.

I finally finished the “whimsical” biography I had to write to accompany a CNF piece being published in an annual lit magazine. I’ve never had so much difficulty writing anything. You’d think someone with a considerable ego would have little difficulty writing about herself. Apparently, I’m a conundrum of contradictions. lol

If you celebrate, Happy Turkey and Pie Over-consumption Day.

Much love.

A Litter of Acorns

7mm From Free

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , 1 Comment

Fall in Pittsburgh – foggy mornings, brisk sunny days. Walking to the coffee shop again is like putting on fluffy socks as the temperature drops. Much about the store itself has changed but not the customers. Every day, I see someone I know and we share a smile, sometimes a few words. Community, my friends. 

A quick health update: scans show no evidence of disease in my liver. That 7mm spot in a pulmonary lymph node – found in my December 2023 scan – is still there. We’re calling that a watched spot, lol. Next scans in January. So far so good. 

There’s a group behind me talking about sourcing materials. It’s a very serious discussion, almost presentation-like. Reminds me a lot of standing in front of a client, pitching our enrollment tools. That’s an experience I don’t miss at all. One time, many years ago, when I was responsible for creating the health plans that self-insured clients purchased, a potential customer approached us about creating a policy that did not cover pregnancy. We had a lot of internal conversation about that and as was often the case, I was the only woman at the table. Of the six or eight men in the room with me, only one agreed that it was grotesque to even consider that request. Luckily for me, having to write that coverage, and for the women who would purchase it, the man who agreed with me was the vice president of sales. We didn’t write the business. 

The coffee shop is bustling, lots of people enjoying the weather. A child – early teens, maybe – has just come in. They have that tentativeness of the teen years, when you think everyone is looking at you and you really want to act normal, whatever that is, or really cool, again however that looks. Their money is folded in their hand. They have to unfold the little square of bills to pay. 

After a few moments, they’re handed a large mocha with a mound of whipped cream and a drizzle of chocolate syrup. It looks delicious. Apparently, it’s not quite ready to drink, though. They head to the coffee bar, use a straw to stir the whipped cream into the drink and then pour in a bunch of cream. A taste of it confirms that it needs even more cream. A second quality check confirms that perfection has been reached. The lid is snapped on; their remaining money is carefully folded and tucked into a pocket, and off they go into the sunny afternoon. 

I just finished reading Demon Copperhead. Oh Lordy. Was that a journey of a book. It took me a couple weeks to read because it is stark, filled with trauma, making it one of those novels to be read in short sessions. I have to say, though, that it deserved the Pulitzer. Barbara Kingsolver has written a protagonist whose voice is so powerful I can still hear him talking in my head, days after I finished the book. 

Recently, thanks, I think, to all of the death in Demon Copperfield, I had a dream about my paternal grandmother. She died when I was 17 – cancer, plus two strokes – a particularly bad death. She was dying again in my dream and I was going to see her one last time. It doesn’t make sense – do dreams ever? – because in the real world I was with her when she died. It was, in fact, the first time I watched someone pass away. 

My sister and I had a challenging childhood. Grandma made things better. I felt closer to her than I can express; she only had two grandchildren so she lavished all her attention on us – not money as she had virtually nothing that wasn’t provided by my parents. We didn’t need to have expensive adventures. Sometimes we’d walk through the mall and buy a Friendly’s junior milkshake and fries to share. We’d guess how many steps it would take to walk the neighborhood and then we’d count as we walked and cheer whoever had come the closest. She taught us how to play Crazy Bridge and we taught her and her friends to play Uno.

Losing her in my teens was as inexpressible as re-losing her in my dreams. She already spends a not insignificant amount of time in my head. I can picture her clearly, a tiny woman with a huge personality, assertive, mouthy, fearless → except for cancer. She didn’t even tell us she was sick until it was far too late. 

When she eventually called my mom (rather than her only son!) and went to the hospital, it was her final trip. Doctors did exploratory surgery and concluded there was more cancer than body. It was the early days of hospice care. Grandma stayed in a regular hospital room surrounded by all the normal hospital noises. The care team did all they could to keep her comfortable while we waited for her to die. Just a few days after she was admitted, Grandma had the first stroke. She lost the ability to speak but could gesture to me that she wanted to roll onto her side (her left side because it was her favorite sleeping position). 

None of this reality occurred in the dream. Instead, she was sitting upright in a hospital bed and talking, her candy floss mass of white hair curling all over her head. I, on the other hand, was struggling to get out of bed, frantic to get to my last visit with her. What cruelty are dreams. I’d give a lot to dream instead about her driving us to Dunkin Donuts where we’d get honey sticks and the plain donuts with the dunking handle, the kind my mom liked to dunk in her coffee. 

Much love.

7mm From Free

Walking a Razor-thin Wire

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

I’m at the coffee shop again, the second time in months. It actually feels a little uncomfortable today, though I can’t articulate why I feel out of place. It’s as pleasant as ever on this edge-of-fall day. The big garage door is open, a cool breeze rustling the napkins and my chemo curls. I usually shave my head with a #3 razor but lately, defying the chemo thinning and chemical damage, I’ve let it grow out a bit. It’s a touch silver now with a little flip at the ends, slightly flattened by the baseball cap my daughter insists I wear in the sun. 

The sidewalks are quiet today. Schools are back in session but since projects aren’t yet due, the students haven’t settled into seats at the back of the coffee shop to work while they talk in hushed tones about their assignments and the cute student in chem class. 

A few minutes ago, a young woman, early 20s I’d guess, came over to my table and asked me a question. It was somewhat hurried; I’m somewhat hard of hearing. I asked her to repeat her question. She said, with a touch of pink on her cheeks, “Do you have wired headphones I can borrow?”

I don’t, my friends. Like most of the 21st century, I use bluetooth headphones. We all know, however, why she asked the silvery-haired lady. I’m pretty sure she just generalized that I, being of an older persuasion, would still be using wired headphones. Next, someone will address me as ma’am and I’ll have to acknowledge that only mentally am I still 17 years old. 

There’s a couple just seating themselves next to me – 70s or early 80s, I would guess. He leans a little forward as he walks, his hands slightly behind him, knees bent like he’s learning to ice skate. He’s on his way to the counter where he’s to order his (probably) wife a small coffee. She emphasized the size to him, as though he regularly brings her a 20oz cup. Now, while he awaits her order, she sits quietly awaiting him, her sky blue sweater flattering the stark white bob of her hair. 

I’m splitting my time today among a synopsis for a novel I’ve been working on for months, a creative nonfiction piece, and this blog. Occasionally, I’ll stop for a moment to look at my peeling nails and wonder about the year’s journey. Mostly, I put it aside but every now and again, I’m struck by the difference between my expectations and the year’s reality. I spend a few anxious moments reminding myself that the cancer was all removed and sometimes touch my tender scars as reinforcement. As much as I disliked the constant poking and prodding, the pills and the appointments, I sometimes now feel like a tight-rope walker who is performing without a net.

The scans that I’ve been anticipating for a month are next week and then the usual wait begins. I’ve been working hard on addressing my scan-xiety but it’s there, despite my efforts. I tap my chest where that 7mm mass is located (right under my breast bone) and remind myself that I’m feeling better, more energetic and less sick. That must be a good sign, right? But that argument doesn’t really work for me since I felt fine while there was a cancerous tumor growing on my liver. I guess the point I have to learn is that the only thing I can control is how I respond to the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.”

For a time, I obsessively googled cholangiocarcinoma, looking for miracle cures, hope in statistics, comfort for the fearful, perhaps. What I found was statistics that you wouldn’t bet against (my cancer has a recurrence rate above 70% and is terminal in something around 87% of cases). Since that kind of searching did nothing to appease my anxiety, I decided to stop looking for hope in those searches. Instead, I try to remember to spend my free time relishing the moments I have, sitting on the deck with my daughter, teasing my sons with terrible dad jokes, playing with my dogs. I won’t – I hope – waste whatever time I have pining for options that I may not even need. I could be one of the 13% who survive past the five year mark or I could get hit by a bus on my way home from the coffee shop. 

I may have mentioned that I broke another toe about two weeks ago. It’s still swollen as a grape, not an image you necessarily wanted implanted in your brain but … hey … it’s already in mine so why not share with you?! I finally decided to call the doctor today because my walk to the coffee shop was painful. Can’t have my activities restricted by a stupid broken pinky toe. Unfortunately, I probably reinjured my plantar plate, which would be a bummer, but I’ll wait for yet another doctor appointment instead of opening up google to do more anxiety-causing research. The doctor asked if I got my foot x-rayed. HAHAHAHAHAHA Like I went to a doctor.

Two people just walked by with bouquets of flowers from the flower shop, Toadflax, just down the street. They hug and separate just outside the coffee shop entrance and one of the people comes in for a drink. The bouquet she brings with her is tucked into a little bag reminiscent of a flower pot. I want to take a big whiff of her flowers but I know they’re from a hothouse and have no scent. Still, the pink paper wrapped around the blooms complements the overall color scheme and adds a delicate air of elegance to this brick and wood establishment. More importantly, she’s clearly delighted with her purchase and isn’t that charming?

Much love.

Walking a Razor-thin Wire

Mary Oliver Knows What’s What

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

The neighborhood is quiet again. For six weeks during the summer, there’s a camp across the street. The kids are quite … audible from about 9AM to 4PM. It’s delightful, really, the sounds they make, their shrieks of laughter and chatter. Now, it’s easier, again, to hear birds but the noises of childhood are all gone. Probably that’s not true in most neighborhoods but ours is an older population. There are few children here and their giggles are muted. 

In her poem “Don’t Hesitate,” Mary Oliver writes, “Joy is not made to be a crumb.” She tells us to embrace the joyful moments we come upon because they are few and unexpected. Isn’t that a child’s laugh? The smell of the bread my daughter is baking? When my son teases me and we chuckle because I called Deadpool Spiderman? I can’t wait for an end to cancer to experience joy because there might not be an end to cancer but if we don’t seek it out and celebrate those found moments, there will definitely be an end to joy. 

It’s cycle 8, the last cycle of chemo for now. And it’s been full of delights – vomiting, attacks of unproductive nausea (if you know, you know), cold sweats, dizziness, and lots of unspecified gastrointestinal delights. At least I know I’ll have a break soon. 

My nails have started peeling but thankfully, my hands and feet are not. Yes, that’s a pretty common chemo thing – peeling appendages. Ken struggled with it. His feet especially looked like dried alligator skin. Nothing seemed to help him. I’ve been more fortunate and more responsive to my daughter’s entreaties to please use the body lotion people have so kindly sent me. It’s working; so, thanks, everyone. 

It gets tiresome, you know, to constantly think about your own wellbeing. We’re all mostly oblivious to the functions of our bodies until those parts are not quite working. Back aches, stomach upsets, sore feet are all experiences we’ve had and moved on from, not giving them a thought. But in the midst of an extended health event, everything is about what’s working and not. And after a bit, it’s annoying to be constantly spotting problems. 

One morning, I woke up thinking “I feel sick.” Then, I sat up and had terrible vertigo that did not end when I lay back down. Closing your eyes works (in case you ever experience vertigo). After a few moments, the dizziness was gone but the nausea stayed. I have to eat to take my chemo pills so I had a glass of milk for breakfast and an egg for dinner and nothing in between. Tiresome, you see what I mean? Who wants to constantly be thinking about whether they feel okay? 

Recently, I was shopping at Costco with my daughter – we had run out of milk which is a catastrophe in our house. We were discussing the merits of a clearance storage item when I suddenly felt very wonky and started to cold-sweat. My worst nightmare is to have a health event at Costco and there we were, health-event underway. I sat on one of their display sofas for a bit, visited the bathroom for reasons you can imagine without further explanation, sat on the sofa again, and then decided to wait in the car where I could direct air conditioning on my very sweaty brow. 

Alas, that was not to be as the car had a very dead battery. Yes, that’s right. A 90 degree day and a dead battery – so, back I went into Costco to sit on that convenient sofa. 

My daughter made sure I was okay on the sofa, did all the food selecting, checked out, and loaded the car. I took on the easier task of jumping the battery with our lovely battery charger (having one in the car is so unnecessary until your battery is dead!), with her providing the essential moral support because I was really going through something as we like to call it. On the way home, she even put up with the frigid car temperature so I could cool my very sweaty self. And then she put all the groceries away while I lay on the sofa. One of the silver linings, I guess, is having the opportunity to see my loved ones shine in my rather dark place. 

Next week starts my long chemo break. I’ll have scans in September and visits with my surgeon and oncologist in October. I wonder what our next steps will be.

Much love.

Mary Oliver Knows What’s What

It’s A Middlin’ Day

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , 2 Comments

Coming back from a doctor appointment recently, I drove into a landscape painting, the sky pale blue and dotted with fluffy white clouds. It was somewhat surreal, the utter stillness, but also peaceful as though the stillness was a pause, a moment to catch one’s breath, maybe also to inhale some lilac and peony before life’s chaos continued. 

Those moments are more difficult to see as I enter the slog of the midpoint. Yes, yes, I’m halfway done with those pills. Now, I can both see the end and dread it, as I have been warned. It’s a thing – some kind of a thing – to take a poison dose every day in hopes that it will kill something else that’s worse. It’s another thing to stop taking that poison and know that there’s nothing fighting anymore. 

My oncology therapist warned me during one of our conversations that it can be scary to cross the highwire that is life without those terrible pills. I was feeling some sort of way about feeling sick ALL THE TIME to prevent myself from being sick. She was right, of course, as her years of experience could have told me. I do feel anxious about removing the chemo net from my highwire life. What if the scans – every three months thank you very much – don’t catch it soon enough when it inevitably returns? What if my remission lasts until after the regular scans end? What if? What if? What if?

But we can’t live like that, of course. I crested the hill and started the downward leg of my chemo journey on Memorial Day; and in a week, the day after I watch my youngest graduate from high school, I’ll get my first CT and MRI scans. The therapist and I have already talked about my upcoming scan-xiety – that anxiety that arrives the eve of the scans and lasts through the reading of the results. Having waited for and waded through a lot of tests and results, I’ve experienced scan-xiety. I even still get it with every blood test, my heart working harder as I check my white blood cell count and my tumor markers. 

The anxiety fades as the results come in, even the cancer result didn’t cause more anxiety. Once the test confirmed what we suspected, instead of feeling anxious, I felt … resolve, perhaps, determination to fight. The determination is still there but the slog, the deadly slog of daily poisonings is tedious. The continuing battle against cramps, diarrhea, stomach upset, mouth sores is wearisome, to say the least. 

This is more acknowledgement than complaint. I’m beyond grateful for the tech who spotted that anomalous lesion on my liver, for the people who made it possible for me to take a handful of pills twice a day to extend my life, for the people who help me traverse that highwire even with the net currently in place. BUT some days, when the energy is so low that I spend the day lying on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling while a podcast or audiobook plays softly next to my ear, I think about the woman who spent last spring preparing for a hike. Where the hell is she right now? Definitely not hiking.

It’s A Middlin’ Day

Naps Are the New Normal

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

When I’m not feeling well, as has been the case for several days, I think about how well I would be feeling if I weren’t on chemo and how, despite feeling completely normal, I would be moving ever closer to death as the tumor inside me grew. That I am now cancer-free and feeling ill is the contrasting benefit to my wistful thoughts of wellness, the longing for the pleasure of spring planting and days working beside a big, open coffee shop door.

One of the strategies the oncology therapist has been trying to drill into my head is – conserve energy. Use a terry cloth robe instead of drying off after a shower. Sit to chop the veg for dinner. Take naps. Exercise in brief sessions throughout the day – three 10-minute walks instead of a 30-minute one. It’s hard to acknowledge that some things have to change. I’m not sick but damn this chemo is kicking my butt. 

Today, it’s warm but my toes are suffering from chemo-cold. My fluffy blue socks were a gift from a friend who beat breast cancer. It’s a common theme – apparently – the cold chemo feet. The socks are great and include a non-slip message to cancer: something about me being a bad bitch. I highly recommend them. They’re very snuggly. I also hate them because they too are a marker that all is not as it should be. Instead of socks, I should be padding barefoot through the house and out the back door to sit on the deck. Whine, whine, whine. I am grateful. I AM. But feeling unwell messes with my already chemo-fogged brain, making rational thought an occasional visitor rather than the constant companion I prefer.

My chemo break week has been something of a chemo-tastrophe. I got another infection. My blood work shows that my body is still fighting it. On top of that, I’ve been so drowsy and irritable that I haven’t been able to stand myself. I honestly don’t know how my kids are putting up with me. It’s so bad that I’m almost looking forward to going back on the chemo on Monday. Almost. 

I was warned by those who came before that chemo break is terrible for everyone, which makes it no break at all, you know? I do feel somewhat better today, of course, because it’s the day before chemo starts again. 

We’re getting a new roof, something I put off longer than I should have. I’ve been meeting with contractors about the work and it’s been a right pain in the patootie. One of them tried to bully me. Another gave me a quote of $40,000. Seriously. I mean, my roof is going to be expensive but really? One of the roofers told me to talk to my husband about the quote. 

Back to the point, one of the contractors insisted on socializing with me, a bonding effort perhaps, and I finally said, “hey, I apologize but I’m on chemo and it’s kicking my ass. I’m going to sit during this.” How does he respond? By telling me about all the people he knows who have died of cancer. What? Don’t tell me that people die from cancer. This is something I already know. It’s like when I was pregnant and people told me all of their delivery horror stories. Let’s not, my friends. I already know that cancer is a killer. That’s literally why I’m on chemo. 

Earlier in the week, I was re-watching the Barbie movie with my daughter and I kept thinking that I was too tired to do any of the things they were doing. Jump out of bed and make breakfast? Nope. Go to the beach? Only if I can lie down. Escape to the real world? Maybe if they put in more benches so I can sit. 

Even with all this, I’ve been walking as much as I can. It’s a challenge to hit the step goals I set for myself but I’m trying. Last night when I went up to bed, I accidentally left my water bottle on the first floor and then had a little mental discussion (argument? pep talk?) about whether I actually needed to drink water during the night. The answer is yes. Chemo dehydration is dangerous. It causes fainting and dizziness and other bad stuff. So, I walked the two flights to the first floor and back up to bed. Hit my step goal too. 

Much love. And naps.

Naps Are the New Normal

Live Kindly

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

If your insurance company has a medical chart option and you aren’t using it, what are you even doing with your life? Despite its convenience, as I look at the screen, I’m mumbling to myself that I don’t need to confirm every single time that: I know the balance billing act, my insurance hasn’t changed, I have no new meds within the last however many days it’s been since I received a test (one day – it’s literally been a single day since I last filled out their digital paperwork)…. 

Complaining about the efficiency of online check-in feels a little like Homer Simpson yelling at the microwave because 10 seconds is too long to wait for whatever snack he wants, except that visiting the doctor would not, under any circumstance, be considered a snack. Of course, there was that one time when I was NOT the patient and we had the hottest ED doctor (resident) I’ve ever seen. Seriously, I asked the nurses about him and they were like … YEAH, WE KNOW. And then I apologized for objectifying him which made him laugh. And that only made him MORE appealing. He was definitely hotter than McDreamy (is that the right nickname?).

Spring cleaning continues. Since my activities are still limited, I mentored Haley’s first foray into drywall. She did a fantastic job repairing the place in the ceiling that usually holds a light fixture. 

For those of you who weren’t part of the exciting beginning to that experience, a few months ago, the entire fixture threw itself out of the ceiling when I was changing a light bulb. We’ll be putting a new ceiling light up as soon as painting is complete. That part will be easy and fun because we found the most beautiful Victorian ceiling light at Construction Junction. It was $35. Seriously. We returned the somewhat banal light we’d purchased at some big box store.

We’ve finished scraping, spackling, sanding, and priming. We’re about to start painting actual color onto the walls and ceilings. There are a lot of moving parts. The painting has to be done before the largish throw rug arrives next week. Also, next week, we’ll get the carpet padding for our new-to-us/found-at-an-estate-sale-for-$100 rug. That thing is huge, somewhere in the 16’ x 11’ range but it’s a perfect fit for our living space.

We still need a bedframe for the guest room and then, we’ll be ready for our May visitors and any others who follow. There are two upcoming estate sales that have good potential queen bed options. I love buying used furniture with good bones on the cheap. Next week, the guest bedroom mattress arrives.   

A contractor is coming this week to look at my leaking shower floor – waterproofing is not one of my specialties. I gave it a try but we’ve still got a leak, folks, and that’s causing drywall damage in the second floor bathroom. We need to patch that in order to paint the bathroom and on and on. It’s beginning to feel like a Jenga game but I know we’ll manage. 

I’m still looking for a roofer since I fired-before-we-signed-paperwork the company that called every day, plus texted and emailed until I got annoyed enough that I told them we couldn’t work together. They wanted a 90 minute meeting. I told them I couldn’t currently accommodate that much time and they began pestering. UGH. Better to know upfront though.

It’s now week two of chemo session two. I’ve had a few icky experiences but mostly it’s been quiet this round. I’m tired. I have nightmares every single night. My joints ache. I’m finally healed from the second infection I managed to pick up since starting chemo. 

All of this sounds terrible, right? But you wouldn’t know to look at me that I’m taking 4000 mg of capecitabine every single day. Mostly, I feel pretty good, though I’ve gone off asparagus and lemonade makes me sick to the point of incapacity. Unfortunately, I drank about 4 ounces of lemonade before I figured that out.

I’ve had a couple people ask if I can do activities outside the house. Yes and … no. I’m doing lots of stuff in and out of the house but I have some limits. No standing for long periods – and by long periods I mean like 15 minutes. I sat in a chair or on the floor during scraping and sanding! 

No tea because it can prevent chemo from working. If I’m going through chemo, I am sure as hell not shooting myself in the foot by drinking tea. No large crowds. I’m not immunocompromised but I’m also not stupid. Large crowds increase disease likelihood so I’m keeping it small. Those of you who are envisioning that I look like the crypt keeper – yeah, well I sort of do but no more than I ever have. 

There are two songs playing on repeat in my playlist – “Be” by Hozier, acoustic because he said in an interview that it’s his favorite version of the song AND “Blackbird” by Beyonce. I think – don’t hurt me – that it’s better than the original. 

And finally, while I don’t have the link to the game bundle that includes SQUB, my son’s latest game, I will share it when it arrives in my inbox. All proceeds go directly to support at-risk young people. If you support the cause, check out the link and tell your friends. If you don’t, just keep moving because I block haters. 

If you want to support my boy’s game studio, you can just buy his game. 

And finally, one of the many lessons I’ve learned on this journey: I might not be able to determine my lifespan but I get to choose how I live with the time I’m given. And I choose to live more kindly today than yesterday. 

Much love. 

Live Kindly