But the warning came too late. While the guide was giving the warning, the first guy in the line of hikers reached out and grabbed a tree trunk to steady himself on the uneven trail. He yelled out in pain and drew back a palm-full of dozens of tiny, razor sharp thorns. The rest of the hike, he and his wife worked to extract each thorn. But it was impossible; he had to hike with a hand full of thorns and get help later.

Do you ever feel like that guy?

Sunday I came down with a fever and body aches. Oh no. Not another virus. I had a two-week bout with the flu over the holidays, right after my son’s wedding. I was finally feeling pretty good and had just about caught up on work. Now this.

But it wasn’t the flu. Later in the day, rolling around in bed trying to get comfortable, I looked at my right arm and noticed an ugly red rash. My arm was painful, swollen, and I could barely straighten it out. I wasn’t quite sure what was going on so I visited my doctor yesterday and we put the pieces together and figured it out.

A few years ago I had several surgeries related to breast cancer. I’m now cancer free, but the surgeries, chemo, and radiation took a toll on my body. (Apparently you do need your lymph nodes. Who knew?) Last week I’d overdone my physical activity (skiing, working, cleaning bathrooms, and capping it all off with an aggressive cleaning session involving a big, clunky upright vacuum cleaner). My arm was injured and it reacted with inflammation and infection.

“Sorry I’m such a loser,” I told my husband the next day. And that’s truly how I feel. I’ve always prided myself on being strong, athletic, outdoorsy, physically tough. I like to humble brag about riding my horse (His name is Stetson! He’s 17 hands!) and skiing (double black diamond!) and doing the Susan G Komen Walk for the Cure (60 miles!).

I’ve always been strong. Until now. 

I was telling my daughter the story yesterday. “It’s like my arm is disabled, and I have to be careful with it.” When I heard myself say those words, I suddenly realized–I’m clearly in denial. First of all, my arm is part of me. If my arm is disabled, then I am (Disability – A physical or mental condition that limits a person’s movements, senses, or activities). I need to own it. Second, almost everyone has some sort of disability, whether visible or not. The older you get, the more likely something goes wrong with your body or mind. I’m not alone. Third, disability can be a gift, if you embrace it. Intellectually, I know that. I’m just not living it.

I’m having a really hard time with this whole idea. I’m feeling angry. Whiny. That’s it’s unfair and unjust. That I’m still strong–and being disabled isn’t part of my plan. Disability means weakness. It means I can’t do everything I want to do. It gets at my core identity as a strong woman.

But wait–who am I to complain? Am I so shallow that I think I’m above having some hard stuff to deal with? That I’m exempt from difficulties or disability? Gulp. Yes. I am that shallow.

I’m learning. The apostle Paul talked about being given a thorn in the flesh:

“…So I wouldn’t get a big head, I was given the gift of a handicap to keep me in constant touch with my limitations. Satan’s angel did his best to get me down; what he in fact did was push me to my knees. No danger then of walking around high and mighty! At first I didn’t think of it as a gift, and begged God to remove it. Three times I did that, and then he told me, My grace is enough; it’s all you need. My strength comes into its own in your weakness. Once I heard that, I was glad to let it happen. I quit focusing on the handicap and began appreciating the gift. It was a case of Christ’s strength moving in on my weakness. Now I take limitations in stride, and with good cheer, these limitations that cut me down to size—abuse, accidents, opposition, bad breaks. I just let Christ take over! And so the weaker I get, the stronger I become. <2 Corinthians 12:7>

It’s funny–my recent books have been about people with major, life-changing disabilities.

• Michael Hingson, blind from birth (Thunder Dog).
• Ryan Corbin, with massive brain damage from a near-lethal fall (Heaven Hears).
• Austin LeRette, born with brittle bone disease and autism (The Unbreakable Boy).

Each of them has major disabilities, has risen above them, and has extraordinary influence on the people around them. Their weakness has become their strength.

So, even though I’ve written about these heroes of the faith and know them intimately, I’m a little late to the party. I’m still trying to figure this out–how to rely on God’s strength in my own weakness. I’m still trying to learn how to hike with a palm full of thorns.

What about you? Do you have a thorn? How do you deal with it?

• Made tiny homemade clothes for my Barbie
• Let me climb in bed with her when I had a nightmare
• Came to all of my basketball games (even when I didn’t play much)
• Allowed me to borrow her makeup
• Supported the horse habit of me, my sister, and my dad (we were horse crazy and often knee deep in horse manure). She even washed our smelly clothes.
• Made me homemade chocolate meringue pies for my birthday
• Cooked for my goofy teenage guy friends (who ate a lot!)
• Got up early and cooked a hot, homemade breakfast for us almost every day of her life
• Baked homemade blackberry pies for my first boyfriend and supported my white lie that I was the actual baker (this paid off–the boyfriend married me!)
• Still tries to give me money and gifts even though she has very little money and lives in a senior apartment
• She is still my number one fan, cheerleader, and supporter. I love you, Mom!

I bet your mom is amazing, too! Or perhaps it’s your grandmother, an aunt, or another older woman who has poured herself into your life.

GIVEAWAY: Please share one or two ways your mother or grandmother is amazing in the comments below (or on Facebook)….and I’ll do a drawing and send along a copy of So Long Status Quo, my book on amazing women, to both you AND your mom! All you have to do is leave a comment.

AND….A Special Mother’s Day Offer:

Buy your mom a copy of So Long Status Quo, my book on 9 amazing women who changed the world, and I’ll give your mom a call to wish her a Happy Mother’s Day!

If your mom is an amazing woman (and I'm betting that she is), she might enjoy reading about some of the amazing women in So Long Status Quo.

Pillow Front

Another good thing about having breast cancer is that people sometimes pamper you with a special gift. Last week, I got an amazing gift in the mail. It’s the cutest pillow in the world! It’s a handmade, custom designed quilted pillow with a Breast Cancer Awareness theme. But the theme is subtle. One thing that really bothered me last year during Breast Cancer Awareness Month was the ubiquity of the pink ribbon. I literally could not escape it. It was everywhere I turned and I had a hard time dealing with it because of my (then) new diagnosis. Even NFL football players were wearing hot pink. But one of the things I love about this pillow is that the pink ribbon theme is not in your face; you have to look for it. But it is there.

The quilter is a dear friend who lives in Connecticut. Our children grew up together. She is an amazing artist and designer who went through a horrible tragedy last year. Out of that tragedy comes her new business, Material Impressions. When I received the pillow, I just had to ask Alison a few questions because I knew others would want to know more about the pillow and about her.

Q: I love the Breast Cancer awareness pillow. How did that project come about? Why breast cancer?

Alison: I accepted an offer from a fabric vendor to buy precut fabric squares, the proceeds of which would go to Breast Cancer Research. I also had just learned at that time that a dear friend had been diagnosed with breast cancer and I wanted to do something for her…by buying the fabric, I could not only make her something, but also donate towards the cause with my purchase ;0)

Fabric details

Q: How did you pick the fabrics for the pillow? Where do you find them?

Alison: The top, is pieced from the precut fabrics noted above, plus some brown and pink fabric I found in my travels – wherever I happen to vacation or visit someone, I have to visit a local quilt shop! I found all the pink ribbon and brown and striped fabrics in this particular pillow version at a shop in Portsmouth, NH. The shop was doing their share for Breast Cancer awareness.

Q: How did you get your start sewing?

Alison: I started sewing when I was 9 or 10 years old – my Christmas wish that year was a sewing machine and I got it! The rest is history – though still in the making ;0)

Q: What kinds of things do you create at your sewing machine?

Alison: For years I made mostly clothing, for myself and then for my kids. I got into making quilts after having so much left over fabric from sewing for my kids…I bought a used Gloria Bonesteel Lap Quilting book and got hooked! I also make art quilts – to be hung on the wall as opposed to using as a bed covering – I continue to make these on commission or for my own home.

Q: Do you have a background in art or design? How does that influence your work?

Alison: I graduated with a BA in Art History and a minor in fne arts – Watercolor Painting was my focus for many years. I know that my sense of color and design in my fabric work all stems from that traning; I find the added sensory aspect of working with fabric to be especially enjoyable. Making quilts, pillows, clothing, etc.; also often mixes the need for something useful with my artistic expression – merging the utilitarian and the aesthetic.

Q: Do you have a favorite artist or designer whose work inspires you?

Pillow Back

Alison: There are so many fabric artists that inspire me! I love the saturating color use of Kaffe Fassett and the applique-as-painting of McKenna Ryan – both are well known in the quilt world – as far as fine artists: I am a John Singer Sargent fan from way back, the charm of that era (turn of the century and a little earlier) goes hand-n-hand with my love and appreciation of women’s domestic and fine arts – embroidery, quilt-making, needlepoint, etc., which seemed to have its heyday in that era.

Q: Can you share a little bit about your dreams and goals for Material Impressions? Why did you start it?

Alison: I started Material Impressions in memory of my husband, who died last year. He was my biggest fan when it came to the things I created, and he had plans to retire and start me in my own business. My goal is to satisfy my passion to create, while earning some income to help support myself, working out of my home to be close to my kids. One of my goals is to buy the materials I use (fabric, trinkets, etc.) from women who need to support themselves and/or better their situations, as well as from retailers that support causes such as cancer research. I also give 10% of what I make to a missions fund.

Q: Can you tell us a little bit about yourself and your family?

Alison: I was born in Chicago, have lived in California, England and now New England – have two wonderful kids; a son, Ryne 20 years old, a junior at Northeastern University in Boston; and my daughter Rachel, 16 and a junior in high school. We love the East Coast, it is beautiful here – especially this time of the year! I have a strong faith in God’s love for me and my family which has helped us to survive the sudden loss of my best friend, husband and my children’s father to heart failure last year. God teaches me everyday that life is a test and a trust; He smiles when I trust Him. “The Lord is pleased with those who worship Him and Trust his love” Psalm 147:11(CEV)

Q: How can people order one of the pillows?

Alison: I am in the process of setting up a website, but until then anyone interested in ordering can reach me at alisoneschultz@sbcglobal.net. The pillows are $40/each plus shipping and handling. I have three left in the style pictured; and one “quillow” version – a lap-size fleece blanket (in pink of course!) that folds into the quilted panel and becomes a pillow! That is $50, plus shipping and handling.

The fabric world is an ever-changing one and when they discontinue a fabric I have to change my inventory as well – a new style of PinkPillows for the Cause are coming soon – as well as a TouchofTealPillows for the Cause for ovarian cancer research.

Thanks, Alison. You are amazing! And, readers, if you have a friend or family member who is a breast cancer survivor, or currently going through it, you HAVE to send them The Cutest Pillow in the World. They will love it! (And who among us doesn’t need more pillows? At last count, I sleep on three.)

When I started this journey, I though somehow that the amazing women of history I wanted to write about would be just like Wonder Woman; a perfect blend of power, beauty, and niceness. But they were not … the women who changed the world were just like you and me. Real. Flawed. Broken.

Join me on a journey to meet these women. And, in turn, discover what you have in common with the women who changed the world. You might be surprised!

For more, read Susy’s story “I’ve Got Something Wonder Woman Doesn’t” in Kyria.com, a new digital mag by the folks at Christianity Today.

Do you have a 9-11 list? I do. It’s on a pink heart-shaped Post-it note on my computer monitor (in the photo below it’s the second heart from the left).

At the top of the note are three letters: 9-1-1. Then a list of 6 names. This simple note is something that helped me keep my sanity and my heart intact during the last nine months of navigating through breast cancer.

I got the idea when one of my dear friends said that I could call her any moment of any day, even in the middle of the night if I needed to. She had been through a really tough time when she was young and her husband was being treated for cancer. One night she was at the end of her rope and called a friend in the middle of the night to talk for a couple of hours. Her friend never complained and just sat on the phone with her and let her talk. A simple thing, really, but in a desperate moment it was a lifeline.

I’ve always been one of those kinds of people who hates to ask for help. I pretended I was strong and brave and sort of a lone cowgirl. But breast cancer knocked me down and stomped on me.

So when my friend told me to call her for any reason anytime I needed to, I created a 911 list and put her name on it. Then someone else said the same thing to me, so I added her name. I ended up with six names on my list. And I used it. I called or emailed each of the six at different times to ask for help, and they responded.

Sometimes when life squashes you, you need a pink piece of paper with some names on it. And when you can’t think of what else to do, you look at that paper that represents so much love, compassion, caring, and sacrifice that you can’t really even comprehend it, and you know that you are loved. You have help. And you’re going to make it.

Do you have a 911 list?

And even more important, is your name on someone’s 911 list?

Sprinkles says "You can put ME on your 911 list"

1. Over time, the couch has sagged and reformed itself to your shape with sunken-in spots for your head, arms, and bottom.

2. You’ve been slowly rearranging your house so that you can reach everything from the couch. Remote? Check. Phone? Check. Magazines? Check. Fuzzy blanket? Check. Now you’re researching how much it would cost to install a bathroom nearby.

3. You pick out your clothes in the morning based on how comfortable they will feel while you’re reclining.

4. Your family and friends know to never ever sit in your special spot.

5. Your normally grubby teenage son feels compelled to Febreeze the cushions every few days before he sits down.

The comfy couch idea, used as a metaphor in So Long Status Quo for the comfortable cocoon our lives can become if we are not careful, was inspired by bestselling author Haven Kimmel in her wonderful book, She Got Up Off the Couch. Kimmel is one of my favorite writers. If you’ve never read her, start with A Girl Named Zippy. It’s one of the funniest and most original books I’ve ever read.

WHO THE MEEK ARE NOT

Not the bristle-bearded Igors bent
under burlap sacks, not peasants knee-deep
in the rice paddy muck,
nor the serfs whose quarter-moon sickles
make the wheat fall in waves
they don’t get to eat. My friend the Franciscan
nun says we misread
that word “meek” in the Bible verse that blesses them.
To understand the meek
(she says) picture a great stallion at full gallop
in a meadow, who —
at his master’s voice — sizes up to a stunned
but instant halt.
So with the strain of holding that great power
in check, the muscles
along the arched neck keep eddying,
and only the velvet ears
prick forward, awaiting the next order.

Mary Karr is an award-winning poet and best-selling memoirist. She is the author of Lit, the long-awaited sequel to her critically acclaimed and New York Times bestselling memoirs The Liars’ Club and Cherry. A born raconteur, she brings to her lectures and talks the same wit, irreverence, joy, and sorrow found in her poetry and prose. A sought-after speaker, Karr has given distinguished talks at prestigious universities, libraries, and writers’ festivals, including Harvard University, Oxford University, Princeton University, Brown University, Syracuse University (“On Salmon Rushdie” with Salmon Rushdie), the New York Public Library, the Los Angeles Public Library, the Folger Library (Poetry Society of America/Emily Dickinson Lecture), The New Yorker Literary Festival, PEN/Faulkner, and the Festival of Faith and Writing. Karr welcomes conversation with her audience and she is known for her spirited, lively, and engaging Q&A sessions.

For most of my life I’ve observed tattoos with curiosity but never wanted one. I think I avoided the idea because when I was growing up, tattoos were mostly worn by Hells Angels leather dudes with big ol’ fat stinky motorcycles or ex-sailors who had faded and blurry bluish tattoos on their arms of pinup girls or Donald Duck. Church girls just didn’t get tattoos.

Plus, there were other issues. First, there’s the pain factor. Having a needle punched into my skin thousands of times? No thanks. Then there’s the permanence. Is there an image I love enough to wear it on my skin for the rest of my life?

And then there’s the blood. (When I worked for the Newhall Signal I interviewed a grizzled tattoo artist for an article he informed me that the tattooing process draws blood. Having grown up in the age of HIV and hepatitis, I say, Yuck.). And there’s the healing process. And the possibility that the beautiful living artwork you have envisioned might not look like what you were envisioning. Or you will have second thoughts. Or you will just get tired of it. Styles change, and it’s easy to change your hairstyle or color or clothes, but not your skin.

And last, there’s the hygiene problem. It’s one thing to have an injection or a blood test in a sparkly clean medical facility with highly trained and scrubbed up phlebotomists. It’s quite another to climb a set of rickety stairs outside an old brick building with graffiti on the walls and enter a storefront where an artist who has taken a class or two (quite possibly online) is waiting to ink you with a motorized needle that’s been intimate with someone else’s skin.

So, all that to say that I’m not the most enthusiastic tattoo fan that ever walked the planet.

But now I’m the proud owner of five tattoos. Can you believe it? Church girl has five tattoos.

At least they’re small. They almost look like blue moles. And I will have them for the rest of my life as a reminder of undergoing radiation treatments for breast cancer. They are used to map out the treatment site and also to warn future doctors that the site has already been thoroughly irradiated. It can only undergo radiation once in that particular area.

It’s been a long haul but I’m almost done with radiation. I’ve been going weekdays for almost 6 weeks now. I was in the gray zone, meaning that radiation was an option, not a mandate. There’s no clear and convincing research that demonstrates a benefit for people with my breast cancer stats (3 cm tumor, 2 lymph nodes involved). But there are indications that it’s helpful, especially for younger women (I’m 45 and that’s considered young where breast cancer is concerned). The idea is that any stray cancer cells lurking about the chest or lymph nodes will be killed off by radiation and lessen the chances of recurrence.

My five tattoos now border skin that’s sporting a reddish brown radiation tan. It’s a small price to pay for my future health, and while the tan will fade, the tattoos will remain.

I rather like them, now. Those blue dots are something of a badge of endurance and of hope. I didn’t ask for them but they’re helping me hang on to health and life. And who knows? Maybe one of these days I’ll have a tattoo artist connect the dots and make them into something more meaningful and artistic. Like a bird, like the warbler who visited me every day when I was recovering from surgery. But that’s a story for another day.

Until then, count your blessings. And your blue dots.

Dr. Susan Love’s Breast Book (Susan Love, MD)
A good all around manual on breast cancer and treatment. Recommended by my doctors and my surgeon.

Just Get Me Through This: The Practical Guide to Breast Cancer (Deborah A. Cohen)

A personal and practical account by a woman who went through breast cancer. Really helpful for chemotherapy hints and tips.

Breast Cancer Husband: How to Help Your Wife (and Yourself) Through Diagnosis, Treatment, and Beyond (Marc Silver)
My husband read this (I did, too). Really good and practical, too.

Thanks for the Mammogram! Fighting Cancer with Faith, Hope, and a Healthy Dose of Laughter (Laura Jensen Walker)
A good book by a breast cancer survivor that helped me to laugh at hard things. The book is out of print but you can buy it used on Amazon.

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

Susy Flory is the author of So Long Status Quo: What I Learned From Women Who Changed the World (Beacon Hill). She wrote a book about being a strong woman; now, with a recent diagnosis of breast cancer, she has to live it.

As scary as it is to have cancer, it’s almost scarier to face chemo. I’ve blogged before about the terror inherent in the word “cancer,” and I think chemo is another one of those loaded, fear-filled words.

Before I had breast cancer, there were just a few things I knew, or thought I knew, about chemo:

• You go bald
• You lose weight and look very ill
• You can’t eat much more than jello and Seven Up
• Your life is ruled by nausea and vomiting

Well, it turns out I was wrong. I did lose my hair, but the other things never really materialized. I didn’t personally know many people who had undergone chemotherapy, but I’d heard all kinds of horror stories. And, when I was 20, my dad died from a reaction to chemo. Just like in The Ghosts of Cancers Past, my ideas about chemo were that I would look and feel like something out of Night of the Living Dead. But it wasn’t like that at all.

So, in case you don’t know much about chemo, or you are facing chemo and have some of the same unspeakable terror I was harboring, I thought it might be helpful if I described a typical three week cycle. Before my first treatment, I read everything I could get my hands on, but most things were either very clinical, or scary (long lists of side effects), or sketchy. I really never came across a detailed, personal account of what it’s like to go through chemo. This is my experience, so it may differ from your experience, but still. Here goes.

BEFORE

• Game Face. I’ve been watching the Winter Olympics in Vancouver the last couple of weeks, especially the ski and snowboard events. My favorite thing is to watch the competitors’ faces just before a race. They are prepping for the race of their lives, and the intensity, emotion, and energy emanates from their faces. It’s fascinating to watch. I found myself doing something similar the day before chemo. I was hyper aware of every action, emotion, and interaction as I counted down the hours before my infusion. It was as if I was preparing myself for a race or a battle, and I suppose in a way it is a battle to submit willingly submit yourself to something that is going to make you ill. The night before chemo especially, I felt as if I was putting on my game face, staying calm and controlled with an inner dialogue about how these drugs were an important part of my treatment, that my doctors were caring and knowledgeable, and that most people only experience a few of the dozens of possible side effects. I also prayed and put the whole experience in God’s hands.
• Pre-chemo meds. My chemo regimen included a course of steroids, starting before each infusion and intended to prevent adverse reactions. This gave me extra confidence, but the steroids also made me feel a little hyper and short of breath at times. The answer? Ativan, a mild anti anxiety med. It’s been a lifesaver during the emotional ups and downs of chemo. I generally hate taking any sort of medication (I’ve never smoked a cigarette or taken an unnecessary med in my life), but this one was a huge help.
• Chemo buddy. As a rule, I’m sort of a proudly independent cowgirl type, but breast cancer has taught me a different way to live. I couldn’t have made it this far without friends, and for each of my four chemo treatments, I invited a friend to go with me. My idea was to make it almost like a fun outing with a friend, with lunch and maybe even a little shopping after each infusion. It worked! Life is less scary when you face it with a friend. Ditto the chemo infusion room, chock full of very ill people hooked up to infusion lines. It’s brighter and warmer with a friend in tow, and after the first treatment, it made me almost look forward to chemo day in an odd sort of way.

DURING

• Nurses. The chemo nurses were warm and wonderful. They greeted me like a long lost friend, and I even became particularly close to one named Sharee, whose smile lit up the room. If you’re up for it, bring them a small gift or a home baked cookie. They work hard.
• The Lego Moment. The chemo room looks sort of like a beauty shop, with big chairs lined up around the edge of the room. You sit down, relax, and wait for your nurse to hook you up. I had a port implanted during my first surgery back in October, and it was there, waiting, just under the skin below the left side of my collarbone. The nurse has a little plastic piece that fits right onto the port, like two Legos snapping together, and it all starts with just a quick pinch. Doable. Then tape goes over the port to hold everything in place. Relax…you’re not going to accidentally jerk out the line.
• The Filling Station. After you get hooked up, the first thing flowing into your veins is saltwater. I couldn’t feel it at all. Next are the drugs. Mine were Taxotere and Cytoxan, given one after the other. Couldn’t feel them at all either, but I could look up at the monitor to see how much time was left, or at the IV lines to see the drip. I thought I’d be able to feel it going in, but no.
• Movie time. Once the infusion begins, it’s time to distract yourself. I brought ice water, crunchy snacks, and my iPod. I also brought a laptop and a lighthearted movie to watch with earbuds. I brought movies that made me happy: Mamma Mia, What About Bob, and Dan in Real Life. The chemo room offered TVs, but wouldn’t it be great if they had DVD players and a library of films for patients? My friend, Lorena, is working on this as a project.
• Walking on Air. After a couple of hours, I was done. The nurse flushed the port with some weird solution that tickled my nose (how something going into a vein in my shoulder would blast my nose, I have no idea), split apart the Legos, and said goodbye. Each time as I got up and walked out, I felt as if I were walking on air. I didn’t feel ill, but just like my body and head had been inflated like those red rubber bouncy balls we used to play Foursquare with in grade school. I had to walk a little slower, but otherwise felt okay.

AFTER

• Excuse Me. The first after effect I always noticed was some heartburn. Pepcid works great, as well as the anti-nausea meds that were prescribed for me. It wasn’t enough to keep me up at night, but enough to notice that something was going on in my stomach.
• Days of Grace. I had a day or two after each infusion where I felt okay. Not really myself, but okay. I was still on steroids at this point, and I think they give you a false sense of wellbeing.
• D-day. A day or two later, it hits. Major fatigue–you feel like you’re dragging around big ol’ elephant legs that just don’t function quite right. If you try to carry anything, it feels heavy. Walking up the stairs is slow and you have to think about lifting each leg as you go. Your brain feels fuzzy and it’s hard to read or concentrate. Your body sometimes feels hot or cold. You’re supposed to drink lots of water so you spend a lot of time in the bathroom. Your digestive system doesn’t work quite right–either things slow down or speed up.
• Lizard Mouth. One things I didn’t anticipate was the loss of taste. Chemo burns out your tastebuds, and bread tastes like the stuffing from inside your couch cushions. Ice cream tastes like cold lotion. And water tastes creamy. After a few days, the skin inside your mouth goes from smooth to grainy, like lizard skin. You have to brush your teeth a lot and gargle with baking soda-infused water, to reduce sores (I had a few, but they were doable.) All of this makes eating a whole lot less fun. I gravitated toward spicy things that I could taste. I developed a new fondness for spicy brown mustard, because I could taste it. I could also taste fresh fruits, veggies, and meat. Not much else.
• Aches. At times your head aches, your body aches. Oy! The aches, they move around. This is the time you really want to moan and complain, but I tried to remember how grateful I was for chemo and for the medical advances that have made it possible to beat back breast cancer. Most of the time I was successful, but a little moan may have escaped out now and then. Naps are a must.
• Crybaby. All of the above happened the first week after. The second week, I began to feel better physically, but my emotions took a beating. I don’t usually cry a whole lot, but small things would set me off. Loud noises, activity, and any kind of family conflict made me feel like I was being beaten with a sledgehammer about the head and shoulders. I finally researched this, and discovered that the chemo affects your nervous system and makes you more sensitive and vulnerable. It got so that my daughter, every time my voice sounded a little weak, would peer into my face and ask, sympathetically, “Are you going to cry?” Embrace it. Cowgirls cry.
• The Eyes Have It. After my second treatment, my eyes began to burn and water. I looked like I was crying all the time. Eventually it got so bad that I couldn’t read or watch TV. Simple solution: steroid eyedrops. Fixed.
• Chemobrain. People used to joke about this, but researchers have found that chemobrain is indeed a real phenomenon. Chemo affects your short term memory, and gives you a feeling of haziness or fogginess. Thankfully, it does not affect your intelligence or your ability to work. It’s frustrating, but usually temporary. And it’s a great excuse to buy a really cool organizer to keep yourself together. Ya gotta love the Franklin Covey clearance rack!
• Going Commando. I started losing my hair about 2 weeks after my first chemo treatment. This, by far, was the hardest and most emotional side effect from the chemo. However, it also has become sort of fun to wear funky hats, and try out new hairstyles and colors. Right now I’m liking my Meg Ryan blond wig, lent by a friend. Who knew I could carry off platinum hair? I wrote a blog post about going out bald, or commando, but so far haven’t had the guts to do it. But I will. Pictures to come.

ICK

• Hot Flashes. Chemo can send you into menopause. I now know what a hot flash is. And it’s strange; your body feels like it’s glowing hot from the inside, but if you touch your skin, it feels cool. You get sweaty (especially with a wig) and it wakes you up at night. There’s no way around it, this side effect stinks.
• Neupogen Injections. Two days after each chemo treatment, I had to start a course of five daily Neupogen injections to stimulate my body to produce more white blood cells to stave off infections. These injections are given at home (I talked my wonderful husband into doing this for me–he became a pro). You keep the pre-filled syringes in the refrigerator and take them out about an hour before bedtime. The injection goes into the extra skin around your belly. You pinch it, swab it with a little alcohol, then inject. It takes about 3 seconds and you just feel a slight sting. Here’s the trick: if  you pinch the skin hard and hold it, then you barely feel the needle.
• Ouch. Bad news, though. The Neupogen causes bone pain. Because it’s stimulating your bone marrow to produce more white blood cells, your bone marrow swells and you get achy bones. It hurts! My doctor let me take Advil and the occasion Vicodin. Along with Ativan, these meds helped me make it through this phase of chemo.
• The Cumulative Effect. Each of these things I experienced became stronger and more long lasting with each chemo treatment. For example, after my first treatment, I was able to go skiing and snowshoeing up in the High Sierras (during the third week of the cycle, when I was feeling pretty good). By my fourth treatment, I was happy to take a slow walk around the block. My body was definitely weaker and slower to recover.

THE GOOD NEWS

• By the third week of each three week cycle, I was feeling pretty good
• Overall, no vomiting and very little nausea
• I could eat whatever I wanted (although I couldn’t always taste it)
• My weight stayed the same
• People say I don’t look ill. To me, I look a little more pale, my skin is dryer, and I’m wearing a wig, so I don’t think I’d win any beauty contests. But when I slap on my makeup, put on my blond Meg Ryan wig and smile, I think I look okay.

There’s no way around it; cancer is a major challenge and chemo is horrible. But although it’s horrible, it’s an amazing tool in the cancer fighting toolbox, it’s temporary, and it’s doable. But the fear? That’s another thing altogether. My fear of chemo reminds me of the time when my dad was driving our old olive green Ford station wagon down a highway in Arizona. A hot breeze kicked up, and big thorny tumbleweeds started rolling down the highway. All of a sudden, the wind direction changed and a giant tumbleweed as tall as our car rolled directly toward us. I was about 7 years old, in the passenger seat, and it looked like we were about to be crushed by the tumbleweed. It was like the scene out of Raiders of the Lost Ark where Indy faces down the rolling boulder. I screamed on impact and the strangest thing happened: it disappeared, crushed into a million tiny pieces of dried brown grass that scattered across the road under our car. We felt nothing.

My fear of chemo was like that. I felt overwhelmed and like I was going to be crushed by something much bigger than me. But I wasn’t, and I’m done. And if you or someone you love is facing chemo, you’ll be done soon too. Just fasten your seatbelt and let that station wagon roll on.

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Susy Flory is the author of So Long Status Quo: What I Learned From Women Who Changed the World (Beacon Hill). She wrote a book about being a strong woman; now, with a recent diagnosis of breast cancer, she has to live it.