My Expiration Date

A year ago, my optimistic sister told me that my prognosis was hopeful. "I looked it up," she said. "The survival rates for Stage Three Ovarian Cancer are actually quite good!"
"But I have stage FOUR cancer."
"Oh.  Oh dear.  (oops)."   
(I just love that girl she is so funny!)

I actually have a more rare (and deadly) type of ovarian cancer than most teal-ribboned readers--mine is "low-grade."  The cancer cells look and act a LOT like my regular cells. They divide slowly, which is good, but they also react less to chemo--chemo attacks fast-growing cells. But then again I have a lightening-speed new lump that just appeared, so once again I am sliding off the bell curve (story of my life).

With low-grade ovarian, odds are that I'll live for 40 months. That's overall. So I would backtrack to the date of surgery, March 2014. Which brings my expiration date to July 2017.
Unless-
(a) a miracle happens (I have my top team working on this), or 
(b) I get hit by a texting-while-driving person, or 
(c) I once again leap off the bell curve and defy cancer statistics (life in the 5th deviation is invariably interesting).
(d) I did the math wrong (most likely scenario).

An expiration date!    I can stride confidently into any supermarket and embrace cans of baked beans that share my unique place in the universe! 

But mostly I can plan ahead a little. Life appears different when death is within view. My maternal line live until they're 99. By that age, they truly understand that they will die soon. And accept death with clarity and grace while helping to prepare their survivors for it.
These days I can look at wrinkly old ladies and terminal cancer patients without wonderment, just a deeper understanding of why they're so calm.   (Except for the super-crabby old ladies who continually disprove the common "attitude is everything" theory of longevity).

I don't like the idea of putting my family and friends into a position of grief, but there's not much I can do about it. I can try to reduce the damage by planning ahead, and am blessed to have the opportunity to work within a predictable and manageable time period.  
(Ooh!  Time management skills!  I get to use my MBA! I get to use my MBA!)

My mom is 80. She probably won't live past 100. I never argue with her about that perspective. Nor did any of us argue with Granny when she was prepared for death by age 98--we respected Granny for recognizing her expiration date and working so well with it.

I like the idea of facing death with clarity and grace and understanding. 

Just because I'm dying inconveniently soon, it doesn't mean that I have to avoid it or regret it or deny it.  
In fact, I think I might as well even have some FUN with it.  Somebody has to!  No point walking around like a bunch of stiffs!

I am NOT a cancer survivor.  I can work with whatever life shows me.  And I'm Not Dead Yet.

Barbie No More

They say that ovarian cancer causes your tummy to protrude a little. 
On hearing this, many 50-year-old women will accept it as fact, ambiguously nodding while thinking, "and here I thought it was the Haagen Daz."  But their confusion continues wordlessly as they then remember how they've actually been trying to drop the same tummy-padding since 1992.  Maybe I won't mention that. . .
Perhaps this is why they call it a Silent Cancer. 

In February 2014 the biopsy of one of the new little lumps on my ribcage tested positive for ovarian cancer. "If you weren't so thin," said my NP, "you might not have noticed them."
I was 49, 6-foot-1, and fit nicely into my Gap long-and-lean, extra-tall jeans. Long brown hair with a sprinkling of grey, which I figured I had earned (from kids).

I was never super-pretty, but was often attractive enough.  

  "Attractive" sits a little differently after a colostomy. I had to work around any pieces of clothing that did not involve firm waists. No more jeans for the rest of my life. So I went shopping and developed a whole new style for myself.
I chose leggings. Long swing tops. Flip-top (stretchy-waist) skirts. Dresses that start swinging from the collar down. Big Earrings to combat chemo-hair. I brought in new colors, added all kinds of accessories, and had some fun.  And my wig. . . was just the same as my pre-cancer hair, but as if I had highlights and had actually blow-dried it the way I was supposed to.

Every visit to the cancer center was a flashy new fun outfit, and "Chemo Barbie" was born. 
My oncology team heard that new name for me, and loved it and ran with it.

Most cancer does NOT include weight loss these days. . . the days of continual vomit are over, anti-nausea drugs are in. 
My own progressive weight loss was due to multiple factors: a couple of days with no food after surgery,  a hospital whose food staff did not understand kosher/halal so their food was inedible, my blocked ileum, my family not really feeding me much because I was asleep in bed. .  ."Oh, sorry, we thought you were asleep so we didn't save any for you."   Hrrumph.

My sister kindly offered to be a fat donor, which I thought was extremely sweet. Instead, my IV nutrition included a little IV drip bag of white fat (which WAS kosher).

I had sunk into "starving weight."  I lost 30 lbs early on but worked hard to gain it back. REALLY hard. Protein powder at breakfast, 3 am high-carb foods, etc.  It worked. I got the weight back on.  And on.  And on.

"Oh, hold on, you're scheduled for your next chemo today but we need to Rework the Dosage because you've Gained Weight."
And in the blink of an eye, for the very first time in my entire life, I had become 'fat.'  My laugh was easier and deeper. I felt fewer chills. Not such a bad thing.  Have I become a jolly elf, perhaps?
The fat took on a life of its own, and I kept growing. . .
My doctor started recommending low-fat options. My clothes started to get tight. And still I grew. 

The 'Chemo Barbie' name was no longer mentioned. I had lost my "cutey, style-y" effect. The oncology team became more talkative about diet. 
I developed lumps under my arms. Lymph? Hubby and I panicked. A couple of CAT scans. "Nothing to worry about," they said. They're NOT cancer lumps. Possibly FAT lumps.

I used to be 'Chemo Barbie' but I have now become CHEMO BLOBBY.

My new chemo regimen started up again last Tuesday. I wore my wine-colored leggings with a super-long, black silky tank top, a wine-colored pashmina scarf, black sheep-hide ankle boots (David Tate from Zappos), and a black wool-felt hat. And accessorized with jewelery and purse to match.

Before the IV chemo started, my doctor took a look at the new, huge, peach-sized lump on my side. "Fat lump?" I asked.   She said no, it was probably a cancer lump. 
Thank goodness!

My mama she told me don't worry about your size,

She says boys like a little more Booty to hold at night,

You know I won't be no stick-figure, silicone Barbie doll  

So if that's what you're into then go ahead and move along. .  

         --Meghan Trainor's "All About That Bass"
(Click this text to open YouTube video of this song in separate window)

By popular demand, here's a photo of "The Blob that Ate the CT Scanner" taken winter 2014.

Mantra Graffiti On My Bathroom Door

Not everyone who has surgery for ovarian cancer has to have their colon removed, but I did. ("Hold on a minute, I was using that!").

With this event, there was only one recourse for my family, and that was to assign one of our bathrooms to my exclusive use. The tiny one. Where a super-sonic power fan was promptly installed.

I have decided to see this "separate but equal" arrangement not as an ousting, but as an honor. Of course it takes a lot of mental determination to keep that perspective, but I figure that if I'm stuck with my own Cancer Bathroom, I might as well have a little fun decorating!

As teal is the adopted color for ovarian cancer, I added a teal towel and mat and some ribbon. I hung a neat little mirror framed with birds that you could only see yourself in if you were 6 ft.1 (That's only ME in this household). 
And then came the graffiti on the inside of the door frame. I painted my mantra in a simple font and drew words tinted in teal from the ground up over the door and down the other side.  

The beauty of the mantra graffiti is that if you only glance at it, and catch a random 5 words or 10, you get a different focus every time, and it can be applied to anyone in our thoughts. 
Here it is:

"wow you look fabulous that hair is beautiful you always have a wonderful attitude and a gorgeous smile lovely things happen to you and good people around you love living with your fantastic strength and happiness we all adore feeling the healing calm and peacefulness so amazing you lovely person you are loved and kindness comes with you"

The "hair" part gives a little extra smile. . . in one week I resume chemo, and my hair will disappear for the second time. My Mom insists that at birth I had a beautifully-shaped head, and I still do. She was right!

I Just Found Out I'm Not Dead Yet.

I have stage 4 low-grade ovarian cancer, and after surgery and 6 rounds of chemo, it's back. Statistically, I have only 2 years left to live. But I'm Not Dead Yet. And nor are you.
So why not have a little fun while we're waiting?

For those of you who don't have an expiration date, imagine that you KNOW that you'll be run over by a really big truck in the winter of 2017.  Like, you have a 99% chance of not making it until 2018.   What would you do differently with your spouse or kids or friends?  

One of the Great Questions is. . . 
Should you buy those sandals that only go with a couple of spring outfits if your chances of wearing them long-term are a little limited? 
Or should you listen to those "quality of life" urges that beckon you to slip your feet into those pretty heels so at least last trips to restaurants and doctor visits are spent without having to wear THE odoriferous tennies that you also use to muck out the barn?

Someone said to me recently that they thought I didn't take my cancer seriously. I take it DEAD seriously. And I have the deepest respect for all cancer people and caregivers and friends and families. I feel for everything they're going through, and their grief.

Which is why I think I can be a little inspirational in my blog. . .  I'm not dead yet. Nor are you. And when we're dead, other people won't be. So let's enjoy that. For now. 
("Ummh. . . you mean we should enjoy the fact that other people aren't dead or that we will be dead with other people enjoying it later?")     
and hopefully people will get my jokes sometimes.

Welcome to my first blog.  
About 730 days to go (or stay, depending on how you look at it).

Link to "Killing Me Softly" song on You Tube