I remember telling someone when I was about 20 years old that I would be ok if I died. My life had been great. My biggest love was being on the back of a horse or playing tennis. Both were available to me on almost a daily basis. Our farm had acres filled with a creek, pond, old tobacco barns, corn crib, garden, orchard, woods with worn paths from the cattle and horses and much more. My mind was free to become a writer, famous horse trainer, farmer, Miss America, Dallas Cowboy cheerleader, President of the USA - my options and imagination were endless.
Then, I was 42 years old. It seemed options were diminishing.
January 16th, 2013, I have 7" of my small intestines removed including the tumor that was found in December.
The next day, my recovery started and sent our family on a path that sometimes felt as if we were walking on fiery spikes. But at this moment in the hospital, it was all about wanting my boys to know I was there. Truly there.
January 18th, 2013 The only one in the room with me when the doctor came in was my father. As the doctor stood there, I could only feel emptiness. Nothing else. Just hollow.
As Mom and David came in from getting a bite to eat, I told them it was cancer. Colon cancer. Stage 3c. 4 out of 15 lymph nodes effect. Stage 3b would have been a much better choice! The statistics for survival are much better, but at least I was still a stage away from the ominous stage 4.
Gabe and Grayson each crawled up in the bed with me understanding at different levels our new truth. How do you explain to family and friends the diagnosis? How do you tell your 7 and 11 year old children that you have a disease and the statistics aren't in your favor? One at a time, mom would take one of them down the hall for a walk. David and I laid out in careful words what had happened to me....to us.
The boys were a bit dazed and concerned. They just wanted me home. Everything would be okay if we were all together at home.
I seemed to be able to handle the days with humor. Nights, well, I still struggle with those. Humor became my survival mode. Whether it is a defense mechanism or instinct is unclear. Nonetheless, I knew I needed to open, vulnerable, and have a lot of laughter in my life.
Healing from surgery was much quicker than standing up straight again after gut punch of the C word. How would we make it? How long would I be here?
Every day I think of these. But anniversaries seem to bring all these memories flooding back.
We have been on the journey for years. The path isn't always clear and it looks like we still have a mountain in front of us.
Some days we all still look/feel a bit dazed and confused. But, we get up and keep going. I want to go out and live life every day.
Today is no different.
Living. Laughing. Loving.
Results: scanned looked stable. Not going for more chemo at this time. CEA rumor markers in my bloodwork when from 9 to 25 since August.
Would appreciate prayers, positive thoughts, love and light.
Love to you all!
