Birthday party

I love doing birthday parties for my son. I know plenty of moms who search out places where they can pay people to set up the party — trampoline or sports places, karate studios, etc.

And I've done a couple of those things. We had Griffin's party at a taekwondo studio where the owner helped him used a giant gumdo sword (or Korean sword). We also had a pool party in November at one of the local YMCAs. That was fun. We had beach-themed snacks and a cake with little teddy bear crackers floating on the water in rings of gummy candy.

But this year, Griffin was very concerned that if I did his usual kind of party, I would overdo and get too tired. And he was probably right to think that way.

It's weird because even with all the cancer stuff going on, regular events still happen. And we have to acknowledge them. If feels all at once odd and soothing to me to celebrate an event.

Last year, because of COVID, we had a surprise outdoor movie night in our backyard. Each kid got a box with a bag of popcorn and packaged candy. We were trying to be really careful.

But this year, because of my cancer and other health stuff, COVID still thriving and now the delta variant, I thought we should do a similar party.

Here's his invitation.

So we set up the screen and projector in the backyard, ordered pizza and bought a cake (that was really hard for me). But I felt like Griffin and I needed to do something creative, something special.

So we made some pretzel rod lightsabers, labels for the water bottles and a snack mix that he wanted to name "Murder Bear Munch." His naming inspiration was because he wanted to show "Return of the Jedi," which features ewoks, little bear-looking creatures that use rocks and spears to take care of bad guys.

It was nice for us to do something like this together because with my energy level at such a low, I haven't spent as much time with him as I'd like lately.

Here are our creations:

I can't believe my baby is 13 years old! He's growing up to be a kind and caring kid, and I love the way he's helped to take care of me. Hopefully, I'm making some girl a good husband!

The process

So the process goes like this.

I drive about 15 minutes to the cancer center, which shares a parking lot with one of the local hospitals. They also share valets, so I leave my car with a valet and head inside.

I have to check in at the front desk. Sometimes there's a line, and sometimes there isn't. The receptionists have gotten to know me, so once I get to the desk, it takes very little time.

They do the typing to find me, check me in, check my temperature (COVID-19 precaution) and say, "Okay, you can head downstairs."

Downstairs is the basement of the building where the radiation department is, along with the color-themed machines I've talked about. 

In the waiting room, there are screens around the room that lists patients' last name and first initial. When it's your turn to go, your name pops up on the screen. The background of the screen that shows your name features the color of the machine you go to. I've been mostly on green, which is the lowest radiation level.

Each machine has three dressing rooms where I change from my clothes into a typically lovely hospital gown.

Then I sit and scroll through social media, emails or text messages while I wait for them to call me.

When I leave the dressing room, I have to take my pocketbook, shirt and bra with me.

Once I get into the treatment room, I put my stuff down on a bench, then use a stepstool to climb up on the table. 

I have to scoot my butt right against that wedge, then they put that maroon bolster pillow under my legs.

Then I lie back into the mold, which is under the sheet.

If you remember, early on, they created a custom mold for me to position me correctly on the table. I laid down on this squishy bag and the techs fluffed it all around me. Then they used a vacuum hose to suck out all the air. And that made it stiff and hard. I fit right in it with my head turned to the left and my right arm at a 90-degree angle above my head. I know it doesn't look like the purple bag below is actually fitted to anyone, but it is.

The pink light around the top of the room is not medically necessary. It's for decoration only. It fades from pink to red to orange to yellow to green to blue to purple then pink again. It is actually kind of soothing.

The ceiling panels are just that. It can't be real sky because this room is in the basement. But it certainly looks like blue sky. The green room has fall leaves on trees against a blue sky. The yellow room has spring trees against a blue sky. They look kind of like crape myrtles. And the blue room has just puffy white clouds. I never made it to the red room, so I don't care what's in there!

The techs use the sheet to move me around to make sure I'm in the right spot on the table. Then the round part of that machine that is hanging over the table rotates around me. It stops for intervals in three different spots, and I don't feel a single thing. I just lie there until the techs come back in and tell me I'm done.

Then it's back to the dressing room. Back to the elevator to go back to the first floor. Back to the valets and back home.

The boost begins

In total, I was scheduled for 33 radiation treatments. It didn't seem as overwhelming hearing it as it has been doing it.

I knew it would take a physical toll. Nurse Donna gave me the rundown on the side effects. I knew the radiation burns and the exhaustion were coming. But they are much worse than I thought they would be.

Every Friday, I see the radiation oncologist after my treatment.

This past week, after we greeted each other, his first comment was — and let me preface it with the fact that he said it in a surprising and happy voice.

"I hear you don't have any open sores!" he said.

Can you imagine being in a situation where THAT is the good news?!

I start the boost treatments today. I'm a little nervous because I'm moving up to the next machine. They go — from least powerful to most powerful — green, yellow, blue, red.

I met a new tech this week named Nick. I said, "I haven't seen you before, Nick. Are you new?"

He said, "No, I've been working on the red machine for a while."

To which I replied, "Then I'm GLAD I haven't met you yet! I don't want to be anywhere near that red machine!" That got a laugh.

But I'm moving one step closer.

All my previous treatments have been on the green machine. But today, my boost treatments will be starting on the yellow machine.

The boost is just what it sounds like. The next five treatments will be more targeted and more powerful. They want to hit the "tumor bed." That's the area in my breast where the tumor was.

Or as the doctors say, malignant neoplasm of upper-outer quadrant of right breast at 9:30 o'clock position, approximately 2 cm from the nipple.

You wouldn't believe the medical lingo I now understand.

Well, let's go get boosted!

Too much

I had a crying jag the other evening. Everything was just too much!

When a hurricane devastates a small country, everyone sends bottled water, blankets and other essentials. But when the hurricane moves on somewhere else, that's where all the stuff goes whether the small country has recovered or not.

That's sort of how I'm feeling.

My breast cancer was big news when it was first diagnosed. But now, people have other things on their minds.

Don't get me wrong. I don't in any way feel that the world revolves around me, and that I should be the utmost though in everyone's mind.

It just that after the diagnosis, everyone is shocked. And some are sad. And some feel sorry for me and what they know I'll have to go through.

But then, other things happen. And most people move on. But I can't. I'm still stuck in this quagmire of treatments and radiation burns and exhaustion and sadness and grief and everything else that's been going on.

I have to say that I have so much support from those closest to me.

It's funny because I found out that my mama and brother talk about it all the time. The problem was that they weren't talking to ME about it. They were afraid it would upset me. But actually, I was feeling just the opposite. I WANTED them to talk to me about it. I wanted to share the details of what I'm going through physically and mentally.

So it finally occurred to me to tell them exactly that. And since then, it's been so much better. They feel more involved, and I'm getting more of what I need from them.

I also have friends who are in constant contact. They know where I am in the process, but I don't feel like I've shared enough with them about where I am mentally and emotionally. It's hard to share that stuff in text messages and quick phone calls.

I got to spend some in-person time with a couple of my closest friends recently, and I really cherished that time.

One of those ladies lives several states away, so she rented a lady's basement apartment here in town for a long weekend, and we sat in comfy chairs on a patio around this firepit. The weather was cool, the leaves were rustling, and it was a good place to share some feelings. I wish we could do it more often.

The biggest problem I've had is trying to put into words what I'm feeling.

I actually found a blog that another breast cancer patient wrote during her radiation treatments. So much of what she wrote rings true to me. I told my friends I wish I could just copy and paste her thoughts into this blog.

I guess my biggest fear is that this feeling of being all alone in this won't go away. And COVID certainly hasn't helped anything. I would ask different people to go with me to my treatments and appointments if I could. But most everything is still shut down. Only the patient can go in.

It's awful to say this, but I'm almost jealous of the people who have to have helpers. It's mostly the older folks who aren't as mobile as they used to be. They need to be pushed in a wheelchair or just need someone to help steady them as they walk. But it must be nice to have that person there.

Part of me thinks that I'll be glad when this is all over, but another part of me wonders what it will be like then. How will I feel?

I guess we'll soon find out. I have 6 treatments to go.

A visual aid

Jeff and I got our COVID-19 booster shots Saturday, and we left Griffin at home. (Griffin doesn't get his until December.)

Griffin had a busy week at school and went to sleep really early Friday evening. So I told Jeff we should stop somewhere after our shots and get him a treat on the way home.

We stopped at a locally owned doughnut shop and grabbed an assortment.

Jeff put the doughnuts on the kitchen counter and opened the box lid. Then he started laughing. I went in to see what was going on, and in the middle of the box was the perfect visual aid to show what my breasts look like right now.

And yes, it's okay to laugh because I did, too.

Sunburn without the beach

Let me tell you, radiation burns are no fun at all. I might have mentioned this a time or two (or a thousand!)

The treatments themselves are nothing. I don't feel a thing. I just lie there on the table and wait. I'll walk through the treatments in one of these posts.

But today, let me give you a visual.

I assure you that my armpit is clean. Some skin turns pink like sunburn, and some just discolors and turns a dirty brown color. 

But it all hurts.

And now, I'm starting to have skin peeling, which leave raw, new skin open to straight radiation.

Not trying to gross anyone out, but this is what it is.

It's hard to find a comfortable sleeping position. It's also hard to figure out what to wear. 

The post-lumpectomy bras are still working well. I just put a folded T-shirt under my right breast.

As for shirts, the side seam and sleeve seem meet right under your arm, which is the most painful place for me right now. So I wear a folded T-shirt under there, too. When I walk, I keep my right arm bent at a 90-degree angle to keep my folded shirts in place.

The funny thing is, nobody is the wiser. You can't tell from the outside what's going on inside my shirt.

I'm over the hump with the radiation treatments, so I hope it won't get much worse.

Spooky treats

 I might have mentioned before that despite my exhaustion these days, it still feels good to do "normal" things.

Cooking dinner or ordering and picking up the groceries take a lot of energy, but the results are worth it.

So as Halloween was growing near, I asked Griffin if he'd like to make our usual Halloween treats. We bag them up and deliver them to his friends. And we usually deliver his birthday invitations at the same time.

Griffin was very concerned about me overdoing it. I think that's probably pretty rare for an almost 13-year-old, but that's my boy.

I assured him that we wouldn't do as much as we usually do, and that what we did do, we'd keep it simple. So I dipped stuff in white and milk chocolate. And Griffin was my sprinkle man.

His friend from across the street came over, so we let him help with sprinkles, too.

After he left, Griffin said, "I'm really glad he got to be a part of the festivities this year."

As for me, I was just glad to do something that felt normal. And I was glad to keep a tradition going. It helps me feel like I haven't spent this entire time just doing medical stuff.