Past, Present, Future

It was exceedingly difficult to settle on just one idea for this blog post. So, I combined all three of them! I will try to make it a smooth read; it may get bumpy, so hang on to your seats! Or, is it ‘hang on to your hats’? Anyways, hang on to something.

The Past

My father and my brother made me bookshelves. They installed them in my home office two weekends ago. They also brought my filing cabinets. I’ve spent the last week sorting through boxes of books and old files. The cabinets have proven to be a treasure trove of surprises. I’ve discovered ideas for short stories and novels that I’d completely forgotten about. I’ve also found old diaries. This entry brought me to tears:

In the time that it took me to return home, she has grown deaf. She cannot hear my arrival nor my calls to her. And, still, she is happy. Her tail wags. Her brown eyes glow, meet mine, and flicker back to the path ahead. The wind rustles last autumn’s fallen leaves. The earth is ripe with the scent of spring. At least, in this, I have made an old dog glad.

This passage was about my Nissa:

Nissa 1.1

Even though our puppy, Luna, is nothing like Nissa, I sometimes call her by that name. At first it bothered me that I was mixing up their names. After all, besides being dogs, the only thing that Luna and Nissa have in common is their love and ability to run quite fast. Otherwise, Nissa was generally calm, but wary of men with glasses. She rarely barked (Luna has a whole language of her own). Nissa would put my hand in her mouth and gently lead me to where she wanted me to go. I was a pup to her.

From the moment that she climbed up our deck stairs (with porcupine quills in her jowls), until the day that she died, she was my guardian, my best friend. I will miss her forever.

The Present

Even when I’m practicing mindfulness, the present moment always seems to be fleeting. Time passes so quickly.

In this present moment—the moment in which I am writing—Luna and Berkley are sleeping on the couch. I’m sitting a few cushions away from them, watching the cursor on my screen flash.

doggie nap

The air conditioner is on. The dryer is rumbling in the background. Sunlight is streaming through every window that doesn’t have curtains.

There’s dog and cat hair on the coffee table. I’d much rather have a home with animal hair floating around it, than a spotless one. I read, once, that pet hair (at least on your clothes) is a sign that you are loved. If that’s true, this house is full of it.

The Future

As a cancer survivor, I have difficulty trusting the word, “future”, or the fact that I’m apparently going to have one. What do you do in the face of distrust?

You believe, in spite of your misgivings.

You believe that the best days are coming.

You believe that happiness and health are right around the corner.

We’re walking in the direction of our dreams—to a “new normal”—that is, of course, influenced by the old one.

Prior to my relapse, Seth had started brewing his own beer. My personal favorite was his pumpkin ale (it was delicious!). That hobby, however, was put on the back burner when life came crashing down around us in 2017. He stopped brewing.

There’s light now, stretching over the horizon, and Seth will be brewing again soon. A return to former interests is certainly a sign that life is moving in a positive direction.

What does my future look like? In October, I will be receiving the last of my pediatric shots. I’ve been querying literary agents for my most recent novel. Hopefully one of these queries will be met with an offer of representation and eventually a book deal. I’ve been learning Norwegian (for free) via Duolingo, mostly for fun—and to keep my brain active.

Finally, I’ve been scrolling through Indeed and Monster in search of the perfect job. I don’t know how many hours a week I’ll be able to work; my stamina is yet to be tested. With that written, Dear-Readers-who-happen-to-be-locals, if you know of any businesses in need of an office assistant or writer (for about 10 hours a week, with the possibility of increasing hours as I grow stronger), feel free to share their information with me!

Thank you, Dear Readers, both near and far, for your presence here. I hope, very much, that you remain a constant in my future.

 

With Love & Gratitude,

Laura

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The View from the Mantel

sighting

As you know, Dear Readers, our fur family has grown. Everyone in the house is excited about Berkley’s arrival—everyone, that is, except for Alderaan. He has some reservations about this new “brother”.

Alderaan was in the middle of a cat-nap when Berkley moved in. He was slow to wake up, and when he did, it took him a couple of hours to realize that there were two canines in his house. When he did make this discovery, this was the look that we all received:

observation 2.1
Not sure if this look is of utter despair or scorn.

Berkley, as described in his online bio, is afraid of cats. That fear extends even to Alderaan—who is petite, weighing in at about 11-lbs. Berkley doesn’t bark or growl at Aldie, but neither does he get closer than a yard to him.

If, for instance, Berkley is standing on the back porch waiting to come inside, and he catches a glimpse of Alderaan through the sliding, glass door, his desire to come indoors dissipates. He won’t budge. There is nothing that can entice him to come inside—not treats, not even the promise of receiving all of the tummy rubs in the world.

the view

What Berkley doesn’t know, though, is that Alderaan has no desire to fraternize with a dog. He’s lived with Luna for over a year; he’s grown weary of being sniffed. He’d much rather sit on the mantel, where no doggo can reach him.

Prior to Berkley’s arrival, Alderaan would cuddle with me at night. Even though I’d wake up congested and itchy (cat allergy), it was completely worth it. Alderaan would sleep on my stomach, or my legs—which helped me stay put (despite the fact that PTSD wanted me to move).

Berkley tries to help me with my PTSD, too. After waking up gasping one night, Berkley licked my cheek as if trying to calm me.

So, what can I do about my two boys? They both want to cuddle. They both help me—but it seems as though they don’t want to share the same air.

Berkley has been oscillating between Team Mommy and Team Daddy (because, yes, it is a competition). On the days that he’s a mama’s boy, he’ll race upstairs as soon as I change into my pajamas. Berkley is faster than I am; if he reaches the bedroom before I do, he steals my pillows. Once he’s sleeping on those pillows, it’s over. He’s like a rock and can’t be persuaded to move.

stealing pillows

A couple of nights ago, when Seth was working overnight and Berkley had stolen my pillows, I slept on my husband’s side of the bed. I was almost asleep when a little, gray face popped up beside mine. Alderaan had his hind legs on the floor and was stretching upwards, no doubt trying to surmise what the new dog was doing.

Berkley was asleep.

I encouraged Aldie to come up, but he wouldn’t. While whispering to Alderaan, Berkley awoke. He looked at me, at Alderaan, and then he ran out of the room. He came back twice, and ran away twice. After observing this, Aldie had had enough of the drama. He left the room, too.

As a double-agent, Berkley has taken to wandering at night—especially if Daddy is home. Alderaan does not trust that the dog’s absence is permanent and will not come into the bedroom (unless he wants to hide under the bed and/or demand an early breakfast).

Alderaan is still my writing companion, though, and whenever I am at the kitchen table tapping away on my keyboard, he jumps up into my lap. In fact, he watched me write this blog entry. He was purring…so I think he approves of it.

Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. It truly lights up my world. Please continue sending prayers, love and light.

 

With Love & Gratitude,

Laura

 

Route Recalculation

tomatos 71419
Apparently (I hope I don’t jinx myself), I have a green thumb for outdoor container gardening!

I learned some things on the way to my most recent appointment in Boston:

One – Black-eyed Susans grow in colossal patches alongside New Hampshire’s main roadways. When the sun shines on them, they glow gold. I’ve never seen so many of these flowers growing together! It was breathtaking. If the traffic had been slower, I would have taken a picture.

Two – Traffic stopped for an hour on I-93 due to an accident. Someone involved in the collision was air-lifted out. Even amid the sirens of police cruisers, ambulances, and fire trucks, there was silence. Silence for the injured. Silence for the “what-if’s”. A silence that is not heard, but felt.

I learned some things while in Boston:

One – Although I stopped taking my anti-rejection medication in June, it’s still circulating in my body. It takes three months for it to clear out. Until then, I will continue to take an anti-viral, Acyclovir, as well as an anti-biotic, Bactrim. We did eliminate one medication from the list, though. Bye-bye Protonix!

Two – The second dose of a vaccine can be worse than the first dose. The first time I was given Shingrix, I also received seven other vaccinations. At the time, it was difficult to tell which vaccine site was hurting the most or which vaccine might have made me feel like a zombie. This time, Shingrix was the only injection that I received. And it hurt. I spent Thursday, on the couch, nauseous. The positive side of this? Shingrix is replacing the Chicken Pox vaccine in the post-transplant re-vaccination procedural. That’s one less live-vaccine that I’ll be receiving in September!

I learned some things while feeling half-dead on the couch:

One – It’s okay to rest. It’s something that I should have done more frequently after relapse in 2017, but, for various reasons, I was unable to.

Two – There are many, beautiful things in my life. We may not have New Hampshire’s Black-Eyed Susans in our ditches, but we do have these:

blue flower

It’s Biblical-sounding, but you do reap what you sow. In my particular case, it’s Johnny Jump-ups descended from the hanging baskets that my parents gave me last summer.

Johnny

Johnny, obviously, has not had an easy life. He looks a bit beat-up. He doesn’t let it get him down, though; every morning, Johnny wakes up, and soaks up the sunshine.

Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. Thank you for all of the prayers, love and light that you send my way. This week, I will be having a Bone Density Scan (it’s a fairly common exam after cancer treatment). I’ve had one before. It doesn’t hurt. I am, however, feeling anxious about the results.

Bone Density can be affected by many factors, including cancer treatment. Since my relapse in 2017, I’ve had massive doses of Chemotherapy, Localized and Total Body radiation, Ovarian Failure (did you know that Estrogen is essential to a woman’s bone health?). I will admit to being afraid that my once-a-day, calcium supplement and my Hormone Replacement Therapy have not been enough to counteract the side-effects of all of these (ironically) life-saving toxins. Of course, we’ll see what the scan reveals, and make a plan to deal with whatever the results are. Until then, please continue sending prayers, light, and love. Thank you.

And, to leave you on a positive note, here are some pictures of our newest (and youngest) backyard visitor:

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With Love & Gratitude,

Laura

The Next Chapter

English Roseum in Bloom

I promised, Dear Readers, that I would share a longer, and happier, post this week.

As many of you already know, my fiancé and I were married on Sunday, June 9th, 2019 at Ausable Brewing Company (we were the first couple to get married at the brewery). My fiancé and I had been engaged for 2.5 years—and we had wanted to get married sooner—but, you know, cancer. And, transplant. And, timing.

Then, while on the road to an appointment in Boston, we started talking, once again, about getting married. We brainstormed venues, photographers, and ways to work around my unpredictable immune system. The conversation was an exciting rush, volleying ideas back and forth. There was this moment, when we both knew, that getting married was finally possible.

Our mothers helped make this dream come true. My mother and my Maid of Honor helped me pick out my wedding dress—which my mom paid for. She helped me get dressed, pinning my flower crown and veil to my hair. My mother-in-law purchased the perfect card box for our wedding and helped decorate the brewery’s pavilion the morning of the ceremony.

We wanted a small wedding for several reasons—one of which was my immune system. My immune system is almost 21-months old now, but I am not completely vaccinated. It was a risk to have a wedding. Every hug, every handshake, although offered in friendship, could result in illness.

I was, as I am sure you can imagine, nervous about mingling with our guests. True, the gathering consisted of immediate family and close friends that would never endanger me, but I felt nauseous anyways. I kept having this recurring fear of contracting the chicken pox (because, yes, I’m not vaccinated against that yet).

My feelings of anxiety settled a bit, when Pachelbel’s Cannon in D Major started to play. I watched my lovely Maid of Honor and the Best Man weave their way through the brewery’s pavilion, joining our guests behind an old barn. I was up next. My father led me down that same path, kissing my check when we reached our Officiant, Steph.

One look at my fiancé, and happiness bubbled up inside of me. The fear dissipated and the next thing I knew, I was doing what every new bride does: I was following the directions of our wonderful photographer, Julie (owner of JMRowe Photography). Below is a small sample of her amazing work:

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My husband and I danced to Ruelle’s “I Get to Love You”, for our first dance. These pictures were captured by either our friend, Jamie, or our sister, Kate (not sure who took which picture – but am so thankful that they were shared!).

After dancing, I welcomed as many of our guests as I could. I gave hugs, shook hands. I was taken aback by all of the compliments that I received. Gorgeous. Beautiful. Stunning. Were they truly talking about me? I rarely feel beautiful…or comfortable in my own skin. Treatment has left me with so many scars, both visible and invisible. How could I be ‘stunning’?

Our wedding was nontraditional. As such, we hadn’t planned on doing any of the traditional dances (i.e. father-daughter, mother-son). It was a happy surprise, then, to have a dance with my dad.  My brother, in charge of the music, played “I Loved Her First” by Heartland. I should preface this by saying that I have always been a Daddy’s girl. I nearly started ugly-crying halfway through the song. I had put this loving, kind man through so much—almost dying on him at least twice—and, yet, there we were. I was alive—and so, so grateful to have the opportunity to dance with my dad.

KL received_481882679215704
Photo courtesy of my long-time friend, Kristy.

“You’ll always be my pumpkin,” he said when the dance ended.

Our wedding was not only the beginning of our marriage; it was also an enormous leap toward normalcy, toward healing.

The next day, while lying in the MRI machine, I began to review everything that had happened at our wedding. I had been so joyful. I had felt so loved, so blessed. Tears of gratitude began to slide down my cheeks.

I have waited a long time to be happy, to feel okay about myself, to feel hopeful. No more waiting, Dear Readers. Life is too short. As my oncologist told me after my scans, “we did a lot of terrible things to you. Now it’s time to put Laura back together again”.

Let the real work begin.

Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here, for your patience, and for your prayers. You have been a well-spring of support. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

 

With Love & Gratitude,

Laura

Boots and Camera, Please

spring

As you know, Dear Readers, I had my power port removed last week.

I promised, on Facebook, to write a blog post about it. I wanted to use that post to encourage others to research Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Unfortunately, the more time I put into writing that entry, the more triggered I became.

For me, PTSD has its roots in medical trauma. So, even a “small procedure” such as a port removal, is a big deal. It summons nightmarish memories from both of my cancer experiences and my transplant. While writing about it, I realized that I was walking the fine line between Mental Health Advocacy and Desiderata’s poetic advice, “Be gentle with yourself”.

I chose Desiderata.

I needed a break from the anxiety of it all—some solace—so I put on my boots, grabbed my Nikon, and went outside in search of spring. It wasn’t difficult to find.

We only have a few deciduous trees in our backyard. Currently, they are all heavy with buds and the promise of green leaves.

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Our English Roseum (otherwise known as Rhododendron) is starting to wake up, too.

English Roseum

The shrubs, framing the front porch, are wearing the signs of new growth:

 

new growth

I am not sure if these are Day Lilies or Irises, but they’re certainly trying to reach for the sunlight.

iris or lily

And, then, of course, there are the birds:

robin in the horse shoe pit

Although this photograph—of a cardinal amid the tree buds—was pure luck, his presence was a comfort after such a long week.

cardinal amid the tree buds

Thank you, Dear Readers, for all of your prayers, light, and love. Please continue to send them; I have another follow-up appointment in Boston this week. It is imperative that my white blood cell lines are within normal limits this time.

 

With Love & Gratitude,

Laura

This is Peace. This is Panic. This Might be Primaveral.

As you know, Dear Readers, my life has been a whirlwind of diagnoses, followed by medical procedures. I’m not particularly skilled at either resting or relaxation—but I can recognize them when I see them:

peace

This picture was taken last week. I was sitting on the love-seat, editing my latest manuscript. When I looked up from the text, both of the fur-babies were sleeping. Alderaan was on the mantle, and Luna was in her favorite spot, the recliner. The fire flickered quietly on the hearth. I took a picture, to capture the moment. This, I knew, was peace. Rest. Healing.

I am so grateful for these little moments.

And, yet, while writing these words, and studying that picture, I had a panic attack. There were no warning signs; I simply, and suddenly, had difficulty breathing. I felt like my heart was wedged between my clavicle and my first rib. I’ve had panic attacks in the past, but it’s been awhile; this one caught me by surprise. For a minute I thought, like most people do, that I was having a heart attack.

The panic attack eventually passed, and with it, the chest pain. I was exhausted afterwards, and left wondering what had triggered it. My brain, although tired, conjured Alanis Morissette’s song, “Ironic”. Because, yes, it was ironic to have a panic attack while thinking and writing about peace.

I couldn’t find a satisfactory answer as to what triggered the attack. Normally, I would sift through my anxious thoughts to find the source. Identifying our fears and confronting them are, in my experience, one of the only ways to beat them. Sometimes, though, that’s contraindicated—especially when rest is required. As the adage goes, “Let sleeping dogs lie”.

If the temperature is mild, Luna likes to take brief naps in the green lawn chair on our back porch. When she’s not resting, she’s using the chair to survey her territory. I realized, recently, that she might also be observing primaveral changes. There are some signs of an early spring: the angle of the sun and the moon have changed, and, now, it is not only the blue jays’ squawk greeting the sunrise. There’s another bird, hiding in the cedar hedge. Its song is more melodic, it speaks of warmer temperatures and flowers poking through the frozen earth.

It’s early yet (and it is snowing this morning), but spring is not far away.

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These are obviously fake tulips—with price tags still on them—but I find the colors inspiring…so I thought I’d share them with you. I hope, if you need to smile, that they help.

Thank you, Dear Readers, for your continued prayers, love and light. Your presence here, at Of Perras & Pieridae, keeps me going. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

 

With Love & Gratitude,

Laura

On the Ice

icicle 01.25

Both of our sidewalks—and our driveway—are currently miniature ice rinks.

They’re slick, slippery, and challenging to walk on. I’ve nearly wiped out on four separate occasions. Due to this, I’ve decided to be a bit more cautious and use a ski pole to help me get to where I need to go. It’s slow-going, but to quote a popular adage, “it’s better to be safe, then sorry”.

I imagine, that those of you who live near us, are experiencing similar conditions.

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When I look outside at this ice—especially the large patch next to the garage door—it summons memories of winters past.

ice next to garage
Underneath that dusting of snow, is ice

There were several winters in which my father made a shallow ice rink in the side-yard. My brother and I were still in grade school at the time—and huge fans of “The Mighty Ducks”.

The goal—the reason for creating an ice rink—was to teach us how to skate.

Our parents bought us hockey skates, because they have better ankle support. They were black with white laces. The blades glimmered, new. Our father used to play hockey in high school, and later, in a men’s league, so we’d don his old helmets. He’d skate with us, keeping an eye on us as we pushed chairs across the ice.

little icicle

I will admit to not being good at it. In fact, I’ll go as far as to say that I can’t skate.

Why? How could such a thing happen when I had the best skating coach that a little girl could possibly ask for?

I was afraid of falling. Because of this fear, my body would tense up, rigid. I seem to recall that my knees should have been slightly bent, a bit relaxed, even. I couldn’t do that. Relaxing, to me, meant giving up control.

Control is believed to be power; but, it’s a complete myth. We’re never 100% in control of our lives. Sure, we can have a direct impact on how our lives unfold via the choices we make (to pursue an education, to apply for a particular job, to eat healthy foods and exercise). We can control what lens we use to view the world. Viewing the world through a positive lens can make life feel and look better; conversely, viewing it through a negative lens, can make it quite awful.

I, obviously, didn’t know any of this when I was a little girl on that ice rink. I remained tense, hoping to keep every ounce of control that I thought I had. There are consequences for not relaxing. In the adult world, it’s called, “burn-out”. As a little girl in skates, it was a missed opportunity.

Learning how to relax—giving my mind and my body a break from stress—is now at the top of my priority list. It encourages healing (which I have plenty to still do). I don’t need to control everything about my life; “burn-out” and “missed opportunities” are too steep a price to pay. As another adage reminds me, it’s important to, “stop and smell the roses”. Relax, slow down enough to notice the little things in life—which, more often than not, are the most beautiful things.

more icicles

Will I ever wear a pair of skates again? I don’t know. Maybe. We’ll see.

Thank you, Dear Readers, for the prayers, light, and love that you send my way. This past week was full of appointments—and your good wishes carried me through. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

 

With Love & Gratitude,

Laura

A Fear to Laugh At

Those of you who have followed this blog since it’s inception, know that I often write about medical appointments and/or health developments. Some of those posts were difficult to write. Living through those events was, at times, quite frightening. Today, though, I’d like to share a light-hearted fear—something that can be laughed at.

Some pertinent background information:

  • I am not a gamer, but my fiancé is. It’s through his interest in gaming that I was introduced to Rust.
  • Rust is an online, multi-player video game. It is set in a post-apocalyptic world, in which survival is neither easy nor guaranteed. In Rust, players must scavenge for food, weapons, and clothing. Players make their own outfits from the various materials that they find (i.e. wooden barrels, metal buckets). Occasionally, players discover hazmat suits—which are helpful in high-radiation zones. It is the end of the world, after all.

So, what does any of this have to do with me? It has come to my attention that every time I carry a letter out to the mailbox—in the wee hours of the morning—I am dressed like a character from Rust. My outfit does not adhere to any fashion standards…it’s just a quick ensemble, pieced together to survive the cold.

I don’t bother getting properly dressed to put mail in the mailbox. Instead, I throw my thick, winter coat on, over my pajamas:

winter coat

My coat is respectable enough, but the pajama pants that I wear with it, vary from silky black material, to Christmas-themed, to gray with pink, dark gray, and white polka-dots.

I wear snow boots.

boots

This ensemble is topped off with a Star Wars hat:

star wars hat

Every time I open that front door, I pray for three things:

  • Dear God, please keep Alderaan (our cat) upstairs where he is safe. Dear God, you know my heart will shatter if he sneaks outside and becomes a road pancake.
  • Dear God, please do not let me fall.
  • Dear God, please don’t let anyone take a picture of me.

The road we live on is well-traveled, and I am afraid that one of these days, a commuter is going to snap a picture of me with their cellphone. I’m dressed so ridiculously in the morning, that I feel as though the picture would go viral—especially if it’s marketed creatively:

Woman believes she lives in Rust.

Woman dressed to scavenge, bust geodes, and build her base.

 Woman in Rust wears a surgical mask—it’s the end of the world!

Clearly, my marketing skills are a bit rusty. Pun intended.

I’m not actually afraid of having my picture taken; in fact, I find this “fear” to be rather amusing. It is so insignificant compared to other fears that have plagued me in the past! And, sometimes, it just feels good to laugh at the workings of my own imagination.

Thank you, Dear Readers, for visiting Of Perras & Pieridae today. I hope the description of my morning, Rust-like, attire makes you smile.

 

With Love and Gratitude,

Laura

The Beauty in Broken Things

snowflake on coat
Not broken, but beautiful

We’re only fourteen days into 2019, and, already, the new year has taught me some significant lessons.

While undecorating the Christmas tree, an angel ornament broke.

The dryer is screeching…not a little bit, but a lot.

I broke a tooth.

How can I be “okay” with any of these happenings? The answer is quite simple: most broken things can be fixed. With, perhaps, the exception of these ink-stained pajama pants:

ink stain

There’s no saving these, but that, too, is okay. I only ever wear them to bed. And, if you look closer, what do those ink stains look like? Hearts. They look like hearts.

I was not happy about the angel ornament breaking. This ornament was actually a party favor from a friend’s wedding (forever ago). The angel has shown me, that although broken, she is still quite beautiful. Just a dab of hot glue, and she will be whole again. She will be ready to shine on 2019’s Christmas tree.

seashell angel 1.0

The dryer, of course, is another matter entirely. It’s teaching me patience (the lesson that I am given again and again. Someday, I’ll actually be patient). My fiancé has ordered replacement parts to fix the problem, but in the meantime, I have to hang our clean, but wet, laundry on a wooden clothes rack to dry. The drying process is longer, and the product is rather scratchy, but it works.

dryer

Let me tell you, when I can use that dryer again, I might just buy some sparkling juice to celebrate!

Finally, my broken tooth. This, was unfortunately, fated to happen. I can’t remember if I ever wrote about the dental evaluation that I had to have, prior to my bone marrow transplant in 2017. The short version: this evaluation resulted in having one tooth pulled and a few others marked as likely to cause future issues.

Well, here we are in the “future”, and a suspect tooth did as was predicted—it broke.

The break didn’t hurt, but unhealthy teeth are gateways for infection. So, Dear Readers, I will be visiting the dentist this morning for an exam. I’m not sure if any work will be done, but I will need to take an antibiotic anyways. PowerPorts—I still have mine—are susceptible to infection from dental work, especially if any plaque is disturbed and makes its way down the port line.

Similar to most people, I do not like having dental work done. The drill, the Novocaine shot…ugh. For me, though, it’s the overhead light that is most bothersome. It is a PTSD trigger. Sometimes, when I am sitting underneath that light, I think I can see other masked faces staring down at me—faces that performed my ICU surgery in 2010. These images bring me back to a time, and a place, wherein I was on Death’s doorstep.

That’s not an exaggeration. I nearly died, and no matter how much time passes, it is something that continues to haunt me.

How do you face a fear like that? I plan to silently recite a verse from the New International Version of the Holy Bible, specifically, Psalm 91:11a. I’ve written about this verse before. I find a great deal of comfort in these words, so I thought that I’d share them once again: “For He will command His angels concerning you…”.

So, 2019, I see this challenge, and I will view it as Exposure Therapy—which, in the end, will only make me stronger.

Thank you, Dear Readers, for continuing to send love, light and prayers. You give me hope and strength to see the positive in so many situations. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

 

With Love & Gratitude,

Laura

All of The Feels

It’s 4:36am, to be exact.

And, it’s time to be honest.

I shield the people I care about—including you, Dear Readers—from a lot of what I feel and live with on a daily basis. I don’t like people worrying about me; I certainly don’t want pity. I just want my life back…which…having survived cancer when I was in my early twenties, I know is impossible.

You can’t go back.

The setting for ‘normal’ has changed. Forever.

Of course, this isn’t a rule that applies to everyone. There are survivors that accomplish amazing feats after treatment ends. Sometimes those achievements occur in the world of work. Sometimes it’s on the side of a mountain. Sometimes, they emerge from the cancer world happy, healthy, and stronger.

But not me. Not right now, anyways.

I only hinted at this in my last post, but my heart is currently broken. My transplant anniversary is quickly approaching and, by most standards and available literature, my immune system should be ready to go at that point.

The hard truth is, my immune system won’t be ready.

I’m still on too many immunosuppressants for my system to come back on time. It is currently impossible for me to be taken off of these medications as my borrowed bone marrow and my body don’t get along like they should. To take away the anti-rejection drug or the steroids (both immunosuppressants), I would become infested with Graft vs. Host Disease (GVHD). It has happened nearly every time that my transplant team has tried to taper me off of these medications.

So, what does that mean?

My transplant anniversary, September 21st (also known as my “1st birthday”), is not going to be the magical day that I had so foolishly hoped for. All of this time—the entirety of 2017 and 2018—I’ve been lying to myself. I kept pushing through the appointments, repeating: September. September. Everything will be better in September.

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September isn’t going to change anything for me. I won’t be freed from wearing a surgical mask and gloves in public. The strict dietary rules will continue to be applicable. Worst of all, I won’t be able to live with Alderaan (our cat) until my borrowed marrow and my body decide that they like each other.

All of this hard work, all 14 medications that I take every damn day, all of these appointments—and my immune system isn’t going to be ready.

If this post sounds a bit angry, it is. I can, and I will, blame it on the steroids. It probably also sounds a bit like a pity party—and maybe it is, because I don’t usually acknowledge these emotions—so, now, while I’m still waking up, these feelings are emerging without restraint. I feel defeated. I feel like I’ve lost myself. Who was I before all of this? I don’t know. I can’t remember her.

I suppose…if I have to look on the bright side…this is an opportunity to build a new me—from the ground up. My prayer for the remainder of August, and however many months it takes for my immune system to come back online, is that this extended recovery period ushers in something good. Maybe, just maybe, a fellow ‘slow healer’ will find this post, and won’t feel so alone. Maybe they won’t feel different like I do. Maybe they won’t feel like a failure.

Please send prayers, love, and light, Dear Readers. I have cranial and lumbar spine MRIs scheduled for August 21st. It’s precautionary, but there is always the fear that the scans will show something unwanted.

 

With Gratitude,

Laura