Christmas, Chemo and Coping

It’s funny…life doesn’t stop after being diagnosed with a life threatening illness. You get the news, go to bed, wake up the next day and realize life goes on.

While I was going through my chemotherapy treatments, I tried my best to live as normal life as possible with my family. We went out for dinner, went to the zoo, celebrated Tristan’s fifth birthday with his friends and continued on with a regular life. I’d often have to stop for a little nap but would continue on with whatever we had planned for the day. Some days, I would have to sit out.

As heavy as it was some days, I could bear my own suffering. The most difficult thing for me was the pain I caused my family to feel. They always tried to be so strong for me but I knew it was a show. I hated that I was hurting them, I blamed myself. I truly believed I had the easier end of a really crappy deal. I tried to imagine how I would feel if the shoe was on the other foot, if it was Marcus or one of my sisters that was diagnosed with the brain tumour and it was heart wrenching. I was glad that it was me and I didn’t have to watch one of my loved ones go through the physical and emotional trials of cancer.

From the beginning, everyone began treating me differently, even speaking to me in a different tone of voice. It seemed as if people were walking on eggshells. I felt strongly there was no room for pity in my healing process. I insisted that everyone had to live normally, just as we were before. I hated when people called me “sick”.  I never considered myself sick. I simply was diagnosed with a medical condition and the treatment temporarily slowed me down.

I have learned that as humans, we are all gifted with coping mechanisms. Whether the suffering is a result of a critical diagnosis, having to flee a worn torn country or living somewhere where food is scarce, somehow we find a way to keep going. My coping mechanism was meditation and discovering how to live in the moment. My mother found her coping mechanism after reading the book, “The Shack”. The weight of her pain was too much for her to carry on her own so she threw it up to God. She surrendered and trusted that he would take care of me. My diagnosis didn’t change but, the way we chose to cope with it did.

Every month, I would have an MRI to see if the chemo was doing its job. Every month the results were the same, “Stable, no change.” The fact that the tumour wasn’t growing was good news but, it wasn’t shrinking either. Everyone was trying to look on the bright side, trying to convince me it was good news, but I always felt disappointed leaving those appointments. I always hoped for more.

The first Christmas we had after my diagnosis was bitter sweet. My favourite holiday music, Josh Groben and Boney M was playing in the background as Marcus, Tristan and I decorated the tree. I was never more aware that we are all on borrowed time and I didn’t know if I would be around the following year. It didn’t matter that Tristan put about fifteen ornaments on one branch and the tree was lopsided. Little imperfections like that put a smile on my face and warmed my heart. It was evidence of our existence. Having the perfect tree was not important. What was important was that we were all together, sharing that moment and enjoying ourselves.

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My parents treated us all to a family trip to Jamaica at the end of the year. It was a promise my dad made to me when I was in the hospital, right before my biopsy. We celebrated Christmas and New Year’s Eve Jamaican style, in the sunshine and with delicious food. Tristan played with his cousins in the water while I watched and tried to relax with my family. We all were doing our best to enjoy ourselves but there was always a heaviness lurking nearby. I was eleven months into my treatment and  unsure what the near future held for me. New Year’s Eve was the one year anniversary of my diagnosis. I didn’t want to think about it, but it was hard to forget.

When we returned to Canada in the new year, I went for what I thought was going to be my twelfth and final treatment. Marcus always took me to these appointments because he liked to hear what the doctor would say and he was always prepared with an arsenal of questions. When the doctor came into our room, I was ready to hear, “Stable, no change.” That was not what he told us this time. My last MRI showed an improvement  in the “flair” image. He explained to us the tumour was not lighting up as much, which meant there was less irritation and activity in the cells surrounding it. It was a good sign but it also meant it would be beneficial to continue with the treatment, I agreed.

I returned to the clinic every month for my blood work and MRI. After the fifteenth month of my treatment, I went back for my appointment, pale green with bags under my eyes. There was no further improvement and the results continued to be, “Stable, no change.” The doctor told us there was a fine line between helping me and hurting me. He informed us if I continued the chemo, I would increase my risk of getting leukaemia in the future, we had to stop.

On our way home, Marcus and I stopped for lunch to celebrate. The news was bitter sweet.  I didn’t know how or what I was supposed to feel. On one hand I was happy, I didn’t have to ingest the toxic chemicals anymore. On the other hand, I still had a brain tumour. I was in what they called, “the watch and wait mode”, so basically, we did nothing and were waiting for the tumour to make the first move….again.

 

I want to take this time to wish all my family, friends and everyone reading this a very Merry Christmas and a New Year full of joy, good health and an abundance of love. Thank you for all of your support throughout the years. The Journey continues in 2017! Love, Linda ❤ xoxo