It's all there

Two hours.  Yesterday I found myself with two unscheduled hours, just for me.  I was unexpectedly released from work two hours early, the kids were still in school, and my husband was working.  I cradled these two golden hours in the palm of my hand, not wanting to let them slip through my fingers.  I thought of many things I could do with these two hours that would serve the progress of something--dinner, or shopping, or cleaning, or planning.  I thought about calling a friend for some spontaneous and always needed friend time.  Instead, I decided to walk.  Yet another gorgeous day in what has been an autumn full of gorgeous days beckoned to me.  I stopped by the house long enough to put on my walking shoes, then I drove to my favorite park.

Walking might not seem like much exercise, but it's my favorite thing to do.  The other day I was playing bat-and-ball with my daughters, and Azalea was getting frustrated with me for one too many poor pitches.  I laughed and told her that instead she should be delighted with the surprising quantity of good pitches that I hurled her way.  I explained that her mom is not what you'd call an "athlete".  Perhaps this lack of innate athleticism is what draws me to walking.  Perhaps it's being outside.  For whatever reason, I love it.

The park I walked at yesterday has a 3-mile paved trail around a lake, which is enjoyed by walkers, joggers, and cyclists.  After walking this trail for about a quarter-mile, there is an option to split off onto a gravel trail that winds up a hill, around a marsh, and through a prairie.  Far fewer people take this trail.  It is my favorite trail.  Without hesitation, I struck out from the car toward the unpaved trail.

The clouds formed a high and discontinuous ceiling over the prairie, blocking most of the sunlight while allowing glimpses of blue sky.  I had to force myself to take my eyes off the big sky to keep from tripping.  I had the trail all to myself, and I must have been the only passerby for some time because I startled several wild things.  Occasionally a creature wiggled the grass, or splashed the water, or rustled the leaves as it scrambled to get away from me.  I even saw a waterborne mammal, probably a muskrat.  A rare sighting to be sure.

At the top of a hill is a remarkable overlook where the prairie spills over the hillside without the obstruction of trees or structures.  I gazed over the prairie as I walked, marveling at the vastness of plant life that has all gone dormant but will grow anew in a few months.  Suddenly my eyes caught sight of a solitary leaf, twisting as it fell from nowhere in particular.  I was at the top of a treeless hill, looking down on grasses, with nothing but clouds above, so where did this leaf come from?  I distracted myself from these musings by switching my focus to catching the leaf.  It became tangled in a gust of wind and sped toward me, and my athleticism meter inched up a notch as I caught the leaf with one hand.  I examined the leaf, feeling certain that it would be remarkable in someway.  But it wasn't.  It was a dry, brown, crumbly leaf, even a bit on the smallish side, with a few holes in it.  I smiled at its ordinary appearance despite its magical entrance.  I made a wish, because that seemed like the appropriate thing to do with a maybe-magical leaf, and released it back onto the wind.  It lifted out of my hands for a moment before nose-diving into the grass across the trail.

I breathed deeply and allowed myself to be filled with gratitude for this day, for my life, for these two hours, for a maybe-magical leaf.  It's all there for me, to support me.  It's all there for me no matter what.  It's all there for you, too.  And it doesn't even require two hours.

Open letter to a new cancer patient

I've been contacted by an organization called Cure Forward and invited to participate in a campaign. They are asking cancer survivors to write a letter to new cancer patients discussing their experiences and presenting advice.  I don't know much about Cure Forward (beyond a press release that dubbed it "Tinder for clinical trials"), but it looks like it's going to be a powerful resource for cancer patients.  At any rate, I have decided to write a letter, not to recap my experiences but to note the survival techniques that have worked for me thus far.  Who knows, perhaps I'll address this letter to myself when my cancer flares up again.

Dear newly diagnosed cancer patient,

You've got this.  You really do.  I know that you're scared, and that every hour of uncertainty feels like a day without sleep, but you can do this.

The cancer isn't your enemy.  It's a part of you.  Sure, you'll live longer if the doctors can find a way to get it out of you, but until they do it is a part of the beautiful whole that is you.  Your biggest enemy right now is fear.  Fear of the cancer, fear of being sick, fear of feeling pain, fear of dying, fear of bringing sorrow to loved ones, fear of not being there for your children, fear of letting down your spouse.

I know these fears.  At times I have lived with these fears daily.  The key to success, the key to survival, is releasing your fear.  I release my fear by breathing deeply, spending time in nature, exercising, hugging, meditating, and reading fiction.  These activities help me to release my fear to the wind, which carries it far far from here across the plains.  Find some activities that release your fear, and imagine a few cancer cells being carried along with it.

Sometimes you will feel weak, especially if chemotherapy is part of your treatment regime.  I found that weakness was an open door to fear.  When I physically felt weak, my mental fortitude broke down and the fearful thoughts creeped in.  Find ways to turn your weakness into strength.  Even when I was at my sickest, I took a walk every day.  Some days I could only shuffle across the street and back, but I savored reminding my bones that I still needed them and impressing myself with my resilience.

See, cancer, you can't make me stop walking.    

Sometimes you will feel bored with healing.  You will cross a threshold between feeling sick and well, spending days at a time in a wellness purgatory.  This period is difficult because you feel so much improved from your worst that your mind thinks you can walk around the block, or cook dinner, or play a game with your kids, but your actual capacity is to sit on your couch rather than lay in your bed.  These days will drag out.  Spice them up by listening to music, or inviting a friend over to visit you for a bit, or sitting outside.

I remember one particular boring, nauseous healing day during chemotherapy treatments for my second occurrence of breast cancer.  My brother was visiting, to keep me company and support my family.  He was working on his laptop at the table, and I was lying on the couch, feeling too crummy to watch TV or read but too good to fall asleep.  My brother wanted to help, so he put some salsa music on the internet radio.  I gradually let go of my whiny crumminess and started imaging dancing to live music outdoors in the summer.  Soon I'd be out there dancing in the summer again.  

See, cancer, you can't make me stop dancing.

Sometimes you will feel disappointed in yourself for not being able to do everything that you think you need to do.  That's okay, but let it go.  Indulge yourself, and immerse yourself in your own healing powers.  Let your friends and family help you in the ways that they can.

Sometimes you will need to be even braver than you were yesterday.  You might have things installed or injected in your body before you fully understand what they are or how they work.  You might receive news that is worse than the worst news you thought you could get.  But that's okay.  Because it's within your power to be braver than you were yesterday.

One of my best ways of being brave is to find humor in the situation.  A week after one particular chemotherapy treatment, I had terribly low numbers of cells in my blood.  This was causing me to feel dreadful.  My oncologist prescribed a blood transfusion, and as the transfusion was taking place I was filled with gratitude for the other human who donated his or her blood to me.  I was overcome with appreciation for those cells entering my body and what they were going to do for me.  I decided to write a letter.  To the cells.  From the other human.  I welcomed them to my body and presented them with some House Rules.  In addition to posting the letter on this blog, I also shared it with the doctors and nurses at my cancer center.  We all had a good laugh.

See, cancer, you can't make me stop laughing.

Newly diagnosed cancer patient, please feel free to email me if you want to chat (30carnations (at) gmail (dot) com).  I'm sure that I have much more to say, some of which I've already said in 5 years of blog posts during my cancer journey.  I'd be privileged to help you, if I can.

To your health and mine,

Heather    

Flattopper pride

I have two offerings from the internet in honor of breast cancer awareness month.  First, my sister found this website by a woman who, like me, chose no reconstruction and does not wear a prosthesis.  I've written about my choices previously, which can be found here and here.  The writings and the images on the Flattopper Pride website are pretty incredible.  I love that so many of us are rocking the flatness that is our new, original self.

http://www.flattopperpride.org/

Also, a friend of mine sent me a recent article from the Washington Post on having hidden cancer.  Like me, the author of the piece is living with a terminal diagnosis but outwardly appears to be a healthy human.  She has brain cancer, I have lung cancer.  She was given 2-18 years to live, my prognosis is "optimistic" with continued treatment indefinitely.  She and I both live each day to its fullest potential with infrequent thoughts of our disease, until the quarterly scans remind us of our precarious position between sickness and health, inflicting doubt about our ability to live.  It's a lovely article.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/i-have-cancer-but-i-sometimes-forget/2015/09/17/244dec30-5bca-11e5-9757-e49273f05f65_story.html

Tomorrow I am going to walk in the Race for the Cure with my family.  I walked it for the first time last year only three weeks after my mastectomy.  I'm excited to be a part of the excitement again this year, and this time with a clean bill of health.  Maybe I'll see you down there!  :)

Award!

I'm going to interrupt my Olympic hiking posts to interject a Washington D.C. post.  Last week I traveled to D.C. to receive an early career scientist award, and several members of my supportive and loving family joined me.  It was an overwhelming experience because I kept feeling the gravity of good fortune:  to be successful, to be supported, to be alive.  Also, I had to give a 5-minute acceptance speech, and I was a bit nervous about that.  Despite the weighty emotions, it was such a wonderful experience!  My grandparents rode a subway for the first time.  My daughters visited the national monuments on the Mall.  We visited the National Zoo and caught a glimpse of the newborn panda on the PandaCam.  It was spectacular.    

Below is a copy of my speech, which can also be viewed at minute 33 by following this link.  Don't be alarmed by the login.  Just type in your info and login.    

Heather's acceptance speech:

Thank you very much, Joon.  I am so very honored to be here today accepting this award from ARS.  I am especially honored to be here among the many outstanding ARS employees who are also being honored today.  Perhaps the other honorees will resonate with the strange feeling I have of receiving an honor for what has most certainly been a team effort.  Dozens, if not hundreds, of people have contributed to this achievement, starting with my husband Ian and my loving and supportive family, some of whom have traveled from Iowa to be here today, including my grandparents.  Thank you for being here to share this moment with me, as you have time and again throughout my career.  My team also includes the fantastic doctors, nurses, friends, co-workers, and even acquaintances who navigated me through two diagnoses of breast cancer in the past 5 years, and whose support was critical to my survival. 

I want also to thank the wonderful support staff and scientific colleagues at my location in the beautiful Ames, Iowa who facilitate my research and outreach endeavors.  It is impossible to name all of the mentors and collaborators who are in my heart to thank, but I would like to name those whose guidance and intellect have been critical throughout my career:  Jo Handelsman, Thad Stanton, Al Klingelhutz, Shawn Bearson, Torey Looft, Karen-Cloud-Hansen, and John Bunge.  Thank you for paving the way, or for helping me to pave the way when the way could not be found. 

My scientific impacts have been in the field of microbial ecology, in particular regarding antibiotic resistance gene diversity.  You are perhaps familiar with antibiotic resistance in terms of “Superbugs”, which is a word for pathogenic bacteria that have become so resistant to antibiotics that we can no longer treat them with antibiotics.  I don’t study Superbugs, but I’m interested in the reservoir of antibiotic resistance genes in the environment, how resistance genes move among bacteria, and in alternatives to antibiotics that might prevent the emergence of new Superbugs.  My research has helped to define resistance gene diversity in both pristine and antibiotic-impacted ecosystems, from Alaska to the pig gut.  I hope that the data my collaborators and I generate will inform scientifically sound policies to reduce the risk of making more Superbugs, thus improving health and food safety.         

I’d like to conclude by making two comments to my daughters.  In high school I took an AP chemistry class taught by a first-rate teacher, Mr. Ferrell.  One day following an exam, Mr. Ferrell tried to comfort the lesser-achieving students by assuring us that we’d all hit our wall someday.  “Everyone hits their wall,” he said.  Ever since that day, I have been fearful of my wall, wondering how high it would be, how wide it would be, would it hurt when I hit it?   Daughters, I am happy to report that there are no walls, only doors, and it is up to you to walk through them.

 Second, in 2005 I was representing the Graduate Women in Science organization at the University of Wisconsin’s Committee on Women.  I was attending this committee meeting because graduate students in Madison were not entitled to maternity leave of any kind, even if it was unpaid.  I had researched several other universities who had mechanisms for maternity leave for graduate students and was presenting my case to the committee.  Afterwards the one male member of the Committee said, “Women think they can have it all!”  Daughters, I am happy to report that with the right support and some hard work, yes, you can have it all.

I am humbled by this award, and I am grateful to ARS for being a door and for being a part of my having it all.

Pyrites Creek

Ryan parked the car at Grave's Creek right next to his vehicle's twin: a green Subaru Outback with Washington plates.  I put on my SmartWool socks, carefully laced up my hiking boots, and settled into my pack.  At this moment when embarking on a journey, I often feel a moment's hesitation:  Did I pack enough socks?  Will the kids be okay while I'm gone?  Did I stow my keys where I'll find them again but not lose them along the way?  This time, however, was different.  This time there was no hesitation.  I knew that I had everything I needed:  my boots, my brother, and the woods.  Nothing else mattered.

Our boots crunched on the gravel behind the row of cars, then stomped over a wooden footbridge into the woods.  Into the woods.

This was the first of many creek crossings.

The path was fairly wide for the first two miles.  Too narrow for two people to walk together, but wide enough to pass oncoming hikers without difficulty.  The first two miles see many day-hikers of folks who hike in to Pony Ridge.  Pony Ridge is a beautiful place where the river has cut through the rock and a large wooden bridge carries the trail over it.  We didn't linger with the day-hikers, though.  We plunged ahead, eager to keep pounding the trail.

Soon after Pony Ridge, the trail became more narrow and less traveled.  Ryan and I spread out a little bit, each lost in our own thoughts.  We were always in each others' sight, but sometimes you don't need to talk in order to enjoy the company of another human.  Especially on the trail.  The rhythm of my own footsteps on the remote soil sent me into a meditative state.  My mind quit chewing on the various problems that had inhabited it for weeks.  I released the problems into Mother Nature's capable hands.  I just walked.

My two feet, carrying me over.

This odd little ptarmigan was hiking alongside us at one point.  I could have picked it up!  

That's a big tree!

 We reached the first backcountry campsite 6 miles from the start.  Ryan and I were both feeling great, so we decided to go another 3 miles to the next campsite at Pyrite's Creek.  I didn't know for sure if I could make it, but I thought I could.  So I did.  When we got there, Ryan gave me a big hug and said that I killed it.  I know I did.  I knew I could.  We arrived at 6:07, and his projected arrival time was 6:30.  We beat his projection by 23 minutes!  I felt rather accomplished.

I also felt rather spent.  After all, I had just hiked 9 miles, mostly uphill, with a pack.  I sat on the sandy bank while he set up the tent and filtered some water.  Soon I was feeling refreshed and able to participate in camp life.  

Ryan filtering some water for us at Pyrites Creek

Our tent, Big Agnes, at Pyrites Creek

This is most of our food in the bear can, with a view of our campsite on the banks of Pyrites Creek.

Ryan made haystacks (deconstructed tacos) for dinner.  Best meal I've ever had! 

We took shots of Herdez salsa from a can to avoid spilling any on the ground and attracting vermin.  Pass the Herdez!

After dinner we were both ready for bed, so we turned into Big Agnes.  It was still light out.  I was asleep by 8:30.

Ryan's girlfriend, A, loaned me her FitBit for our hiking trip.  Afterwards she hooked me up with the data, which shows how intense this first day of hiking was.  I walked 24,935 steps that day.  And I loved every one of them.

Pre-Olympics in Seattle

I arrived in Seattle to one of the hottest and driest Junes the area had ever seen.  My brother and his girlfriend, A, took me out for brunch at a cute neighborhood crepe place.  The coffee was remarkable, and the atmosphere was sweltering.  Few establishments in Seattle have air conditioning, and this restaurant was no exception.  We were sweaty by the time we finished our breakfast.  

Then I set up a temporary camp at their new house while we prepared our supplies for the hike.  I don't know what I enjoyed most:  organizing my clothes and personal items in my pack, or spending time with my little brother in his home.  It's very special to be with someone you love in the place that makes them the most happy.

We went for a walk in the neighborhood for a beer and some supplies.  He had been putting off buying a new tent for awhile, so I was glad to be a catalyst to improve his backpacking supplies.  We went into a local store and he found a Big Agnes-brand 3-person tent.  I referred to the tent as Big Agnes for the duration of our trip.  How could I not?  It's called Big Agnes.  

We walked past a farmer's market that was packing up, and a farmer at one of the stands asked us if we'd like some raspberries.  I said thank you, I'd love some, and he handed me an entire flat of raspberries!  We carried the berries with us to King's pub  where the bartender used them to make us a custom raspberry margarita.  These things only happen on vacation!

Ryan, A., and me at King's pub

Back at Ryan's house he packed our food in bear-proof containers before stuffing it into his pack.  Always a gentleman, he didn't allow me to pack any of our mutual food or equipment in my backpack.  I only packed my own water and supplies.  While he tended to the food, I made us a pre-hike raspberry pie, because that's what you do when you're given a flat of raspberries the night before heading into the backcountry.  You bake them into a pie.

Fortunately I was pretty worn out from my long day of flying, planning, walking, and packing, so I was ready to turn into my cozy bed despite my high level of excitement.  A. had made the guest room very welcoming for me, with chocolate bars, water bottles, and Tim's chips displayed on the nightstand.  I rearranged the decorative pillows to make room for my head, read a few chapters of The Invention of Wings, then snuggled in for the night.

I awoke to the soft morning light of Seattle slanting through the wooden blinds.  This is the day, I thought.  It has finally arrived.  I am going hiking in the Olympic Mountains.

Ryan scrambled some eggs with peppers, mushrooms, onions, tomatoes, olives, and cheese.  I ate at their kitchen table, admiring the fine details of their newly updated kitchen:  butcher block table top, self-installed beer tap, tiled backsplash, a potted orchid blooming over the table.  The chickens made their morning clucking noises behind me in the yard.  I could have stayed there all day but I lingered only for a moment; it was time to finalize our packs and hop in the car.

Ryan and his friends have a tradition that on their way out of town to go backpacking they top at their favorite bakery for some treats.  Who was I to stand in the way of tradition?  The bakery was well-stocked with all sorts of goodies and smells.  It was very hard to choose.  I fell back on an old favorite, a croissant, because I love croissants and it is fun to be in search of the world's finest croissant.  I also got a chocolate macaroon that was incredible.  But Ryan hit the pastry jackpot by trying something new:  a chocolate bismark.  Neither of us were familiar with bismarks, but now we can't go back.  It had a flaky and savory exterior, a custard-filled interior, and a light coating of chocolate icing.  It was the best pastry I've ever had.  

Then we were off!  Driving south out of Seattle, west through Olympia, and north up the peninsula.  The excitement was building with every mile.  At 11:30 we pulled into the Ranger's station at Lake Quinault to get our backcountry pass.  The ranger gave us a bit of info about bear sightings, camping in the backcountry, and the weather.  In minutes we were driving down a winding gravel road to park the car at Graves Creek.  

Here we go! 

Legendary

How can it be that summer is over and today is the first day of school?  Summer went by too quickly, and I have not properly documented my comings and goings.  That's because I've been out living instead of in blogging.  I have begun many stories, and I hope to finish them and post them in the coming days.

Today's story is going to cover several things that happened in the month of July.  At the beginning of the month was my hiking trip in the Olympic Mountains.  It was every bit as incredible as I imagined it would be!  Walking in the woods was a restorative activity after a somewhat stressful year of recovery.  Taking one step at a time, over logs, under logs, and around logs, helped me truly realize just how strong I am.  In addition to the physical achievement of hiking 10 miles per day for 3 days, I had the personal satisfaction of getting away from the routines for awhile.  I forgot how unscheduled a couple of grown-ups could be for a couple of days, and it was rejuvenating.  Plus, my brother was a wonderful host, guide, and companion.  He cracks me up.

A few days after I returned to the office from my backpacking trip, I got a phone call from the Big Boss (my boss's boss's boss in the district office).  He was calling to congratulate me because I won a really big award!  I am an Early Career Scientist award-winner for 2015.  I get to go to Washington D.C. in September to receive the award.  Woo hoo!  I'm so excited!  All sorts of loved ones are going to accompany me to D.C.:  my daughters, dad, stepmom, grandparents, and mother-in-law.  What on earth am I going to wear?  Don't make me buy a pantsuit!!

I was beginning to feel rather legendary when two weeks later I found myself once again in that dark little room, meditating with my yellow paintbrushes while the radioactive glucose worked its way around my cells.  This time I got my PET scan results on the same day as the scan, and guess what?  All clear again!  Boom!  The legend continues!  That's the third clean PET scan in a row, friends.  Well, in the interest of full disclosure, the current PET scan did show a tiny bit of activity on one ovary, but a follow-up ultrasound revealed that there is nothing abnormal going on. So again I say, clear PET scan!  Huzzah!

Two weeks ago, in August, I had a 6-month follow-up with Dr. Medical Oncologist at the other cancer center.  This is my Her2-cancer expert.  She couldn't have been more thrilled with the PET scan results (in fact, I daresay she had a look of disbelief on her face).  I asked if we could stretch out the PET scans a bit, now that I've had 3 clean ones, and she said yes but just a bit.  Her proposed PET scan schedule is every 4-5 months.  Ugh, that's still awfully frequent scanning, but I'll take it.  It'll be 3 PET scans a year instead of 4, which I suppose will make a big difference in terms of my schedule and exposure to radioactivity.  She also still plans to keep me on the Herceptin and Pertuzumab treatments indefinitely, as previously planned, as long as my heart holds up.  I get echo cardiograms of my heart every 3 months to make sure it's not being adversely affected by the treatments.  Again, I'll take it.  Finally, she mentioned that if these drugs ever stop working for me, there are already new treatment options available for Her2 cancers.  Wow!  That's incredible!  I hope I don't have to explore those options for a long, long time, but it's nice to know that they are there.

Two days ago, on Aug. 22, was my one year anniversary since my last hard chemo.  I can't believe that it's been a year already.  Time flies when you're feeling well, I guess.  I am so grateful to have had this year, and I feel ready to snag another one.  Dr. Medical Oncologist said that when I make it to my 10-year survivorship, she can retire.  Thanks for giving me a new survivorship goal, Dr. MO.  Here's to sending you into early retirement!