In My Mother’s Eyes…

Last weekend, in addition to celebrating Thanksgiving with the most gratitude I’ve ever felt in my lifetime, I also celebrated my upcoming wedding at my bridal shower brunch. It was a beautiful day and the outpouring of love and support from family and friends that shared the day with me, made it the most happy day of my year so far.

The sun was shining, the food was delicious (Thanks to Paul & Anita at The Magnolia Event Boutique), my bridal party ladies were beautiful, the decor was exactly how I envisioned it (Lots of Love to Suzanne at Interiors by Suzart) and if I could bottle up the peace in my heart that I felt on that day, I would. It was yet one more milestone reached on my way down the aisle to marrying my Earth Angel, Mark, and my goodness, it was perfection.

But above all the beautiful, tangible things that made the day so splendid, it was the beauty & sincerity in the words spoken by my mother to me that captured my heart like nothing else could. She was so eloquent as she addressed a room full of women. And so, today, instead of sharing my own words with you, I’d like to share the words of my mother:

“…As a little girl, Rosie was always happy and finding good in all creatures. Her kindness and gentleness was like honey to the Bees, attracting everyone to her. Rosie is the sunshine to all that know her and the most beautiful gift and blessing I have ever been given. Rosie, you have always kept our home full of love, laughter and parties. You have literally been a party planner your whole life. I remember when you were in grade 3 and showed up on our doorstep with your entire class for a Hot Chocolate party. How could a little girl convince her teacher to take the whole class of 30 students to our home for hot chocolate? Only someone as special as you. 

As a parent, we always try to do our best to protect our  children. We will do whatever it takes to make sure they are safe. Rosie – throughout this year, you have protected me. You consoled me in some of our most difficult days and have been the ray of sunshine that keeps our family going.  

Every mother hopes that her child finds love. But, when you’re a mother to a daughter you hope for more than  just that. You hope that she finds a man who will lift her up, who will protect her heart. A man who will stand by her and support her dreams. A man who will be her crutch when she needs him to be, and be her wings when she wants him to be. Rosie has found that man in Mark. She found in him, a soulmate, someone who loves her for all the wonderful things about her  and whose heart is just as big and generous and loving as hers. Mark very easily became a part of our family and has proven over and again that his love for Rosie goes beyond measure. My hope for my daughter came true and for this I am forever grateful. 

Rosie – I am incredibly lucky and blessed to have you not only as my daughter, but as my best friend. When  you were a little girl, I held your hand. Now, that you are grown, I will always hold on to your heart.  You are my strength and inspiration. You, my beautiful girl, are my Rosie Strong. I love you.”

My goodness, I’m so blessed to have this kind of love in my life! If you’re lucky enough to have a mother who calms your fears, who gives you strength, who will sacrifice anything and everything for you…Show her some gratitude, give her a kiss, a hug. Let her know in whatever way you choose that you value and appreciate her. Don’t wait for mother’s day, don’t wait for tomorrow.

In my mother’s eyes, I am so much stronger and better, so much more beautiful than I have ever seen myself to be. My body is ravaged with nasty post surgical scars that she doesn’t even see! To her, I am as lovely as I was when I was a child. She looks through the nasty scars I wear on my body and she heals the scars that wear on my mind.

It’s amazing how quickly scars can fade and how perfect one can feel, when a child sees herself through her mother’s eyes.

Victory Song

This photo was taken last year on September 11 right after I blew out the candles on my 34th birthday. This was taken right around the time I started noticing that food was getting stuck in my chest when I tried to swallow, but, attributing it to minor heart-burn, I was unaware of what life had in store for me.  All I knew was that I had the love of my life with me and I couldn’t have been happier. I even remember my wish. I wished that Mark and I would get married and live a beautiful life together. Thankfully, I’m still on track to see that wish come true.

This Friday I will celebrate my 35th birthday. Even as I write that, I break down in tears. God knows that there were moments this past year that I thought, genuinely thought, I wouldn’t see another birthday.

There were so many times, during treatment and after my surgery when everything in me hurt. Times when my mind was as tired and as worn out as my body was and everything in me ached and yearned for a just a moment of peace, for a minute of feeling pain-free. It was during those times when I doubted that I could do it anymore. I fleetingly wondered if I was strong enough to endure the pain, both physically and mentally. So, in the back of mind, I prepared for the worst.

I hoped for, I prayed for and I expected the best, but I always prepared for the worst.

I had endless pages of secret notes and lists – what I wanted my funeral to be like, who I would leave all my possessions to, how I wanted everyone to move forward with their lives. I had letters written to everyone I love so that they remember what they mean to me. I even wrote letters to friends of mine who after 10+ years of friendship, made the decision to not be part of my life while I was fighting. I wanted to let them know that despite their absence in my life, I would take all the great memories we made together with me. I wrote to Mark – His letter is too private to even give you a glimpse into, but I can say that writing his letter was the most difficult thing I have ever written.

I’ve always been a planner and so, although I planned on surviving and getting married to my earth-angel, I knew that like every great plan, I must have a contingency plan. These letters, notes and lists – they were my contingencies. My secret, never-shared-with-anyone Plan B.

I woke up this morning, 4 days shy of turning 35, and ripped them all up. It felt so good to not think about my death, but rather, to think about my life. To destroy the evidence of what would have/could have been if I lost my battle. No one will ever read those letters, or see those notes and lists. I won’t think about them again, after this post. Every word on every one of those pages now sits in a shredded heap in tied up plastic bag, in the garbage bin outside my office. That’s where they belong. In the garbage. Not sitting in a pretty notebook on my nightstand, so that I am forced to look at it every day with fear of opening those pages or worse, having to actually use them. I don’t need a contingency plan anymore, I’m lucky, Plan A worked out just fine for me and in 4 months from now, my wish will come true.

I break down when I think about turning another year older because I was so afraid, for so long, that I wouldn’t get here. That I wouldn’t have the chance to blow out another candle. I think about how much in my life has changed since this time, last year, and so, being here now, is overwhelming and amazing all at once because it simply feels so right. This is where I’m meant to be. I am destined to be alive, and so, on Friday, I will celebrate my life. On Friday, I will wake up and sing Happy Birthday to myself, knowing that it is my VICTORY song.

Mark and I shared a pinky promise a few months back that if I got out of the hospital and stayed strong enough during my recovery, we would celebrate my birthday in the flashiest way possible – by taking a trip to Vegas and spending our days and nights roaming the strip, soaking in all the sights and sounds, and doing what we do best – laughing and having fun together. How blessed I am to have a love this grand in my life. And although I won’t have my family with me on Friday, I will have my best friend Anne and her husband Richard (our first trip together, yay!) who have assured me that this year, this birthday will be a celebration to remember! So, off I go to pack my “blingiest” dresses and highest heels (hope I remember how to walk in them) for my First Ever Vegas Adventure.

I was given a second chance. Another opportunity to do everything I want to do. In many ways, I feel both like a newborn, and a wise old man simultaneously. I am proudly Rosie 2.0 and now I see things very differently and with a clarity I didn’t know I could have. I have learned how important it is to be there for and appreciate the people in my life who support me, stand by me, and are happy for me, and how to accept and let go of the people who don’t and aren’t. I now know what the truest, purest type of love feels like and how to love truly and purely in return. I know to not sweat the small stuff and enjoy the ups and downs of every day. I can handle pain like never before and am mentally stronger than I’ve ever been. I value life in a whole new, much more gratifying way.

For me, every year, every day, every hour and minute and second spent on earth is a blessing. I will never take that for granted, I will never complain about getting older, I will never doubt making it to my next birthday. Instead, I will cherish each moment, good or bad I have in my lifetime, regardless how long, knowing that I have a life and a love that is great.

Happy Birthday to all us dreamers and writers, warriors and thrivers, the hopers and planners and of course, the survivors.

#RosieStrong

Becoming Rosie

Perhaps the butterfly is proof that you can go through a great deal of darkness yet become something beautiful – anonymous

This post has been a long time coming. It’s taken me a some time to even get to the point where I could bring myself to write again, to share my thoughts, to find the words to describe what I am feeling. I guess I needed to concentrate on healing so that I could find my voice again – the one that is filled with genuine positivity. So, I thank you for your patience and unending support while I made some strides in my recovery and found my way back to this keyboard.

In terms of my recovery, I’m getting along quite well. I am learning how and what I can eat again, and dealing as best as possible with monthly gastroscopies to re-open my esophagus when it closes up on me. My scars are healing and I’m managing the pain with less and less medication. I only feel weak after really long days now. In fact, I feel stronger than I have in a very long time. It’s been a slow but steady ride, and I know that soon enough, I’ll feel better and be healthier than I’ve ever been. I’ve even gotten used to the short pixie haircut and actually kinda like this new look on me. I still don’t always recognize the girl in the mirror, but, at least she’s happy. At least “sick girl” is gone and I, once again, am becoming Rosie.

Since my last post, so much has happened in my life. I started cooking again, I planned my return to work next month, celebrated Mark’s birthday, found my wedding dress again (it’s PERFECT), hosted a few dinner parties, enjoyed the PanAm Games, went swimming (and got some colour & vitamin D back in my ghostly pale skin). Basically, I’m no longer watching life pass me by from my hospital bed. I’m an active participant and I’m happy. One of the happiest moments of all so far was being a bridesmaid for my not-so-baby sister Rachel’s wedding.

The day before the wedding, I reclaimed my role as family coordinator/decorator/event planner and decorated our house in tulle and flowers and ribbon and lace, I listened to and edited speeches, wrote itineraries and turned my bedroom into a make-shift hair & make-up salon. I then lay in my bed, with my sisters sleeping next to me, exhausted and in pain but elated to know that the “old” Rosie – type A personality, perfectionist planner Rosie – still lived in me.

I don’t know if I could accurately describe what it felt like to wake up on the day of her wedding, knowing that my fear of not being a part of her day was finally put to rest. I took a moment that morning, to let it all out, to cry before the makeup was applied. To say my prayers of gratitude to every angel and saint and universal force that enabled me to live, that let me stick around so that I could be a part of the most important, joyous day of my young sister’s life.

When your life is threatened – when you don’t have the luxury of certainty, every moment that you’re blessed with, every experience you get to have is one more to be grateful for. I cried pretty much all day, as the thought occasionally crept into my mind that I very well could have not been there that day. But, as I walked out of the church with my arm linked with Mark’s (my handsome groomsman), realizing that the next time I walk down an aisle, it will be to marry him, I finally and overwhelmingly, understood what gratitude feels like. It’s inexplicable and it’s all-encompassing, and it looks like this:

Not only did I make it to my sister’s wedding, but I know now, that I will make it to my own wedding. It’s the one thought that inspires me beyond my own limitations to heal faster, recover quicker and get back to life as soon as possible. I’m finding Rosie again. It’s a process, but with every stroll I take with Mark, every ice cream I enjoy, every grocery store shopping trip, every mani-pedi, every moment that used to seem so small and now is so big – with all these things, I become more me. I become a little more Rosie and I have a feeling that I’m gonna like this Rosie even more.

Peace and love and light,

Rosiestrong

That Cancer Cloud

Every day, I watch the lives of my friends and family continue on. I peruse my Instagram and Facebook news feeds, catching glimpses of what’s happening in their worlds – engagements, weddings, babies, new jobs, moving days, graduations and proms, special events, travels, fun nights out, goals being accomplished – lives, being lived.

I guess it’s not until those moments are taken away from us that we truly appreciate them. I yearn for those moments again. That’s what Cancer does. It creates chaos. It strips us down, it makes life become about survival and less about living. It turns our world upside down and stops it in it’s tracks. And, while it’s busy being the worst interruption we could possibly imagine, it tries to break our spirit too.

It’s an evil genius that knows exactly which buttons to press to really get us down and out. That’s what Cancer does. It takes away parts of us. For me, it rearranged my anatomy and broke up my love affair with food. It changed the way I eat, It changed the way I breathe, the way I live. It altered my appearance and left scars so deep and big, they will stay with me forever. It depleted my energy, and no matter how hard I push myself, I know I am no longer the Rosie of days past. Cancer always takes something with it. Leaves us a little emptier, a little less like ourselves. That’s what Cancer does.

These are the things we battle. Not just the physical pain, suffering and discomfort. We fight for our lives. We quite literally, fight to live again – to enjoy and experience those moments that we see our friends and family having. We fight for normalcy, we fight to not let it define us and sometimes, eventually, we win. But man, is it ever a tough fight.

I’ve been fighting for 6 months now. I’ve been an outsider, looking in on everyone else’s lives for the last 6 months. It’s taken a toll on me. I’m tired and frustrated and often get scared that this will never end and the pain will never fully heal. I’m sick of feeling sick. I’m not quite the easy-going, happy-go-lucky Rosie that I once was. I’m a little more reserved now, a little more aware of what I say and do. Don’t misunderstand – I’m happy and still have the zest for life I always have, but, there’s always a dark cloud threatening to make its way over my head. Teasing me with another storm. Cancer does this too. It follows us, even when we think we’ve gotten rid of it. It’s always present, hovering in the not-so-distance. I’ve heard from other cancer survivors that it gets better with time. Every year that one is cancer-free, that cloud gets more distant, less threatening. I can’t wait for that feeling. To feel like Cancer has become such a distant memory that it is no longer a looming part of who I am. But I’m still a Cancer rookie. It is still very much a part of my every day life.

I had my first post-treatment and post-operation oncology follow up appointment. I anxiously awaited to hear that the pathology from my operation showed that I was Cancer free. I would have given anything to hear those two words. But, I didn’t. Instead I was told that I most likely won’t need any further Chemotherapy and that for the foreseeable future, I will be monitored with CT Scans and blood work, every three months. So yes, I’m thrilled that I’m done with chemo and feel blessed that I will be under a close microscope for a long, long time, but I feel so incredibly disappointed to not yet be able to call myself a Cancer survivor. It’s a right of passage that every Cancer patient deserves and waits for.

I’m hoping that my first scan will provide the answers I need to truly start moving on from this nightmare. I want so desperately to have my life back. To wake up and feel great again. To not be tethered to a feeding tube. To not throw up multiple times a day. To be strong enough to take a long walk. To be reminded of what my favorite foods taste like. To visit with friends and put nice clothes on. To go to work and be productive. All the little things that I see as normal. I want normal.

The only thing that keeps me going – that keeps all us Cancer warriors going is, strength of mind. Believing without a doubt that we will be ok one day. Fighting the urge to just give up and say “whatever will be, will be”. Cancer patients – we can’t say that, we can’t leave it all up to fate. Fate doesn’t know how strong we are, so we have to prove that we’re going to be ok. Against all odds, regardless of the outlook, we will be ok. Cancer can’t win against that. It will try to fill our brains with negative thoughts, with doubt. But, what Cancer CAN’T do is take away our inner-strength. Only we can control that. We have to continuously remind the Universe that we will be healthy, we will survive. It’s the only thing we’ve got.

It’s an uphill battle that often gets worse before it gets better. It’s life altering and can be spirit demolishing, if you let it. So, I truck on, trying with everything in me to stay positive and for the most part, I am, simply because I know that the day will come when I will love the woman I am because I fought so hard to become her.

#RosieStrong

The Meaning of Symbols

Symbols are the imaginative signposts of life – Margot Asquith

It’s been about a year since I met Mark. Since my world changed in so many ways. Since I went from being the poster child for the independent single woman to wearing the most magnificent diamond ring – the symbol that tells the world, that I am in a relationship with a man who I adore and who adores me…and who has impeccable taste in wine and diamonds 😉

I bought my wedding dress in January. It’s a beautiful dress, adorned with pearls and crystals and I knew as soon as I put it on that it was the dress.

I bought my dress before I started chemo and radiation treatment; before I had a clear understanding of what I was about to endure. I bought my dress before I even knew when or where Mark and I were going to marry. We had to cancel our original October 24th date to accommodate the cancer monster and hadn’t really thought about an alternate date.

I bought my wedding dress because I stood in front of a mirror at Kleinfeld bridal store and had an epiphany of Mark and I dancing the night away under the stars. I saw myself as a bride. More importantly though, I bought my dress as symbol of what was to come, regardless of what I was about to endure. It was like a suit of armor in a way – this dress would keep me safe and strong throughout my battle.

I cancelled my dress order on Monday. My symbol – gone.

I’ve been told to expect a weight loss of up to 50 lbs in the first 8 weeks following my surgery. So, I cancelled my dress because it simply won’t fit anymore and would require so many alterations, I would ultimately have to have it taken apart and re-made to fit me.

The staff at Kleinfelds were amazingly accommodating, offering me a solution for my dress dilemma without hesitation. It was another reminder that there are wonderful people in the world, and that there are companies in the wedding/event industry (my industry) that still have heart. Together, we decided that I will go back and say yes to a new dress when I’m cancer free and recovering well from surgery.

It was a sad moment for me though. I hung up the phone with Kleinfelds and had a moment where I couldn’t help but think that maybe this was a sign. Maybe I’ll never get to wear a wedding dress – then I looked at the box of invitations sitting on my kitchen table, and realized that would not be the case. In that instant, my invitations became my symbol of what is to come: My wedding. That is what is meant to come. The moment when I will walk down an aisle towards my earth-angel, the warm Mexican sun shining down on us – that will happen because my invitations say they will. Because Mark says it will. He says it every single day. Mostly though, because my heart says it will. So, save the date! We’re getting hitched!

I’m not so scared anymore of the surgery. I feel like I have luck and love and faith on my side. I feel like God is not done with me just yet. I feel like I’m meant to wear a wedding dress. I feel like I’m meant to be Mark’s wife. I’ve felt that since the moment I met him. Since the first time we sat across from each other and shared our first meal together on our first date. I watched him so intently that evening, about a year ago, and remember thinking that I was going to fall in love with this handsome, witty, smart, charismatic man. He instantly became the symbol of what was to come in my life. Love. He still is my symbol of love. My living, breathing, symbol of love.

These symbols…they keep me believing. They give me strength. They all have meaning.

I guess we all need our own symbols. We need things that mean something, even when nothing makes sense. The little glimmers of hope that remind us that days will get better. The tangible proof that we have a life to live that is so much bigger than our monsters.

#RosieStrong #FightLikeAGirl #WarriorBride

Finding Faith

Faith is taking the first step, even when you can’t see the whole staircarse – Martin Luther King Jr.

I believe that having faith sets our minds free. It allows us to believe in something when reason doesn’t, when we can’t really make sense of what is happening or see where we are going. Faith, is like a beam of light that cuts through the fog in our minds.

I’m trying to find some extra faith these days…

I met with my surgeon on Tuesday. He’s wonderful and compassionate, having taken the time to explain everything about my surgery in detail, and even drawing examples of what he described to be a “big surgery”. “I’ll be operating on you for 5 hours, if you could believe that – it’s a big surgery” he said. And my heart skipped a beat.

I had Mark standing to my right – he’s my right-hand-man, always ready with a positive word, never letting me see an ounce of worry – those words didn’t seem to affect him, although, I know otherwise. He simply nodded in my direction, almost matter-of-factly and automatically, I felt more at ease.

My Mom and Dad were to my left. My mom, sitting next to me, who, like me, was trying desperately not to cry, I could hear her heart, quick and fluttery, beating in tandem with my own. I was immediately reminded that I get both my tenacity and sensitivity from her.  My Dad, standing next to her – with his face looking concerned but strong, kept her calm by not reacting. I guess he is to her, what Mark is to me – the weight in our feet that keep us from jumping out of our skin and letting our emotions carry us away.

I wonder what it was like for them to hear the surgeon say to me, “I’m going to remove the top half of your stomach, and lower three-quarters of your esophagus. Then, I’m going to pull up the lower half of your stomach and attach it to the remaining portion of your esophagus”. I can’t ask them, because, even if they thought something else, I know what they will say they thought:

Mark will say he thought, “ok, good stuff, let’s get this done so she can recover and we can move on to a bright future together”

My Mom will say she thought: “That’s ok, her angels will be with her and she’ll be ok” followed by a prayer…or ten.

My Dad will say he thought: “My belissima (“My beautiful”, in Italian), she’s so strong, she’ll get through this”

Me? I don’t even think I had any thoughts. I was just trying to digest his words. My eyes concentrated on his lips as they formed words like “ICU”,  “2 incision points”, “Feeding Tube”, “Collapse your lung”…..the list goes on. I guess my first rational thought was: “this is scary”. That’s what I said, when the kind doctor asked me what I was thinking. I’m scared. I’ve always feared being operated on, and so now, to be faced with such a major surgery that has multiple parts and a sensitive recovery period is literally one of my worst fears coming true.

The only thing stronger than fear is FAITH.

I’ve had a few days to absorb this all and I have to be honest, I’m not quite over my fear yet. I am petrified of there being a complication during surgery or during my recovery. I’m terrified of what this all means for my future. How this will effect my health, etc. However, I’m comforted in knowing that I have one of the best thoracic surgeons in the country performing the operation. I’m comforted in knowing that I’m young, and strong and have a healthy heart and lungs and that gives me a leg up. I’m comforted in knowing that the recovery will be less a mental fight and more of a physical one. I can survive that. I still have a high pain tolerance.

My surgery is on March 30. I have 25 days to wrap my head around this and feel ready and strong enough to walk into that surgery feeling 100% confident that I will walk out healthy and strong and CANCER FREE. That’s where faith comes into play. I do have some faith already – faith in a higher power, in my angels, in prayer and in positive thoughts. I have faith in my surgeon and his team, and in his ability to perform this intense surgery. I just need to find the faith in myself, in my body and in my heart.

25 days to find faith. I’ll get there. I always do.

Keeping the faith…

#RosieStrong #FightLikeAGirl

Tiny Victories

Life should not only be lived, it should be celebrated – Osho

For cancer warriors, our sanity is maintained by celebrating the tiny victories.

This week – I had a tiny victory.

For the last 2 months, my life has been consumed with surviving. My mind has been primarily focused on staying positive. My body has been fighting to feel better. All of a sudden, 3 days ago, I was faced with the amazing idea that I will soon be able to live instead of survive, be genuinely happy instead of just positive and feel healthy instead of just better. 

This whole time, throughout treatment, I had no idea whether or not I was actually surviving, fighting hard enough and getting better. I was hoping with everything in me and believing with all my heart that chemo and radiation was shrinking my tumor and preventing my cancer from spreading to other areas of my body but the truth is, there was no way of knowing until the post treatment CT Scan would provide some answers.

I got my answers, and they were everything I was hoping for. My CT Scan results provided evidence that the Chemo and Radiation treatments “reduced the size of the tumor” and that there is “no indication that the cancer has spread”. I don’t have an exact measurement and I don’t know how much it’s shrunk, but, my oncologist feels that I am ready to have the operation that will remove the tumor.

Victory.

Amazing news! Short of having the cancer magically disappear, I really could not be more blessed. My immediate reaction though, was a slew of mixed emotions.

I left my Oncologist’s office at Princess Margaret Hospital feeling happy and proud of myself, but at the same time, confused and almost angry. I can’t explain it, nor do I feel like I have to explain it. I just know that as happy as I feel to know that I can move forward with surgery as planned, and bad-ass as I feel for handling treatment so well, I’m also kinda pissed off that I had to even go through all of this and that I can do nothing more for myself until surgery. I have to just wait here, with this monster in my body until it gets removed. How do I do this? How do I stay calm inside knowing that it’s still in me while the remnants of chemo and radiation, the very things that saved my life are slowly leaving my body? What will protect me between now and my surgery?

In an instant, my life and everything that was normal was turned upside down – how do I even begin to turn it right side up again? It’s so hard to wrap my head around this – starting to rebuild my life while still feeling ill and weak and tired. Sitting here stagnant with cancer in my body until it gets removed. Knowing that just as I start feeling better again, I’m going to have to endure recovery from a difficult surgery. It’s a difficult thought to bear, so instead I focus on how grateful I am. Grateful to be able to even get the cancer out of me. It’s exactly what I’ve been praying for, and I’m so happy and feel so blessed that everything is working out as planned. I will be ok. Not everyone with this awful disease can say that. It’s so humbling, that it brings me to tears to even type that. I will be cancer free. I will live out the rest of my life with Mark as planned.

Once again, I am reminded that everything in life begins and ends in our minds. What we give power to, has power over us and only we can control what we allow into our thoughts and ultimately, into our souls.

I can let fear overcome me. I can let it break my faith and make me bitter and force me to question God. But I can’t. I won’t. Not now. Not after all of this fighting, all this surviving.

This week, I had a tiny victory. Actually, maybe it was a huge one. Maybe the tiny victories are getting up every day with a grateful heart and simply being alive. At any rate, whatever size victory it is, it’s worth celebrating…

Clinking my champagne glass with yours 😉

#RosieStrong #FightLikeAGirl #EsophagealCancerAwareness

Co-Existence

To conquer frustration, one must remain intensely focused on the outcome, not the obstacles

I visualize the cancer leaving my body. Like a string of thick, black smoke, I pull it out from my chest until it’s gone. I do this at some point, every. single. day.

So, is it strange that I still, at times, can’t believe I have cancer?

Sometimes, I go through my days, wanting to scream at the top of my lungs, or cry until I have no more tears. I never scream. I very rarely cry. Instead, I curb the urges by repeating one of my mantras, like “I am well. I am strong. I am blessed” or, I say a prayer of gratitude. I’ve experienced relatively mild side-effects up until recently. Thank you, God! Some patients are not so lucky – the patients whose faces pass through my mind every day, frail and green-skinned, barely able to keep their heads up. My chest feels heavy thinking of them.

This is all temporary. It’s a means to an end.

As I go through post-treatment side-effects, through the toughest and most enduring weeks for me thus far, I find myself thinking: “This is not happening” – a phrase that has become a daily thought. It’s just frustration. I know this.

I know this because I can’t get my hips and legs to move normally (exercise consists of walking up and down my hallway like a baby taking it’s first steps). I’m frustrated that my throat and esophagus is burned from radiation and I can’t eat normal foods. I’m even a little pissed off that the food network is filled with competition shows and not with actual cooking shows anymore!  I’m frustrated that I don’t have the energy to cook dinner. How am I supposed to stay at the top of my culinary game this way? How will I ever be ready to re-audition for MasterChef Canada at this rate?

It’s makes me angry that I can’t go to work. I’m frustrated that I don’t feel well enough to attend family functions – Just in the past week, I missed my future niece’s 15th bday party (Love you, Madison) my future cousin’s engagement (Congrats Jen & Justin!) and I had to cancel my first ever true Valentine’s Day date with my Mark (Sorry, my love).

My grandmother passed away last week. I can’t tell you how horrible it was for me to not be able to go to my grandmother’s funeral. That I couldn’t stand next to my Dad in support, as he said goodbye to his beloved mother. That I couldn’t be there to hug every single one of family members and friends and new family and angels that surrounded us with love and support. Daddy, I love you. Nonna Rosina, Rest In Peace.

I’m frustrated That my parents eyes are filled with concern all the time. That they have done everything in their power to make me comfortable and take care of me yet can’t fix me like a parent instinctively wants to. I’m frustrated that my nephew has to even ask my brother when his aunt is going to feel better.

I’m frustrated that starting my life with Mark as husband and wife has to be put on hold. That he has to spend his weekends helping me up and down the stairs, and taking care of me. That’s my job. I’m supposed to take care of him. I’m supposed to take care of myself. I’m supposed to take care of everyone I love. Like I always have. But I can’t. A whole part of who I was a few months ago – the nurturing, dependable, go-to, get-it-done girl has been stifled by a monster. How annoying.

Most of all though, I’m frustrated because I don’t know yet if all this was worth it! Has the chemo worked? Was radiation successful? Did my tumor shrink enough that it can be removed with surgery or will I need more treatment?

My heart believes that treatment went exactly as planned and I will be strong enough for surgery in 6 weeks. In my mind, it was so successful that the tumor was blasted away and I don’t even need surgery and I’m already cancer-free. That’s hope. That’s me focusing on the outcome – on a positive outcome. I truly believe that that I will be better than ever when this is all over with.

But right now, I’m frustrated. 

Everyone around me gets a little freaked out when I say I’m not feeling well, or that I’m in pain or that I’m scared. I think they think that I’m losing faith, hope, my positive outlook or inner strength. I’M NOT.

I am not defeated.

In my world, frustration and hope co-exist

I can be scared and hopeful at the same time. I can be frustrated and still be positive that it’ll all work out. I can feel like crap and still be happy. I can cry and laugh all in the same moment. I can feel like I’m falling apart and still feel put together, I can be frustrated. I’m allowed. It’s normal. It’s normal for anyone going through any struggle. It’s part and parcel of the healing process.

That’s the hope in my frustration…it means I’m healing.

#RosieStrong #FightLikeAGirl

A Matter of Balance

I have a love-hate relationship with Tuesday. Tuesday is my chemo day. Tuesday is both the most scary and the most hopeful day of the week for me and the wave of emotions I feel leading up to Tuesdays each week is powerful enough to either break my spirit or strengthen my soul. Tuesday makes me sick. Tuesday heals me.

Life is a matter of balance.

I’m writing this in the chemo daycare waiting room at Princess Margaret Hospital. I sit here waiting for my pager to beep and buzz and light up. I get a pager every Tuesday. When it goes off, it means my chemo drugs are ready and my room and nurse are all set for me to start my therapy. The pager is like a loud, flashing, noisy invitation to my very own chemo party. Awesome. It’s also a loud, flashing, noisy reminder that I am battling esophageal cancer that has no business being here. Not-so-awesome. But, I get it. It all comes down to the fine balance of the Universe.

I’m now in week 4 of 5 of my treatment. I’m 80% done chemo therapy! 80% DONE! It means I’m near the end. It also means that the next two weeks are going to be my toughest. Although Doctor’s are highly impressed at how well I’m handling the effects that come with undergoing chemo & radiation at the same time, they keep warning me about the final stretch. I like to think that I have some super amazing genes that are keeping the side-effects at bay and that I have a particularly high pain tolerance. I’m also hoping that this is the case as I prepare myself for surgery and what is expected to be a long, very uncomfortable recovery period. My doctors say that I’m simply lucky. The truth: Chemo and Radiation are accumulative. It gets harder every day. Each day is more painful that the last. I feel myself getting weaker. It’s taking me longer and I expend far more energy than normal doing my daily stair climb and stretches and there are days that simply walking from the front to the back of my house is a struggle. My body hurts so much that sometimes, even Mark’s hand on my shoulder sends hundreds of needle-like stabs through my body. I think I hide the pain relatively well though. I’ve even learned how to ignore it. Yet, at the same time, I’m getting stronger mentally and spiritually. Each day I feel more empowered, more hopeful. I feel like a warrior training for a marathon (my wedding aisle walk). I know, that sounds soooo dramatic. But, my mind has to match the drama of my reality in order to get through this. I have to make myself all-powerful, fully strong in spirit and mentally flawless to keep fighting as the battle gets tougher and the monster gets bigger.

I’m lucky. “You look great” everyone says. This is so hard for me to understand. I look at myself and see dark, sunken circles around my eyes. I see a blemished, pale face, and irritated, dry, blotchy skin. I see a reflection of how I physically feel. Pained, is the best way to describe it. But I’ve realized that my battle is not so much a physical one after-all  (in my case, that is). It’s actually a psychological battle. It’s all about keeping my own balance. Not letting my physical ailments diminish my sanity and peace and faith.

I’m lucky. I was diagnosed early. Stage 2 – which means that it hasn’t spread to other areas of my body. I’m lucky. I will not become yet another dire statistic of Esophageal Cancer, the fastest growing cancer in North America and Europe. According to the Canadian Cancer Society, 2100 Canadians will be diagnosed with Esophageal Cancer in 2014. 2000 will die from it. 490 of these will be women. 430 women will die from it. Less than 20 of these women will be under the age of 50. I’m lucky. I don’t belong in this group of statistics. I was diagnosed in time. I have age on my side. I will not die from Esophageal Cancer.

But these statistics still float around in my head. They become punching bags that I mentally throw uppercuts and jabs at. They are the numbers that make me sad and give me hope all at the same time. Let me tell you – the mental battle – It takes its toll. It drains me. It’s a full-time job. And then I sleep. I restore my energy and each morning, I get a fist-pump from Mark who says “You’re Rosie Strong – I Love you” and I am all ready to pick up where I left off, fighting my way through the day. And when I get extra frustrated, he pulls up his car and Mark, my sister Rachel and I go for a drive and blast music and we sing our hearts out to good ol’ rock’n’roll (I had a video to post – but can’t figure out how to do it, so you are spared! You’re welcome).

And so as I sit here, waiting for my chemo party/battle to begin, signified by the little loud, flashing, noisy pager, I’m reminded that life is all about balance. It’s a delicate dance. For every low, there is a high, for every loss, there is a win. For the next few weeks I’m gonna balance increasing physical pain with increasing mental harmony. I will counteract occasional tears (yes, I cry sometimes) with regular laughter (yes, I laugh often). I will feel abnormal while trying to live as normal a life as possible. I will stand in the center of my storm and find my balance. Then one day, as soon as I’m physically strong enough…I will dance.

Note To Self: Believe

For every fear that threatens my sense of peace
For every sleepless night
For every moment my body feels broken
There is an Angel that whispers “I am here”

I’ve always believed in a higher power. In God. In Heaven and Saints and Angels. I’ve always had faith and believed in miracles and I believe that someone, somewhere in heaven listens to my prayers. I don’t need even know if they qualify as prayers, necessarily – but they listen none-the-less.

When I was first diagnosed, I immediately turned to these higher powers. It was my natural instinct to ask God and various saints and all my loved ones in heaven (my angels), to protect me, to help me, to keep me strong and to help me find the purpose in the cross I’ve been given to bear. He’s listening…they all are.

I know this, because, as crazy as it sounds, since my diagnosis, since the moment I collapsed to my knees moments after hearing that I had cancer, and called out to my Grandmother in heaven, I feel Angels around me all the time. There is a certain energy that surrounds me that I never quite felt before. It’s remarkable really. Even in my scariest, lowest moments, there is a peace that surrounds me, envelopes me like a hug and although its not a physical hug, I feel it, somehow.

My Grandmother passed 19 years ago. The last time I saw her alive was the day before she died. That is, until 3 nights ago…

I always have trouble falling asleep the night before chemo. Actually, I have trouble sleeping every night, but especially Monday nights. Tossing and turning has become a nightly ritual – I guess that happens when one is in the midst of an epic battle. Don’t get me wrong, I’m tired – alot! But, it’s almost as though I’ve become so used to fighting from the inside out, that I inadvertently fight against sleep too. Monday night was exceptionally sleepless. I was excited because I had been told that after reacting so well to my first two chemo treatments, I wouldn’t have to take pre-chemo meds for round 3. This meant that my treatment would be two hours shorter. AMAZING! I’M A ROCKSTAR! I’M KICKING ASS! Round 3 would be a breezy 2.5 hours. So, naturally, I was revved up and so, it took me a bit longer to settle down on Monday night. Finally, two movies and three TED talks later, I dozed off.

My dream that night was so vivid. I was standing under the portrait of my Grandfather (who also passed) that hangs on the wall in my family room. I was surrounded by my entire army of earth-angels who were crying around me, and the room was so bright, I could barely keep my eyes open. Then, from behind me, a shadow began to rise, dimming the brightness of the room. The shadow was actually my Grandmother, floating above me on the most incredible, beautiful wings, spanning the entire length of the room. Everyone stared at her, stunned and gasping. She placed her hand on my forehead and in that moment I woke up. I lay frozen in my bed, eyes wide open, and felt – saw – my Grandmother’s hand caress my head and face. I clasped her hand, holding on until I fell asleep again.

Later that night, I also dreamed that Mark’s Dad, who passed 14 years ago wrapped his arms around me, squeezing me so gently – as though to say “I’m here too”.

I woke up Tuesday morning feeling a sense of peace and calm. I knew that whatever the day had in store for me, I would be ok. My Grandmother was with me – My Guardian Angel. She was with me.

And oh, how I needed her with me.

Round 3 of chemo was a rough one. Without the pre-meds, I suffered an allergic reaction to the chemo drugs. The most excruciating pain ripped through my chest right to my back. Sharp as knife, I doubled over in pain, my heart felt like it was about to explode and waves of nausea rocked through me. It was the scariest moment I’ve experienced so far. Within minutes, I was surrounded by quick-acting nurses who stopped the chemo drip and administered a heavy dose of Benadryl through my IV. This, for the record, felt like an actual fire coursing through my veins at lightening speed. The whole episode lasted less than 10 minutes and before I knew it, I was drifting off into a medicated slumber. The last thing I saw before falling asleep was Mark, standing at the foot of my bed, and next to him, a blurry shadow of a man. His Guardian Angel was with him too.

I’m happy to report that my heart wasn’t damaged during the allergic reaction and so, after a break, I was able to finish round 3. It was a long hard fight, but I won!

I realize now that both my Grandmother and Mark’s Dad visited me to remind me of their presence in my life as I face the various struggles that present themselves throughout my journey. They came to me to tell me that I am never alone. I understand that this may sound far-fetched to some. Maybe you might argue that it’s all in my head – that I’m nuts to believe that I actually saw my Grandmother and touched her flesh. You could argue that the shadow standing next to Mark was just the meds making me hallucinate. Maybe you’re right. Yes, the doctors and nurses treated me. Medicine healed my body, but, my Angels – they treat my fears, every night. They heal my soul.

I need to feel Angels around me. I must have faith in the power of prayer. I choose to trust that miracles happen. It’s as integral to my survival as the medicine that flows through me.

That’s what I believe.