And now for the good news...

It has recently come to my attention that way more people read this than I had previously believed. I have been somewhat negligent of my online writing duties because 1) it feels somewhat like I talking to myself at great length, and 2) it doesn't deliver the same form of satisfaction writing in a journal does. Due to a recent read, I've been thinking a lot about striving to make the majority of my leisurely experiences rich and full-sensory rather than opting for the bi-sensory experience computers and televisions offer. Mildly tactile because of typing and using a mouse, but really, blogging is almost solely auditory and visual. But journaling-- oh sweet, sexy journaling-- has texture, heft, smell, cramping, the experiential ambiance of an environment of my choosing, and it results in the gift of a tangible creation or memory.

However, excuses aside, I'm not doing as well at keeping people informed as I could. I'll try to remedy that.


Things are moving right along for me. I have my FINAL chemotherapy treatment on Wednesday, October 20th. WOOOOOHOOOOO!!!!! I'm so, so excited to be done with the nasty stuff. True, I do have to continue going in for Herceptin infusions every 3 weeks for a year after this, but that medication doesn't have any side effects and won't hinder my life anywhere near how chemo has. I'm happy to be finishing in October-- it's my favorite month. It's also convenient timing to start growing hair again as my ears are starting to chill quite easily.

I am beginning to feel the slow, creeping accumulative effect of chemotherapy. I've been anemic consistently my past 5 weeks, my RBC count somehow lower than even my WBC, making fatigue a prevalent part of life. Sidenote: I think I should mention exactly what "prevalent" means to me since I've noticed that others' interpretations of my energy levels are so incredibly relative to individual lifestyle. When I'm fatigued, I can still go for a 4 mile walk. I can still hang out with friends or hike to watch sunsets in the mountains (rock climbing at Maybird, left; hiking Dog Lake trail, below). I still shower, cook my own meals, clean my room and do my laundry. It's not debilitating, it's just a constant nuisance.

Taxol has been true to its reputation. It takes 3 hrs to administer on its own, add on the pre-drugs and saline and it comes to right around 5 hrs of hanging out in a chair at the good ol' Utah Cancer Specialists every other Wednesday. Despite my most sincere hopes, I did and do experience bone pain because of Taxol, but it's not so hard to live through. It also works like clockwork, which has been nice for planning social get-togethers and such.
I go in for treatment and feel no changes that evening and the next day. Then, for the next 4 days my jaw, knees, ankles, pelvis, spine and ribs feel all sorts of wrong. The best way to describe the sensation is an ache, but that doesn't quite do it justice. The bones being effected feel deeply sore, but it also kind of tickles in a grotesque, warped kind of way, especially when it feels as though my bones are "breathing," like they're flexing and expanding as my muscles do. I couldn't walk for an hour one day because my metatarsals felt as though they were spreading apart from one another similar to how you would spread your fingers, then contracting back, then back out again. Excruciatingly weird and uncomfortable. I wouldn't say painful, necessarily, but oh so unsettling.
I've also been experiencing the distal neuropathy they warned me about. I struggled with my hands quite a bit two weeks ago, slicing fingers while trying to cut vegetables or closing them in doors, but it's gotten better. My feet and ankles are pretty much always numb to some degree, often as high as my shin. It feels as though I'm walking on big bags of sand; certainly makes grace harder to achieve.

The neuropathy is on and off but not extreme and the bone pain lasts only the 4 days. So really, just 8 days of discomfort a month and a persistent inkling to nap-- that's better than most 9 to 5ers have it. I was fitfully excited about being able to go on long walks as I used to again. My wandering peregrinations are essential to my sanity, it's how I weed out trivial, bias or petty thoughts and rearrange my perspective. I was starting to get weird without them. It's also great to be able to exercise somewhat more regularly. I have to be careful not to lose much fat so that Dr. Chen has enough to take from my stomach to make a breast mound eventually, but just having energy and desire to hike and go out more is lovely.

I'm so pleased that I've had as easy of a ride as I have; I am an exceptionally lucky person.
At UCS I've met people whose finger and toenails have turned black and fallen off, folks with thrush and horrifically painful mouth sores that make even drinking liquids painful, some who can't muster up energy to get out of bed more than a few times a week, a few totally devastated by the embarrassment of having to face the world stripped of all hair, those who are terminally ill, and-- perhaps saddest of all-- people who seemingly have no one who cares about them. I have gone through this not having to experience any of those things and for that I am profoundly grateful: it could always be worse.

I'm also delighted and thankful for all of the fun and wonderful things I've gotten to do while going through "this dark time of my life" (a bishop said that to me and made me laugh out loud). Last month my friend Scott (pictured right, watching people swim Brown Betty with me) invited me on a 5-day private Cataract Canyon trip. I was ecstatic! I had never done Cat, but finances are tight for an unemployed weight on the state. After a pinch of fence-sitting and a dash of hemming and hawing, I agreed and set off with Mike and Sean down to Moab. The trip was wonderful-- 14 colorful, fun-loving, outdoorsy people who love rivers, hiking, good food and beach games. What more could you want?
I did have a rather eye-opening run through Rapid 15, though. Predictably, I'm not as strong as I used to be. But I wasn't going to let that deter me from rowing at least a little bit of fun.
I felt confident in my line, running it through my head while I was walking back to my boat from the scout. I was wondering whether or not anything would go wrong; I had rowed for a little while before the rapid and could already feel it in my left shoulder. I pushed out with Mike and Sean along for the ride, and moved to put myself in the water I wanted to be in.

There were little sleepers hiding along my pathway, normally no big deal, but I expended energy and time avoiding them so that when I went to push like mad to make sure I would make the line, I realized it wasn't going to happen, that, in fact, nothing I had planned was happening and I was about to get sucked behind a large boulder and into God knows where. So I kind of...just...flailed. I remember some pulling, though I can't remember what I was trying to achieve, I think there were a few squirrely pushes in there somewhere too-- all of it ultimately led me directly into the only enormous rock in the rapid, the one sticking 15 ft out of the water just before the hole, and spanked it with my stern, spinning me backwards down into the hole and through the rest of the rapid.
No big deal, it went fine enough and provided hearty laughs, but I definitely felt a twinge of embarrassment. I was also astonished to see, in practice, just how much I had weakened since the Grand in March. I hadn't done any upper body workouts at all since the Grand and it was sad to see and feel the difference. I had to actively remind myself to be lenient, to forgive myself for not satisfying my usual physical demands, and accept that things have happening to me that are out of my control. Not the easiest to do for someone like me-- rapids is one of the few things I'm uptight about, I think it's a stubbornness thing. I get upset if I don't have the run I intended and bizarrely, having a legitimate excuse for falling short didn't make me feel any better about it, it just made accepting failure easier.
However, a later realization made me swell with happiness and pride making the amateur hour run frivolous news: I went down the Grand and Cataract Canyons with breast cancer. Not bad.

I also got to travel to Colorado with Sean back when he first got back from Alaska. We went to see String Cheese Incident at Red Rocks, a much-needed dance fest that revitalized my soul. We stopped by Fort Collins and said hi to Eric Rubenstal, a dear old friend from days of yore. Had fun walking around town and drinking full percentage beer. We also had an epic accidental off-roading experience after following the grossly bad advice of Sean's GPS to try to find a "shortcut" to Crested Butte. We got oh so close, but then had to turn around as my car was slowly slipping down a hillside toward a stream, but not before we spent a gorgeous evening camped in a granite ravine next to a beautiful waterfall.
I get out to hike or go for mellow, mountain strolls fairly frequently, though not as often as I would like to with all the free time I have on my hands. I have gone up to the Goldminer's Daughter Lodge (the lodge I used to live in at Alta) to spend evenings cooking, playing games, watching tosh tv and shootin the shit with TJ and Carle. TJ's an early riser and a coffee drinker--makes for wonderful brisk morning walks along the rope-tow, breathing in the crisp, fresh mountain air, chatting about fly fishing and Montana, all the while sipping hot melted happiness. Other favorites include strolling alongside Carle, TJ and the legendary Eric Burns in Albion, enjoying the wildflowers in full bloom or giggling at chaotic large-family hiking efforts up at Cecret Lake. I absolutely love it up there, summer or winter, it's such an inspiring atmosphere.

All things considered, great summer!-- helping friends move, the Farmer's Market, Twilight Concert Series, sunsets, sunsets, sunsets. Went down to Oak City to visit dad and the kids and hiked up in Oak Creek Canyon, watched 7 puppies be born during that visit (ew), sang karaoke and watched my dad drop it low for the very first time in my life. I've been really happy.
I still have quite a bit to look forward to. I find out next week whether or not I'll be doing radiation, if so, it'll be a couple more months of suckage, but if not then I have the whole ski season to myself to rebuild my blood cell levels so that I can have reconstructive surgery. Yay for next steps!!!

I'll leave you with this lovely shot of a particularly breathtaking view of clouds over the Wasatch painted ocher by the setting sun. Hope you are all smiling freely and honestly. It is such a grand feeling.