Friday, March 29, 2013

Emotionally Hungover

I lost a friend to breast cancer yesterday--a Facebook friend, someone I met through the Young Survival Coalition's board and never in person, but a friend nonetheless, and a mom to two beautiful daughters. I spent a good portion of my day at work being thankful for high cubicle walls, so that no one could see me sobbing behind them at my desk.

And then, as I was looking at kitchen faucets in Home Depot last night, news popped up in my email that another Stage IV woman I'd reached out to a couple of weeks ago had passed away as well. Her cancer had actually been caught in the early stages, but had been completely unresponsive to any forms of treatment. I wanted to drop to the floor and rip my wig off right there in the middle of the store, but I held it together, at least until I got home.

To complete the hat trick, a friend posted this news item about a local guy who lost his fight to colon cancer after gaining national attention for standing up to Big Insurance (and winning that battle). He was so brave. It turns out, cancer doesn't care.

It was not a good day to be a young cancer patient.

I remember my grandmother once said something about how hard it was to get older because you start losing so many friends. (On the other hand, as my dad always says, getting older beats the alternative.) My grandmother was probably in her 70s when she made that statement, and incidentally lived until she was 93. I vaguely empathized with what she was saying, but what did I really know? I was in high school. I certainly never thought I'd have to start facing that reality in my 30s. Wherever you are, Grammie, I get it. It hurts, and it's scary as hell.

Just when I thought I'd rounded a corner and was managing my cancer-related emotions okay--even talking to my therapist about non-cancer-related things like parenting and how to incorporate more date nights with my husband--a day like yesterday comes along and knocks me on my ass again.

I know people die all the time, and it's a fact of life that all of us--eventually--will. But I always imagined it as it happened for both of my grandparents (two are still alive) and all of my great-grandparents: peacefully, in their sleep, and in their eighties or nineties. That seems like the natural order of things, the way things should be, the way I grew up believing they would be. I do not want to--nor do I know how to--wrap my head around the fact that young, otherwise healthy people are getting cancer and dying for no reason that makes sense. That I could be one of them. Fuck you, cancer.


Quinn and I fell asleep watching Cars (for probably the three thousandth time) around 8 o'clock last night. Chris was at rugby; I didn't even hear him come home. I slept for ten hours and woke up feeling slightly hungover. An emotional hangover? Turns out, it's possible.

We have about a dozen family members in town this weekend for a mini-family reunion, and the festivities start tonight. The restaurant we're meeting at has these soft pretzel balls that you dip in provolone fondue, and I'm looking forward to curing my hangover with them. (Hey, you don't come here for nutrition advice, do you?) Tomorrow night is homemade lasagna--Grandma Campisano's own recipe--and Easter Sunday will begin with ten kids hunting for eggs and prizes in Chris' aunt's backyard.

I could draw parallels to Jesus rising from the dead, but I think it would be sacrilegious to compare myself to Jesus (right?). Let's just say I'm celebrating life this weekend. Because what more is there than family and food and a few prizes hidden along the way?

Also, this. This is what keeps me going. This is stronger than cancer.

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Chasing the Little Pink Mice

When Quinn wakes up in the morning, he doesn't just wake up; he hits the ground running and heads straight for either the kitchen (if he's hungry--yelling "Bre-fest, Mama!") or the living room if he just wants to play. He's typically down the hall and has already strewn his Legos across the living room floor before Chris and I can even register that it's a new day.

Lately, Quinn has been the one to discover the "kitty mess" that's happened more and more frequently lately--piles and piles of vomit letting us know the steroids we'd tried to reduce the inflammation in our cat's intestines weren't working. The cancer was too big. (By the way: Fuck you, cancer.) It had also spread to his lungs, so surgery wasn't an option.

After a weekend of bloody diarrhea and three days in a row of "kitty mess," we made the decision it was time to let our 10-year-old kitty go.
I drove him--in tears--to the vet's office yesterday afternoon. As I walked into the reception area, I couldn't even speak; the receptionist took one look at me and ushered me down a hallway into the euthanasia room. They laid a soft wool blanket on the metal table, and I put Panthor on it, rubbed his ears, nuzzled his head, told him over and over again how sorry I was. 

I'd never done this before. The other pet I lost (Panthor's brother, Battle Cat) died suddenly of a heart condition at just three-and-a-half years old. I stayed with Panthor while the doctor administered a sedative, cried as his eyes glazed over. "Go chase those little pink mice, Panthor," the vet said.

After about five minutes, when my cat was good and high, the doctor gave him an overdose of anesthesia. Less than a minute later, he was gone. I cried my eyelashes off (literally).

Is there any way to do this and not feel guilty? He was a rescue cat, half blind from a terrible case of conjunctivitis when I adopted him ten years ago, and found in a parking lot on Maryland's eastern shore. Chris tells me he was on borrowed time from the beginning, which might be true, but doesn't make me wonder any less if I'd paid more attention to him over the last year, would I have been able to catch the cancer earlier? Stopped it somehow? Loved him a little more instead of been irritated that every single one of the rugs in our house is ruined?

Until Quinn came along, Panthor was my baby. He moved cross-country with me four times, slept nestled in the crook of my shoulder when I was recovering from neck surgery a few years ago, chased the rats in my walls in my ghetto apartment in DC, and once proudly dropped a dead mouse in my bedroom slipper. He was also an excellent scorpion hunter, and he never once scratched our furniture (unlike our other cat...) 

He was the biggest cat most people had ever seen, and as I was carrying him through airport security once, a TSA agent asked me whether he was an actual panther. Chris nicknamed him McTubbins, Tubbinstein, and a number of other variations on that theme. But he'd lost so much weight over the past few months that he was actually bony. His coat didn't have the same shine or thickness. He spent most days lying around half-awake. 

I asked the vet how we'd know when it was time to put him down, and he told me this: "You can start to get into a fog, and you want to make the decision before you're in the thick of it, when you're just at the edge of the mist. There's no perfect time."

I hope we weren't too far into the fog with you, sweet boy. You're going to be so very missed.

Tuesday, March 19, 2013


I'm a few days late on this, but last Thursday (the same day we closed on our new house and I had my swap-out surgery--more on that later) also marked two months since my last chemo. And ever. so. slowly, my hair is starting to grow back. Witness:

Ignore my creepy sideways glance in that second picture, please. Let's just--cough--blame the photographer--cough--Chris. Also, the lighting is not the best, but the point is my HAIR is GROWING!! 

I still don't have much in the way of eyebrows (those are penciled/painted on) and I think I have a grand total of three eyelashes, but just think of the money I'm saving on mascara and salon visits! Speaking of salon visits, my wonderful stylist Kaylie, at Salon Tru in Old Town Scottsdale, styled my wig as a gift. It falls in soft layers around my face and looks completely natural. Bonus: I never have a bad hair day! Until my hair grows in just a bit more, it's the look I turn to most. 

Anyone want to place bets on how long until my hair looks like this? 

Saturday, March 16, 2013

Making Our Bed

Call me crazy, but every time I wash the duvet cover for our bed, I end up crying as I'm putting it back on our comforter. As I turn the cover inside-out and lay it across our bed, then tie the four corners to the corners of our comforter, I wonder who will make sure Quinn knows how to do this if something happens to me.

Finally, last week, I called Chris into our room while I was in the middle of the bed-making process. "Like this," I said, and I showed him how you turn the whole thing right-side-out once the corners are tied so that the comforter is evenly inside the duvet. "Oh, that makes sense," he said.

And as my mother-in-law was helping me put new sheets on the bed, I asked her--through my tears--if she would show Quinn how to do her perfect hospital corners someday. "Of course I'll show him," she said, "but nothing's going to happen to you."

I'm not really sure Chris cares what our bed linens look like, but it was important for me that I passed along this knowledge. It's important for me to know that Quinn will learn certain things if I'm not around to teach him, even though I plan on being around to teach him. I mean, it's certainly not the end of the world if he doesn't know how to put a down comforter inside a duvet, and what kid really makes their bed anyway?

I asked my therapist about this.

"To you, making the bed represents normalcy," she explained. "And you want normalcy for your son."

Well, of course I do. Every good parent wants that for their children. I want Quinn to hold on to his innocence, his exuberance, his childhood for as long as possible. I want him to feel safe. I want him to know--as all kids should--that I love him unconditionally and immensely, that I will always be here for him.

As a wonderful friend and fellow cancer survivor (and mom) said to me awhile ago, "I've tried really hard to find a balance of believing, with everything in my being, that I will live to see [my daughter] grow into a woman. And at the same time, find total peace with the idea that I might not be here, and that she is going to be okay. She is surrounded by love, my love, and mountains of love from the other people around her. It's so hard."

She sent me the link to this children's book that I couldn't even get through the first time I tried reading it. I was sobbing on the couch next to Chris, who assumed I was reading something cancer-related and told me, "Enough with that crap." I showed him it wasn't crap, so then he just went back to believing I'm a big cry-baby. (All of us Akre's are; it's hereditary.)

Now, we're in the process of picking out hardware for Quinn's bathroom in the new house, finalizing paint colors, and packing up our belongings to move. We are lucky to have family who will spend all day with us sorting through carpet options and ceiling fan choices, who will coordinate with our contractor and help us pack, who will make sure my son gets swimming lessons and money for college and--eventually--a lesson on how to neatly make his bed.

With all of this going on, I'm finding that balance my friend spoke of--that belief that I will be here to watch Quinn learn to swim in our new pool and ride his bike in the neighborhood cul-de-sac, that Chris and I will reconnect in front of our new fireplace, and the peace of knowing that both of my boys will be okay no matter what.

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

In Like a Lion

They say that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. Let's hope that's true. The first twelve days of this month have worn me out, and we haven't even started packing for our big move yet. Did I mention we bought a house? And that we close on it this week? That I'm having hot flashes just thinking about all the work that needs to be done?

We haven't started packing yet because Quinn turned two, and who wants their house to be a disaster before the two-year-olds show up? I wanted his party to be something special so of course I turned to Pinterest. Side note: that website has some great ideas, but there was no way I was going to do printable water bottle labels for a two-year-old's birthday. Who has that kind of time? Seriously, who?

Even though I am not particularly crafty, I know how to delegate well. Quinn's friend Sydney's mom volunteered to make the "Happy Birthday" banner, Chris assembled the train cake, and my friend Paula made four dozen assorted miniature cupcakes. That's one way to say farewell to our neighborhood: host a half-dozen two-year-olds on a sugar high in the backyard. All in all, though, we pulled it off without a hitch. Quinn licked the frosting off at least three different types of cupcakes, and I even enjoyed a beer.

To add to the chaos, on Quinn's birthday we found out our 10-year-old cat, Panthor, has cancer. He's seemed a little under the weather for awhile now, but we just haven't had the bandwidth to focus on him. So now I'm feeling incredibly guilty for all those times I got mad at him for puking on the carpet again. Poor thing has cancer in his gut. Originally, the vet thought he might be able to remove the cancer surgically, but a preliminary x-ray today showed a spot on Panthor's lungs, so we've got to make a decision fairly soon about putting him down. 

I didn't expect it to be this heartbreaking. 

And I'm trying not to compare the cat's cancer to my own. Logically, I know his cancer is not the same as mine, but it is very difficult to watch another being die of cancer. Would it be any easier if this was some other disease? I don't know. Man, I'm going to miss that pet.

But I haven't even had time to process the news about the cat, because we close on our new house this week, the same day I'm having my swap out surgery to get rid of these damn expanders, which have been in place now for fourteen months. It's a minor, outpatient surgery -- like swapping one sandwich for another in a Ziploc bag, I've heard -- but I'm still incredibly anxious about going under the knife again. Or maybe I'm just anxious about everything and can't differentiate one angst from another anymore. 

You could ask why I scheduled surgery right in the midst of all of this, and all I can say is I'm that excited to be able to hug people un-self-consciously again, that excited to be able to sleep on my stomach again, that excited to no longer have two softballs sticking out of my chest.

To summarize: birthday party, cat with cancer, closing on a house, surgery, packing for a move... I think that covers the majority of it. I mean, there are the everyday things like my house looks like a tornado hit it, I still don't have any eyelashes (hello, eyelashes? where are you?), and my skin is suffering immensely from a post-chemo lack of moisture. Do they make hydrocortisone in giant, pump-size bottles? Could you get on that, Johnson & Johnson?

I'll tell you what, though: there is nothing like toddlers hugging each other--blissfully hopped up on sugar and new-toy excitement--to make you feel like everything is alright with the world.

Monday, March 4, 2013


Dear Quinn-Love,

Just like all the parents before me promised, I blinked, and suddenly you're turning two this week. Two! I'm fairly certain that, at this rate, you'll be driving next month. When did you get so big? Was it yesterday?

You're curled up in bed next to me as I write this. And for now, let's skip past your sleep issues that I'm fairly certain are related to separation-from-mama-anxiety that only gets worse when your dad is out of town. The truth is I don't mind. I love hearing your soft snores, love falling asleep next to you, love waking up with you nestled in the crook of my arm--even if it means getting kicked in the face a few dozen times as you climb Mt. Everest and run a marathon in your sleep.
From the minute you wake up--this morning at 6:30, saying "Bite-a, mommy! Bite-a," as you lifted my head off my pillow (that's "get up!" in Quinn-speak)--until the moment you fall asleep at night, you are an energizer bunny, climbing anything that's got elevation, rearranging furniture, building forts out of couch cushions, and lately, trying to help me in the kitchen.

Tonight while I was cooking dinner, you pulled a chair over to stand on so you could see into the utensil drawer, which was fine while you were playing with measuring spoons. But in the time it took me to turn around and stir the marinara, you found the scissors. You were so excited about your discovery--something shiny and sharp? Awesome! Luckily, I caught you before you had the chance to sprint around the house with them. Like a responsible parent, I picked you up and sat you on the counter where you could watch the spaghetti water boiling instead.

I love your curiosity. I hope you never lose that. "What's that?" is the soundtrack of our lives the last few months. But more and more, our answers are sinking in and taking hold. So sometimes we'll say, "You know that one. What is it, Quinn?" And you can usually give us the answer with a proud grin. "It's a wall!" "Yellow!" When we were reading your alphabet book the other night and I said, "U is for..." your dad's eyeballs just about popped out of his head when you shouted, "UNDERWATER!"

Suddenly, in the last couple of weeks, you're speaking in full sentences. You and I were counting in the car the other day--with an emphasis on the number nine that for some reason was cracking you up--and when we got to number ten you clapped, then said, clear as daylight, "One more time please, mama?"

You examine everything, want to see how it works, how it fits together, turn it upside down to consider it from a different angle. You have your dad's patience for solving problems.

And you seem to have inherited both our bullheadedness; we'll do our best to channel that in a positive direction.

For now, you demonstrate it with your aversion to pants. A couple of weeks ago, we did not leave the house until 2:30 p.m. because it just wasn't worth the meltdown that forcing you to wear them was causing. On days when we have to be out the door in time for me to make it to work, you and I have occasionally ended up in a wrestling match on your bedroom floor, me amazed by your strength and determination to stay bare-legged, you pissed that I would even attempt to clothe you. For the record, I have only resorted to taking you to daycare in your pajamas once.

You challenge me in ways I never could have anticipated, and somehow, I love you more every single day--in large part because you force me to build forts out of couch cushions and stay in my pajamas until the middle of the afternoon, which turns out to be exactly what I needed so many times over this past year. I'm certain I couldn't have gotten this healthy this quickly without you. And I can't wait to see what the next year (and so many more after that) have in store.

Happy SECOND birthday, Bug. Your Mama loves you.