Well, we made it! At last the anticipation of seeing the Princess face to face is over. We flew in yesterday early afternoon. Arriving at the airport, I willed myself not to lose it when I saw her. More for her sanity - I am supposed to be calming and centered. Her words, not mine. Walking down the long stretch, Mini Audrey and I see the kids all lined up by height, with the biggest smiles I've ever seen. I saw the Princess behind them, but decided instantly I would not look at her, or her biggest smile ever, until after we embraced. It had to be that way because I was gulping sobs whilst trying to keep my legs from turning my calming, centered walk into a full-fledged sprint. It worked.
After many hugs and hellos, and a warm, strong hug between sisters, we carried on. We dripped tears, but the strength of the hug seemed to quietly release the sobs that were forming in the deepest part of our bodies. However, with a clearer mind this morning, I think the sobs would have been okay. More a show of pure joy and relief at seeing each other than thoughts we don't really want to think about. Centered and calm. It worked.
We had a fun lunch and trip to the local Target with all the kiddos. The Target was more of a diversion than a necessity. Ahhh, great minds think alike! We laughed a ton, as always. I was glad to have the laughter because the children, who were so full of happiness to see us, know that we weren't really visiting as a "vacation." The youngest of the four, whom I will refer to as Gene Kelly, kept smiling and saying, "Aunt Contessa, I am so, so happy you and Mini Audrey are here, but sad because my mommy has to go stay at the hospital." My heart is so heavy for him. For all the family really, but he is so kind and loving that his words resonated inside of me, as we all felt the same way, he was young enough to say it without crying, in a matter-of-fact manner. Once home, we played family games, opened trinkets, and birthday gifts.
The Princess and I stayed up late so she could drink as much water as possible before her cut-off time. Of course, she awoke early this morning feeling like she slept with a salt-lick taped to her tongue all night. No coffee for her so a long shower had to be her "wake up" juice. Hmmm, maybe that's why she jumped at the chance to refill my coffee cup...it did seem about three sips lower.
During our late evening time together, we talked in more detail about what the doctors have been telling her. It sounds like the tumor is growing out of the top of her kidney, whereas I thought that large jar of peanut butter was growing inside the entire kidney. Not the case. This is interesting. I think maybe a piece of both of us decided this could end up being a good, benign thing. Of course, only the surgery will tell. We also ever so briefly touched on her thoughts for a second opinion on after-care. I begged her to come to City of Hope just for a look-see. I think she will do it, but I quickly realized her fear of the surgery was more important than discussing her follow-up plans at 12:30 the night before her surgery. Her mind seems clearer these last 48/72 hours so she is more peaceful and ready to make plans as soon as her recovery has made progress. She has lost at least 25 pounds, possibly more. She looks amazing and when I told her that very thing, she said she had the best diet in the world! The Kidney Cancer Diet. It's all the rage right now! She has a fabulouso sense of humor, thank God.
This morning I woke up at about 5:00 ranch time, 4:00 Snootyville time. Mini Audrey and I are sleeping in Melon's room. Her bed is facing a huge bay window that looks out across the farmland toward the East. Oh my gosh, at 5:00 a.m. that is a great place to be. As I opened my eyes and looked out these big windows I saw the silhouettes of pine trees in the foreground and the most beautiful pink and purple sunrise as far as my eyes could see. There were a few clouds dotting the horizon and this was truly the crack of dawn. It was spectacular. I thought about the Princess and what she must have been thinking at that moment. I hope she was thinking good thoughts and was still in the peaceful state of mind she was when I last saw her at bedtime. I decided this was a good way to start her day. A serene, beautiful beginning.
We are getting ready to head to the hospital. She is calm. BIL and the kiddos are sleeping. We will wake them as close to departure as possible. I hope she is able to maintain her peaceful manner until we get her hooked up to some sort of calming agent so kindly provided by the hospital staff. Her nerves are building up and coming to surface. The mind is a powerful thing. Her body is strong, her mind is at peace.
Happy 39th Birthday.
2 comments:
I hope that your family and friends might find this helpful. I hope and pray all went well today. ~ Eileen
Cancer Etiquette 101
A Message of
Hope and Healing
from
The Cancer Crusade
Sometimes you feel other people's pain worse than your own. We're armored against our own troubles. We can't afford to give in to despair. Then you see someone else struggling, and it breaks your... heart.
Sean Stewart, Perfect Circle, 2004
What do you say when you learn that someone you care about has cancer? What do you do? Is there any "right" way or "wrong" way to
respond to the news?
Most cancer survivors we've talked with have stories to tell of comments and gestures made by friends and family members, some of which were hurtful and some of which were helpful. Based on those survivors' stories as well as our own experiences, we offer the following "do's" and "don't's". First the "don't's":
1. The worst thing you can say or do is to say or do nothing at all. Almost every survivor we've ever spoken with can tell of at least one person who, upon hearing the news, disappeared and was never heard from again. Maybe the fact that your friend or loved one has cancer is the worst news you've ever heard and you can't stand the thought of him being this sick. You don't know what to say or do, and it's too painful to see him without hair, and the house smells like a hospital, and, well, it's all so just so scary. We don't mean to be harsh here, but this really isn't about you. Stick around, please. Your loving presence alone can be the healing salve for a wounded, frightened spirit.
2. We know you mean well when you say, "God won't give you more than you can handle," but we wish you would listen to the implications in that comment and refrain from using it. It implies that God gave us cancer which inference often leads newly diagnosed patients to wonder if God is punishing them for something they did or failed to do, and that's the last thing we need to be worrying about right now.
To clean up a popular phrase, stuff happens. People get cancer (1 in 3, in fact). People get lots of other awful diseases, too. Babies are born with defects. Long-distance runners have heart attacks. Brave men and women go to war and get killed. Supermen fall from horses, and maniacs fly airplanes into buildings. And, yes, many people do get more than they can handle as evidenced by suicide rates. We don't mean to step on anyone's religion here, but we refuse to believe God is the one causing all this
mayhem, destruction and chaos.
Conversely, we believe God grieves with us when these things happen, and He is there for us and with us in the treatment room, in the delivery room, on the racecourse, on the battlefield, in the emergency room, on the airplane and inside its target. Instead of telling us that God gave us cancer, tell us that God will be with us
every step of the way.
3. Don't predict the future. Acknowledge the seriousness of the diagnosis without being morbid (Oh, my God! My aunt had the very same thing and she died 8 months later!") and without being unrealistic ("You'll probably outlive me. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow!"). We don't know what's going to happen to us, and neither do you. Tell us happy stories of other long-term cancer survivors (but refrain from saying someone had "the very same thing"; no two cancer diagnoses
are ever the same).
Never, ever tell us stories
with unhappy endings.
Now for the "do's":
1.Things to say: "I'm here for you." "You can cry with me." "I love you." "I won't leave you." "Whatever you're feeling is okay."
Just be there. Follow our lead. We'll let you know if we want to "talk about it," and if we do, please let us. Don't change the subject. When you don't allow us to talk about our disease, it makes us feel
alone and isolated.
2.Things to do: Take my kids out for pizza and a movie or, better yet, for the weekend. Offer to pick up prescriptions, take the dog to the groomer and run other errands. Clip cartoons and funny pictures and send them in a card. Bring thoughtful gifts (a book or magazine, a tabletop fountain, a meditation tape or CD); avoid things with strong smells (bath sets, flowers, food, etc.) until you know how I'm reacting to my treatments.
A special message for doctors and other medical professionals: We know there are no guarantees, but you can give us hope. Your patients ask you for hope in different ways. Some are subtle, and some are screaming. Remember that where there is life, there is hope, and remind us of that. Instead of just saying, "You have cancer, and it's very serious," say, "You have cancer. It's very serious, but once you get past the shock of this diagnosis, you are going to discover what a strong, resilient person you are. That strength and resilience partnered with our staff's knowledge, skill and experience are going to form a powerful team to fight this disease. We're going
to do this together."
Roger and Kathy Cawthon
The Cancer Crusade
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
email: cawthons@thecancercrusade.com
web: http://www.thecancercrusade.com
Thank you for your kindness.
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