#a lot are against ivf as well as the morning after pill and any form of birth control that could prevent implantation like iuds

[iamonlyhereforthefreefood]

“If pro-life people think life begins at conception then why aren’t they trying to ban IVF?”

A lot of them are trying to ban IVF....

[geekeevee-blog]

I’m on cloud 9, I think, or at least, I think I should be on cloud 9. Confused? So am I. Docetaxel dose 5 was by far the best dose I’ve had since I started. Finally the wee bit of good luck I was due has found me. Bar a few minor aches and pains, now 10 days post dose 5, I am doing really well. Sure, I had the usual tiredness and used my antinausea pills to day 5 post chemo, but other than that, so far, I’m feeling great. I’ve been back at work since day 7, and managed to do most things. I had my blood transfusion the day after chemo, and that certainly helped pick me up, revitalise me, and I believe, its kept me going. I am now indebted to 4 generous humans, as over the last 2 transfusions, I’ve used 4 pints. I may need more as my journey continues. I urge all of you reading this, please, go donate. Between the first transfusion I had, and this one, my workmates did a blood drive, and 7 selfless souls donated. I can’t help thinking that there is always the possibility one of their donations has ended up in me. Now that’s the most beautiful example of altruism I’ve come across in a long time. We humans are designed to be altruistic, and while current global ongoings seem to suggest otherwise, its reassuring to know, we still have altruistic individuals out there. While I will probably never be in a position again to give blood, I know my hubby will donate, I hope my friends and family who are able to, will donate too. Its the gift of life.

I’ve not had the brain fog this time that normally accompanies chemo. A few days post chemo, over our usual teasing banter, hubby turned around and exclaimed, “Nothing wrong with you is there, you’re getting smart to me!” We both laughed, pleased that this time, chemo was being a bit kind, to the extent that aunt Flo seems to have taken a hike, maybe her plane/ train/ bus crashed and there were no survivors. I’m not mourning, I’m throwing a party, doing my happy dance! That’s certainly another factor that’s contributed to my apparent well being. I have to admit, a few days post chemo, when I still felt human, as opposed to zombie, I did get a sinking feeling in my gut. “I bet you they’re going to call me and say, sorry, we had an error in the pharmacy when we prepared your chemo dose, we left the chemo out, and you’ve only been infused saline, no wonder you’re feeling good,” I said to hubby on the morning of day 3 post chemo. By day 4, the signature death of my taste buds, metallic taste and fatigue kicked in, so I was reassured, I did get infused with the big D.

I had a physio appointment on the Monday, Day 6 post chemo. I hadn’t done any of the strength band exercises I was prescribed over a month ago. I couldn’t have. With all the issues I had with chemo, exhaustion, hospital admissions, mixed in with being a mum, work, and generally trying to keep my head above water, the exercises, well, they were ignored. “I haven’t done much the past month, I’ve had a rough ride,” I say to the physio. Unexpectedly, I choke up, this takes me by surprise. My eyes are wet as I explain the events of chemo 3 and 4. She sympathises, measures me up, and suggests that even though my arm is not swelling up, the complete lack of sensation (due to nerve damage) across the top half of my arm, the right side of my chest, and the right upper back where my drains were post surgery, may warrant an assessment by a lymphedema specialist. We agree I will keep doing as many normal activities as I have been, and introduce the strength band when I am ready. I am aiming for the weekend. The physio is pleased with the range, I haven’t lost any range of motion, I just need to build the strength now. “I even carry my 14 month old with this arm, all on its own,” I explain to the physio. She looks at me, I know she has young kids too. “Yes, when they need you, you have to keep going, don’t you. Almost there, and it will be worth the effort, right?” She says, affected. While she may not know cancer first hand, she does know being a mum, first hand, she knows being human, first hand, and she can’t hide her emotions. I walk out of that appointment and burst into tears. There’s still a lot going on in my head, that’s only natural. Compounded by the things going on in my body, we have an explosive burst of emotions every now and again. I am okay with this. I try not dwell on my big cry, I just let it out, and drive on home. I proceed to work from home for a few hours, great distraction, emotions forgotten.

Day 9, Friday and I’ve dropped the kids to daycare and proceed to drive to work. Torrential rain and typically, Auckland comes to a stand still. As I wait at the lights, my mind wanders. The radio is playing in the background, but I have tuned out. I think to how I have changed, not just in my mind, but with my body. With the scars I will bear forever. Scars on my mind, on my being, on my body. I have one natural, normal looking breast, and one, hard, exaggerated, cone shaped, foob (fake boob). I know its only temporary, and post reconstruction I can hope to adopt a new “normal”, but each day, when I get dressed, as I pop a cotton stuffing into my natural left side, to prop it to look like the right side foob, I am reminded, that I have cancer. Each time I paint my brows and lashes on, I am reminded. Each time I pick out headwear to cover my bald head, I am reminded. Each time my nail beds hurt, I look at their ridging and blackening, I am reminded. Each time I reach too far, further than my arm is currently capable, I am reminded. Each time I am reminded, I remind my self that its okay, but sometimes, I can’t be so strong, and do feel overwhelmed. The lights haven’t changed yet, good old Auckland traffic. I am teary again, my thoughts are going against my conviction, they’re going to that dark place. The radio is still playing in the background. I’m tuned back in, and am hit with;

“But there’s a hope that’s waiting for you in the dark You should know you’re beautiful just the way you are And you don’t have to change a thing The world could change its heart No scars to your beautiful, we’re stars and we’re beautiful”

Allessia Cara is singing to me. I am listening to her, listening to every word. I am crying, but its a cry of empowerment. Music is healing. A lot of my cancer reminders are temporary. My hair will grow back, my eye lashes and brows will return. I will always have some scars, and even with a great reconstruction, I will always have a foob. Sure, the reconstructed boob may not be hard and alien looking as the current temporary expander version, but it will still be a foob. I have scars from each time I gave birth, and I wear these scars as my badges of honour. I will wear my foob, scars and all, with pride. They show where I have been. My body may be riddled with scars, my mind may be riddled with scars, but these scars show I have lived, they are a map of where I’ve been. I drive on, empowered with my new girl anthem, and continue with the day.

Satruday morning rolls on, I am due to do my day 10 blood test. My wee boy is staying at grandmas, hubby is helping a friend move, so its just me and my wee girl in the morning. I love time with her, I love the way she smells, how soft her skin feels, how generously she cuddles me, with all her might, she snuggles right in, mama mamamimimi, she calls out, arms stretched for me to pick her up. I appreciate having her. I was diagnosed when she was only 8 months. I had already had a challenging year. My parents had just been to visit and stay with us for my daughters birth, and after 2 months with them, I had to say goodbye again. I had a few months after that working part time, and being home with the kids, then I headed back to work and threw my self into being a busy working mum of 2. In between all that, my father had become unwell again, and the guilt of not being able to be there for my mum and dad was eating away at me. It seemed like there was so much upheaval, my parents moved countries, my brother, parents and I were now spread across 3 continents. The thought made me nervous. My mind was busier than a terminal at Dubai Airport. I was trying to be everything to everyone, but forgetting to be kind to myself. All of this culminated in one big explosion, barely 2 months into full time work and I was diagnosed. I had only just weaned my wee girl off breast milk. Irrespective of how young my kids are while I battle this disease, I am glad that I have had them. Had I been diagnosed just before we fell pregnant, there is a likelihood that I would have never had my daughter. The thought makes me ill. I am so grateful for her. There are women out there who are battling cancer hoping that post treatment, they will still be blessed with children, either naturally or via IVF. That’s another anxiety these women have to battle.

We spend the morning dancing, mum and daughter. We head on to my blood test. I take her along, carrying her on my hip as I make the long walk from the park to the phlebotomy building. I walk in, the room is full to the brim, patients sitting on every seat bar one. I present myself to reception and hand my form, pointing out, “I am on chemotherapy”, as I always do. One of the only perks to being on chemo is they have to see you immediately, they cannot make you wait in a crowded public waiting room given you’re immune suppressed, and this room is likely to be full of sick people. I always do this, and normally get sympathetic nods from other patients as I take a seat to allow the phlebotomist enough time to prepare my stab. This time, I take the only seat still available. I turn to face the waiting public. Its quiet in there, they’ve all heard my words. This time I have a wee baby bouncing on my hip. Many faces look at me, many faces make eye contact, and smile, that smile of, we are sorry, what a cute baby, you go mama! I smile back, and try to keep that lump in my throat condition I seem to constantly suffer from these days at bay. “Go through to room 8 my dear, I will see you now”, saved from public tears by the phlebotomist’s prompt, can’t make you wait in here call. I go into room 8 and sit on the chair, bouncing my wee girl on my right knee, away from the left arm where the needle will be taking its aim shortly. The phlebotomist follows shortly. “Aww, what a cute baby. How old is she? Oh my, she is so tall, supermodel, cutie like mum, aye bubba?” The phlebotomist plays with my girl and turns to me. “Okay, lets have a look. Oh my, look at your arm!!” she exclaims, aghast at the state of my chemo burns. The wee vein the last chemo went in through has flared up a nasty burn on my skin. I look like a junkie. “I can see they’ve been overused, so rubbery,” she says as she stabs me to draw blood. “Yes”, I say, “just one to go, so won’t be for too long.” “Just one?! Well done mummy, aye baby, mummy is so strong isn’t she, so strong, well done to mummy, yay”, she smiles as she patches me up. I appreciate the words of encouragement, and I am teary. Teary because I feel like a fraud, you see, I’m not feeling so strong, the dark side has been knocking. I walk back to the car, baby on hip, and think again, to my scars. The hideous burns on my arm, my foob, the marks on my mind, on my heart. I desperately don’t want to go back to that dark place, I want to keep feeling upbeat. We get to the car, strap in, and I start the engine to have, “No scars to your beautiful, we’re stars and we’re beautiful” blast through the radio. Coincidence? Maybe for you skeptics. For me, its a sign. A sign from the Force. The darkside is close to being anhilated, the storm troopers are almost all killed, the light side will triumph soon, just  few more hurdles for the battlers, for the rebels. So I sing along to this new anthem, and the darkness leaves the building. I can hear my baby in the back clapping and singing her own version. Yes that’s us, mum and daughter, empowered.

I still have a lot of fears and anxieties about my journey. There’s the what ifs, like what if they say, woops, its spread to your lungs, brain, bones, whatever. Or in a few years time, woops its come back. My battle is accepting that from now as long as I am breathing, until the force takes me away to whatever lies beyond this galaxy, cancer is going to be a part of my life. For the next 5 years, I will be under active treatment, and even after that, I will always need checks and tests. I hope that cancer will physically leave me, but it will never leave me in spirit. Its now part of who I am, I just have to get myself to a point where that fact doesn’t consume my being, my life, and that of my family. One step at a time, scars to my beautiful, as I map my journey, body, mind and soul, I am living.

(I’ve included some pictures of my arm and hand below. If you’re squeamish, don’t scroll down).

    Mapping the journey I'm on cloud 9, I think, or at least, I think I should be on cloud 9.