I am posting a guest article by David Haas. ~Angela
Parenting When Cancer Hits
Parenting is a tough job, and it can be especially difficult when a parent is diagnosed with cancer. Just hearing words like Breast Cancer, Melanoma, and mesothelioma can strike fear in the hearts of dedicated parents. Many parents worst fear is developing a deadly disease is and they may not be around to see their children grow up, but parents actually have an advantage because their children support them and help them fight against the cancer. One thing these parents must remember is that children are remarkably resilient and they can help their parents get through the tough times, even if they are very young.
According to statistics compiled by the National Cancer Institute, just over half of all cancer patients survive for ten years after diagnosis. The numbers can be scary, but it is more likely than not that you will be around for years to come. Giving up is not healthy for you and it's important for your children to see you being positive so that they don't worry too much.
Parents who have cancer should try to explain their disease and treatment plan to their children in terms they will understand. They should also be available to answer their children's questions. It is helpful to take older children along to doctor appointments so that they can understand the cancer treatments and what their parent is going through. There are support groups for children who have a parent with cancer. Parents should ask around at their hospital or treatment facility to find out what types of classes or support groups are available to them and their children.
Having a support system is vital to your peace of mind when you're fighting cancer. A parent needs someone to care for their children when they are undergoing chemotherapy and other treatments. Children can be a great source of strength for their parents and a single hug from a child can make the whole day brighter. A parent who has cancer should spend as much time with their children as they possibly can. Children are a reminder of the good things in life as well as hope for the future. Just spending a few minutes with your children can be a great reminder of why you are going through treatments to fight this terrible disease.
By: David Haas
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
85 An Award
Something wonderful happened in January 2011. My company held the annual sales conference and awards banquet for our division. All the outside sales staff and managers were there. I think all the inside sales staff and managers were there, too.
Dinner was delicious, and I even recognized most of the people at my table. I had one embarrassing moment when the meringue of my dessert fell off my fork and into the ample cleavage of my dress. One napkin for coverage and a quick fishing expedition later and things were restored to normal. By then the awards ceremony was underway, the lights had dimmed, and most people's eyes were on the stage. Only one person behind our table softly chuckled so I think the meringue incident went mostly without notice. You can dress me up, but you can't take me out, I thought to myself, feeling like a clod. How I hate formal occasions! I never feel polished enough to pull them off. Instead I feel like a poser, treading water during the moments of the event until I can escape to more familiar places and people.
A thrill ran through me as I realized he was describing my work. I stood as my name was called to receive this honor, and most of the ballroom stood with me. I floated on a dream as I walked the stage and received heartfelt congratulations from the regional directors. These were people I had sought to help over the last year by honing certain standard reports and adding features that made it easier to slice and dice information. I spent hours finding the right combination of colors and organization to make things intuitive and easy to read. I took on special projects and shared some of my skills by teaching classes. Out of all the people my company could have picked for this year's award, they selected me. What an incredible feeling! Yes I went above and beyond, but I'm used to companies taking that for granted and then pouting about not getting more from their people. This company decided to recognize my contributions and I smiled all the way home that evening.
Last year I skipped out early to be home with my son. I knew that my husband would be facing whines like, "When is Mommy coming home?" and a stubborn little boy would try to stay awake until my return. I kind of hated to go, though, as I found that I enjoyed supporting my co-workers and clapping with the others as the respective winners took the stage and accepted their awards. At home I received confirmation that the bedtime routine had been just as heart wrenching for my husband as I had expected, so I felt like I had made the right choice last year even though it was awkward to leave early.
I had nothing appropriate to wear to the banquet this year, and little money to buy anything. I mentioned this to the right girlfriend at the right time and she loaned me a dress in the right size. It was blue, beaded (yay!), and beautiful on my less-than-perfect figure. With borrowed jewelry to accessorize perfectly and a few hours sunk into securing wayward beads before the big event, I felt glorious.
And nervous.I was in a hotel with all these co-workers I know by name because I prepare the sales reports but I didn't know their faces. Nearly all of them were strangers to me, and I find it exhausting to make small talk with strangers. I also find it exhausting to talk with people in a noisy, crowded area, and the space outside the ballroom was super crowded and far too loud for my comfort. I threaded my way past the crowd to the spaces without people, and entertained myself by searching for the ladies room which was harder to find than it should have been.
Dinner was delicious, and I even recognized most of the people at my table. I had one embarrassing moment when the meringue of my dessert fell off my fork and into the ample cleavage of my dress. One napkin for coverage and a quick fishing expedition later and things were restored to normal. By then the awards ceremony was underway, the lights had dimmed, and most people's eyes were on the stage. Only one person behind our table softly chuckled so I think the meringue incident went mostly without notice. You can dress me up, but you can't take me out, I thought to myself, feeling like a clod. How I hate formal occasions! I never feel polished enough to pull them off. Instead I feel like a poser, treading water during the moments of the event until I can escape to more familiar places and people.
Still, I was glad to once again be supporting my co-workers as they accepted their various awards. I was glad to be staying for the entire awards show this year since our son is now old enough to let his father put him to bed without pining endlessly for me. And then the award for Operational Excellence in 2010 came up. As our General Manager/Division Vice President announced the winner, he started describing the work this person does.
 |
| me, jubliant, the night I won |
I was the only winner who received a standing ovation, and I received congratulations over the next few days for that detail as much as for the award itself.
After living through cancer and heaps of other difficult events before and after that, it was really, really nice to have something go well for a change. Thank you, Amy, for loaning me the dress and jewelry so I could look beautiful that night.
Previous - 84 Overcoming
Previous - 84 Overcoming
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
84 Overcoming
It's 2011 and my 5-year anniversary is fast approaching on March 3rd. It's exciting to be close to hitting that mark. I know it's not a guarantee. I'll always be looking over my shoulder for the shadow of cancer, but most people who get a cancer recurrence get it within the first five years after diagnosis. If I make it to the five-year mark then I'm a whole lot less likely to have to go through this mess again.
Yee-haw!
Last year I had a unique opportunity to participate in the first ever joint venture between Texas Oncology and the Sustainable Food Center. It was a 6-week course on nutrition, one night a week. I learned all kinds of useful stuff, like how the "plate" model is beginning to replace the pyramid model for food category guidelines. If you have a quarter of your plate as a protein (meat, beans, etc.), a quarter as a healthy grain, and half the plate a variety of fruits and vegetables, then you will have a balanced meal. I also learned that if you eat a rainbow of colors among fruits and vegetables over a reasonable time then you will get all the vitamins and minerals your body needs. That's a whole lot easier for me to remember than how many portions of whatever I'm supposed to have per day.
We learned about knife skills to make chopping more efficient in the kitchen. Now I use the big butcher knife that came with our set that I have ignored for the last ten years, and I happily chop things up keeping my fingers curled as I push the veggie towards the knife while using the rocking motion to chop.
One of the more dramatic moments came when our fabulous teacher Katy demonstrated just how much sugar goes into a bottle of Coke. She took a container of sugar and a measuring spoon, and measured into an empty 16 oz bottle the amount of sugar the label said it contained. It was shocking and more than a bit offputting. Of course, that hasn't stopped me since then from consuming Dr. Pepper and Coke when I feel like it. I just feel more guilty when I do it.
As a result of the class I have discovered the joy of cooking with quinoa. I've started experimenting with combining foods I like and modifying recipes and creating new ones. What freedom! This class directly led to my feeling less afraid of cooking and more confident about trying new things. Last year saw me fall in love with fennel. I had already adapted to cooking with the bulb. After the class I started chopping up the stalk as well. It crunches like celery under my big knife. Ha ha haaaaa! (Fennel stalks are fun to chop.)
Another triumph over an old fear came about thanks to the cooking class.
Our classes were held at the Texas Oncology location at MoPac. I received my chemotherapy treatments at a different location in South Austin. (I have to wonder every time I capitalize the "S" in "South" if I'm doing the proper thing grammatically or just giving in to local custom.) The MoPac location was not a familiar cancer center to me.
I used to arrive to the class earlier than most of the others. One evening to kill time I decided to explore the hallway next to the conference room that we took over as our cooking room. I thought I recognized the style of the portraits on the wall from my favorite local photographer Bill Bastas. I even recognized a face or two in the group shots of women who probably represented breast cancer survivors.
I got to the end of the hall and found myself staring at the infusion room.
At my cancer center the infusion room was behind a door they always kept closed. In this building it was at the end of the hall with no door to block it off.
The lights were out. Every chair was empty, of course. The rolling IV carts held their sinister, cold metal hooks. A parade of painful images flashed through my mind of my chemotherapy treatments and all the traumatic emotions that accompanied that time in my life. I remembered crying during my first treatment because it felt like I didn't really belong in chemo and there must have been a mistake. I remembered how sick I felt each time afterwards. I remembered the fear of dying, and the disorientation of my body feeling strange in the shifting kaleidoscope of side effects. I remembered endless exhaustion between the treatments and my infant son, and how hard it was to care for him. It was as if that room embodied misery and intense suffering, and if I stood there long enough surely I would hear the ghosts of patients lost. All of these experiences took place in a matter of moments, then my heart lodged in my throat and I consciously controlled a strong desire to literally run away.
I backed away from the room with tears in my eyes and promptly found the conference room. The next few classes I pretended that room at the end of the hall didn't exist, and I would avoid even looking that direction. After all I had been through and healed from, it surprised me to have uncovered this deep loathing of anything bringing me so close to those old memories.
Then, near the end of the classes, after I had had a few a-ha moments with nutrition choices and meal planning, I arrived early as usual and decided it was time to face the infusion room.
I deliberately walked to it and stood in the same place looking across the rows of chairs and their empty IV hooks. I stood there and looked until the chairs became chairs. All the emotions bled out of my perceptions as the IV hooks became empty receptacles rather than instruments of torture. The chairs were just places to sit covered with stuff that's easy to clean.
A man came into the area with his rolling trash can and cleaning supplies and he began to work as I silently bid good-bye to those fears. My trauma had come and gone and I didn't need the pain anymore.
I returned to the conference room and waited for class with a smile.
Previous - 83 Wonders and Worries
Next - 85 An Award
Yee-haw!
Last year I had a unique opportunity to participate in the first ever joint venture between Texas Oncology and the Sustainable Food Center. It was a 6-week course on nutrition, one night a week. I learned all kinds of useful stuff, like how the "plate" model is beginning to replace the pyramid model for food category guidelines. If you have a quarter of your plate as a protein (meat, beans, etc.), a quarter as a healthy grain, and half the plate a variety of fruits and vegetables, then you will have a balanced meal. I also learned that if you eat a rainbow of colors among fruits and vegetables over a reasonable time then you will get all the vitamins and minerals your body needs. That's a whole lot easier for me to remember than how many portions of whatever I'm supposed to have per day.
We learned about knife skills to make chopping more efficient in the kitchen. Now I use the big butcher knife that came with our set that I have ignored for the last ten years, and I happily chop things up keeping my fingers curled as I push the veggie towards the knife while using the rocking motion to chop.
One of the more dramatic moments came when our fabulous teacher Katy demonstrated just how much sugar goes into a bottle of Coke. She took a container of sugar and a measuring spoon, and measured into an empty 16 oz bottle the amount of sugar the label said it contained. It was shocking and more than a bit offputting. Of course, that hasn't stopped me since then from consuming Dr. Pepper and Coke when I feel like it. I just feel more guilty when I do it.
As a result of the class I have discovered the joy of cooking with quinoa. I've started experimenting with combining foods I like and modifying recipes and creating new ones. What freedom! This class directly led to my feeling less afraid of cooking and more confident about trying new things. Last year saw me fall in love with fennel. I had already adapted to cooking with the bulb. After the class I started chopping up the stalk as well. It crunches like celery under my big knife. Ha ha haaaaa! (Fennel stalks are fun to chop.)
Another triumph over an old fear came about thanks to the cooking class.
Our classes were held at the Texas Oncology location at MoPac. I received my chemotherapy treatments at a different location in South Austin. (I have to wonder every time I capitalize the "S" in "South" if I'm doing the proper thing grammatically or just giving in to local custom.) The MoPac location was not a familiar cancer center to me.
I used to arrive to the class earlier than most of the others. One evening to kill time I decided to explore the hallway next to the conference room that we took over as our cooking room. I thought I recognized the style of the portraits on the wall from my favorite local photographer Bill Bastas. I even recognized a face or two in the group shots of women who probably represented breast cancer survivors.
I got to the end of the hall and found myself staring at the infusion room.
At my cancer center the infusion room was behind a door they always kept closed. In this building it was at the end of the hall with no door to block it off.
The lights were out. Every chair was empty, of course. The rolling IV carts held their sinister, cold metal hooks. A parade of painful images flashed through my mind of my chemotherapy treatments and all the traumatic emotions that accompanied that time in my life. I remembered crying during my first treatment because it felt like I didn't really belong in chemo and there must have been a mistake. I remembered how sick I felt each time afterwards. I remembered the fear of dying, and the disorientation of my body feeling strange in the shifting kaleidoscope of side effects. I remembered endless exhaustion between the treatments and my infant son, and how hard it was to care for him. It was as if that room embodied misery and intense suffering, and if I stood there long enough surely I would hear the ghosts of patients lost. All of these experiences took place in a matter of moments, then my heart lodged in my throat and I consciously controlled a strong desire to literally run away.
I backed away from the room with tears in my eyes and promptly found the conference room. The next few classes I pretended that room at the end of the hall didn't exist, and I would avoid even looking that direction. After all I had been through and healed from, it surprised me to have uncovered this deep loathing of anything bringing me so close to those old memories.
Then, near the end of the classes, after I had had a few a-ha moments with nutrition choices and meal planning, I arrived early as usual and decided it was time to face the infusion room.
I deliberately walked to it and stood in the same place looking across the rows of chairs and their empty IV hooks. I stood there and looked until the chairs became chairs. All the emotions bled out of my perceptions as the IV hooks became empty receptacles rather than instruments of torture. The chairs were just places to sit covered with stuff that's easy to clean.
A man came into the area with his rolling trash can and cleaning supplies and he began to work as I silently bid good-bye to those fears. My trauma had come and gone and I didn't need the pain anymore.
I returned to the conference room and waited for class with a smile.
Previous - 83 Wonders and Worries
Next - 85 An Award
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