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.

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