I have lived through the nausea. The tossing and turning, agitated sickness of it. Was that my voice I heard moaning? Thank God for Zofran. I have lived through the queasiness, to be distinguished from raging nausea. I have lived with the metallic taste. The dead taste buds. The I don't think I can eat any thing, but I'll try. I have to keep my engine fueled. I have to drink eight glasses of water a day. Every day. To keep myself hydrated. To help to flush out the toxins. I don't think I can get eight ounces of water down my throat. But, I'll try. Through the relentless waves of nausea. After the Zofran, I could think. I found the strength then to keep on rallying, determined in my struggle. I had this inexplicable but profound faith in my power to call my desired destiny to me. I kept putting one foot in front of the other. I believed I could activate my ability to self-heal. Through having my mind talk to my body with clear Intention and absolute, resolute Expectation. I kept reminding myself -- every thought is a prayer. Every prayer is a potential miracle. My Spirit could not be touched by the cancer. I would survive.
I have lived through months of feeling like I had the worst flu any one on the planet ever had. The deep throbbing aching in places I hadn't noticed existed in my body and everywhere, from my head to my toes. My legs were like rubber. They couldn't support me. I have lived through that weak-kneed, I think I may pass out, foggy-brained feeling. The cloudy head remains all these years later. I can't remember what *normal* is...
I have leaned on walls, on my husband's arm, against columns I managed to slip beside, the soap dish carved into the wall of the tiled shower, for support. To steady myself. So as not to collapse to the floor in a heap. I have lived through the deep muscle and tendon pain of each arm and leg, unable to find a comfortable place for myself, propping pillows, sitting, lying down, getting from chair to bed and back by impelling myself with my will to live. I tried to be brave. I felt the chills and then got caught in the feverish throes of sickness. I felt clammy and sicker than ever before. I was in a process, inching my way to be cured, thinking of being stable and as close to cured as I could possibly get.
I have lived through fourth stage breast cancer. How many stages are there?, people asked... I have lived through fourth stage metastatic breast cancer. You lost me, they say. What does *metastatic* mean? I have lived through fourth stage metastatic breast cancer. How do you take the chemotherapy? Is it a pill? The ones who did not know I prayed would never have to know. Why should they? Infusions, PET and CT scans, MUGA scans, ECHO cardiograms, port catheters, CMF, TCH, ILC and IDC and DCIS, lymph node involvement, sentinel nodes, Her2+, Decadron, Hemoglobin, creatin and urea bun blood numbers, pathologists, radiologists, stem cell transplants... You gain a whole new vocabulary when you are diagnosed with breast cancer. Your world is turned upside down and inside out. You add oncologists and breast surgeons to your telephone book. I didn't want to put their names there, but I had to. Then came the need for gastro-enterologists and with hot flashes soaring, an endocrinologist, in addition to the gynecologist and the cardiologist. Yesterday I was healthy. This isn't supposed to happen.
I have lived through five hour infusions, tethered to a pole. You can't focus but you bring two books hoping one will grab you. You can't read a paragraph and retain it's message, but you keep trying. When you have to go the bathroom, you take your pole and your infusion bag hanging from it and wheel it along with you. I watched one man who couldn't sit still in the chemo room walking back and forth down the long hallway. He had clumps of hair on the shoulders and back of his shirt. I was beside myself, agonizing for him. And for me. I have lived in chemo rooms in two states for over a decade. The nurses and staff all know me well. I'm a regular. I come in smiling. I leave grateful to be done.
I have lived through the friends I thought were friends who hid in the supermarket aisles, not wanting to face me. I have lived through the friends I thought were friends who didn't call because they didn't know what to say. I have lived to greet not just one grandchild, but five!!!!! And I have personally witnessed their birth into this world, their first breath taken, on three awesome occasions. (An hour behind with the other two.) All with open arms and an open heart. They are what Life is all about. I have lived to read the letter my ten year old granddaughter wrote to her next door neighbor who's thirty something husband had died last week. Little Josie found the words. They were her own. They came from her heart. She knew what to say.
I have lived with the extraordinary support of my husband, my two daughters, my son-in-law, family and *true* friends. Their loving energy has buoyed me and sustained me.
I live worrying that my port is safe, uninfected and working. I continue to live through the waiting for the results of the tests. I lived through holding my breath to see if the cancer had diminished or if it had spread. Now, I sit praying that I remain stable and have bought four more months of Life. I still live through the anxious anticipation for a week prior to the tests that will determine if I will live or die. I keep choosing Life, but I still become touched by tormenting thoughts in the days leading up to the big day. I live through that fear which is unlike any other. Am I in trouble or should I celebrate? Cancer is one hell of a roller coaster ride. I live concerned that if they have to use my thin frail veins that they will access one that functions without collapsing, rolling over and *blowing out*. I have lived through the uncertainty of whether I will be here next week. I feel bold making an appointment for a year from now, humbled as I write on my calendar. I still live with that preying thought, as all cancer Survivors must do, dare I hope... I have learned to take nothing for granted. And that is good. And that is bad. Each day we reach for Grace, wanting to live. And we are wise enough now to know we should not waste a single day in despair. We seek to rejoice in the day, with joy and serenity, knowing how precarious Life can be and cherishing the gift of each sunrise all the more. That is what I wish for all my sweet Soul Sisters, wonderful Women Warriors who are among the bravest Spirits to roam this earth...
Andi 
You are so very beautiful, you ladies I adore and admire with all my heart!