THIS ONE'S DEFECTIVE

The Writing on the Window

2011-03-11T08:42:00.000-08:00

So, on the day of my great meltdown this week (and subsequent blogging), I had two reminders that have helped me keep my sanity.

1. A dear friend's mother-in-law is gravely ill. Hearing stories of how difficult this road is for a family to travel, made me realize that there are worse things in life--worse, being losing someone you love or slowly watching that person's life slip away from you, when you are powerless to stop it.

2. I like to keep a verse written in big bold letters on my kitchen window. (You know, like with those round, white paint pens people use to write "Go Bulldogs #57!" on the back of their truck windows.) And, it just so happens, that about two months ago the verse I chose was Romans 12:12:

"Be joyful because you have hope. Be patient when trouble comes. Pray at all times."

I like God to give me signs, and this time it was right there on the kitchen window. If only all of life's answers came so easily.

(PS Yes, for those of you clean freaks out there who are taking notes, yes, you read correctly. It does mean I have not washed my kitchen windows in two months, which is why the photo is of some nice windows on an apartment building in London and not any of MY windows.)

The Aftermath

2011-03-09T12:06:00.000-08:00

What most people don't know, is that if you are blessed enough to survive the immediate medical crisis of cancer, you will still be reeling from its impact for years to come.

First there is the realization when your hair returns that people no longer treat you like you are special, and--much like after pregnancy--there is a certain loss that comes from knowing what it was like to be treated with favor and grace by total strangers, then returning to life as an Average Joe or Jane. You feel it in the way people look at you ... or maybe don't look at you, anymore. And it's very strange. (And somewhat difficult to describe without sounding like a narcissist.)

And then there is the realization that you just went through something really horrible. You've been stuck in survival mode for so long--because you are a SURVIVOR, for crying out loud--and then you realize that it's over, and you begin to see what it robbed you of.

Sometimes we don't see in the moment. But when it's over, the things that we lost to cancer become clear, and it's not just body parts. It's time. It's sanity. It's your memory. It's your ability to process information (thank you, Tamoxifen!). It's your ability to sleep at night. It's jobs. And sometimes it feels like everything.

Did you know that 40% of those who go through chemotherapy end up filing for bankruptcy within just a few years?

Did you know that once you have come out on the bad end of statistics, it's really hard to trust the doctor when he tells you that you have great odds?

Did you know that it's really hard not to blame everything on the one thing you can point to and say THIS, THIS is what changed my life forever?

Do you know what it's like to not be able to finish your breast reconstruction after a double mastectomy because you don't have the money for the giant copay it takes just to get the "icing" put on your "cupcakes"--to borrow colorful language from a fellow survivor. Because sometimes a new microwave or a transmission is more important than two pink circular tattoos that no one but you and your husband and your doctor will ever see.

Yeah, someday I'll get my areolas.

(When getting body parts back is on your long list of things that aren't likely to happen anytime soon, it's a little hard to describe the resulting frustration.)

And then there is the realization, if you survived cancer, that others don't. Others aren't lucky enough to go through the years and years of emotional, physical and financial aftermath. This is a gift. We get to live. Or maybe "live through it" is a better way of putting it.

And there is survivor's guilt. And there is a longing to help others, but a lack of awareness or direction in HOW to accomplish such a thing.

Once I got the courage to approach a woman I thought was growing her very short reddish hair out from chemo. Turns out, she just likes short hair. I can't blame her. She looks great. But asking someone if they've just finished chemo (and finding out they didn't) is just about as bad as asking a non-pregnant woman when her baby is due. (Insert reference to Brian Regan's "When's that BABY due?" bit.) It was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. She was gracious. But I'll never forget it.

So it sucks, to be blunt. I have invited Jesus into my pain, and he has joined me in it, but he has not chosen to deliver me from it, and that sucks too.

And today, I just felt the need express this pent up frustration and anger because it's real and it's life. I have always believed, no matter what painful thing I have experienced, that if nothing else (if nothing else) at least one day I might be able to comfort someone going through that same pain. So maybe somewhere out there is another woman who is also in The Aftermath. And she will read this teary blog entry and she will know that she is not alone.

Project Runway

2009-11-03T16:17:00.000-08:00

I know it’s been a long time since we posted anything on this blog but I was excited to share this news story from our local paper about an event that Tamara participated in.

Before you click on the link, I just wanted to say thank you for your continued words of encouragement and prayer support for Tamara and our family. I am so grateful for her and continually amazed by Tams ability to live life to the fullest, especially after all that she has gone through over the past year and a half.

Peace,
Nate

Redlands Daily Facts News Article

Tam's Surgery Update

2009-05-13T09:27:00.001-07:00

Hi friends,

So as you all know, a year ago, Tam decided she wanted breast augmentation surgery and so she decided to get cancer, double mastectomy, chemo, go bald, have expanders put into her chest and finally yesterday, receive her breast implants.
hehe...
Ok, not exactly how it went, but yesterday, she underwent a 2 hour surgery to continue her breast reconstruction process. She is recovering very well and getting plenty of rest (right now she's watching the classic movie The Breakfast Club directed by the king of 80's cinema John Hughes). Anyway, I digress. I just wanted to say thanks for thinking and praying for the bravest woman I know.

BeeTeeDubs...thank you Angie for hanging out at the hospital yesterday when you should have been in a meeting with Steph.

Where Does the Time Go?

2009-05-04T14:26:00.000-07:00

I've been a busy bee the past few weeks. Truly, truly busy with more work than I have known what to do with at times. Which--as Nate reminds me when I complain--is a real blessing. To have an extra income right now is no small thing, as we weren't making it just two short months ago.

Yesterday, I registered at the hospital for my surgery on the 12th. I've never been so excited for a surgery in all my life. I'm sure I'll be horribly disappointed when I inevitably wake up in horrible pain. I mean, when these expanders were placed in December, I woke up convinced that my shoulder had been broken.

However, right now getting these tissue expanders out and having a few days to lay around and be spoiled sounds like heaven.

It is, today, exactly one year since my diagnosis. I remember at that very next appointment Nate and I asked my doctor: So how long will all of this cancer stuff take? And his answer was a year to 18 months.

At the time neither one of us really believed him. We had virtually no understanding of how complicated this type of reconstruction is. We thought, oh 7 months tops. We'll be done. And yet, now, it seems we won't be actually be done until December, if then.

Of course, this surgery next week is the last big one, but still. This is a lengthy process, that I totally underestimated, myself.

All the same, it's so wonderful to be one year out and to be healthy. My fears that I wouldn't live to see another year or that I'd still be fighting it were unfounded. Here I am 365 days later and I am--as far as we can tell or know--cancer free. It's a great thing to celebrate.

So, happy one year cancer-versary to me! Thank you, Jesus, for good doctors, good medicine and early detection!

Happy Easter

2009-04-12T20:46:00.000-07:00

Happy Easter, friends! Death, where is thy victory? Grave, where is thy sting?

This is a day we celebrate the greatest milestone of our faith, and lately I've been celebrating a much smaller and more personal milestone of my own, which really has nothing to do with Easter, but now is as good a time as any to tell you about it.

I'm thrilled (so beyond thrilled) to report that I have had my last saline injection for the tissue expanders in my chest. For those who haven't seen them ... well, they are a sight, unfortunately. Recently I heard a line in a comedy that describes me well right now.

Two men were discussing a woman's physique (ahem, i.e., that she was a little too well-endowed). And one man said to the other: "A body like that just doesn't look structurally sound."

That would be me. Not structurally sound. I've had a ton of pain the last month of this process as I grow more skin for the doctor to work with.

But the good news is that the tissue expansion is DONE. On May 12, just 2 days short of my one year mastectomy anniversary, I'll get these ugly squarish, uncomfortable tissue expander things out of me (hallelujah!) and they'll be replaced with small, silicone breast implants. (Sorry for the details, but everyone asks, so there it is.)

This surgery in May won't be my last surgery, but will be the last one I have to be under anesthesia for. So this is a huge milestone in the reconstruction process (which won't be totally finished until around Christmas).

I know you are probably thinking: "Isn't she done already?" But this is just a really long process, unfortunately.

Lucky and few are those who naturally have enough skin to go around. For once in my life, it would have really paid off to be chunky.

photo by Tim Snell (flickr.com)

One more thing ...

2009-04-02T15:37:00.000-07:00

Oops! Forgot to mention, I now have a paid blogging gig for a travel site called Uptake. I got the gig through the freelance site called oDesk.com, which I was hooked up with after being on Larry King. My first blog entry was published today:
http://attractions.uptake.com/blog/amys-farm-ontario-california-3340.html

Life Under Scaffolding

2009-04-02T12:26:00.000-07:00

So I have been busy lately barely holding onto a couple of freelance gigs and trying to get back to a normal level of activity. The problem is that I'm finding it really difficult to do.

A lot of people told me last year that the shock of cancer doesn't usually hit the patient fully until they are finished with treatment, and I think that's very true in my case. As long as I was treated, I was going to be fine. Now that I'm done with chemo and back to life, I have begun to suspect that every little physical ailment is a possible recurrence of the cancer, and this doesn't help my state of mind. Now that cancer is gone, I keep wondering: When will it come back?

I once read a very funny book about hypochondria, in which the self-diagnosed hypochondriac writer stated that his mental issues were cured once he discovered he had Hepatitis. Knowing the worst alleviated his fear that something was wrong with him. I have joked with several friends over the last year that maybe this would be true of me, and I may have even mentioned this on the blog before.

The problem is that cancer is different than other diseases. Just because it's cured, doesn't mean it's cured. Even the five year mark isn't the great sign of hope that it is for other cancers. Breast cancer can come back whenever it wants.

I saw a post on a breast cancer forum that was titled: "When every headache is a cancer metastasis ... " And I identify so much with that. I know in my head that I have wonderful, very good odds in my favor, but it doesn't stop me from worrying, every time something doesn't feel right, that I have come out on the bad end of those good odds.

What's worse, it doesn't stop doctors (except old faithful Dr. Hilliard my oncologist) from worrying either.

I had an abdominal ultrasound in the fall. Something didn't look quite right. So a nurse told me it "might be cancer" and my gynocologist sent me for blood work to try to rule out ovarian cancer. I worried, but of course everything turned out just fine.

I had a weird rash on my stomach two months ago, so I was sent to a dermatologist. It looked a bit like dry skin gone very bad, but what did the doctor do? A biopsy. Requiring one stitch. He also gave me ointment, of course, so the rash was gone in a matter of days--the scar and lump from the benign biopsy are still around.

Now I'm having tons of pain, most likely related to all the tissue expansion (one more fill!!) and stress that I carry in my face and shoulders, but in my head the hypochondriac is thinking the cancer has spread to my bones. I'm pretty sure that like the other two "alarms" since chemo, this one is going to turn out just fine.

But it doesn't stop me from googling "breast cancer metastasis to the bones" every night.

Plus the pain is making me tired, which doesn't help matters at all. But I'm discovering and rediscovering that Worry and Pain are very bad friends. Worry plus Pain plus Google ... they are like the kids in high school who ditch class and smoke after detention.

So, for the time being, I will attempt to keep Worry and Google at a distance. And I'll take another pill for Pain.

St. Patrick's Day Blessings

2009-03-17T19:25:00.000-07:00

Today, on St. Patrick's Day, Nate and I have much to be thankful for. Through the kindness of some family members and some anonymous, but generous, individuals, we've been very blessed in the last 24 hours.
THANK YOU! THANK YOU!

And now, in honor of the day, I'll share with you a prayer attributed to St. Patrick, which a dear friend shared with me this morning. It's a beautiful prayer, and I offer it here in a much abbreviated form:

St. Patrick's Breastplate Prayer
"The Lorica"

I bind unto myself today the strong Name of the Trinity,
by invocation of the same, the Three in One and One in Three.

I bind this today to me forever by power of faith, Christ’s incarnation;
His baptism in Jordan river, His death on Cross for my salvation;
His bursting from the spiced tomb, His riding up the heavenly way,
His coming at the day of doom, I bind unto myself today...

I bind unto myself today the power of God to hold and lead,
His eye to watch, His might to stay, His ear to hearken to my need.
The wisdom of my God to teach, His hand to guide, His shield to ward;
The word of God to give me speech, His heavenly host to be my guard ...

Christ be with me, Christ within me, Christ behind me,
Christ before me, Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me.
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger...

Praise to the Lord of my salvation,
Salvation is of Christ the Lord.

Image courtesy of examiner.com

"What ...

2009-03-13T12:48:00.000-07:00

... are you going to do now that you've had your five minutes of fame??"

Go to Disneyland! Of course.

A big thank you to the Harveys for that gift. We finally did it! The kids were in heaven. It was a lot of fun. Thank you! Thank you!

My Five Minutes of Fame ...

2009-03-13T12:45:00.000-07:00

In case you missed it. "Tamara Rice: Unemployed." Here is a photo of my five minutes of fame. I don't think the link to the video will be around much longer, so here it is if you're interested. My interview is about a third of the way through the clip.

http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/business/2009/03/06/lkl.jobloss.long.cnn

It has led to some freelance work and great connections, so I'm very grateful. (Plus, my kids think I'm famous now. It works for me.)

Life and Legos Revisited

2009-03-08T21:47:00.000-07:00

I haven't been writing much, because for the last month I have been bogged down with financial worry and stress and disappointment with a lot of things.

I was in full blown anger and bitterness mode. I felt increasingly like I was treated with a great lack of compassion when I needed my former employers the most. At my lowest point, I even consulted a lawyer who was willing to take them to court if I gave the word, but I knew in my heart it wasn't a solution to any part of the problem.

Then last weekend I helped out at a women's retreat at Forest Home and was able to hear a great speaker Becky White, whose life--I have to say--is much more messy than mine. (God bless her.) And I believe it was a divine appointment, because frankly I couldn't have listened to someone whose life read like a Joel Osteen book. And to give you a glimpse into how I was feeling at the time, I'll share with you a bit of what I wrote down over that weekend:

Our friend Spencer uses a wonderful and unforgettable object lesson to help us understand how two truths can be opposed to each other and yet both still be true. It's this idea of a rubber band, and it perfectly describes my predicament.

On one side of the rubber band, pulling away, is this truth that in this life hardships are going to happen and thus it's good to be intimate with a God who offers comfort and wisdom and who invites us to take refuge under His wings. AND YET, tugging on the other side of that same band in an entirely different direction but with equal force is the truth that sometimes it is, in fact, harder to endure life's hardships when you have an intimate relationship with a powerful God because then we know as we sit there aching, with every part of our being, in sorrow and physical agony, that our God--if he so desired--could remove all our burdens and wipe away every tear, and yet ... so many times ... He does not.

That is tension.

I believe God prepared me for cancer. But I was not prepared to lose my job in December. I did not see it coming and it took days to sink in and months to work out in my head. The full force of the devastation only recently hit me. I felt cheated, I felt betrayed, I felt humiliated ... You can be the "best writer" on staff, you can stay when everyone else leaves, but it won't save you when someone is forced to fumble with a scalpel in a budgetary straight jacket in order to meet an impossible bottom line.

I hadn't been around in 7 months. I was expendable.

We, the millions of laid off workers in this country were not worth keeping and there's just no getting around it and it feels terrible, but what's even worse is the financial devastation. However, amid all this inner hurt and pain, is the terrible knowledge that God could have prevented it all.

This is a very abbreviated version of what I was feeling last Saturday night. I was very torn up inside and very frustrated that God would allow us to go through another trial, but most of all I was angry with those I felt were responsible for our pain.

And then the next morning at the retreat, our speaker Becky--who had been talking a lot about Naomi from the book of Ruth, whose bitterness I was totally identifying with--began to use an illustration extremely similar to one I had used myself when speaking somewhere in the fall. It was about Legos.

Becky talked about building beautiful Lego sets, just like the ones on the boxes, and how sometimes the beautiful creations fall off the shelves and begin to come apart. She talked about how you can try to put them back together with super glue, but then they'll just come apart in BIGGER chunks.

She also talked about something that really hit me. (And, by the way, nothing says "listen up, Tam" like someone using the same illustration God gave to me!) Becky said that some of the Lego pieces break when they hit the ground, and it's these broken Lego pieces that make the best ammunition to throw at our perceived monsters when we are hurting. She actually said: "Broken Legos make great ammunition."

Ouch. I knew she was talking to me.

As Becky went on to explain, instead of throwing these broken pieces, we need to give them to God and leave it to him to rebuild our masterpieces.

Stockpiling the broken pieces for ammunition was exactly what I was doing. I had broken, sharp pieces and I wanted nothing more than to throw them at the people who hurt me.

So I took a step back, and though I was still really hurting, I tried to figure out how to come to terms with life as it was and stop wishing it were how I thought it should be. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I begged God to show up. I felt He'd forgotten us and while I wanted to let the bitterness go, I just begged God to stop letting our lives fall apart and give us some hope again, because as willing as I was to set the Legos down I still didn't have any HOPE.

Then, just five days later, I got a special phone call and 8 hours after that I was sitting in the CNN studio in Los Angeles telling America and wherever else CNN broadcasts around the world, that I got laid off after fighting breast cancer and was having a really hard time finding a new job.

What an unbelievable chance to express my frustration in a positive way and to be heard.

It's pretty hard to describe the way that I felt on Friday night, which is why I had to give you some background into the weeks that led up to it so you would understand what it meant to Nate and I. It was much more than a once-in-a-lifetime experience, it was the rebirth of hope.

You can't appreciate the miracle without seeing first the pain.

I believe this was God's way of telling me that following Him is not all pain and misery and suffering as I was beginning to think it was. The rubber band is still taut, but I'm comfortable with it right now. The Legos are still broken, but I'm not going to carry them around anymore.

Why I had to reach the bottom to see the sunlight, I don't know. But I do know that I appreciate it so much more.

Sincerely, Tam of Many Strange and Interesting Job Offers

[Lego Photo courtesy of Darren Hester.]

Growing Up Skipper

2009-01-25T20:05:00.000-08:00

Lately I've been thinking and talking about a doll my sister Deb and I had as kids. Her name was Growing Up Skipper, and she was a very memorable and controversial version of Barbie's cousin Skipper. If you had her as a child, you know exactly what I'm talking about, and this particular Skipper was only made for a few short years, making her quite valuable--just ask the person on E-Bay who wants to sell her in the original box for $149.99.

Growing Up Skipper was a very special doll. When you twisted her arm around her breasts would grow (yes, really!), her waist would get smaller and she would grow taller. Magical, I tell you.

And so I thought one day the same would happen to me. Alas, it did not happen. Not so much, anyway. And like many other young girls, I was disappointed that God didn't give me a Mattel body.

But, lately, with this whole tissue expansion thing, I feel like a real life Growing Up Skipper doll. Complete with shoulder discomfort. From all the arm twisting.

Now if only I could grow a little taller and shrink my waist ...

P.S. I offer the image above as proof for some of my younger friends who have doubted Growing Up Skipper's existence. Oh, children of the '80s, you have no idea the wild and totally politically incorrect things you missed in the '70s. And you thought the Bratz dolls were bad ...

866-311-7847 and Other Crazies

2009-01-16T10:44:00.000-08:00

This morning I was thinking to myself: Self, you really need to call your friend Tracy and get involved in the American Cancer Society--or some other cancer organization. You see, I don't have any money to give, but I do have time on my hands. And I know that Tracy works hard for the ACS.

Then, within five minutes, the phone rang. 866-311-7847 (We finally have caller ID!) A woman said she was calling on behalf of the "breast cancer society" who raises funds for individuals fighting cancer to help with medical bills and personal needs.

Wow, I think to myself. What are the odds? And is she calling me because my name is on some breast cancer list somewhere? So I say: "I can't make a donation right now, but I recently had breast cancer. Can you send me information on your organization so I have it for future reference?"

She says, without missing a beat: "Oh. You're a survivor?"

Now, really there is only one way to answer this question. Because if I wasn't a survivor, she'd be calling me in the afterlife, and I'm pretty sure that we aren't going to be getting unsolicited phone calls in heaven. And it's at this point that I start to realize this lady is not all that bright and the organization sounds a bit shady.

I say: "Yes. But I can't make a donation right now, can you send me the information on your organization for the future, when I can make a donation?"

She says, quite sternly: "No, I can only send information to those who can guarantee a donation."

At this point I hung up.

Seriously? This is supposed to be a woman fighting on my behalf? This is the voice of breast cancer awareness, research and financial assistance? I don't think so. So, I looked up the number on line and found a bevy of complaints about people calling from this number. I discovered that these people can be quite annoying and may not even be for real. Now her behavior makes more sense. She's a scam artist, not a woman championing my cause.

So, please, please, if you ever get a phone call to donate to my cause, don't do it. There are plenty of reputable organizations that will help people. Don't ever give to someone who calls you on the phone and can't even send you a letter explaining who they are--even if you, like me, are a "survivor."

Want some names of good breast cancer organizations? Send your money to:

The American Cancer Society
The Susan G. Komen Foundation
The Susan Love Research Foundation
Right Action for Women (The Christina Applegate Foundation)
Avon Walk for a Cure
Stand Up 2 Cancer
City of Hope

These people will all be willing to tell you more about their organization and what it is exactly that they do to help women with breast cancer. They've demonstrated an ability to make a difference and I wouldn't hesitate to personally give to each of them, if I could.

But whatever you do, don't give to the people at 866-311-7847 or anyone else who calls you on the phone. And please, please, when someone tells you they had breast cancer, don't ask them if they are a survivor. Seriously. Would they be talking to you if they weren't?

Tissue Expansion and Good News

2009-01-13T18:31:00.000-08:00

While I'm not going to be showing off pictures of the current tissue expansion (reconstruction) process any time soon, I couldn't help but laugh when Maddie happened to see me shirtless this weekend and compared me to, and I quote: "The scorpion on Spongebob Squarepants."

I immediately argued that there was no scorpion on Spongebob. But, unfortunately, I knew exactly who she was talking about. Larry the Lobster. He is the lifeguard, volleyball pro and muscular "stud" that Spongebob is always trying to be like. Especially when it comes to his sculpted upper body.

So, I figured, I had to fill those of you who aren't as familiar with Larry the Lobster in on the joke. Meet Larry the Lobster. So nice to know I look "just like him."

And, I am learning to live with the pain of the tissue expansion. I've already had one "inflation" and I was pleased to discover that the initial pain lessened a lot after the first 48 hours. I'm still in pain, but it isn't as bad at all.

Also had to share my good news. I went back to City of Hope on Monday to get the genetic BRCA 1 and BRCA 2 test results (and BART--a similar test). Turns out, even though I am young to get breast cancer, I did not get a genetic form of the disease.

This is good news for a lot of people--i.e., everyone related to me, but especially my daughter and sister--and is good news for me, because it means my ovarian cancer risk is now less than 2%. Less than 2%! That's a statistic I can live with.

Because I'm me, of course, there was some weirdness. I have some strange unknown defect on nine splices past exon 20 ... errrr... something like that. But the likelihood of it being in any way related to a genetic cancer is so low that the lab would actually perform the testing for free if someone else in the family ends up with breast cancer. (Free! That made me laugh. They must be pretty sure that's never going to happen.)

So I am happy about this. Of course, it doesn't explain why I got cancer. We may never know. I'm just lucky, I guess.

14 Years

2009-01-06T23:44:00.000-08:00

This past Friday I had the privilege of performing the marriage ceremony of Judah Dorn and Michelle Harvey. Both Judah and Michelle were on my junior high staff at Forest Home in 2004 and I had been Michelle’s youth pastor while serving at Foothills Evangelical Free church in RSM. After the wedding I was sitting in the back room with my family trying to remember back to the day I married Tamara. It was 14 years ago today, January 7^th. We were so young. 21 and I was 22 years old. While I am not amazed that it lasted this long, I have these moments along the way where I can’t believe how much we still love and care for each other. That’s not to say our marriage is perfect but I do realize that over the years, our relationship, the way we care for each other, talk and listen to each other, and live life together is getting better, not worse.

This year has been crappy and as Tam posted this week, we’re still in the middle of it. That being said, I am thankful to be married to such a fun, intelligent, beautiful, passionate, and caring wife. I’m thankful she is healing and not getting worse. And I’m thankful for Dr. Punjabi (sorry…that’s mildly inappropriate but it’s true). I’m just thankful to be married to Tamara for 14 years and look forward to many more years of marriage.

Finally, Tamara actually wrote Judah’s and Michelle’s wedding vows that I’ve included below with our names. So while posting my undying love for you on the “internets” is pretty pathetic, I’m doing it anyway. (I know this doesn’t beat renewing our vows in Vegas with “Fat Old Elvis” like we did on our 10^th).

I, Nate

Take you, Tamara

To love and to cherish

To comfort and to forgive

To live as one with you

In sorrow and in joy

In need and in prosperity

In sickness and in health

Forsaking all others and cleaving only to you

Loving God with all my heart, soul and strength

And growing together with you in faith, hope and love

As long as we both shall live.

Thank you to our friends and family that have supported our relationship over the years (especially this past year).

Hope, Part One

2009-01-05T20:42:00.000-08:00

In March--or perhaps April--of 2008, I hosted Bunco at my house, and as has been my tradition for two years running, I used a poetry theme, with poems written on the table cloths and in various places throughout the living room and kitchen. In searching for the poems, I found an Emily Dickinson poem that spoke to me called "Hope."

Maybe I liked the poem because I was waiting to find out whether or not my new lump was cancerous. Or maybe I liked it because I related to Emily and her whole "tortured artist" life. All I know is that I held onto it, and after my diagnosis I placed it on the folder I first used to store "the cancer cards" (until I had so many I needed a hat box to hold them). The poem goes like this ...

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

The poem, if we were to analyze it, could say a lot of different (even contradictory) things about hope. Hope never stops. Hope never needs to be fed. Hope is fleeting like a bird. Who really knows for certain what Emily's point was, when she seems to have several.

All I know is that the word "hope" has meant a lot to me this year. I even sent a Christmas decoration that said "hope" to another woman with breast cancer, and was delighted when my brother and his wife sent me my own sparkly Christmas ornament that spells "hope." But I have to say, I agree less and less with Emily. Her words are lovely, but I think hope actually asks a lot of us. Hope does need to be fed. Hope does (frequently) disappear.

If the elusive author of the book of Hebrews is right, and faith is the substance of things hoped for (Hebrews 11:1) then, it follows logically, hope must require faith. And faith is sometimes difficult to hang onto. It can be less of a bird and more of a slimy toad--you know when you have it in your grasp, because you can feel it's heartbeat, but when it's gone you're not really sure how or at what exact moment it managed to slip between your fingers.

What I have discovered is that it takes a great deal of faith to hope that one can get a job in 2009. It takes a great deal of faith to hope that situations can change, when all evidence points to the contrary. It takes a great deal of faith to hope that life could someday be easy, when it rarely ever has been.

So, I've been thinking a lot about hope. And I know this isn't the end of the subject, but instead is the beginning, which is why I'm calling this Part One.

Perhaps I'll be able to write more tomorrow. But, for now, I have to say: While it's a very pretty poem, I don't believe dear Emily was right about hope. Frankly, I'm not even sure she believed it herself.

MERRY CHRISTMAS! MAY YOUR HEARTS BE FILLED WITH ...

2008-12-24T16:50:00.000-08:00

With love,
Nate, Tamara, Nick & Maddie Rice

My Friend the Cat

2008-12-21T11:50:00.001-08:00

I have always been a cat lady. But at this point in my life I am simply a Balliver lady. As in, Balliver our cat. I love my cat, and I know that makes me a little creepy to some people, but this cat and I have a bond.

Throughout this year, Balliver always seems to know when I am sick. After my first chemo treatment, Nate had to lock Balliver out of our bedroom because all the cat wanted to do was lay on top of me and snuggle and I just couldn't handle it. But by my last treatment I looked forward to getting home to Balliver. I knew I'd lay down in the bed and Balliver would be with me in minutes, right next to my face, purring and rearranging himself again and again to get as close to me as possible.

So it should have been no surprise on Friday that the minute I crawled into my bed (fell, may be a more accurate verb) after surgery, Balliver was immediately by my side. Because Balliver was so intent on getting right on top of me, he was temporarily banned from the room. Later, though, I relented, and he got used to the idea that he would have to be content with "next to" rather than "on top of."

He's a bit like one of those saint bernard dogs, with a sixth sense about these things. His pregdar is even better than mine (just ask Angie) and he just seems to know things. Maybe he's like the Old Testament prophet who stretched out over the boy and brought him back to life ...

Well. Maybe Balliver's not quite that good. But he has become my favorite cat, and that's saying a lot, considering how many I have had. Which is a lot.

Let's see, there was Josie, Cosmo, Baxter, Skye, Molly, Big Kitty, Little Kitty, Sam, Bandit ...

And the irony--oh, the great irony--is that I have been in incredible pain with this surgery. Such terrible pain, I keep repeatedly asking Nate ridiculous questions like: Did they break my sternum? You're sure they didn't dislocate my shoulder? When I know the answer is no.

And why is it ironic? Because if I didn't love that stupid cat so much I would never have climbed onto the porch railing of Harvey and Patricia's house in the middle of the night exactly two years ago and tried to rescue him. The actual root of my pain, you see, is this old injury on the upper right side of my back. I injured it falling off that railing onto concrete when Balliver jumped out of my arms. The other time I injured the same spot is chronicled right here. And since it typically hurts with weather changes, my back hurt before surgery, and since surgery ... it feels worse. (I'm pretty sure surgery didn't do it any favors.)

(Also, I got my bandages removed today. Turns out the doctor cut out all of my old scarring and started from scratch, which explains why this hurts worse than the first surgery and why I thought my sternum had been assaulted.)

All this to say. I'm in pain. And on Saturday I dealt with it and got up and about, and it ended in more pain. So today I took it easy and did lots of laying still, and it's still ending in more pain. Perhaps less pain than yesterday. But ... pain. The kind that makes it hard to breathe and has me taking full doses of Norco.

And, faithful to a fault, Balliver has been here to keep me warm the last three days. So, I'm trying to forget that this current pain issue is pretty much his fault. Well, his fault and cancer's fault. To be fair.

You Know You've Spent Too Much Time at the Hospital When ...

2008-12-20T12:15:00.003-08:00

You know the pre-op nurses by name. And they actually remember you.

We had our favorites again. Michael and Lance. Nicest guys in the world. Michael said if we like him so much, we should just ask him out to coffee instead of bothering him at work.

Thankfully, I didn't have much time to get nervous about the surgery. I was fighting some sort of virus all day on Wednesday, then Thursday was spent in panic mode. My thoughts were something along the lines of: Where is the card for Maddie's teacher? Do we still have flannel sheets for Nick's bed? I wonder if Alister McGrath checks his e-mails over the holidays? (It's a freelance thing.) How long will it take Lorenzo to fill my prescriptions? (Yes, I'm on a first name basis with my pharmacist.)

Of course, once I discovered early Thursday evening that we were expected to be at the hospital at 5:15, panic mode went up even more. Would Sam and Michelle really want the kids at 4:45 in the morning? Who could spend the night with them here? (Thankfully, the answer was Sam and Michelle saving the day as usual and taking the kids overnight at their house.)

Then at the hospital Friday morning, I actually fell asleep before surgery. That's how tired and relaxed I was. Michael had to wake me up to put in the I.V.

Surgery went well, was done in two hours, I was wrapped in gauze and the biggest ACE bandage I've ever seen from navel to armpits, and I was sent home, asleep in my own bed before noon. Unfortunately the first pain Rx did not work well and we had to fix that by mid afternoon, as I was feeling like someone took a chainsaw to my sternum, but that has been the only real issue.

What I didn't explain in my previous post, was that we (and by "we" I really mean Nate) hosted our summer staff Christmas party at the house last night (yes, last night). It was planned long before we had a surgery date, people (Brit) were flying in from Colorado, other people (Joel and Shannon) were getting engaged on the way to the party ... there was just no way we could reschedule. And they are all family anyway, so it was fitting that they come upstairs to my recovery bed during the evening to squeeze my hands (no hugs!) and say hello. (I'll have you know, Joel and Shannon, that it was my intention to bake you a heart-shaped cake reading "Dunn & Done," but that was a no-go.) Nate says the party was amazing (it sounded like it, from up here), so I'll take his word for it and I'm glad we didn't cancel.

Now I'm just recovering. Feeling better today than yesterday, getting up and around like the doctor told me too. Sometimes going back to bed (as I didn't really sleep last night--but I'll save that story for another post). Hopefully things will continue this way. Thanks for your prayers! And thanks to Steph and Brian for having the Merry Maids make our house beautiful on Thursday! Thanks to Sam and Michelle and also Diana and Dempsey for helping us with the kids! I appreciate you guys so much. -Tam

Scaffolding Ahead

2008-12-18T20:47:00.000-08:00

I know a lot about reconstructions. See, my family (family of origin, that is) had this terrible luck when it came to sightseeing. It seemed we always hit major world landmarks (Big Ben, for example) when they were under scaffolding for reconstruction. Little face lifts. Patching things up here and there.

Tomorrow I'll go in for reconstruction. We have to be at the hospital at 5:15 a.m., and surgery is scheduled for 7:15. (Let's hope the doctor is more awake at that hour than we are.)

Instead of scaffolding, I'll have these strange tissue expanders with a magnetic "hatch," if you will, that will help the doctor find the right spot every week and insert a little more saline each time. It's sort of like internal scaffolding. Temporary and not all that good looking, but they'll help get the job done.

It's the first of four reconstruction procedures I'll be having over the next six to 12 months. Tomorrow I'll be under for about two to three hours and will have two- to three-inch incisions on each side (reopening the outer end of the mastectomy scars). They'll put in the tissue expanders, bandage me up and send me home the same day if all goes smoothly.

From here on out it will be an almost constant project. Every week I'll go in for injections until the desired size is achieved. Then, just for good measure, they'll expand me even further so that I will eventually have a more natural look when it's time to swap these out for actual implants. So forgive me if you see me around March and I look ... well, ridiculous.

It's okay. Just remember I've got some major scaffolding going on.

PS I have no idea what the structure is under scaffolding in the above photo.

The Year of Living Precariously

2008-12-12T22:51:00.000-08:00

Just when we believed that we had all the surprises of 2008 under our belt, our lives took yet another unplanned turn.

I've been absent from the blog--busy trying to be healthy again, working out, trying to function normally, and this week I planned on going back to work at the magazine. However, instead of going back to work, I was laid off from the job I've had for almost six years.

A lot of people have asked me if it's legal to lay someone off who has been out on disability, and as far as I can tell the answer is pretty much yes, if you are eliminating their position because of a budget crisis. Unlike most of the other half a million Americans who will also lose their jobs this month, I have been told some freelance work will come my way. Thus I will be leaving the magazine the way I came into it, as a writer/editor for hire, never knowing when paychecks will be lean and when they will be plenty.

This is a really scary position to be in, but it's the reality of our economy and the reality of a downward spiral my career at the magazine was on. I watched it happen and should have bailed out months ago on my own terms.

Over the last year God has continually handed a question to me through the circumstances of my life: Do you trust me? The answer is that sometimes I do and the trust comes easily and sometimes, like right now, I strain and twist, reaching into the cluttered closet of my soul and I just can't seem to find it.

But it's now that the experience of the past year--the past six years, really--settles itself in front of me in ways I can't ignore. There is always a path. There is always an answer. Eventually. Thus, I know I can't give up. I have to chose to trust, even though what I'd like to do most is lay on the couch and wallow in the self pity that comes from discovering you are disposable.

While teaching on a retreat in the fall and while speaking at Forest Home last month, I talked about Legos, about how when we were little we all played with Legos and what did we build with the Legos? Lego towers. We built them using our favorite pieces and tried to build them tall and colorful--my favorite pieces were always those rare clear ones and the rounded ones. But the problem with a Lego tower is that inevitably the minute you get everything just how you like it, someone will knock it down, which is why I have found that life is a lot like a Lego tower.

Sometimes the tower is knocked a little and the repair is easy, other times it gets knocked to the ground. Pieces might get stepped on and broken (or surgically removed). And when we see our broken tower before us it's hard not to panic. Because all we want in that moment is for the tower to be just like it was before, but it isn't going to happen. It may get built again, but it will never look the same. When God's hand is on your life, you will always be in the process of transformation.

But we have to keep building, living in the mystery of not knowing how it will turn out, and the fact of the matter is, it might get knocked down again. Nancy Guthrie says in Holding on to Hope:

"Our task is not to decipher exactly how all of life's pieces fit and what they all mean, but to remain faithful and obedient to God, who knows all mysteries. That is the kind of faith that is pleasing to God--a faith that is determined to trust him when he has not answered all the questions."

Which means that I will keep building, using the pieces I've been given (whether they are the cool round ones or the plain blue squares) and will try to be at peace with the mystery of the unfinished product. My life, like my body, is in a state of reconstruction, and the upside--there is one, believe it or not--is that I just might like the finished product more than I thought I would.

(PS That picture up there on the right. That is some vintage Media Cue for you, my Outreach fans. A department that no longer exists in a magazine I once worked for.)

A Future Full of Naps and Void of Cancer

2008-11-23T13:02:00.000-08:00

This morning as Maddie and I were discussing my future surgeries, she asked me if the doctors would put something inside me to keep cancer from coming back. I explained that the answer was no, the chemo had already done that. Plus, I explained that my Tamoxifen pills were to help the cancer not come back.

She liked this answer so much she wanted to see the pills. They aren't impressive. Just white little aspirin-looking things. She asked if they tasted funny and I said they didn't have a taste--which led to her immediate comparison of my Tamoxifen to salad (her least favorite food).

As any of you who've been around me lately know, I hate the Tamoxifen. I hated it when I took it for two months in 2005 when we found out I was high risk for breast cancer and I hate it now. I have a fellow breast cancer survivor tell me that she tells herself every day when she takes hers: "Today I have prevented cancer." And I think I might have to start doing this myself.

The reason Tamoxifen--which bears an unfortunate resemblance to my name--is so loathed by me is that it has robbed me of my energy (which wasn't so great to begin with) and is destroying my already compromised memory and ability to concentrate. I can deal with the hot flashes, it's the constant desire to crawl back into bed that makes me crazy. I'm convinced that I could sleep for the next 24 hours and still wake up tired tomorrow.

So I have begun an all-out war against this sleepiness by trying to eat better, consume more water, exercise, drink my weight in coffee and take an occasional cat nap--which, might actually prevent cancer as much as Tamoxifen itself (well, if you take the coffee out of the equation). I mean, think about it: plenty of sleep, vegetables, water, exercise ... these will all help my body in the long run. Thus fighting the side affects of Tamoxifen may be helping me as much as the Tamoxifen itself. So maybe I have to be grateful for this.

But it did occur to me today, that given I'm on my third bottle and the fatigue hasn't let up, this sleepiness and passion for napping might just be part of my life for the next five years that I'm on the drug. So, I need to stop beating myself up for this and begin to think of it differently. Not as a weakness, but as a sign that my body is fighting cancer. Tamoxifen is, after all, considered chemotherapy. (Weird, but true ... any chemical that helps the fight against cancer is considered chemo in the medical community whether it's a red intravenous liquid that makes your hair fall out or a tiny white pill that makes you sleepy, because it's simply "chemical-therapy.")

So, here's to five years, or approximately 58 more months, of preventing cancer and taking naps! And, with that, I'm going back upstairs to bed ...

Doctors and Paperwork

2008-11-20T15:11:00.000-08:00

I have spent most of the last 48 hours filling out paperwork and seeing doctors. (If you are one of the lucky relatives who got a call or e-mail from me, you know it's true!)

I believe I ended up with close to 20 pages of information for City of Hope and more than 10 for the plastic surgeon. Plus, before those appointments I also went for a good old fashioned teeth cleaning. Nothing like a little normalcy!

First, we absolutely loved the plastic surgeon. He was a world of difference from the first and he won us both over with both his kindness and professionalism, then with his fine work. We feel really great about him. He is from Bombay originally and he even spoke some Bengali to me! What more could we ask for? Well, skill, I suppose--and he has that in spades, so we are content. Our medical group now needs to approve the referral--we went before the referral was complete. This may take time, but we are confident it will go through.

Today I went to City of Hope. What a place! They truly are a well-oiled machine and operate with impressive efficiency. Volunteers walk you from check-in station to check-in station and I even got a tour and a free pen! Their women's health center is beautiful.

It was not without sadness. When I arrived, a woman in the waiting area was on the verge of a breakdown over her genetic testing results. I'm sure it is a hospital of much grief and anxiety. But it was interesting to see how the people there handled it and I happened to see the woman again twenty minutes later and she was hugging one of the staff and smiling and seemed much calmer, though she was still teary-eyed.

I spent about an hour with a geneticist (I guess that's what you'd call her) and then some time with a physician from the genetics department. I donated a portion of my tumor and an extra vial of blood to their research, so that felt good (don't worry, they get the tumor from the lab on their own, it's not like I carried it there!). I even signed something that said if they find out ten or twenty years from now what caused my cancer, they should call me to tell me--I thought that was a funny thing to sign, but I'm glad to know the possibility is there.

They believe there is more than a 10% chance that my cancer was genetic, and they test anyone with more than a 5% chance. So they had already requested approval from my insurance company to do the test before I even got there. Hurray! It's unusual for breast cancer to be genetic, but because of my age and some family history they wanted to test me. Which, really, was exactly what I hoped to accomplish today.

I found out a few interesting things as well, such as that when women my age do get cancer, they don't typically get the kind I had. My cancer was estrogen and progesterone positive, which is typical of a lifetime of estrogen exposure--not typical in a 34 year old, even a 34 year old with breast cancer. So that was interesting to discover.

Since I'll be the first in my family to be tested for the BRCA1 and 2 mutations, finding the chromosomes and looking for mutations takes time. They are running two tests and it will take 3 to 5 weeks to get results.

The family history that I took time to gather (thank you to my grandmas, my aunties, siblings and my parents) will be entered into the research database. I signed forms that make it private to their research--the records cannot be accessed by insurance companies or any other party besides the scientists and researchers at City of Hope. So, even being able to give them that much family history (given how much cancer is in our history) was a help to their cause. They thanked me several times for being so thorough on the short notice I had.

So it has been an incredibly exhausting, but good couple of days. Thanks for your prayers and encouragement and for thinking of me.

The Week Ahead

2008-11-16T16:43:00.000-08:00

This week, I will be going to City of Hope for genetic counseling, which could (we hope) lead to genetic testing. Right now my medical group has only approved counseling. The testing, should the counseling lead to that, would be to determine if I have the BRCA1 or 2 genetic mutations. We are hoping I can be tested for the sake of other females in the family (so they would know if they are also at risk for developing breast cancer) and because a genetic mutation can, in certain cases, also lead to ovarian cancer. If I happen to be at risk for that, I'd need to get my ovaries out. (It's true, my lady bits are disappearing faster than roaches in daylight.)

Though it would seem like a no-brainer that I have a family history of breast cancer, because my maternal grandmother (hi, Grandma Dow!) also had breast cancer, clinically that's not considered a strong family link because 1) we are not first degree relatives and 2) she did not get breast cancer at such a young age. In addition, there are several kinds of breast cancer, and mine is rarely found to be genetic (although it is the same kind my grandma had). Since I've been on the surprising end of the odds before, I'd rather be safe than sorry, and am hoping City of Hope decides I need to be tested. It's only a blood test, but it is a costly one.

Also this week I will be meeting a new plastic surgeon, after not being super impressed with the first one I was referred to. (Warning: The following may be too much information for some of my loyal readers, such as ... all my male relatives.) Reconstruction is really a complex process and you only need to see a few pictures before you realize that some doctors are better than others at creating life-like breasts from nothing but scars and ribcage. Some plastic surgeons--as in many of the really snazzy Orange County ones I looked up--don't even attempt breast reconstruction after mastectomy because it's such a specialized series of procedures and the results are often not worth bragging about. Unlike the first doctor (whose work I didn't see until the end of my appointment), I have seen some of this particular surgeon's reconstruction work already on the internet and he seems very good.

So, we are praying that we will feel good about him in person and can move forward in the process, as it will take approximately 4 to 6 months to complete and we'd really like to be done before next summer. I could explain what takes so long right now, but then what would I have to tell you about later?

Cyber Grace

2008-11-05T10:56:00.001-08:00

A lot is being said this morning on the news about how the internet may have affected this election.

Without getting into partisan talk, I have to say I think there was as much good on line as bad over the past year. Bad being that lies and slander circulated at the speed of light. Good being that for those who sought to hear out both sides--something hard to find since news is no longer given without a political bias to one side or the other--there was, on the internet, plenty of far right and far left rhetoric to balance us out, as well as fact-checking web sites to set us all straight when the four candidates distorted the truth (which all of them were guilty of).

And I have to admit, voting yesterday was a lot more fun when I could check in with friends on line and see that they voted and discuss our free Starbucks coffee. The speeches were more exciting too, as thoughts and reactions were shared on line, as if we were all watching these two historical figures, McCain and Obama, right there together with the crowds.

So, with the power of the internet fresh in our minds, I thought I would say again, in case I have not said it enough already, that being able to blog here throughout this rough year has been a lifesaver for Nate and I.

First of all, it has enabled us to keep people posted without having to spend all our much-needed down time making phone calls. It has also been an instant prayer line when we have needed your prayers, and enabled us to thank you for those prayers. It's been theraputic to journal our emotions. It's been a gateway to support through your comments. Lastly, we hope it has been an encouragement to others.

With that said, we are about to enter the last (we hope) phase of this long journey, which will be reconstruction. (The internet has helped and is helping with this as well!) After meeting the surgeon our insurance would like us to use, we are not yet 100% confident in him.

We may change our minds after "shopping around," but right now we are feeling he may not be as skilled as some others. So I ask for your prayers as we pursue our insurance and other plastic surgeons and the possible need for financing options. Or perhaps, we will look around and decide he isn't so bad.

This will require patience on my part as I get put on hold for long periods of time, wait for paperwork and appointments, and do my research. But this phase too, shall pass.

Breast Cancer Awareness Month: I Blinked and I Missed It

2008-11-02T15:42:00.000-08:00

Well, for all of October I meant to blog about the fact that it was Breast Cancer Awareness Month. And now it's November.

All month I waited for a checkout clerk to ask me if I'd like to "donate to the cause today" because I had my response all ready: "No thanks, I already donated my breasts." (Funny! No?)

But, alas, they never asked, even though they sometimes would ask the people in front of me. Maybe it's because it's painfully obvious, most of the time, that I've had cancer. So obvious that total strangers have come up to me to talk to me about it. One time I literally wanted to say: What, am I wearing a sign or something? Because it seems like people not only know I've had cancer, they know it was breast cancer (even though I wear the jelly boobs--or joobs, as we call them in this house).

Granted, sometimes if I wear a wig I think I can hide things pretty well. But most of the time it's just out there. Obvious to the casual observer. Which used to bother me a bit, because I didn't like standing out in a crowd. But several months ago my sister offered me some perspective on this.

Deb has a dear friend who lost a child recently. Her friend told her one day that she wished she could wear clothing that signified she was still in mourning, still hurting--like the torn clothes talked about in Old Testament times, or the black garb and veil of more recent centuries. Because she was hurting on the inside and she needed a way to remind the people around her.

With cancer, you wear your pain out in the open. People can tell just by looking at you that you just went through hell. And while I'm really tired of not having hair and really anxious to begin breast reconstruction, I have to say that I've grown to appreciate the fact that I can walk into a grocery store and have other survivors come up and hug me and encourage me.

When the signs disappear, it's possible the support will too. So for now, I'm trying to be grateful that I don't blend into the crowd and that for perhaps the only October of my adult life, nobody asked me if I'd like to donate for the cause.

(And don't worry, next year I'll be donating to the pink ribbon people like crazy and I'll be bugging you to as well!)

If It Isn't One Thing

2008-10-26T18:52:00.000-07:00

Nate is recovering nicely and will get his staples out tomorrow. He is going to start working again this week, but may not be driving up the hill as much for a while. His parents came this weekend to take care of him and help with the kids while I was gone on Friday and Saturday to speak with my friend Angie at a women's retreat in Carlsbad.

We met my reconstruction/plastic surgeon on Thursday and are anxious to get things going. I'll probably have my first of the surgeries in another month or two, which will be exciting and maybe I'll even have a good head of hair by then. At least enough for a crew cut anyway.

Tonight I got out our biggest ladder to fix a fire alarm that was beeping. Somehow it managed to fall on top of me. My back was turned and there were no kids around, so I'm not quite sure how this happened. (Phantom cat maybe?) But it hit me on the right side of my back. The same right side of my back that I landed on while trying to rescue Balliver from the neighbor's roof two Christmases ago.

The good news is, I don't think I broke anything. The bad news is ... everything hurts. BUT the other good news is that I still have the muscle relaxants from when I injured it saving a dumb animal. At least this time I was trying to do something smart. Like change the battery in a life-saving device.

Nate and I are such a pair. I'm pretty certain at this rate, Nick and Maddie will be caring for us by the time we reach 50.

Two Posts in One Day

2008-10-20T18:56:00.000-07:00

I don't ordinarily have time for two posts in one day, but since the last one was short, I couldn't resist.

We encountered some really bad nurses on Wednesday, as I've already complained about. But since some of our best friends are in fact nurses--and I frequently remind them how important their job/ministry is--I thought we should give a little shout out that offers props to the nurses who were awesome this week ... and then mention one who probably shouldn't have worked two night shifts in a row.

Nancy--who promised Nate she'd come back with his meds every 2 hours ... and did.

Ben--who got me a chair/bed (along with a soda) within five minutes of me asking for a place to lay down.

Jackie--who always smiled.

Nameless Nurse With Soul--who hollered cat calls at Nate every time he did a slow lap around the fifth floor with his walker. Things like "Oooh, here comes Big Legs!" and "Run, Forrest! Run!"

Michael the OR nurse--because you couldn't ask to hang out with a nicer guy before going under the knife.

And then there was this one ...

"I'm having a really hard time getting to sleep," said Nate in the middle of the night, lying there in the hospital bed, with tubes coming out of him and about 18 staples in his gut.

"Oh, I hate it when that happens," said the nurse. "This one time, I had insomnia, for like three days in a row."

Hurray!

2008-10-20T15:40:00.000-07:00

Nate is home, minus one gall bladder. Now he and his friend Paul can rest assured that their gall bladders are having fun together somewhere in gall bladder heaven.

On a side note, we realized that Maddie is now the only one in our family not missing any body parts. Let's keep it that way!

Update

2008-10-19T19:03:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to let you know Nate is doing much better. He ended up needing breathing treatments of albuterol and got a pneumonia vaccine, but he has been doing well enough to not need an oxygen mask as much today.

Also, his blood is back to normal, and he walked without a walker several times today, so he may be coming home tomorrow. Hurray!

A doctor took off the bandages this afternoon and the incision is more like 8 inches. Not 9. But I was close. And the one from the aborted lap is about 3 inches.

The man hates narcotics though, they make him sick. So he is off of them and onto motrin already. I'm not sure how he does it, but he ditched them quickly after his hernia repair too. Me, I like to drag things out a little and get a refill or two ...

Thanks for your prayers. He needs them. -Tam

Another Day

2008-10-17T20:29:00.000-07:00

Nate had wonderful nurses today. I believe one or two were mine when I was in the hospital in May. They took good care of him and we were really glad.

His incision hurts as bad as you would imagine a 9-inch incision would hurt (and yes, I looked again today and though I didn't have a tape measure as promised, I still believe it to be that big). However, despite having a fever in the night he managed to walk with a walker two times today.

There is always the risk of pneumonia when someone has a surgery like this and is on their back taking shallow breaths for so long, and this morning they were very concerned about Nate getting this because of some things that had gone on in the night. But he made good enough progress today that he may not need the pneumonia vaccine tomorrow that his doctor would like him to have. Hopefully tonight will be better than last night and this won't be as big a concern tomorrow as it was earlier today.

As far as the pancreatitis goes, Nate's lipase and amylase levels in his blood have continued to come down--these are the indicators of pancreas problems, so this is good news. Normal lipase is below 60 and when Nate was admitted his was well over 5,000.

His pancreas still has to be healed before he can come home though, so we need to pray that those numbers continue to drop (last word was that the lipase was below 1,000). The doctors don't expect him to be coming home for at least another two or three days.

BEST MEDICAL JARGON SO FAR:

CHASING STONES

As in: We are not in the habit of "chasing stones" when we've got you open.

Translation: We only remove the gall stones we can see during surgery, if it's in your bile ducts you're on your own or we'll call the gastro guy to go down your throat.

SLEEPING BOWELS

As in: The pancreatitis and the surgery have put your bowels to sleep.

Translation: Your intestines are paralyzed with fear at the thought of you using them again, and if they can't get over it we'll call the gastro guy to go down your nose or throat ...

GASTRO GUY

As in: The Gastro Guy.

Translation: The doctor who does all the things you can't imagine having done, so hopefully Nate won't have to meet him.

Nate Update

2008-10-16T23:39:00.000-07:00

At noon today, Nate had his gall bladder removed. We were glad to see some familiar nurses in the OR area and joked that we just miss them too much and have to come back every few months to visit.

Unfortunately, Nate had a hernia repair about 11 months ago, and when the doctor attempted to remove the gall bladder laproscopically today there was too much scar tissue in the way, not to mention the large piece of repair mesh itself. So, he had to abort that plan and begin a new incision.

I believe that Nate's main incision is almost 9 inches long. We take our surgical scar competition seriously in this family and I intend to take a tape measure with me tomorrow and come back with an exact report. However, I'm quite certain that with this single surgery Nate has managed to completely outdo me.

Please pray for him, as this will no doubt be an extremely painful recovery and he will not be out of the hospital any time soon.

I'll try to keep you posted.

Sadly, I'm Not the Only One With Defective Parts

2008-10-16T00:18:00.000-07:00

Today we have discovered that Nate has pancreatitis caused by gall stones which have become lodged in his pancreas and are also causing his liver to have problems, and causing him extreme pain.

We left the house here at 11-ish this morning and I am just now returning, having finally seen him into a hospital bed and room. We spent more than 3 hours at urgent care waiting for test results and were then sent by their doctor to the emergency room at the hospital where we arrived with everything they needed--lab work, x-rays--to take the next step, which was to to an abdominal ultrasound "stat". And there was only one other person in the waiting room. A good sign, right?

No. It took nearly two hours to get a physician's assistant to see Nate and give him something for his pain and order the ultrasound. At around 6, I think, the PA told Nate about the ultrasound report and said he would be admitted, to have procedures done tomorrow, and a DOCTOR would be by to see him and take care of all of that "shortly."

At 9:45 we finally saw a real doctor. At 11:30 tonight Nate finally was admitted to a his own room.

To make a very long and frustrating story as short as I can make it, poor Nate has received today, what is possibly the worst nursing care I've ever seen in my life. Terrible, terrible nurses all day long. For twelve hours. And I think to see a real, actual DOCTOR today at Redlands Community your face had to be exploding. I kept telling Nate if his pancreas would explode they'd get us a doctor. He didn't think that was funny.

I can't even quite wrap my brain around how negligent the emergency room staff was tonight to Nate and the elderly woman alone next to us. I have anger issues right now that I will need to repent of later, but more than anything I am frustrated and spent and hungry. (What kind of hospital, I ask you, will only accept CASH in their cafeteria??)

As for poor Nate, he is not likely to be released for some time. He'll probably be there until next week unless he proves to be full of miracles. Tomorrow he will actually see specialists and they will decide how to proceed, but surgery is likely.

He's in a ton of pain, but they have him on something stronger than morphine. He's not allowed to eat. And he's pretty miserable.

Oddly enough ... our friend Paul had his gall bladder out this morning. What are the odds of two old college roommates ending up with this at the exact same time? Really. What are the odds.

Please pray for Paul (I hope he's doing well) and pray for Nate and and I will try to keep you posted about his condition.

Happy Birthday

2008-10-14T16:29:00.001-07:00

From Nate...

Today is Tam's 35th Birthday. Here's what's she's done/doing today...

Slept in
Watched a movie
Went to a masseuse
Lunch at Martha Greens Eatery with Angie and I.
To the Nursery to pick up a Citrus Tree present from the kids and I.
Dinner at the Pasta Laboratory...

I know we haven't updated the blog as much recently but we are still very thankful for your thoughts and prayers. This week, Tam will meet with her reconstructive surgeon with the first time. She has also just started regrow hair which she is obviously delighted about.
Thanks again for your support.
Peace,
Nate

Even So...

2008-09-24T21:02:00.000-07:00

A Nate Post...

We pulled ourselves out of bed on Sunday and went to Church (Yucaipa Christian Church). It was good to see our pastor, hear our good friend Danny Thompson preach and worship together. One of the songs that we sang together was the classic hymn "It is Well With My Soul" by Horatio Spafford in 1879. He penned this song after suffering in ways that I can't even imagine (his son dies, his business burns down and a year later his 4 daughters die when their ship sank at sea). Here's a portion of the song he wrote:

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.

(Refrain:) It is well (it is well),
with my soul (with my soul),
It is well, it is well with my soul.

And Lord haste the day, when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.

I have sung and read the lyrics to this song many times in my life but this week the last verse of this song stood out to me. He essentially is asking God to hurry up and return. He can't wait to see God face to face. Yet the part that grabbed me was the line "Even so, it is well with my soul." I might be missing something or even reading into what he was trying to express but it seems that he is saying something like "I can't wait for the promise of heaven but 'even so' I can find "wellness" here in my relationship with God and others..." He is proclaiming God's goodness in His Kingdom, here and now, even in the midst of a deep pain...a life long pain.

In the past few weeks I have seen THIS T-shirt a couple of times and frankly, it depresses me. Like many I know, for me this was ultimately the goal of my life growing up...to get to heaven. While I might have talked about relationship and being Christ's disciple, it was more about just getting through it all so I can experience heaven. Over the years and study of the Scriptures, I have come to believe that we do have this amazing promise of heaven but Jesus came so that we can experience real life (John 10:10). A life here on earth where we love Him, follow Him and live out this relationship with him now. It's not about "getting off this rock" but experiencing this life that God has set up before us, both the good and difficult experiences. I believe this is what motivated Horatio to say "it is well". God is present. God is complete, whole and is the only one that can bring true wellness to our lives.

I write all of this as a reminder to myself that while this has been a difficult period of our life, I can truly say "it is well with my soul".

Thanks again for your continued prayer, support and care for my amazing wife!

Nate

The Hills Are Alive

2008-09-23T09:05:00.000-07:00

So, it's no secret to those around me that my brain suffered a little from the chemo. And I'm not just talking about the fact that I had to ask Nate what grade our son was in, while filling out forms at the beginning of the school year. Or that I had to ask our friend Danny to "do the math" for me to help me figure out how old same son is, just this past Sunday. But let's face it, while I'd be loathe to admit it to any sexist males, I did lose a few brain cells just giving birth twice.

Thus, these lapses in memory aren't as shocking as they might be if I hadn't given the pharmacy the wrong birthday for my daughter just three years ago. (It's true, I was so rattled when they told me the insurance had given them a different date, I had to look it up in her baby book when I got home, just to be sure who was right and who was wrong. And before you start yelling "early Alzheimer's" at me, I'll have you know many a mother has admitted similar events to me in private--and they shall remain nameless.)

But, back to the topic at hand, what was most disappointing to me about chemo affects was not the memory lapses, but my lack of creativity by the end of chemo. Believe it or not, at the beginning of summer I had visions of writing a book during treatment. (Ha! Can you hear the sound of my fellow chemo-survivors laughing uproariously at this thought?) But not only did typing make me dizzy, I simply had nothing to say.

Life wasn't as funny during the chemo fog. The mysteries of God's power weren't as intriguing. The art of filling a page with Times New Roman print just didn't appeal to me.

But over the last week of my life something has begun to change. Not only did my desire to write return (evidenced by last week's lengthy post), but I suddenly have all these creative thoughts spinning in my head, just dying to get out onto the page (or the web page as the case may be). And besides the toxins slowly leaving my body, I believe I have music to thank for this. With time to drive around and go places, I've had time to listen to music again (and I don't mean Hannah Montana). I mean poetic music that inspires thought on everything from aging to love to war to insecurity ... like John Mayer. Arguably, he is the lyrical genius of my generation. (Haters, just go with me on this one.)

So last week music began to help me get out of my daily "oh, I'm getting over chemo" vibe and it made my world a little bigger, and it was all culminated Friday night when I attended one of the funnest, most emotionally cathartic events I have ever been to ... the Sound of Music Sing-along at the Hollywood Bowl.

It involved watching the movie with 18,000 other people and singing along at the top of our lungs to every song. And, I mean, just look at Maria in this picture. I think that's exactly how my friends and I felt when we were done. It was just bliss. We heckled Rolf. We hissed at the Baroness Schraeder. We yelled at the Nazis, we cheered for Maria ... we even managed to sing along with the Reverend Mother, who is NOT easy to sing along with in that deep, deep operatic voice.

And ever since, I've just been dying to write. I have a creative bug again. The hills are alive and they are in full color.

Superhuman Superhero

2008-09-16T08:53:00.000-07:00

So, it's common comic book lore--excuse me "graphic novel" lore--that superheroes often don't discover their super powers until they are put in situations of extreme danger or come into contact with a toxic chemical ... for example, a large vat of nuclear waste. Then, suddenly an amazing ability shows itself and an ordinary person becomes superhuman. A superhero.

Someone reminded me of this little factoid this summer when I started chemo and we had a good hearty laugh. With toxins coursing through my veins, what would my superability turn out to be?

It wasn't veins as strong as bungee cords--they were blowing left and right by round three and I have phlebitis to remind me of this for days to come. It wasn't a stomach of steel. That revealed itself quickly.

As a matter of fact it wasn't anything of steel. Not nerves of steel--we have a full heart work-up at the hospital to reassure us that, no, I don't have heart problems, just anxiety disorder that shoots my heart rate sky high at any given time of nervousness. And it wasn't an immune system of steel, as I'm still battling a mini-list of minor afflictions.

But perhaps the single physical manifestation of my superhuman strength can be found in an unlikely place. My toes. You see, my hair thinned or fell out completely from my head, arms and legs, but unfortunately I still have the toes of of Hobbit, just as I have since I was 8 years old. (Rest assured, I have been shaving them since I was old enough to use a razor.)

It was these hairy toes that fascinated me this past week while giving myself a pedicure. I mean really, how could my toes be so completely unaffected by chemotherapy, while the rest of me is falling apart?

They are Hobbit toes, of course. That's the answer, in a nut shell. Superhuman Hobbit Toes.

Then, Superhuman Hobbit Toes aside (which will hardly save my life or yours the next time a super villain attacks), was there any spiritual strength revealed by my exposure to toxins? I would like to say that my sense of peace remains intact, but my anxiety and impatience reveals that at times it wavered. My sense of hope, however, did weather the storm.

My hope is that God knows what He is doing with my life. No matter what. And most of the time the peace is there too, just to back it up. And I know that's superhuman, because it's supernatural and it's a gift God has chosen to bless me with in the face of adversity.

Will it help me kill the black widows on the back patio, save me from bad haircuts or make me the star of my own comic book series? Probably not. But it got me through cancer, and action figure or no action figure, that's good enough for me.

(P.S. Pictured above is "Hoth Girl," my superhero alter ego created on line at the beginning of the year. That same day Maddie created her alter ego: "Mrs. Money." Don't ask why. These things just happen at our house.)

Update

2008-09-03T20:33:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to let you know I'm finally trying to get up and around again. The phlebitis I developed in my left arm right before the last round seems to be lessening. I did get oral thrush a third time, but am on medication to fix that now. For the first time in 10 days, I got dressed in "real" clothes and did not nap.

I still have some indigestion issues and don't feel especially strong or fabulous or at all like my normal self, but at least I'm on the upswing.

I'll write more soon. Thanks so much for your prayers and cards and notes.

love, Tam

Milestone Part Deux

2008-08-26T17:55:00.000-07:00

I have been in a blogging slump as the summer wrapped up and this entry will be short as well but I am excited to celebrate with Tam the fact that chemo is done! I am so proud of her. After watching her go through a very painful and difficult process I am amazed that she still manages to be such a great mother, friend and wife.

I have to go make dinner now (mmm...Turkey burgers), but I just wanted to say thank you for all of your prayers and support. Honestly, our family has really felt loved during this and I am very grateful. Continue to keep Tam in your thoughts/prayers as she moves onto the next phase of this process.

Peace,
Nate

A Great Milestone Yesterday

2008-08-26T17:02:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to give a quick update while I'm awake and before my Neulasta shot kicks in, that I was indeed able to have chemo yesterday for the last time. I am thrilled, to say the least. I had a pre-chemo nausea this time and a terrible migraine last night--followed by some insomnia--but am just sleepy today and battling the usual acid reflux.

I'm in high spirits, knowing this is a huge milestone. I figure at some point in the next ten days I'll feel great again and life can go back to normal for a while.

In four weeks I have a check up with my oncologist to talk about the next steps (daily pills and reconstruction and hopefully genetic testing). But I should have a good chunk of time this fall to enjoy being well again before surgeries start.

Thanks for your prayers, good deeds and just plain hanging in there with us. We love you!

My Little Hero

2008-08-20T22:38:00.000-07:00

On Friday night I got out of bed long enough to get up the hill to camp and meet the little girl who had been charming Nate and our staff all week with her cute little pixie hair and smile. Her name is Emily and she has been fighting brain cancer since the fourth grade (she's now a junior higher).

Emily is all aglow because she's finally been given a clean bill of health and her cancer is gone. As I talked to her, I couldn't help but cry. I was feeling so sick (and hot in the cafeteria--notice I took off any head covering!), and it's so hard to imagine a child enduring chemo. Emily, I learned, had done two separate courses of it in the last few years, as well as several brain surgeries with--as she put it so very proudly--one of "the best brain surgeons in the country."

Notice her short hair growing out--about an inch long. She likes to wear it in a little faux-hawk, and Nick and Maddie can't wait for my hair to be that long so I can wear mine just like hers.

I'm really thankful I got to meet her. She is stronger than she will probably ever know. Maybe someday she'll have a little girl of her own, and she'll look back at her childhood illness and she'll be able to appreciate why she made the crazy breast cancer lady cry in the cafeteria.

Please say a prayer for Emily, that she will live to be as cute an old lady as she is a little girl.

Quick Update

2008-08-12T21:03:00.000-07:00

Thank you for your prayers and well wishes. Just wanted to quickly say that I woke up Monday morning feeling fantastic--just in time to put my body through havoc again. Chemo that same day was a success, my nausea has been well under control, and my sister and now my parents have been taking good care of me while Nate has a busy week at camp--where, by the way, he has two junior high campers with cancer this week. One just finished with a two year fight and one still fighting.

Today I had my Neulasta shot and my blood pressure was low, probably from dehydration so I stayed for IV fluids. But I don't always mind, the nurses are so kind and Nurse Candy is back. My sister Deb had the kids with us, since we weren't expecting it to be such a long appointment, and Nick was allowed to come sit with me for a while and see what goes on in the room and how nicely they take care of me. Maddie has a bit of a cold, so we didn't have her come in, but both Nurse Missy and Nurse Candy went out to the waiting room to talk to her and see my sister.

Thanks for your prayers!

Prayers

2008-08-08T21:44:00.000-07:00

Though I have been a hypochondriac for most of my adult life, I have never been as consistently plagued with ailments as I have been since starting chemo. I'm not sure how many people really "do chemo well," but I'm learning, to my dismay, that my body is in sad shape for the job.

The last round went better with the Emend pills to help with the nausea, but within days I developed what it took some time to figure out was a candida infection in my throat that was painful, made eating difficult and caused me to drop a lot of weight. Candida in the throat, for those of you who aren't hypochondriacs or in the medical field, is basically a yeast infection in the throat and mouth, as in that thing babies get called thrush. Yes, thrush, just like babies get.

It's common, I guess, for chemo patients to get this, and is different than some other kinds of mouth afflictions associated with chemo. All I know is, it felt like I was trying to put rocks down my throat when I would drink water, so I'm glad they figured it out (and I have new found sympathy for poor little babies who get this).

But it took some time to figure out this was the problem. On Monday I called to tell the chemo nurses about my then mystery affliction and the response was to keep gargling magic cures (which I knew would never help three inches down my throat) and "come in for three days of IV hydration."

On Monday night, the day before my sister Deb arrived and the day before I was to start the IV therapy, I remember being in total agony all through my neck and throat as I tried to fall asleep. My tonsils felt as big as golf balls (yet had somehow disappeared from sight in my mouth) and I was miserable. So I begged God to please, please, please let Dr. Hilliard make time to actually see me the next day and know exactly how to fix whatever was wrong with my throat when I went in for the hydration IV. I didn't want to have to be a sticky wheel, I was too worn out. I just wanted them to take care of me and I asked God to let it be so.

And then, it wasn't until Tuesday night as I was lying in bed, trying to unwind from all the excitement of seeing my sister again and the crazy day of dr. appointments we had, that I remember the prayer and was able to thank God that without any begging from me, Dr. Hilliard had come immediately to my green lounge chair that afternoon as Nurse Missy (my new favorite--Candy's been on vacation and you snooze, you lose, Candy) hooked up my fluid IV. Dr. Hilliard looked down my throat, pronounced it candida/thrush and wrote a prescription (thank you again, God, a real medication to cure it!), all within just minutes of my arrival.

I'm embarrassed I'd almost forgotten that I had asked God for all those specific things and they happened effortlessly. God doesn't always give me what I want, but on Tuesday he did it in spades.

I'm so grateful that the medicine is working--and I've enjoyed my sister so much--but it's also been a week of constant physical ailments. Though I'm slowly eating normally again, I "blew" two veins in my left hand before they found a good one on my right on Wednesday--which led to them leaving that IV port in overnight--all bandaged up to keep it clean and ready for the next appointment. Then Wednesday evening, Thursday evening and again tonight I've had terribly painful migraines that seem to get worse each time. To top it off, last night I was up until 3 a.m. with intestinal issues, completely exhausted--I literally put a chair in front of the porcelain throne (trying to describe this delicately) so as to rest my head on something, as I didn't have the strength to even sit up straight and keep my eyes open during the ordeal.

The "ordeal" set my weight back again--it's magical how easy it is to lose weight when it's the last thing your body needs. Thankfully, this morning Nate took the kids to Forest Home with him mid-morning and I was able to go back to bed. I thought I'd sleep for an hour or two to catch up a bit ... then woke up at 3:30 wondering how I could possibly have slept away the entire day.

And now tonight another migraine, which I finally broke out the narcotics for (thus the writing--heavy duty painkillers make me want to chatter, and, hey, it worked for Poe).

To be certain, the week wasn't all bad, and I've had some great times with my sister and spent some time with friends on Thursday. But I'm truly weary of the afflictions, and suddenly being halfway through isn't feeling like much of an accomplishment. The glass feels half empty instead of half full.

So ... the point of this long entry--other than to be pitiful--is to ask for your prayers that I will feel good again by Sunday, have excellent results from my blood work on Monday, and be able to continue with my THIRD round of chemo on Monday afternoon, going into it healthy and rested.

I don't want to have it postponed. And I also want to feel as good as possible going into it. And after this week I know God can certainly answer my desperate prayers, BUT I also know--as someone whose prayers are, more often than not, answered differently than I'd hoped--that whatever happens it will be all right. God works things together for good. If it's postponed, it will mean I'll be able to enjoy my time left with my sister instead of using her as a nurse, so it won't be the end of the world.

But, Lord, if I could have it my way, I really really want to get this
third milestone over with. So please let it be so. AMEN.
Oh, and if this post makes no sense, I blame it entirely on
the narcotics. - Tam

Update on Chemo Part Deux

2008-08-02T08:26:00.001-07:00

As I've been pretty sick, the timeline here on the blog is a bit messed up. I actually shaved my head on July 22nd and had my second round of chemo on July 28th, about five days ago.

Thanks to the Neupagin shots last week, my white blood cell count was nice and high this time around, and the day after chemo I was given a single shot of Neulasta to try to get my count to not "bottom out" this time around. Here's to hoping that it works.

Taking the Emend before chemo really helped, and I was able to keep food down this time around. I've still been nauseated and haven't eaten much, but it's been better. The Neulasta was pretty painful, I felt like my entire upper body was bruised for about 48 hours--sort of a switch from the "bone pain" of Neupagin, but my mom and dad were in town and took care of me, which was really helpful. I spent an entire day literally just laying in bed with my eyes closed, not even really sleeping much.

I have felt weaker this time around. Like I need about four cups of coffee. (If only my stomach could handle it!) And I have the bad acid reflux and car sickness again. It's a whole bowl of fun, really, this chemo stuff. But last time, right around day seven I felt like a new woman and I'm hoping the same will happen this time.

Yesterday I began to feel the mental pain of knowing this is a chemical inside me doing this to me, not a virus or a baby or a little flu. Then, of course, my anxiety kicked in, and I just began to feel like I wanted this stuff out of me. I was claustrophobic in my own skin and had a bit of an emotional breakdown. If I'd had access to a blood transfusion, I'm telling you, I would have hooked up the needles myself and exchanged this blood for new stuff in a heart beat. (Was that a pun?)

I detest doing this, but I'm so grateful when I realize I only have to do it four times (and I'm half done!). I can't fathom how people do this for six months or even a year on end. The very first time around, as Nurse Candy was setting up my IV, I remember seeing a frail old woman on the other side of the room wiping her tears as she sat in her chemo chair getting hooked up to her IV.

It was really hard to look at her, because I remember thinking that it probably wasn't physical pain making her cry--IVs aren't fun, but let's face it they aren't the end of the world if you've already had cancer. So I suspected it was just the emotional turmoil of sitting yourself down and submitting your body to the effects of the chemo all over again, knowing exactly what's coming after they bandage your hand and send you home, and knowing exactly how many more times you'll have to do it after that.

I felt a little guilty, with my smile, all my hair and my "I can get through this" happy attitude, across the room. I knew I was just a rookie that day, and that made all the difference.

But I am a rookie no more, and I feel her pain.

Two down. Two more to go.

The Removal of the Hair

2008-08-01T14:40:00.000-07:00

As promised here are two pictures from the night we threw a party and cut off my long hair for Locks of Love--oh, and because it was falling out on accounta' the chemo.

Someone (Angie?) had the great idea of cutting and shaving my hair into a variety of styles as we went. So there was Tam with Dumb and Dumber bangs (very bad idea, Angie). Tam with the Punk Rock Mohawk (this wasn't that bad, actually). And finally, Tam with no hair. G.I. Jane Tam.

Actually, a week later, to see this picture of me, it looks like I had a lot of hair, even shaved. Now, I'm a little bit more in the Michael Stipe circa the '90s or Tom Hanks at the end of Philedelphia phase of hair loss. It's not really very cute anymore. But it was fun while it lasted, and we had a great party. There were flowers, Root Beers, chips ... and hair everywhere.

Thanks, Johnny and Angie and Steph and all our Creekers for celebrating with us.

A Pain in the Chest

2008-07-24T21:24:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to give a quick update, as some of you may have heard that I was in the hospital overnight. I started out Wednesday morning with chest pain and when my friend Diana took me for my Neupagin shot the nurses told me my vitals were fine, but the protocol was: chest pain = trip to the emergency room.

Me: But I'm a total hypochondriac. I'm sure it's nothing.
Nurse Candy: Well, you are a hypochondriac ... But you also have a medication in your system that poses a serious threat to your heart, so it's okay to be a hypochondriac right now.

And this is why we love Nurse Candy.

I convinced them all I was fine and made Diana take me shopping and we ate and I felt fine, the chest pain just sort of came and went and didn't seem to affect my breathing at all. It was a lovely morning (thank you, Diana!), and though Diana offered a million times to drive me to the ER, I refused to go.

But in the afternoon my muscle aches kicked in from the shot and suddenly my chest got tight and my breathing was "labored." The Forest Home RN checked me out and thought my left lung didn't sound right and that my heart rate was a little high. So I finally gave in and went to the ER at Redlands Community and they got me in quite quickly. Paramedics hooked me up to a million things and they began to run blood tests, did a chest x-ray on me while I lay in the bed, and gave me baby aspirin, some spray under my tongue a few times and then a series of three injections until they got my heart rate down from 115 to 65. (I got a taste of what my father has experienced at his trips to the ER for his hard-working heart! I would like to say that my bald head helped get me in so quickly ... but I don't think his bald head worked the same for him at his first go round!)

In the end, there were no signs of a heart attack from the blood work, chest x-ray was normal, but they wanted to keep me for observation overnight and do a stress test with a cardiologist. So I was moved to a room upstairs. My heart rate crept back up, but with some earplugs from Nate I had a pretty restful night at the hospital. They woke me up every four hours for vitals, blood and and an EKG and I'd just go right back to sleep, even hooked up to all those machines. (I was that tired!)

To make a long story short, my stress test and heart ultrasound showed a healthy heart and the conclusion was that the Adriamycin is not giving me heart trouble, I simply have a problem with anxiety (this was not news by any stretch of the imagination) and have some nerve issues and aches still from my surgery that make things worse and cause me to freak out and think something is wrong and my heart rate just goes up, up, up ...

It's been an eventful week, there is more to tell--yes, I have let it slip that I'm now bald!--but I'll save it for later. Just wanted to let you all know I slept well at the hospital, I'm fine, I'm out and at home and will do my best to keep my heart calm.

Because there's so little for me to stress about, really.

Flunking Chemo

2008-07-22T18:23:00.000-07:00

These are white blood cells. These are things that Tam doesn't have in abundance these days.

So, I went in for chemo this morning and was told that my white blood cell count is ridiculously low and I can't have chemo again until it goes up. We dejectedly went to the chemo lab where I was given a shot of the magic white-blood-cell-making drug Neupagin (same thing they gave me for three days after chemo), and I'll have to have it again tomorrow and the day after.

There is a chance we can do chemo on Thursday, but this is a long shot. My doctor didn't think I'd be ready until Monday and maybe even not then. The next time I have chemo he said I'll be getting the super-strength version of the drug to kick up the white blood cells, which is Neulasta.

It was Nurse Candy's birthday and the chemo room was all decked out for a tropical party and we just sat, sadly and had our shot. Don't worry, the nurses said, you'll have chemo again soon.

My friend Angie pointed out later that if those words are comforting, my life is really in the crapper.

I am a round one chemo flunkie, but hopefully I can catch up soon.

On the upside, I swallowed a $150 pill this morning in anticipation of chemo. (Good thing PacificCare paid for it and not me.) Lesson learned: Don't take the pill until the doctor has read your blood work.

Also on the upside, I don't have to be super sick today. The side effects of the Neupagin are bone and joint pain (it's making my bone marrow work overtime, I guess), and feeling a bit like I have the flu--which are not fun, but not nearly as bad as some other things.

Here's to getting the white blood cells to multiply by Thursday!

Chemo Lessons

2008-07-18T11:56:00.000-07:00

So, I'm super happy to report that I am still feeling quite good since Wednesday of this week, which hopefully means I have another three nice days to enjoy before Round Two begins on Tuesday morning.

But to get to the point of this lengthy blog entry, I have always said--well, have said for the last three years anyhow--that you can learn a lot sitting in the waiting room of the chemo lab. Several times while sitting and waiting to see Dr. Hilliard in the past I would write down what people would say coming in or out of the ominous chemo door, in wheel chairs or with walkers, bald or be-wigged (yes, I just made that up).

People going through chemo seem to each live in their own realities, some with a great deal of hope despite how horrible their situation appears to a casual observer, and others seem desperate and sad--you just know either they have reached the end of their life or maybe just the end of their strength.

And last Wednesday Nate and I got to go beyond the chemo door and sit in the chairs--his, metal and rather uncomfortable, mine, a big green plastic recliner. Nurse Candy sat with us and explained a million things we didn't know--like that there are thousands of different chemo regimens, built from dozens if not hundreds of different chemo medications and doses and rounds, and all with their own side effects (i.e., not all chemo drugs cause complete hair loss). I'm not sure why I would have thought that all chemo is alike, but for some reason I think I did.

Anyway, my particular chemo drugs are common for my breast cancer and age. They are referred to in chemo circles as "AC," which is short for Adriamycin and Cytoxan. The Cytoxin and it's side effects aren't so bad--well, mostly because we're done having children. If we still wanted babies of our own, we'd be in trouble with Cytoxin because it might never happen. (Not to worry, as the Rices will tell anyone who asks: we've already been "spayed and neutered.")

Nurse Candy gave me the clear Cytoxin medication in a nice little IV fluid bag, along with an anti-nausea drip, and it could have been saline for all I knew at the time. Pretty painless (going in, anyway).

The Adriamycin however, is a whole other story. Nurse Candy suits up completely to administer this (or "push" it, as they say) by hand. It's a bright red fluid. I asked if they dye it that color for the same reason people color household cleaners that are toxic and she said yes. (??!?) It's an extremely toxic "vesicant" drug. (We learned this particular class of drugs blister and corrode tissue. An example of a different vesicant I looked up later is Mustard Gas--these are interesting things to be aware of, as a drug is being pushed in your vein.)

Nurse Candy pushes Adriamycin by hand, because she has to watch and be sure it is always going into the vein and bloodstream. If something goes wrong with the IV and the Adriamycin leaks outside the vein into the surrounding tissue under my skin, a doctor must come immediately and get the Adriamycin out of the tissue by flushing it with saline. During this process, I sucked on ice and popsicles to slow the flow of blood in my mouth and prevent mouth sores from developing--evidently a problem with Adriamycin.

Adriamycin is, needless to say, a powerful drug. I'm no scientist, so I don't know how it manages to find cancer cells and destroy them, but it does. If there are any cancer cells left hiding in my body it will seek them out and destroy them--along with other fast-growing cells, which is why Adriamycin will cause "complete hair loss," nausea, etc.

Nurse Candy did lecture us about the dangers of Adriamycin, but I think perhaps if she knew what a total hypochondriac I am, she might not have been so descriptive. As it turns out, I'm not so crazy to wonder how a drug so toxic can be a good thing in my veins--it eats platelets, red blood cells, white blood cells, etc., indiscriminately and can cause heart damage.

Nurse Candy: If you have chest pain at all or an irregular heart beat, you need to call 911. Don't mess around. Does the camp have a defibrillator?

Nate: Yes. (Trying to tell her with his eyes, that this is the last thing a woman like me needs to know.)

Me: (Eyes wide.) But I have a problem with anxiety and get chest pain all the time. And I have heart palpitations too. How will I know the difference between anxiety and heart palpitations ... and a heart attack?

(long awkward pause)

Nurse Candy: I don't know.

So Adriamycin has given me a whole new disease to obsess over: heart disease. Which also runs in my family. So this is good. (Mom and Dad, please don't actually worry. I'm young and in good health. [Is that weird to say when you were just diagnosed with cancer?] It's not likely I will have heart damage.)

And this is what my chemo time looks like. It takes about an hour and a half to two hours to complete. Then for three days afterward I have to go back in and get injections in my arm to boost my white blood cell count. (I can't recall the name of the drug. Probably because it's not a freakish vesicant.)

With Round One, as you may have noticed in the blog, I became really ill. Like, old-fashioned-before-good-anti-nausea-meds-were-invented chemo ill. But they tell me that with the right anti-nause drugs now, it's possible Round Two will go smoother--as in, maybe I won't lose 5 pounds like I did with Round One.

But mostly, regarding my time in the chemo room, I have to say that it gives me perspective. One day (day 2, when I had to sit for an IV to stop my vomiting and rehydrate me), I noticed I was probably the only patient in the room younger than 60. I don't know what kinds of cancer the others had, but I can tell you that chemo is probably harder on their health than it is on mine. Another day I overheard some conversations and realized that some of the patients still had tumors inside--maybe inoperable, for all I know.

All this to say, sometimes being in the chemo room is like walking through the valley of the shadow of death. Not that I am near death myself, but that I am walking in close proximity to those who are, and it gives me perspective that helped when the misery of chemo kicked in and is helping as I anticipate Round Two.

Nobody throw my bachelors degree at me, I know I'm not properly expositing Psalm 23, but it's a poem after all, and what do we do with poetry but use it's vivid imagery out of context to make sense of feelings that are otherwise beyond description. (This I learned in life, not college.)

Like the Psalmist, I feel like I'm walking through the valley of the shadow of death.

I fear no evil--well okay, maybe a heart attack or two.

And God is with me.

Hungry

2008-07-16T21:39:00.000-07:00

Today it finally happened. I got hungry, and I ate, and I didn't once feel it threatening to come back up.

So, I think I've turned a corner for round one. There is much to say, but until today typing on the computer actually made me dizzy and sick. In the days ahead I hope to catch up more on the blog, but wanted you to know that I'm feeling pretty good. Still tired and not quite normal, but hopefully the next six days until round two will be good.

Thank you for your prayers! Thank you to those who mowed our lawn and to those who cleaned our house! We are very, very grateful! It was a blessing to come home to tonight from camp.

love, Tam

Round one Nate update

2008-07-12T22:08:00.000-07:00

I am about to go to bed but I wanted to write and say thanks for praying for us. This week has been the roughest so far. The chemo treatment wiped Tam out and has kept her in bed for the past 4 days. She was prescribed an anti-nausea medication that didn't work well the first day after her chemo treatment. They then prescribed her with the best anti-nausea medication available but the downside is the $125 per pill price tag. While our insurance denied it, we're hoping that we can make an appeal to reduce the cost. The good news was that it did reduce the nausea a bit on Thursday. We're hoping that she will start to feel better this week before she has to start the process all over again the following week.
Again, thanks for you thoughts and prayers.
Peace,
Nate

Round One, Take One

2008-07-09T18:26:00.000-07:00

Well, one down. Four to go.

I don't have to have chemo again tomorrow, that was the nurse's mistake (glad the chemo nurses knew better!). But I do have to go back in tomorrow, Friday and Saturday for injections that will help my white blood cell count.

It went smoothly and I didn't really get very sick until after my nap. I was queasy after the treatment so I took the anti-nausea meds. But I woke up from my nap feeling like I was in my first trimester growing a baby inside. The room was spinning, my head hurt and I felt like I was going to lose my lunch. It was just like morning sickness all over again.

I hung in there for a while but have been throwing up the last hour. I'm trying to distract myself and watch funny TV shows. Or pretend that I really am just pregnant ... with toxins.

Maddie came home a little while ago with our friend L.J., who is taking care of the kids this summer and working for Nate. When I was explaining to L.J. that I woke up from my nap feeling pregnant, Maddie nodded in sympathy: "Sometimes I wake up feeling like I'm pregnant too."

I told you chemo would be a "we" thing.

P.S. to Update

2008-07-07T22:54:00.000-07:00

Lots have asked, so I should clarify. My chemo will all be done on an outpatient basis from a chemo center literally across the waiting room from my oncologist's office out at the Beaver Medical Center in Highland. So the good news is I don't have to be hospitalized for this. The bad news is that we'll be doing a lot of driving. Highland is about 25 minutes away. Hurray for the dirt cheap gas and long drives when you are nauseated, right?

Update

2008-07-07T19:16:00.000-07:00

Wanted to let you know we got our Oncotype Dx test results today and I will be starting chemo on Wednesday (as in the day after tomorrow). The good news is that while my score indicated I am very likely to benefit from having chemo (thus the need to have it), the likelihood of my cancer recurring is only slightly higher than the average for someone with my type of breast cancer. And, as far as the Oncotype Dx score, I was on the low end of the "intermediate risk" range--not as great as being in the "low risk" range, but certainly much better than being at "high risk" for recurrence. It was a relief in that the results were clear ... there was no difficult decisions to make about having or not having chemo, it was easy to see the need; and also a relief in that the test did not come back indicating I have some horribly aggressive cancer that will be difficult to beat.

So, for that, we are really, really grateful. Sure, things could be better, but they could also be much, much worse.

That is the big news this week. Finally, some answers!

From what we understand, I'll have an hour and a half of intravenous chemo at 11 on Wednesday and again on Thursday, possibly for longer, then injections to increase my white blood cell count for three consecutive days after. Then I get some time to recuperate before the next round starts 2 weeks after the first. I'll do four rounds, which means I'll be done toward the end of August.

We're anxious to begin and get it over with. Our staff was chuckling with me tonight that I keep saying "we're" having chemo--when in actuality only "I" am having a needle stuck in my arm. But the truth is, this is something that our whole family will experience, our close friends, and even those on our staff here at camp. So it really does seem like a "we" thing. I don't feel alone in this.

But ask me again on Wednesday afternoon after round one begins. I may tell you a different story.

Just in Case You Were Wondering ...

2008-07-04T12:36:00.000-07:00

Just in case you were wondering if I've heard any news (i.e. the oncotype test results) in the last week since I posted, fear not. You've missed nothing. I wouldn't leave you out of the loop.

And if you're wondering why we haven't blogged much or been calling or writing much, it's because this is very hard and there isn't really anything to say on the subject, other than what we have already said.

But we hope that next week will hold some answers, I have the lab's promise on that. So we'll keep you posted.

Not Any Time Soon

2008-06-27T13:01:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to give a quick update that I spoke with a nice person at Genomic Health this morning after getting a "not yet" again from my doctor's office. Turns out they didn't even begin the testing process until the 25th when they received my pathology specimen.

But I was assured that they will let me know as soon as my doctor has been sent my results. They estimate any time between next Wednesday and the following Wednesday.

Hmmmm. Tick-tick-tick ...

Not going to hold my breath.

Me. In Captivity.

2008-06-26T19:30:00.000-07:00

I probably should have posted this earlier in the week to avoid the natural, totally understandable and yet salt-in-my-wound questions about our test results this week. Regarding what we've heard about the Oncotype DX test, the answer is, I regret to say: NOTHING. Absolutely nothing.

Yet another oncology appointment was canceled this week because there was no news to give me about my results. There was simply no point in going and paying for an office visit, because the results weren't finished yet.

I'm actually afraid to look back at my calendar and see how long it's been. Has it been three weeks since the test was first ordered? Four? I'm fairly certain the entire month of June has passed us by.

The last time I bugged my oncologist's nurse was on Monday and she said maybe we'd know something by Friday and that she'd call when the results came in. Well, Friday will be tomorrow and it has taken all my will and self-control to not call her "just to check in" this week. In the morning I will wait until the office opens, call her and--should she have no news, because Lord knows anything is possible--try not to let what's inside me escape and end up acting like the girl in this picture while on the phone with her.

I may, however, hang up and then act like this.

I keep telling myself it's better this way. God has a plan. He's in control. If I do have to have chemo, think of all I've accomplished during this time in which I might otherwise have been sick. The kids have finished school, we've moved in up at camp, and ... well, that's about it. Because I feel stuck. Frozen. Unable to plan my summer or prepare for the next step, because I don't know what it will be. I'm paralyzed.

And I've been pretty calm about it up until now. But I had a little too much coffee this afternoon, and it pushed my adrenaline and sanity over the edge. I feel the need to crawl out of my skin and scream like no child has ever screamed before. Play dead weight on the floor. Kick everything my feet can reach.

But I won't. Because it won't do any good. And it won't make those brilliant (but let's face it, slow-as-molasses) scientists in Redwood City, Calif., work any faster.

In fact, I blame my near-tantrum-inside state on those smarty-pants Genomic Health people with their expensive microscopes, spotless lab coats, fancy degrees and life-saving research grants. It's true what they tell nerds in high school--you know, that someday they'll control the world. If you ask me, they do; because let's face it, they've been holding me hostage for weeks now.

Balance

2008-06-20T23:08:00.000-07:00

For the last month and a half I have been trying to maintain balance in my full time position as a director of a camp for middle schoolers at Forest Home and be a husband and father. I didn't feel like I had tilted the scales to far up or down until orientation started 2 weeks ago.

As I write this, our first week of camp is coming to a close (9 more to go) and while it was a wonderful experience, I am looking forward to spending more time with my family. I am fortunate to have an amazing staff that I can trust and a boss that works hard at keeping me in balance.

So, I'm going to tip the scales again in the other direction this week to balance things out, see a movie with my kids and enjoy a glass of wine with Tam!

Clocks

2008-06-17T10:42:00.000-07:00

Last night I found out that it will still be at least another week before I get more answers about whether or not I'll be having chemo this summer. The test on my tumor slides is going through--for this we're really thankful--the trouble is that it's just now going through. So our appointment has been postponed until the 24th.

As I sit here typing instead of waiting in Dr. Hilliard's office for answers, as I had hoped, I have to admit that lately I feel like all I do is WAIT. I feel permanently stuck in--thank you, Marlon--information purgatory. So far, each answer that comes (because they do eventually come) seems to give way to another season of waiting.

I try to count each day of waiting on this test as a blessing. After all, suppose I do have chemo. Then this is one more day that I have to recover from surgery and enjoy my long hair. Suppose I don't have to have chemo. Then perhaps I'm one day closer to my reconstruction surgeries. But there are days--today among them--when waiting just feels very, very old. I simply want to get on with my life already.

As a person who sees God's providence all around and knows how often I look back on my times of impatience and see that it was not wasted time, but instead was part of His greater plan, I can say with great confidence that I'm sure this won't feel like wasted time once I have the answers I seek and life truly begins to move on.

Today, though, it's not so easy to see this time as a blessing, and this morning I was--as it happens--reminded of the lines in one of my favorite Coldplay songs. (Well, let's face it, every Coldplay song is my favorite Coldplay song.) In their song titled "Clocks" Chris Martin sings:

Confusion never stops closing walls and ticking clocks.

And this so aptly describes my feelings today, not to mention that Martin later questions in the song whether he's part of the cure or part of the disease--how apropos is that? Granted, I don't really understand what the rest of the song is about. (Maybe like me you thought for years that he was singing about "cold fusion" and not "confusion." I know ... makes a ton more sense now--or not.) But he really sums up in those few lines how I feel today about my continuing state of limbo and uncertainty about chemo.

Is it really June 17th? Has it really been nearly five weeks since my surgery, as my mother reminded me last night? My world may seem stuck in a moment, but the little hand and the big hand keep going round and round.

And they never stop. And today they feel as loud as bells.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock ...

Thank You! Thank You!

2008-06-17T10:39:00.000-07:00

With Great Thanks to the Person (or People)

Who Mowed Our Lawn on Saturday

While We Were at Paul and Alyssa's Wedding.

God Bless You!

Motherhood Doesn't Stop for Cancer

2008-06-11T10:37:00.000-07:00

from Tam

As I'm sure every parent has figured out at some point in their children's lives, parenting doesn't stop. For anything. It doesn't stop for the phone call from an old friend, who you'd just really love to talk to, if only your children would stop bugging you about dinner. It doesn't stop for the mailman who comes to the door right as your child is throwing a fit about not being able to play with a friend. (Honestly, Sir, I'm not a bad mother, though it may seem that way every time you come to my door--especially the times my daughter answers in nothing but her panties.) And certainly, it doesn't stop for cancer.

I figured this out over the past weekend, when Nate was working hard at Forest Home and I was pretty much alone with my children for just enough time to make me lose my mind. It started Friday night when the kids and I got home from a fun dinner up the hill. Nick really wanted his long hair trimmed, and I couldn't blame him. It was in his eyes, it was down his neck, it was way too long and I'd been dying to give it a trim, and he had a birthday party to attend the next day. So, at what would typically have been the kids' bedtime, I sat Nick up in the kitchen and put on a movie for the kids and started cutting his beautiful wavy hair.

ONE hour in--keep in mind that I was only 3 weeks post-double-mastectomy--there were piles of hair all over the floor and Nick had a beautiful, beautiful haircut. For a girl. Which he knew instantly the moment I finished. "Why does it look like girls' hair?" he cried, and Maddie was equally horrified. "Nick looks like a girl," she whispered when he was out of earshot. "What are you going to do?" Well, at that point I ditched the scissors and got out the clippers.

TWO hours in, there were more piles of hair all over the floor, all over me and all over Nick, but for some reason we still didn't have it right. Nick desperately wanted to be able to do a faux-hawk and it just wasn't happening. There was still too much hair on top, but I was terrified to cut any more (and, let's face it, my arms and my chest were killing me).

At this point, Nick ran to his bed, pulled the covers over his head and started crying because he was afraid he was hideous, he missed his long hair and he was terrified kids at school would "point and laugh" at him. I realized even then, that it was a classic mother-child moment, only I'm pretty sure this usually happens with girls and not boys. So, feeling horrible, I tried to console him with promises of Fantastic Sams first thing in the morning.

Then Maddie came running in with a black leather necklace she had made for him--I had told her to stop being horrified by his hair and start cheering him up. Nick peeked out from the covers and looked at it, first with a little enthusiasm and then with growing dismay. "Maddie, where did you get this stuff? Did you get this off my desk? Maddie! You used my stuff!"

"It's okay, Nick," I said quickly. "You can wear it tonight and if you need to take it apart tomorrow and use the pieces, you can."

He was satisfied, but Maddie ran off. It was after ten and pushing eleven. I followed her to her room, where she was now under her covers and sobbing, because she didn't want Nick to take apart the necklace she made for him. About the time I was ready to completely lose my mind, Nick came in and promised he would never take it apart. Then, after about a half hour of more drama of other sorts, they finally went to bed.

In the morning, we got ready quickly and drove off to Fantastic Sams. I had abandoned my post-mastectomy uniform of a tanktop and short-sleeved hoodie, thinking I could actually pull off a cute little smocked number from my Hawaii vacation. I put my hair in a hat, washed my face and off we went. Once at FS, a beautiful young woman who looked exactly like Zooey Daschanel, only even more cute (if that's possible), began to fix the mess I had made of my son's hair--after a very embarrassing explanation from me, his clueless mother.

I walked over to a chair to watch and looked in the mirror as I passed--you can't get away from mirrors in those awful places and the lighting is atrocious. And I realized that, no, unfortunately I really couldn't pull off that smocked shirt. My chest was concave and deformed, with my crooked sternum and "scraped to the bone" underarm actually highlighted by the smocking. And to top it all off, I looked about 45, trying to dress 25. (No offense to my over-40 readers, but when you are 34, this is not a good thing.)

I was close to tears at the sight of myself in contrast to that beautiful girl fixing my boy's hair, but we had to stop at two more stores for hair gel (remember, faux-hawk time) and presents for birthday parties both kids had later that day. And the whole time I'm feeling terrible for what I did to Nick's hair, terrible for how I looked in public, terrible for all of it.

I'd like to say it stopped there, but unfortunately there was one last humiliation of the day. I helped Maddie dress for the birthday party she was going to, and she looked so cute in her high pony tail, black High School Musical t-shirt, black armband, shorts and flip flops. But when I dropped her off, I realized that all the other girls were wearing sweet, flowery summer dresses.

I could see it registering on Maddie's face that she had come dressed as Avril Lavigne and the other girls were ready for tea and crumpets, but she held it together like a trooper, and so I got out of there as fast as I could, before she changed her mind.

When I finally got to be alone at home, with both children at their separate slumber parties (thank God), I was overwhelmed with how bad I felt, how much my body hurt and really sad that Nate--through no fault of his own, it's just one of the most important weeks of his year, given his profession--hadn't been around to stop me from any of it. To intervene when I decided it would be a good idea to cut Nick's hair at 9 o'clock at night three weeks after a bilateral mastectomy, or leave the house in a tight shirt pre-reconstruction with no prosthesis, or let Maddie dress like a rocker for a little girl's birthday party. Where was my brain and why was I such a terrible mother?

So I took to my bed. For the rest of the day. And mourned the temporary loss of Nate and the horrific last 24 hours and my sore, sore body from the marathon haircut fiasco. I couldn't even laugh about it, I was just a mess of tears.

And then, the next morning, with both kids still away I watched a little movie--which shall remain nameless--about a very dysfunctional family. In one scene that I'll never forget, one of the relatives in the family, played by Ray Ramano from Everybody Loves Raymond, is driving in the car to his mother's house after the death of his father, and in the back seat are his two bratty (this can't be overstated) and obnoxious pre-pubescent twin boys. After they mouth off to him about something completely inappropriate, Ray screams at them in total exasperation and desperation: "This is why your mother left us!"

Bratty Twin #1 is unfazed: "Our mother was a hag!"

Bratty Twin #2 doesn't skip a beat: "I've seen better moms on TV!"

And at this point I finally laughed, and I laughed until I cried, because I, too, have seen better moms on TV. I think we've all, unfortunately for our children, seen better moms on TV. And cancer neither negates the need to be a good mother, nor contributes positively to the cause, so my kids are stuck with me the way I am right now.

But the upside is I'm still around. I'm flawed, I'm sick, and I do stupid things without thinking when Nate is not around to stop me. But I'm here.

And that's more than I can say for the moms on TV, so ... sorry, Nick and Maddie, this is as good as it gets.

Lucky, lucky you.

Good Doctors, Good Day

2008-06-03T18:21:00.000-07:00

from Tam

Over the last couple of days we've had some amazing developments.

First, I had the privelege of speaking personally over the phone to Dr. Susan Love on Sunday, thanks to my friend Nancy who frankly just knows people ... and also knows people who know people (thank you, Nancita!).

I had almost a half hour with the good Dr. Love, where she explained a lot of things to me, gave me advice, told me what to ask my doctor, etc. She seemed to agree with everything my doctor had planned, except for radiation, which she said did not seem necessary. Her counsel was chemo and hormone therapy.

But she also suggested that we seek a test called Oncotype DX which would help our doctor determine more scientifically what my particular cancer requires--rather than basing the decisions on statistics, as women usually have to do. But Dr. Love also warned me that it's an expensive, brand new technology that my insurance might not be able to give me.

Today we saw my oncologist for the first time since surgery--we had only talked on the phone once since then. We let him say his peace before even mentioning Dr. Love, and we were amazed that what he had planned for me was precisely what she had recommended, right down to trying to get the Oncotype DX test before starting chemo. Surprisingly, he has changed his mind about radiation and sees no need for it at this point, which is a huge relief on many levels.

We have found that the decisions to make regarding treatment are hard ones. Only those faced with these similar risks and choices know the tremendous weight it is to decide and pretend to know what only God actually knows. So to have our wonderful, but "garden variety," HMO oncologist give us the precise advice of the leading breast cancer researcher gave us tremendous peace. We feel a weight has been lifted.

We will now wait and give him time to fight our insurance for the test--which requires nothing of me, it's all done with my tumor slides (hence the lovely picture here). We will wait and see what transpires and not begin chemo just yet.

Dr. Love assured me on Sunday there was time to wait for this test and even told me if she could sell me life insurance she would. Such encouraging words from an expert, reminded me of the time the famous pediatrician Dr. William Sears pronounced our newborn Nick to be a "perfect baby." (Let's not dwell on whether or not he was right, let's just go with this.)

As for our oncologist, Dr. Hilliard, he didn't skip a beat when I mentioned talking to Dr. Love. That's just how he is. (Greg & Julie, am I right or am I right?) I don't think he even blinked, but I'm sure it gave him pleasure to hear she had given me identical advice. And in closing, I have to add that after reading my pathology report again out loud, our oncologist expressed great relief that I opted on my own with my surgeon Dr. Basinger for a double mastectomy.

I won't bore you with the pathology report details, I'll just let Dr. Hilliard's words sum it up:

"You know, Tamara, now that we can see what was going on inside you, I'm really relieved you decided to have a double mastectomy. These breasts were
just CRUMMY and we'll all sleep better at night now."

Dr. Hilliard, truer words were never spoken. We might as well have named the blog They'reBothDefective.com.

Today was a good day.

JOB'S FRIENDS: Seriously. He needed new ones.

2008-05-31T09:29:00.000-07:00

from Tam

Okay, so it's been a week since I blogged. For a while it seemed I had nothing more to say. But then I realized that the problem is actually that I have too much to say. And like Jenny in that unforgettable scene in Forest Gump, weeping with rocks in her hands as she hurls them at her old run-down home--you know that scene--and Forest comments innocently that sometimes there just aren't enough rocks, I feel like sometimes ... there just aren't enough words.

As I write this, I realize this is the first time I've cried in more than two weeks. But sometimes it's good to cry. When I was younger I never wanted anyone to see me cry, not ever. And then I had babies and suddenly I was crying at commercials and the nightly news. So you would think that my life right now would have more tears, but really they have been few.

And I think, going back to the point of this little blog entry, it is because I not only have God--as Job in the Bible surely did--but I have good friends and family who have made this experience an oddly peaceful one. Every time I think I have learned what it is to be full of compassion, God allows another experience that enlightens me even more and shows me that I still have much to learn about mercy and love.

This time around, it is "gifting" that I have learned. And not just big gifts--you big gifters know who you are!--but everything right down to a simple card signed only with a name. I think in the past I have not given enough thought to doing these things for others, even though I have learned to pray for them and learned to listen to them and appreciate their sadness without judgment. Somehow, sending a card has always seemed like too little a gesture, and often money has not been there to shower gifts as I would like. So sometimes in my quandary I have done nothing. And let friends go through terrible things without a tangible gesture from me that I care.

But I'm learning that all the things people have done for me, from simply signing a card to sending a giant "cookie bouquet" has brightened each and every day. In fact, I don't think a day has gone by that something has not come to my door or my mailbox from someone, from big gestures to big-hearted gestures.

In my sometimes medicated state, I have forgotten certain details--though I'm trying my hardest to catch up on thank you notes. In fact, just two days ago I pulled an Anne Lamott book out of my car. I stared at it and realized I had completely forgotten that it was ever given to me. (Jessy and Faith, I blame this on my extremely medicated state at the hospital when you brought it to me ... oh, wait, that was you, right?)

And yesterday something very special indeed came, a card from one cousin (that would be you, Andrea) with a beautiful picture of another. Given how little I have seen any of my many cousins in my adult life--or maybe all my life--don't think this was a small thing to me (and, Mysie, don't think I didn't notice your wonderful note to me on here too!). These simple things mean so much, and to think how many times I have missed the opportunity to comfort my cousins and my cousins by marriage and my many friends in their heartaches, because I did not just sign a card or send a letter. I was too caught up in the need to do something "big" that I missed the opportunity to do something small and meaningful.

So God has been blessing me constantly through the gestures so many--some who don't even know me--have made. And if I overlook any thank you notes in this period of my life, please forgive me and know that every card has been a gift and every gift has been beloved. (Wait until you see the cancer garden I'm making in my back yard with all the potted plants!)

And all of this makes me think, that Job really had some terrible friends. They didn't know how to comfort and they didn't know how to love. Not that I am Job--though I have several friends right now whose lives seem downright Job-like (you know who you are, you precious people)--but I know that when push comes to shove and life is hard, love and concern is a precious commodity and no gesture of that love is too small or insignificant.

So let this entry serve as an apology to those I have not "gifted" appropriately in their time of need, and a blanket thank you to those who have "gifted" me.

Job, I'm sad for you. Though your friends' first instinct, to weep with you and sit with you (Job 2:11-13) was good and pure, somehow their intentions went wildly astray and they became like thorns in your flesh. I'm glad your story had a happy ending. But in your time of trouble, I'm afraid you never knew the touches of human kindness and the gifts of love that you were missing.

I don't usually enjoy puzzles

2008-05-28T20:57:00.000-07:00

But tonight I did. Last week, among the many cards and flowers (and meals) that Tam received last week was a package from two Creekside staffers. Along with a few other goodies was a 100 piece puzzle of a polar bear sticking it's tongue out, canvased by a sky blue background. Honestly, lame looking puzzle. In fact, puzzles are rarely cool looking; a barn, a kitty cat with yarn, a box of marbles. Surprisingly, I don't even think THIS puzzle is cool. (although...I do kinda like THIS one).

So back to the polar bear puzzle. As lame as it was, we just had the best family experience of the week working on this puzzle. We laughed, we made obnoxious jokes about the polar bear, we waited for Maddie to figure out how to put the last piece in and we felt whole. It was good.
Thanks Brit and Jeff!

Nate

Pray

2008-05-27T23:30:00.000-07:00

Here I go again with these one word titles but they are just so darn catchy.

I am writing this paragraph in light of the following paragraph which was written first. I need to mention that I am very grateful for the outpouring of love that you have all shown us. We need it. The meals have been great, the cards and emails encouraging and knowing that you have been praying for our family is good.

While this weekend was restful, today has been a bit tough. Tam has these hives all over her hands which are most likely a reaction to surgery or the medication and are very painful. I feel like I am drowning in work and am trying not to freak out that camp starts in 7 days.

So this morning when I opened my inbox, my boss asked each of us on the program team to write a list of prayer requests pertaining to our area of camp this summer. As I began to write my list, nothing compared to the health of my family and specifically Tam. I felt a bit selfish but it's where I am at. My hope this summer, is that students, youth pastors, and staff will get a better "Nate" because of what we are going through as a family. That my actions and words will have deeper meaning because of our context.

So here's my list. If you feel inclined to, I would ask that you pray for us this summer.

1. Pray for the Rice family, specifically Tamara as she will be going through Chemotherapy and Radiation treatment all while living at Creekside this summer.
2. Pray specifically for the deans at Creekside as they implement the program, care for counselors, and lead students towards a deeper relationship with Jesus Christ.
3. Pray that God will use me to encourage youth pastors and counselors, to love my staff and mentor them, and to teach what God wants the students to hear with passion!
4. Pray that I can be a good father this summer as well as a good director.
5. Pray for safety

Happy as a Kid on Christmas...

2008-05-22T15:00:00.000-07:00

from Tam

Just wanted to let you know the drains are out! Hurray! I was so ready. There was immediate relief and I feel better already. I'm still very tender and sore, but there is something psychological about not dealing with them anymore. I know I'll sleep better tonight, and I will actually be able to SHOWER tomorrow. (Don't worry, I have been a very good sponge bather.)

It was great to see Dr. Basinger today. We got smiles and laughs out of him, which is a rare treat--I even got a hug (and a hug from Nurse Ferna!). Dr. Basinger is very pleased with my recovery, told me he's really proud of me. He is going to do his best to help us get the second opinion we want on my treatment, but warned us we will likely have to appeal to our insurance company for it, as our medical group is probably not going to refer us, despite his recommendation to them.

He has also referred us to a plastic surgeon he thinks is great--and Nurse Ferna thinks is great--so that we can begin consulting with him on reconstructing, which might take place in the fall or spring.

Regarding what's next, I have an appointment with my oncologist on June 3rd, and we will be going over the plan at that point. Hopefully things will fall into place with a second opinion quickly so that we can begin treatment soon after.

Thanks for prayers for the drains! They are now ancient history. I'm quite happy to be done with them. (And, yes, that really is me in the picture!)

The Trump Card

2008-05-21T21:00:00.000-07:00

I obviously don't mind sharing with the "infoweb" our story and what we have been going through but I haven't mastered when it's ok to share the news with people that my wife has cancer. So yesterday, I finally get back into the office for more than a few minutes at a time and I receive a phone call from a gentleman that I have spoken with before but barely know. After some pleasantries he makes the comment that I might want to change my message as it still indicates that I am on vacation from 2 weeks ago. I thought I had changed it (which it turns out...I had) but I responded by saying something like, "Sorry about that...my wife was diagnosed with cancer last week." Boom. The "Trump Card". What did I expect him to say after that? After what seemed like an eternity, he responded better than I ever would .He was actually extremely nice and encouraged me but boy did I put him in an awkward position.

I just haven't figured out when to share that bit of information well.

Today was a bit more difficult that the past few. Tam isn't feeling well and the drains are still in (although we're praying tomorrow is the day). We watched a movie tonight as a family which was great, then I read a book to Maddie right before bed. She requested Our Mom Has Cancer which was the book Tam read to her a couple days ago. I got to the part about chemotherapy and lost it. I stopped reading to disguise my tears I buried my face in Maddie's covers on the bed. As I write this, I am not sure if she knew I was crying or not and now I don't really care. The moment is one I will never forget. My daughter proceeded to "pet" my head and tell me my hair was soft. We talked a bit together, with my head on her belly and she laughed a bit at the thought that i will have more hair than Tam might have soon. We hugged, she told me she loved me and I tucked her into bed.

So I'm learning to respond well to people and not just drop the "trump card" and I'm learning that my 6 year old daughter can make her daddy feel better.

Peace and Math

2008-05-20T16:25:00.000-07:00

from tam

Well, the drains are still making me crazy and I'm still thankful for medication, since the stinging pain under my left arm is pretty constant, but I am getting around the house and probably doing more than I should. It's just so hard to sit still.

So I had planned to blog today my history of hypochondria with you--a humorous tale, indeed (and, Johnny, you were going to be part of it whether you liked it or not)--but today I got to talk to my oncologist and hear the final report from the surgery pathology, so I've had a change of plans. The fantastic news is that they believe they got all of the cancer. The bad news is that it is a hormone receptive cancer, which means it will take more work to make sure it never comes back.

We knew that I would need 4 rounds (8 weeks) of chemotherapy, but now we know I'll also need 6 weeks of radiation and 5 years of hormone therapy (read: kill the estrogen; kill the estrogen). We will, of course, seek a second opinion, but as this is a pretty standard course of treatment for a woman my age with this type of cancer, it's not likely we'll deviate from the plan.

Knowing about this little extra ounce of suffering I will go through reminds me even more of what my friend Marlon--a pastor in Texas--said to me when all of this was first beginning, before we knew how bad it would get. He reminded me that a strange and mysterious peace can be excavated from the ruins of pressure and doubt, and I have found his words to be true.

I don't think he'll mind if I quote him, so I will. He told me:

Wellness problems require a weird mathematics. Wellness is not the subtraction of bad news and potential sickness. Wellness is the addition of peace and rest in the presence of pain and impending danger. The slice of peace that's cut from God's wellness pie is sweeter in the presence of struggle and stress.

I have found this to be true in the month that has passed since he e-mailed me those words, and trust that it will continue to be true, no matter how much physical suffering this year brings. (So, please remind me of this in hard times.) And feel free to point out to me Paul's words to the church in Rome:

Romans 5:1-5 Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.

So I have accepted in my heart that God will help me through this, along with my family and friends and a healthy dose of laughter (sometimes from my favorite sitcoms, when life just isn't funny enough). In other words, Jesus + love + Buster (that one's for you, Janelle) = peace for Tam.

I'm no mathematician, but I think it could work.

"Our Mom Has Cancer" and Other Great Bedtime Stories

2008-05-19T10:37:00.001-07:00

from Tam

So, my wonderful sister-in-law Amber got us a slew of great books to help our kids understand what's going on, and last night we read the first one. It was written by two girls whose mom...well, you know. And the pictures are drawn by the girls as well, which actually made for great hilarity. Maddie and I were laughing so hard as we read that Nick actually pulled himself away from Zelda or whatever he was doing and came up and joined us on the bed to read--even though he was terrified he might touch my drains, which completely gross him out.

It was amazing how quickly the kids identified with the girls in the book, especially the parts about going to have fun while mom had surgery--I'll try not to hold this against them--and having to be gentle with mom when they came home. They kept saying "that's just like us"--which of course was the whole point. I could tell a few parts made them nervous--Maddie is pretty obsessed with what kind of drama will ensue when/if my hair falls out. So when the mom in the story lost her hair, Maddie was completely enthralled and on the edge of her seat, as if Hannah Montana had gotten into some really exciting shenanigans.

In short, it was a very special and memorable experience to read this with them (thank you, Auntie Amber!). I'm super excited to start tonight's great bedtime read... The Year My Mom Was Bald.

(No, for serious. That's really the name of the book. Look it up on Amazon...)

Emotherapy

2008-05-18T20:20:00.000-07:00

From Nate

First off, right now let me address the fact that some of you (say like for example Angie) are a little disappointed that Tam is not the one that published this blog entry. I won't take it personally. Honestly...I'm ok with it...kinda. Actually, I would rather hear from Tam as well but she's spent much of her day resting, as she should be (although she will probably write later).

Anyway, on to the title. Tonight as the sun went down, we stepped outside to enjoy the coolness of the evening on our patio. The kids were with Tam's parents Bill and Barbara Barrick out in Palm Springs for the weekend, so it was a good to catch up and talk. As the conversation turned towards mommies cancer, Maddie asked about "Emotherapy". Tam and I couldn't contain our giggles as we tried to explain the difference between chemotherapy (a chemical treatment for cancer) and emotherapy (listening to Sunny Day Real Estate and Dashboard Confessional to "get better"). She preferred listening to music. Me too but unless Chris Carrabba's voice has medicinal properties, then we'll just stick with the chemo (and maybe a little emo thrown in there for good measure)...

Drain, Drain Go Away...

2008-05-17T13:08:00.000-07:00

from Tam
I hate Jackson Pratt drains.

These are the things--I'll try not to be too descriptive--that are helping my body adjust to the loss of two lymph nodes.

There are no nice ways to say it though. These drains are nasty and I hate them and while the one on the non-cancerous side seems okay, the one on the cancer side (located very close to where the tumor was) is just the bane of my existence right now. And these will remain in place until my body figures out the two nodes are gone and stops sending them junk to deal with. (This is the non-medical explanation, which I'm sure is quite convoluted from the actual medical and specific job of these drains.)

But if you could all just say a little prayer for my drains, I think I'll be a whole lot more comfortable when they have left my body! Gracias, most sincerely.

Bed

2008-05-16T22:37:00.000-07:00

The title is lame...I know. I just thought it would be cool to do a one word title like a Rob Bell Nooma film or maybe it's just the thing to do if you aspire to be a pretentious blogger. Eitherway, Tam spent most of the day in bed (see how that came full circle). Yesterday was full of excitement and joy for a number of reasons but mainly because she could come home from the hospital. Today, the pain and hurt came to the surface a bit more. Simply put, it was a hard day.

A friend shared this with us today and it simply resonated with me.

2 Corinthians 1:3-5
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. For as we share abundantly in Christ's sufferings, so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too.

My hope is that the Rice family become people who are able to comfort others because of His great love, compassion and comfort in this time.

Nate

The Good Basket

2008-05-16T08:35:00.000-07:00

from Tam

Inspired by my sister Deb's family, who recently went through a difficult experience and still took time to list their blessings, and also inspired by my new friend and fellow cancer survivor (who went through much more than I'll ever know) Gordon Coulter, Nate and I have been trying to count all our blessings these days. It is easier than you'd think.

So here are a few of our blessings, directly related to this journey. We thank God for each one!

1. We now know we are loved. Hey, it's self-centered, but we feel so much support and love from all of you, old friends, family, new friends, best friends, Forest Home friends, Outreach friends, Foothills friends, everyone...it's such a rare and special gift to know what you mean to people. We count this a blessing!

2. In that same line of thought, I--Tam--have made some friends in the Yucaipa community here, through the kids' schools (preschool and now Valley) that have rallied around me like people do in movies. This is remarkable to me, as some of them don't even know me very well. But we are so grateful to live in a community that is supporting us right now with such fervor. (Bunco ladies, this means you too! I love you guys! When is the next Bunco party?)

3. We have the best neighbors anyone could ask for. (Barb and Mike, this is you!) And I got to spend a really special weekend at a Mother/Daughter retreat with Maddie, Barb and Ariana this past weekend. We got to bond and know each other even better, which was so incredible.

4. We both have great jobs, with great bosses and coworkers who are sympathetic and supportive. We are so fortunate!

5. We have family close by who all want to help. The kids will be with various family members every weekend for the rest of the month--what a special gift for the kids and for us.

6. We have encountered "signs" or reassurances or whatever you might like to call them that our doctors can be trusted all along the way. This is such a blessing God has given us. We will, of course, still seek a second opinion--as this is standard--but it's so good to know already that we are in good hands and even good friends have been with these doctors before us.

I will think of more things for the good basket later. But for now, this is enough. If I had come up with 7 things, then I would have fulfilled the Oprah quota of gratefulness, but I'll stick with 6, just to be defiant.

We love you, friends from all parts and different times of our lives and our family who have always been with us. --Tam

Home Again So Soon, from Tam

2008-05-15T19:13:00.000-07:00

I am home again! Minus a few body parts, of course, and with the addition of a few drainage tubes that you really don't want to hear about, even though Nate has been very brave with them--proving he's come a long way since my first c-section.

I slept only a few hours at the hospital, so I'm really happy to be home again--even though the drugs were better there. It may have been that my sweet nephews prayed with my sister for wonderful nurses for me, it may have been that I was completely stoned on medication, whatever the reason, I loved my nurses last night dearly.

Late in the night they decided to bandage my chest up, thus my last chance to see its new form. Nurses Matt and Angelica patiently found a mirror. As horrible and huge as the scars are, I didn't experience the gut-wrenching sadness I anticipated in the moment of that reality. Somehow it was okay and I knew the ugliness was temporary and necessary, and that made it okay.

I had an almost out of body experience when a male nurse came in for the third time around 3 a.m. and watched me for a minute while I was reading my "Wholeness, Harmony and Health" verses from my friend Marlon, then asked: "Why are you so happy?"

I explained the verses I was reading and told him I just had a peace. I told him God had prepared me for the surgery and I was at peace with it. (I also reminded him I'd had a lot of medication.)

Then as he began to tell me about a spiritual moment from his own life, he casually mentioned that he was from Bangladesh. Those of you who know me really well, know that my parents were missionaries there in my childhood. So we had a fantastic conversation in the middle of the night, with me trying to speak Bengali while hopped up on painkillers--I'm sure he found my Bangla quite amusing.

In the morning I made a lot of phone calls. Some I remember, some I actually don't--as my mother-in-law had to remind me tonight! But I had a good conversation with my Grandma Dow who has gone before me in this journey of breast cancer.

And, somewhere in there I got a smile out of my doctor--something not always so easy to do, since he is, after all, all business (this is precisely how surgeons should be, so I'm not complaining).

And now I am too tired to go on, but today was a good day. Our friends and family have surrounded us with love and support and we have felt it deeply. Thank you! Thank you!
love, Tam

Friends Love Tam

2008-05-14T23:36:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: I am tired, it's late but I wanted to make sure I posted this bit of information before I went to bed.

Before we left the house today, Tam and I checked our email messages and of course, looked at our facebook pages. We we both overwhelmed with the loving comments and it was amazing to see that so many of our friends had changed their Facebook mood to..."loves Tam". It was a good way to start off a pretty difficult day.

We arrived at the hospital by 9 am and we were greeted by one of our best friends, Angie Horn-Andreu. Our pastor from Yucaipa Christian Church Don Hinkle along with Mike Frisch also dropped by. Tam folks arrived just as we headed off to radiology to have a pre-op. procedure done. The surgery actually didn't happen until close to 3pm so Tam had an opportunity, while laying in bed, to visit with Angie, her parents and myself before going in. During the surgery, my parents arrived, along with a number of other family and friends throughout the day (i will comment more on this when I'm not so tired). After about 2 1/2 hours, the doctor finally came out and gave us the good news that the surgery went well and that the pathology reports that were given during the surgery reported that the cancer does not seem to have spread. We will get a full pathology report in the next few days which will determine what stage of breast cancer she is at.

After spending a few hours in post-op, she was wheeled up to the 5th floor to her own room. Her nurse, Matt, has been amazing. Seriously, I have not been around a better nurse that this guy. I felt at peace knowing she was going to be taken care of tonight.

I will post more tomorrow, but I really need to sleep. THANKYOU to everyone for your thoughts and prayers today.
Peace and Wellness,
Nate

The First Week

2008-05-13T23:18:00.000-07:00

As Tam mentioned, we will both be blogging about this experience. Last week, I started writing a little about my thoughts, feelings, experiences and I will simply add them to this blog. It's a bit messy...sorry about that.

May 5^th - As a child, I loved the 5^th of May. Growing up in San Deigo, we celebrated this Mexican holiday by getting out of school to eat great food with my parents and siblings. So today, Cinco de Mayo, we find out that Tam has breast cancer. I am so incredibly sad and depressed right now that’s it’s hard to even write in this journal. While we have known for a few years that she was at high risk for cancer, even surgery to remove some cysts, the news is really difficult to take in.

May 6^th – I have been a mess since we found out yesterday. As soon as I take time to think about it, I lose it. I went to work this morning and as soon as I took time to stop and think about Tam, I was done for. I hate knowing that she is going to go through this. I wish I could trade with her.

We met with Dr. Hilliard, Tam’s oncologist, this afternoon. He is referring us to a Dr. Basinger, a surgeon that has operated both on Tam (cyst removal) and myself (double hernia surgery this past October). We were both pleased to have his as her surgeon as we both really trust him and he is also known as one of the best in our group. It was surreal sitting in that office listening to him talk about the fact that Tam has cancer, will have major surgery, go through chemo, possibly radiation, etc… Honestly it was an out of body experience for me. It was a good thing we both went because we both forgot portions of our conversation with him. It just hasn’t really sank in.

May 7^th – I thought I would take some time today to simply write about the good things that are happening or have happened:

· We were able to enjoy an amazing trip to Maui 2 weeks before this was dropped on us.

· We spent a weekend after Maui at Forest Home with a few youth pastors and their spouses. It was a wonderful time connecting with friends and sharing stories. While Tam and I (and Johnny & Angie) were hosting the weekend, we felt as if the weekend was there for us, as preparation for this news. Our speaker, Gordon Coulter and his wife Lindy shared about his bouts with non-hodgkins lymphoma. Tam and I were then prayed for by our youth pastor friends. God’s timing on that one. We are very grateful for that time

· The cancer seems to be caught early.

· Our friends and family want to help us through this

· I’m sure there are more, but my mind is not fully here.

May 9^th – Met with Dr. Basinger. Tam is going to have a double Mastectomy on Wednesday, 5 days from now. We all feel this is the best course of action. Cancer sucks!

May 10^th – Tam and Maddie are up at a Mother/Daughter conference at Forest Home that they had been planning on going to for a while. I hope they are having a great time together. Nick and I have been hanging out, cleaning the house, working on the back yard and eating meat (we grilled two spencer steaks tonight).

Ok…this was strange but I thought it’s worth sharing. Today was Nicks last soccer game of the season. I love watching him play. Right before the game, I was seated on the sideline, about 20 feet from the coaches and the other parents and I just stared to cry. So many thoughts were racing through my mind…that coupled with the fact that everything seemed so “normal”, I just lost it. It was a bit embarrassing but it just needed to happen. I really miss Tam.

May 13^th – It’s late Tuesday night and Tam is having surgery tomorrow. The encouragement for friends and family has been good. Please continue to do so, we all need it, especially Tam. Angie and Steph took Tam out to dinner tonight, bought her gifts and just loved her.

Tam’s parents Barbara and Bill Barrick came by the house today on their way out to Palm Springs. It was good to see them and they prayed for us a couple of times.

Another “God is in the midst of this” moment came as Bill was explaining that last week, an acquaintance from the east coast offered a hotel reservation at the Marriot in palm springs to them (because some prior plans had been changed). This was totally out of the blue but Palm springs is only about 45 minutes away from us. They accepted the offer and are now close to us and are even taking Nick and Maddie out there to the resort for the weekend.

Finally, I am trying to find the good in all of this. I know it's there. I have seen moments like the ones above and we both agree that we don't just want to keep saying, this is going to be hell on earth the next few months, even though it will be hard. We both want to take this in and experience what God has set out for us. We want wholeness, we want healing and we want to experience the peace and love that God can pour out on us.

So there you have it. I will continue to keep you updated on our life. Please continue to pray for Tam and the kids.

Welcome, friends and family.

2008-05-12T06:36:00.000-07:00

from Tam

This is a place I've been encouraged to create where you can get the latest on my health. My husband and I will probably do this by giving a little update and some history here as often as we can.

We promise not to show you any tumor pictures (weird cartoon versions of my tumor created by Nate being the exception). We promise to keep our sense of humor as much as is possible. But we also promise to be ourselves and be real about this.

Right now we are still in the middle of the storm, as we have only known about the cancer for seven days and I will be having a double mastectomy in about 48 hours.

But as we both have time to process this and reflect on the last few years, we will be using this as a place to share how this storm and the rain that preceded it has changed us, how God is blessing us, and how God is showing our family that He is still sitting, as the Psalmist once said, enthroned above the flood.