Adaptations (by Elisabet)

Species usually find their ways and resources to adapt to a new environment which seemed hostile at the beginning. Humans are no exception. We may admire how a tree can turn a branch into a root in order to survive (like the yew tree) or how a bird can develop a longer and sharper beak to reach the food that will prevent it from starving. We humans have a very powerful tool, called mind, to help us adapt to changes. However, we sometimes tend to underestimate its power. When the life we used to know makes a sudden, unexpected turn, our mind is able to find the mechanisms to adapt to the new situation. It's just a matter of time; it may take us longer or shorter, but the mechanism is there and ready to start working.

When I began my second chemotherapy treatment I would sit resignedly on the reclining armchair and try to concentrate on my book while having chemo, only waiting for the time it ended so I could go back home. I had already noticed that old lady with a young woman accompanying her; I had seen them a couple of times in the hospital corridors before. The surprise came the day we shared the same treatment room: it was the young one who sat on the treatment armchair next to mine, whereas the old lady took the companion seat. They were mother and daughter. I looked at the daughter and saw that smile on her face, her relaxed countenance, her sweet expression showing not resignation, but hope.

I realised I could change my attitude; I wanted to be able to smile that way, too. I knew I could. I had done it before. I didn't even open my book that day. The young woman dozed off to sleep and so did I. The next time we were placed together in the same room we said hello with big smiles on our faces and started talking. We haven't stopped talking since that day because we've become friends. She's 34 years old. We sometimes meet in the waiting room before treatment and, after a brief introduction about how we've been feeling lately, we start talking about anything that comes up, just as if we were sitting in a cafe or a tea-house having a nice chat over a cup of coffee or tea.

A few weeks ago I was sharing the treatment room with another young woman whom I had never seen before. I guessed it was her first session, as she was very quiet and looked scared. So I smiled at her and said hello. We were talking for a while and by the end of my session I could feel that her fears had subsided a little. The next time I saw her she told me she was feeling better and sat on the treatment chair with a smile on her face. The story seems to go on and on...

I smile at everybody now: at the nurses, at the doctors, at the people from the administration desk... and everybody smiles back. It's very rewarding. I've even changed the way I dress when I go to hospital. At the beginning I used to wear clothes I didn't like much, thinking: Bah, this will do, it's just to go to hospital. Who cares? Well, now I do. Now I find myself dressing up almost as if I was going to the movies on a Sunday evening. After all, I'm going to meet maybe one or two friends, some familiar faces,... nice people.

Some days ago I was watching a TV documentary about the popular organisation called Médicos sin fronteras (Doctors without borders). It was a Spanish team working in Zimbabwe with the people who suffer from AIDS. They had been distributing condoms and all the medicines required for treatment. There was a big group of people coming from different villages, all of them under treatment, and they were dancing and singing together: girls, boys, women, men... all ages. The songs spoke about how happy they felt because they could fight the disease, because they could live longer and feel better, and they were encouraging others to undergo blood tests and not to feel ashamed if they had AIDS. They felt proud of themselves, of their fight. And the songs were sung in their own Zimbabwean rhythms... wonderful! I especially liked it because many times I've thought about gathering all my friends suffering from breast cancer and sing and dance together. This would make a very nice adaptation. A powerful one.

MSF built a medical centre there, not only to perform blood tests and deliver the necessary tablets, but also with a room where people could gather together and talk about their worries and concerns, about their plans for the future, about fighting,... about living. One of them said she had such a nice time chatting with her new friends there. A 16-year-old girl said that when she could stop coughing she'd like to become a singer.

Smiling, chatting, dressing up, having walks, singing, dancing, reading, writing, drawing, making new friends... we people sometimes don't seem to be fully aware of the many adaptations we can grow when faced with a life-threatening disease and what happiness we can experience under these circumstances. I received this message some days ago, "Happy chemo! To both of us!" Great!

There is this saying in English that goes like this:
"Make new friends but keep the old, the first are silver, the second are gold".

Well, I must say new friends are also gold to me now. They are gold shining very bright under the warm autumn Sun.

Maple and Momiji (紅葉)

The photo was taken last November in Japan. Momiji is Japanese maple but tiny in size, only about 4cm. Guess I was fascinated by its colour, in variation of reds and oranges signifying the arrival of autumn, as well as its shape. I collected some and pasted them on my wall. My Japanese friend noticed and gave me souveniers made of momiji. I have the keychain and coasters displayed in the shelf, just 2 feet from where I am seated now.

An envelop came from Spain yesterday, and to my surprise, there were maple leaves collected by Elisabet. These are about thrice the size of Japanese maple, and are now placed next to each other, in the shelf. Some days in near future, I hope to be seeing different species of maples in different parts of the world.

Radio for the bone?

This is the 2nd time the doctor mention about radiotherapy for the bone. This is after I told him about my spine ache last Saturday, following the 2nd injection to boost my white blood cell. He explained that the bone ache could be due to cancer cell, and if so, this is bad news. However, I tend to think that the ache is a result of the injection, even though the pain was really severe.

Today, I had another injection, 3rd for this cycle, and let's see if the bone start aching. My bet is, it won't. Or I'm hoping it won't, as I'll be having the 8th cycle of chemo and Herceptin tomorrow.

And I'm hoping that I won't need radio for the bone...

The yew tree (by Elisabet)

The yew tree (Taxus baccata), also called English yew, is a long-lived evergreen Eurasian tree or shrub with stiff linear leaves. The Pacific yew (Taxus brevifolia) is another variety of the same family. The fluids dropping from their leaves cause the plants growing beneath the tree to dry up and die. The yew tree thrives because it gets rid of any possible rival around. This fluid is also contained in the bark. Long ago the wood was used to make bows because of its elasticity; some bow makers were found to be poisoned and died after a long time handling that wood.

The longevity of the yew tree is highly remarkable, ranging from 1.000 to 2.000 years. It survives all kinds of weather: thunderstorms, freezing cold, heat... it can even outlive wars and woodfires. Even when all else fails and the yew tree seems about to die and its wood has suffered from fires, a branch from the tree top is able to turn 180º and start growing downwards, towards the ground. When it reaches the ground it digs itself into it, thus becoming a new root for the tree to start feeding itself again. It's like a rebirth.

Scientists started wondering why that fluid could kill the herbs and plants growing beneath the yew tree. Why and how did the fluid kill? They finally came up with the chemotherapics known as taxanes as an efficient treatment for different types of cancer, including breast cancer. As nature is not able to provide with the quantity of medicine required, taxanes are now synthetised in the labs. But the active principle is the same as the fluid from the yew tree. Properly treated chemically, well-dosified, and in infusion it is given to us now. The purpose? To kill bad cells within our bodies so that the good cells can thrive and we can survive, just like the yew tree does.

The memory of that day, many years ago, when I went to my uncle's house and he showed me a yew tree growing in the backyard comes vividly to my mind now. I remember him telling me not to touch it because it was poisonous. I remember looking at it with respect, thinking it looked strong and attractive. Little did I know that, in not such far away a future, that same tree planted in my uncle's backyard would now be saving our lives. THANK YEW.

[Thank you, Elisabet, for sharing about yew tree. It is not found in South East Asia, so will definitely look out for yew trees in my future travel.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taxus_baccata]

Computerised Tomography

The first time I heard this phrase from Elisabet(a friend, and the contributor of previous article), I asked, "what is that?" when in fact I have already experienced it 3 times, and by now 4 times as I just did another one yesterday.

It is usually called CT scan here, referring to a big piece if sophisticated and futuristic looking machine in a an air conditioned room with a warning sign on the door, to alert the pregnant woman from entering. (I imagine the baby may turn out to be an alien after going through this CT scan)

Anyway, the result was...ehem... surprise, surprise,

1) most things were the same as previous scan(in July) - the hepatic lesions were still there, and reduced in size, and less well defined (which means there are still shadows in my liver, which is smaller now, so I suppose this is good)

2) there's also a new spot in my bones, which the report says was the same as previous scan (well, it was definetely not in the last report)

Well, it is either they forget to mention it in the last report, or they didn't think it's worth mentioning, or they didn't see the spot. Whatever it is, I now have 2 spots in the bone, and multiple spots in the liver.

So, more chemo.

The bad news is, my white blood cell was low, so no chemo today.
The good news is, my ALT and AST level(enzyme test) has dropped further, and even though it is still higher than normal, it is on the right trend.

So, off I go to see the doctor, and let's see how he interprets the scan, and my blood results....

FOUR SEASONS (by Elisabet)

When, back in 2006, I was diagnosed with breast cancer I couldn't believe it. I had been leading a healthy lifestyle: no smoking, no drinking, working full time but also finding the time to relax, to go to the gym, to swim, to go mountain trekking. I kept asking "Why? Why me?" There was no answer. I learnt the hard way that illness is a lottery, not only cancer, but other serious illnesses too, and that they can happen any time, to anyone. I was 36 then. After my surgery I was healed but had to undergo intensive chemotherapy. After taking some months to recover I went back to work and life became "normal" again.

Some time later, a colleague from work told me one day that she was feeling down because she turned 37 that day (she knew I had had breast cancer). I couldn't believe my ears and I said: "What? Isn't this what we all want? To get older? To become old and wrinkled but having every year the most precious gift of all: health?". She stared at me with round eyes, speechless for a while, and then she said: "How right you are! I think this is the wisest comment I've heard for a long time." I wasn't trying to make any wise comment, I was just speaking my mind.

January 2011: I was diagnosed with metastasis on my liver and some of my bones. This time was even harder. I thought I was going to die, but my oncologist gave me hope: "There is a treatment, you know? This is not the end". I was crying bitterly on her table, trying to retain her words, wanting to believe them, but fearing... scared to death.

I began to listen to my body, and my body told me nice things: it felt strong, it was getting ready for the fight again. I was 40. I was turning 41 the following month. I promised to myself and to my body that I would definitely celebrate my birthday the best I could. And so I did. I didn't shed a tear, I had a smile on my face all day and I embraced the congratulations from friends and relatives. The radiotherapy sessions for my right hip bones had ended successfully and a few days later I started a long chemotherapy treatment, which I am still undergoing with good results.

I indulge in my own meditations. The stronger my mind is, the stronger my body feels; the stronger my body is, the stronger my mind feels. It's a circle. And I follow my oncologist's advice all the way. She also wants what's best for me. Chemo is not a nice treatment, but it's the best we have nowadays. I may be on chemo for a year. The doctor tells me the longer, the better. And I think: "Yes, the longer I can live with good life quality, the better". So let's go on with chemo. I don't mind, I feel all right... I feel safe.

Coming from a country where we enjoy the four seasons of the year, when I came across the following quote by Albert Camus in a bookstore it meant so much... I always bear it in mind:

"In the toughest Winter I could finally learn that inside me there is an invincible Summer".

Mentally Mental

The last one week was a little different from previous weeks.

No Qi Gong. There was haze.
Not sleeping that well. The body does not want to sleep.
Not eating so well. Am at my heaviest point in life already! And no mood to cook.
Not drinking enough. Not feeling right.
Bones aching? Visions blurring?

Maybe it was what the doctor said. There will be a CT scan at the end of the month, and IF everything is clear, there are 2 more cycles of chemo.

Maybe it was my low wbc on Tuesday. I was so confident that I was doing everything right previously, and was prepared for my "hopefully last cycle", and yet my blood was marginally low so booster, then chemo was delayed.

Maybe it was my trip which didn't happen. I was planning to travel on Thursday and cancelled it to recover from chemo.

Maybe it was the 10 year anniversary of Sep 11th. And the 6 month anniversary of Japan earthquake.

Maybe it was the full moon last night.

Maybe i was just being mental. It is all up here... in the mind.

Even when all these happened, I was feeling contended, for every single moment, as I was still alive! Not complaining. Just live life as it is.

Life is full of surprises.
Learning to see things in a new light, like never before.
I am officially retired.
Yet, life is just beginning.

Yipee...