Insomnia

8:41 a.m. Shall I do this? Why not?

Last night I took a sleeping pill about nine o’clock. Insomnia has bothered me several nights in a row, so I decided to break down and take 5MG of Zopiclone as needed. While waiting for it to take effect I proceeded with some regular anti-insomnia activities: made and drank a hot chocolate accompanied by two arrowroot biscuits; played a few hands of solitaire; left my bed companion husband asleep in prep for his early morning golf game; checked his snoring self as my by now languid self slid under the covers beside him.

Did it work for my insomnia? NO! Those restless legs started their ritualistic dance. Pillow armed, I crashed into all the furniture that managed to rush out to meet me between our bedroom and the living room couch, where pillow and I flopped in sunken softness, momentarily lulled into hoping we’d found the spot to sleep. No such dream. Those rubbery legs propelled us (pillow and me) to the den couch. Flop time again. No such luck. Those five legs and three arms managed to cope with the distance between couch and floor before scattering off in all directions, forcing me to try to catch them in order to store them in splintered wooden boxes with no lids. There they danced and cavorted on their own while pillow and I fled to the living room ottoman. Pillow landed first. I hugged her like a friend, better to take stock of the strange happenings around me. OZ this was not.

Get a pencil, the wee voice said. Write it down, the wee voice ordered. Tell the nurse, my mind echoed. Keep a record. Deserting pillow, I turned on a light to better grope for pad and pencil. Kitchen counter, under the temperature and medication charts. Got it. Back to the dining room table. The clock says 3:30 a.m. How can that be?

That medication to make me sleep certainly didn’t work. Zena stumbled barefoot, pillow crashing from room to room in the dark, screaming primeval for six hours looking for a place to light, or hibernate -- the bear rather than the butterfly analogy being the better choice here. No couch worked. No chair worked. No piece of floor, carpeted or otherwise worked. A job with a pencil calmed the mind, focussed me, allowed me to deal with the situation. A final, awkward, heave-ho of the den pull-out couch, straining all physical reserve to the max, definitely worked. I crashed in the best meaning of the term.

What’s this? Wide open eyes? Golfing husband departed and the clock is saying: time to talk to the pharmacist. Zopiclone has now been erased from my list of medications.

Ciao,
Nancy

The Blob Blog

During the forty-eight hours subsequent to my first chemo therapy treatment I was a blob, a barely functioning, boneless mass of heavily medicated reactive tissue. Keeping track of thirteen medications, with much needed help from my ever concerned husband and the chemo home care nurses became my one and only priority. That and retaining fluid in my system took precedence. From some unknown source, energy within emerged to enable me to create a medication chart on the computer, though the exercise took several brief sessions interspersed with lengthy blob times. All required tools of the healing trade were then at the ready.

A couple of days later when a modicum of energy made itself manifest, I tried to read. Reading has always been a reliable resource for my particular state of well being. Reading did not work. The old head on top of the blob could not hack it. Feelings of oppression ensued.

Never give up. There is always a solution. In my case, with rain pattering in sympathy on the windows, I actually sat myself on the piano bench. Now I am no pianist, but seventy years ago my disciplined father insisted that his four children all learn to play the piano. That early learning led my fingers. A few notes raised my spirits. A few more raised my caring husband’s spirits as well. Just like riding a bicycle, I was able to draw simply on a relatively thoughtless primary skill in order to raise the mood of the day. Art therapy at its best.

Find your inner strengths. You have them. Allow your soul to sing that gray song. The colours of the rainbow just may peep through.

Cheers,
Nancy

Living With Cancer

My name is Nancy Freeman and I am living with cancer. I am a wife, mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, former teacher and published children’s author. My perspective is not from a podium. Rather it is from a bench. I am the one in the middle of the bench, listening to what one of my very interesting cancer-survivor friends has to say.

My motto throughout this blogging experience will be: Sing what you know. Sing what is true. There isn’t much better this person can do.
I hope you may find a word that helps you on your own private journey.

The Cancer Survivors Park

The Survivor Park is in full bloom and is a joy to visit. This was the first opportunity for the Ottawa Regional Cancer Foundation to get into the real estate business and this was an important decision for us. Thanks to the tremendous leadership of Chuck Merovitz and a group of dedicated volunteers, bureaucratic mountains were moved and partnerships were shaped and a fateful decision by the Richard and Annette Bloch Foundation to support the endeavour meant that the Cancer Foundation took on a moving train and had to mobilize quickly to keep up. Here was an opportunity to plan and deliver something tangible that would alter the landscape of Ottawa – for the better in my humble opinion.


The Park is certainly big enough to find a spot for solitary reflection but there is magic in the opportunity to share stories and experiences with others who are or were in the same situation. This to me is the true power of the Survivors Park.

I have visited the Survivors Parks in Dallas and New Orleans and they too are part of the urban fabric. As one can appreciate, the New Orleans Park may have had its share of visitors who have had more than cancer on their minds and the facility itself has struggled along with the rest of the city. I visited it a year after Katrina and New Orleans was still reeling. My visit last year showed a city on the rebound – that Super Bowl win certainly helped with the spirits of the city. The site in Dallas is in the very heart of downtown and the impressive sculptures and impeccable landscaping truly stand out.

One of the challenges that we now face is to make the best use of the energy and power of the Survivors Park. Do you have any ideas?

New Hope on the Horizon

I can distinctly recall getting a clear sense that something was wrong with me at my doctor’s office on Bank Street. A testicular cancer diagnosis is arguably among the easier ones to identify. Testicles don’t generally get really large really fast. In fact, I think as a young doctor that he may not have had to deal with such a diagnosis yet – he seemed as shocked as I was. He referred me to an urologist, Dr. DeJesus. They were the first of a tremendous group of doctors, nurses, staff and volunteers who successfully guided me through my cancer ordeal. Through this ordeal I learned impressive names for surgical procedures - radical left orchiectomy, retroperitoneal lymph node dissection, hydrocelectomy. Seriously, look them up. And I won’t try to recall the names of all my chemotherapy drugs.


When I was diagnosed I recall sitting on the front steps of the doctor’s office and going through a big mess of thoughts, fears and emotions. Thirteen years later and things changed a lot. What a difference it must be for those who can benefit from the energy that the Richard and Annette Bloch Cancer Survivors Park provides along with a venue for reflection. And right next door Wellspring Ottawa - MAPLESOFT Centre will add even more to this equation at the intersections of Alta Vista Dr., Industrial Ave., and Riverside Dr. Taken together, these facilities will quite simply change the way that people deal with a cancer diagnosis and navigate their own cancer ordeals. Indeed, taken together, these facilities will be world-class.

The Cancer Journey

Megan’s life lessons and insights from her memoir from last week’s Guest Blog will be a tough act to follow. Of course I had to battle a bout of procrastination even to get to this point. I am typing on the front porch while my daughter Hilary tests out 3D chalk on the laneway with Mom. Yes, they have 3D chalk and it has the necessary and magical glasses… and it works!!


So why am I a guest blogger? And why should you care let alone read the blog? I don’t necessarily plan to answer those questions but they did come to mind. I hope you enjoy and reflect upon my words.

I was diagnosed with testicular cancer in 1997. I was thirty years old and by all accounts very healthy and there wasn’t a history of cancer in my family. So I was both very shocked and very scared.

As a patient of the Ottawa Regional Cancer Centre, I learned that my cancer was malignant, I learned that I would require several major surgeries and I learned that I would require several rounds of chemotherapy. All of these were painful lessons. Of course it would have been much more painful to ignore the signs that something was very wrong with me.

As I delved into whatever I could learn about cancer one of the things I learned was that I was fortunate to live in Eastern Ontario due to the first rate care that was available supported by a strong charitable foundation which in turn is supported by people who make a difference. As a result, I was able to gain, very early on, confidence that I was in good hands so that my energies could focus on surviving rather than on a fear of cancer itself.

… and it worked. The passionate doctors, staff, and volunteers have sent me off into the world of those deemed “cancer-free”. I am now focusing my energies on helping increase cancer survivorship as a volunteer and a Vice-Chair of the Board of Directors of the Ottawa Regional Cancer Foundation and I encourage you all to lend a hand, in some manner, to help lighten the load of increasing cancer survivorship in Eastern Ontario.

Life Lesson #5: What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

It’s such a cliché saying, but it’s true. For the most part, life’s complications mess you up a little, but everyone gets back on track. For my last guest blog entry, I want to share with you my thoughts and feelings of the exact moment I was diagnosed. What doesn’t kill you does make you stronger. I am living proof. I’m a stronger person than I was before – not just because of cancer. I’m a stronger person because all of the friends and family I had behind me helping me fight. I’m a stronger person because I had the will to carry on after receiving the worst news I could have imagined. We will all make it through our worst experiences in life. All you have to do is keep calm and carry on. I will leave you with an excerpt from my memoir, ‘Would You Like Your Cancer?’

* * *

…He looked at me, "Well Megan, I have some good news and I have some bad news, which would you like first?"

I thought to myself or a few seconds. Who gives the option of bad news or good news? I let out a short sigh, disappointed that there was any bad news at all. I had the selection of two options; with the outcome being I would hear both good and bad news no matter which ‘option’ I chose first.

I didn't know what to say, considering the bad news could have been something unimaginable and the good news; well, I expect the only good news anyone ever hears in a doctor's office is that they’re going to live. He took my silence as the go ahead for the bad news.

Time seemed to slow, almost to a complete stop. The air was very still. The noise coming from the air conditioning unit in the office seemed to fade away and the silence was so incredibly loud.

I was nauseous. I could vaguely hear voices through the walls and indistinct footsteps walking past the door. I kept thinking maybe he was confused and had my files mixed up with some other person's medical files. Perhaps he was in the wrong room. Perhaps there was another girl who was awaiting the results of her fine needle aspiration biopsy. I had no such luck.

"You have cancer."

I replayed his words over and over…and over. I looked straight ahead and saw nothing; the room was a blur of colour. I felt faint. It was the most dreamlike feeling. In that moment I was so aware of everything I was doing; it was as if I could only blink in slow motion. It was beyond surreal. My heart sank. I could hear my unsteady breathing. I could feel my chest as if it was rising a mile each time I took a breath. If the doctor continued to speak, I heard nothing. I was completely and utterly numb.

I felt my heart beat pound in my ears and I felt the blood drain from my face. The tears came and I could not stop them.

I looked intently at the faces of my parents. Both seemed to be in disbelief. I wish I could have known what they were both thinking at that very moment. I’m sure no parent ever wants to be told that their seventeen year old daughter has cancer.

I looked out the window into the brilliant sun. The clouds seemed to move at lightning speed, the earth turning unsteadily as my world shattered around me. My life came to a screeching halt.

I heard the doctor, but his words were so far away, “The good news is, you're going to live, you only have thyroid cancer."

Only. That’s a sharp statement if I ever heard one. If you only have five pieces of candy left, you still have candy. That was the point. I had thyroid cancer. I really had cancer.

I felt very alone.

My father looked out the window in trepidation.

My mother was crying.

I will never forget the moment I was diagnosed with cancer. It was one of the defining moments of my life.