I’m busy making her her favorite chocolate cake (with chocolate ganache frosting and filling AND raspberry filling)–I used to buy one for her when we lived in Atlanta, but it’s a bit of a commute to that bakery now, and it makes me proud that I can manage to make it. It’s, frankly, delicious. We’ll eat that and some other deliciously unhealthy thing for dinner (double mushroom cream sauce on the requested non-whole wheat linguini). Tomorrow, we’ll eat other unhealthy things and drink some, too, with friends. Then, Sunday, I’m going to be so giving to some friends and help them taste pies and choose some for their wedding. I know. Someone has to do it.

And then? I’m going to do my post Jessica’s birthday 2 weeks of raw eating that I did last year right before I started this blog. I’m doing this for several reasons: First, I really haven’t been feeling well lately. Sure, I had the head cold that approximately every single person I come into contact with has had in the past month. But, I’ve also had more digestive pain than I should be. I know that this is likely a result of having a mini-colon, but to me, it also speaks to the need to eat fresh food that really has nothing but plants in it. I know that I could do this by eating vegan. But, the #2 reason to do this is that I like the discipline of it. I just do. It helps me find discipline in other areas of my life, as well, and I appreciate the exercise of it. I know that grain free is really hard, so I will eat purely raw Monday-Friday (plus coffee with homemade almond milk. mostly because I know that it brings me pleasure, and I have no desire to stop drinking it. I have a desire to, once I’m off the raw thing, eat more plants and fewer dairy and grain products), and add in rice/oatmeal on the weekends. I do have a colonoscopy next Friday, and I think I’m supposed to drink a sports drink as a part of the prep, so I won’t mess with that, but that’s the plan.

I feel like food and exercise are a part of recovery from everything, not just cancer/chemo. I also feel like it is strange that I still feel like I’m in recovery. But, I’m reminded of chemo every time I’m outside in freezing weather without gloves for more than 5 minutes, and my digestive system throws me for such a loop on about an every other month basis (so much so that yesterday I had to sit while teaching. Not my usual mode.) that it can’t be anything else but lingering left overs.

I’m not worried (mostly) about the colonoscopy because, as Jessica tells me, it is the scans that I should really be worried about (come on, June!).

And, really, speaking of colonoscopies, have you had one? You should. As the slogan for Blue Mondays (the program for free colonoscopies for un and under insured Kalamazoo County citizens who are 50 plus or symptomatic) says, “No ifs, ands, or butts: colonoscopies save lives.” I die. I love a colon joke.

It’s winter, so I was delighted to see that there were soups AND that all four were vegetarian. Well done, magazine! Then? I cracked up. “Lentils for cancer prevention.” Well, I certainly must have this one, right? (also, I have eaten more cancer preventing foods in my lifetime than, I would guess, most people have. I kind of think it’s a crock. And, not. I eat more of them now than ever. Although, I hate broccoli, so maybe that’s why I got cancer? Who knows.) I made it last night for my folks (who are visiting) and Jess, and we all loved it. So, here you go. Prevent cancer. Eat lentils.

Lentil Quinoa Soup as inspired by Natural Health Magazine

1 T olive oil

1 small diced yellow onion

1 tsp cumin seeds

1 T minced fresh ginger

2 minced garlic cloves

1/4 tsp each, cayenne, ground cloves, salt

5 cups veg broth

3/4 cup dried red lentils

1 tsp dried thyme

2 14 oz cans fire roasted tomatoes

2 chopped carrots

3/4 cup cooked quiona

juice of 1/2 lemon

Heat oil and add onion. Cook for 4 minutes over med heat. Add cumin, ginger, garlic, cayenne, cloves, salt and heat for a minute. Add veg broth, lentils, thyme, tomatoes, and carrots. Simmer for 20 minutes. Stir in quinoa and lemon juice. Heat for 5 more minutes.

Yesterday, while Arden was at indoor soccer, and Trudy and I were people watching at the Y, we saw a 7 week old baby. Well, Trudy pointed and said, “bay-be! bay-be!” over and over. Someone asked the parent how old this sweet tiny thing was, and 7 weeks. I looked at my big almost 20 month old girl (who got her first haircut yesterday!), and tried to remember her at 7 weeks. It blew me over when I remembered that I started chemo when she was that exact age. At the cancer center, they have someone who had your diagnosis come and say hello on your first day of treatment. I was so so bitter–the over 65 lady who had also had stage 3 colon cancer said, “I’ve been just where you are.” I smiled tightly and kept my mouth shut, but I was thinking, “really? Really? You were a queer new mom? You went home from treatment to your almost 6 year old and your 7 week old and felt guilty about how little you could give them? OK.”

How did we do it? I can’t believe that we got through it. I can’t believe that I held a human that was that tiny at the same time that I had a pouch of poison attached to my body for 48 hours. And, I can’t believe that Jessica did not, quite literally, go insane. She truly is amazing.

I like to believe that I’m past the anger/bitter stage, but there are times that I know that I’m not. Maybe, in 3 years or 10 years or 20 years, I’ll remember my 36 year old self, and be gentle with her. I’ll have moved way beyond the bitter. After all, my 23/24 year old marathoning self could, in no way have imagined my 36 year old self, watching runners and feeling so glad that I wasn’t in the fray. And, certainly, as the mama of a 7  week old Trudy, I couldn’t have imagined a 19 month old Trudy, nor could I have imagined a Jill who made it to the other side stronger. Frozen moments are so powerful.

I no longer have the aversion to driving to the center that I had for months after I finished. Because I drop Jess off and pick her up at a different location, I’m not at the actual medical part of the center on a regular basis like I used to be. But, when I am in the parking lot there, I find myself watching people come in and out of their cars, wondering where they are in their treatment, or if they are caregivers, or how much longer they will be going. There is a patient there whose caregiver drives a distinctive car, and that car was in the parking lot before I was diagnosed, I received chemo across from the patient, and I see the caregiver chatting with the volunteer greeter still. I cannot even imagine. There are so many stories of cancer in that parking lot. I wonder who is listening to them?

There is a billboard across the street from the entrance to the parking lot that used to have pictures of the oncologists and radiologists, giving statistics or personal information about these doctors. I always thought this was a strange practice for hospitals. I guess I don’t need my oncologist to be famous or recognizable. Just good at their job. (My oncologist, it seems, agrees with me. Her picture cannot even be found in any marketing materials or newsletters sent out by the center.) Anyway, this is no longer. Last month, there was a haunting picture of an older man looking to the side. His trach was prominent. The text: “There’s no future in smoking.” Powerful.

This month, cervical cancer awareness month, there is a new billboard. The image is of teenagers holding hands, neck down and knee up, from the back. The text this time? “Sex happens. Cancer doesn’t have to. Vaccinate your kids.” (I think it says “against HPV,” but I’m not sure exactly.) It is stunning. I love it. I think of all of the stories of cancer in my little city, in that little parking lot. How many of us would love to have had a vaccine that meant that we wouldn’t even be aware of those stories? Of our own stories? If you have kids, or know kids get informed. Get them, both boys and girls, vaccinated.

The semester has started with a bang. I’m teaching a new class, and I’m a little worried about the students. I’m asking a lot, but I think they can do it. I had 2 drop after the first class, which is not a great sign. Two more want in, so maybe it’s all in the balance.

My now two weeks ago appointment with my oncologist went well. I had colon cancer, but starting out with a breast exam is totally normal, right? Anyway, she wants me to have a mammogram because, and I quote, “you have a weird history.” True that. That will come with my CT scan in June. For now, my tumor markers are almost identical to what they were six months ago, so that’s good news. I continue to feel good most of the time (I have trouble when I eat rich food, so the holidays were a little painful, but I’m back on track now. Good for my overall health AND I’m not doubled over. It’s a win!)

In the meantime, I’m feeling great about my gym workouts. I want to be able to go a mid-distance 5 or 6 miles) in 8 minute miles by December 31, and right now, I can almost do 3.5 that fast (there are 10 seconds hanging on at the end). I know I’ll get there.

Life feels like it is moving at a normal pace. Kids are good. We’re good. I enjoy the lack of excitement for now.

And, indeed, I’m still in a wait and see time. In an hour, I go in for labs, and then to Dr. L’s waiting room to wait (and wait, I’m sure–last year, the post Christmas week was BUSY) for my second post treatment visit. Yesterday, I got a friendly reminder from my colonoscopy doc to call the office and make an appointment for another one. (I tried to tell Jess that I wasn’t going to get one, and the “are you shitting me?” look that I received in return was, well, it changed my plans. Also? Apparently, the prep that was easier to ingest the second time last year with new methods has been improved more, so should be even less gross.) But, I’m sitting here, feeling nervous. Have felt like puking since I got up this morning. I think that’s normal, but still. Is it back? Is it growing? My oncologist told me that, “your colon knows how to make cancer.” Is it acting on that knowledge? In ways, I know that it can’t be. I mean, I’m running fast. I’m eating well. But, every time I have pain when I eat, I wonder. That wonder shifts to white knuckle fear on these days before my appointments.

When I asked Jess if she was nervous about my appointment, she told me that she isn’t like me–she doesn’t compartmentalize so that she can have a rush of worry right before the actual event. She’s always worried. So, who knows which is better? Constant low grade worry? Or, 24 hours of panic? I guess, pick your poison.

Anyway. As much as I appreciate and adore my crazy oncologist, I really do not wish to see her. Alas. Wish me luck.

Those who have known me for a while know that this is something that I almost have to do. My mother is a bread maker. The memories of my childhood smell like homemade bread, sound like my mother’s voice yelling from the top of the stairs, “I’m getting in the shower! Take the bread out when the oven beeps!”, look like little girls, dressed in their mary janes, carrying foil wrapped loaves in to Sunday School teachers, children’s choir directors, ministers, church greeters.

My junior year in college, I was lucky enough to live in a beautiful dorm (well, they are all beautiful at Agnes Scott) with a huge kitchen. I would pull out the flour dusted recipe for my mom’s oatmeal bread, and make a batch three loaves at least once a month. We’d sit at the dorm kitchen table, or on the heavy as hell leather/metal couch (that I got for $8) in my two story room, and munch on bread soaked in honey as we studied or, often, avoided studying.

Bread is comforting. It is home. It reminds me of communion and church, of friends, of sustenance. Of gathering together. Those who know me really well know that I was a religion major in college, and toyed with the idea of going to seminary for a while until the thought of battling religious homophobia seemed worse than battling the homophobia that happens in public schools. It was important to me to have communion at our wedding because the sharing of a common food, a simple food, with one’s community had been such a part of my life for my whole life. Following my mother’s lead, I bring bread to large shared meals with friends, I thank the secretary at work for helping me in big ways with a loaf of bread, I send loaves of bread in the mail to friends who are expecting or who have just had babies, and I trust the power of a warm homemade slice of bread to sooth my children at the end of the day.

During chemo cycles 8-10, I had a really difficult time eating much of anything. I ate a whole lot of bread. My mom had taken to sending me a loaf of her sour dough (god bless the makers of sour dough bread. I just cannot attend to it! But, dang, do I love it.) every week and a half or so. If you know the almost no knead, you know how easy it is to make, and even during chemo, this was something I could do. But, to be fed by someone else. That is a thing.

I am not a regular church goer now, but the minister of my heart, and of the church that we attended in Atlanta, Connie (who married us, who held my hand–or some other body part–as Arden was born, and who traveled to Kalamazoo to hold Trudy and me last fall during chemo) always gave us literal and figurative bread for the journey. When I knead the Almost No Knead Bread (the only kind I have the patience or inclination to make on a regular basis), I wonder about the journey that that loaf will fuel.

Anyway. In today’s mail, we received a huge box of Christmas goodies from Jessica’s mom–fudge and popcorn balls and caramels and cookies. We all had sticky smiles after dinner, and I know that Pat would have loved to see how her gift inspired giggles and dancing from her grandchildren. A different kind of sustenance. But one that I love.

I hope that this week, and all weeks, healthy or not, in a full house or in the home that is a quiet retreat for you, you find bread for your journey.

Anyway, one of the coolest things they’re (we’re?) working on for next year is modeled after Pink Saturdays where un and under insured women can get free mammograms on Saturdays in October. What an awesome program. So, for March (Colon Cancer Awareness Month. I wonder if there will be blue stuff everywhere? Hmm. I don’t really wonder …), they are planning “Blue Mondays” where several organizations in town will be donating a free colonoscopy. Because of both the expense and the complicated nature of colonoscopies, they are only targeting 60 people (as opposed to the 1600 mammograms), and these organizations will be actively looking for the 60 recipients as opposed to advertising widely.  As they were talking, I was stunned by every detail that has to be thought about. And, I was stunned by my privilege.

I mean, I am regularly stunned by my privilege, and I try to be aware of it, even as I falter frequently. I mean, really. We have a beautiful home, lots of food, warm and clothed children, we are college educated. We have jobs. I had the luxury of going to graduate school. I am white. I know all of those things, and I think about them as a part of my job all the time. My kids’ privilege is made clearer to me every time I go to my research site–a second grade classroom 5 minutes and many many light years away from Arden’s second grade classroom. So, it’s not like I don’t know.

But, dang. Colorectal cancer is the second leading cancer killer. 1/3 of those deaths could be avoided if people got screening. One third. But, to get a colonoscopy, even if the prep and the procedure are donated, you have to have. You have to have money for clear liquids. You have to have access to a toilet. Over and over again. You have to have transportation to and from the procedure, and you need a person who can accompany you to and from the procedure and get you into bed when you get home. Oh, if you have a home.

I so admire the work that these folks have done to think about finding folks who might not have those things, and then to finding those things to help make the donated procedures even possible.

I never had to think about it the first time. I just did it and then stayed in the hospital for my surgery. All of which was paid for by my excellent insurance. The second colonoscopy was more of a pain in the ass (haaa. the jokes, they never get old) because Jess and the baby were in the waiting room, and 7 month olds don’t love waiting rooms. But, really, those were the big issues. I “slept” on the (comfortable) couch prepping the night before, watching cable or surfing the internet. I was driven home (apparently, slumped over like I was still drunk after a night of partying) in my heated car to my heated house, and went to sleep in my very comfortable bed. I have said to friends, get your colonoscopy. Plan to get it if you aren’t yet 50. It’s easy. Well, yeah. It’s easy for those of us with privilege.

They say that cancer doesn’t discriminate. And, if the infusion room was any indication, that is a true statement. All kinds of folks, all kinds of cancer, all in there getting poisoned to get better. But, really, cancer detection and cancer treatment? They do discriminate. How can you help?

For a Southern girl, I do love winter. It is gorgeous. I will complain with the best of them when it stops being gorgeous and becomes annoying, but I do love it. I am realizing, too, that after a badly sprained ankle and living in a body that has too many aches and pains for a 36 year old, I kind of like winter because it gives me the excuse to work out inside. Don’t get me wrong, I will be cross country skiing as soon as the snow is right (oh, how I missed that last year!), and I will be ready for warm and sunny running by March, but for now, I don’t want to slip and fall, I don’t particularly love the neurapathy in my extremities, and my knee needs a break from distance running. I’ve mentioned here before that I’m a goal setting kind of a girl, and I really want to run faster, so I’m aiming for it. I hope to do the running leg of a triathlon again, and I’d like my miles to be 8 min 15 or faster. Likewise, I want to run a 10 miler or another half in 9 or faster minute miles. The only way to do that is to speed train. So, the treadmill will be my friend for speed work (I start my speed training .5 mph faster now than I did before cancer. go me!) and hill repeats and general sweatiness. I’ve been pushing myself to use heavier hand weights and focus on form, with the hopes that stronger muscles will propel my legs faster. Out of the gym, I’ve refocused my nutrition, and am eating mostly vegan (with occasional skim milk in my coffee) and wheat and sugar free until Christmas Eve (I will indulge on two special Saturday night occasions with friends. Because, really, the food police won’t get me. I don’t think.). I’m feeling really good.

I was sweating it out on my usual mat at the Y the other morning, chatting with the guy who is always on the other mat at 5:30 as he stretched. He’s in his late 50s or early 60s, empty nesting, and the distance running/triathlon bug has bitten him. Big time. I asked if he’s training for anything, and he is signed up for 6 races or something in the next year–2 of them marathons, and one half iron man. I just smiled, thinking of my speed goal, but realizing that, for the first time in a while, I have no specific race that I really really want to run or to look toward. And that I’m OK with it. Even still, I’ve felt a little desperate to get to the gym, and get anxious when I miss a workout.

Then, I realized. Right before I set my speed and nutrition goals at Thanksgiving, I had checked my calendar to see when I next see my oncologist. December 28. I know that it will most likely be a long waiting room wait after I get blood drawn (I’m dorkily excited to see what my hemoglobin is! Oh, to see it above 12! A girl can dream!) to see my awesome yet incredibly quirky doctor who will check me out and who may or may not order tests. She will likely look at my numbers and they will likely be amazingly perfect, she will look at me and my super healthy glow and ask me how I feel, and then she will tell me that she’ll see me in 6 months. That is how it will most likely go.

And, I think that I’m not training for any 13.1 miles or other future athletic event. I am training for my December 28 appointment. I am training the cancer away. Even if I know that I really can’t, I am. Because, really, that appointment and the next one and the next one can’t go any other way. I will not allow it.

I’m rooming with my always conference roommate. We met my last semester in grad school at a conference on her campus, and our first of what I hope to be many articles together is about to be in press, and I could not be more excited. At that first conference, she was a new graduate student, and she has become a research mentor, regular listener, and clarifier of ideas and, well, of life for me in so many ways. We talk frequently, as we’re research collaborators, but I haven’t seen her since before cancer.

Yesterday, I was finishing my paper for this morning’s presentation, and the gravity of what feels like a huge shift hit me. My writing was feeling unclear and wrong and like it wouldn’t do the job of communicating the work clearly. “what am I doing?” I went to dinner with my grad school friends, and we talked mostly about our lives, but not our work, and this is the kind of talk I have been used to for a while–this kind of talk means that I talk a whole lot about my body. It was good, but I realized my exhaustion, and by the time I got back to my hotel room, I felt emotional and insecure and not ready.

What if nobody wants to hear about my mind anymore? Cancer patients/survivors are so defined by our bodies, by science, by functionality. I had that feeling that lots of grad students and junior faculty (or, maybe it was just grad student Jill and first years of academic appointment Jill?) regularly feel–can I do it? Does my work matter? Am I just repeating something that has been done before?

Luckily for me, I walked into my hotel room to listening ears that both would not allow my insecurity and would hear my paper, making helpful suggestions for revisions. And the talk was well received, and we have a celebratory dinner tonight, and I remember how this works. I know how to do this. And, really, who could imagine a better life?