When I go to the cancer center, I always try to wear fun socks and an interesting tee shirt. It makes the ladies laugh and remember me. If I have time, I also wear my weave. It’s a Halo, and super easy to put on. I even gave it a name… Blair.

Blair makes me feel better.

I had my blood taken and gave the nurse my blog website. Then it was time to see the oncologist.

She had a young man with her, a fellow who was graduating. We updated her and discussed our concerns about the jaw pain and general joint pain. Apparently, osteonecrosis is a trigger word, and she whipped out a light and began to look in my mouth. Sometimes, the medicine can be worse than the disease. Don’t look it up, there are horrifying statistics and pictures that make your jaw drop…

pun not intended.

As for the infrared sauna we’ve built out part of our basement for, she said no. The relief I have been looking for because my bones feel like an old woman’s bones won’t be coming. You see, there’s been a little side issue of a complication with me that’s really rare and some other scientist told me that not only will breast cancer set up shop, but brain cancer and all sorts of other cancers are planning and preparing to join the party, so I have to limit all radiation.

It hasn’t been the greatest year.

Now I’ve got to call my dentist and have him check me out, but he can’t take X-rays, then maybe head to the oncologist dentist that specializes in ONJ.

The good news is as she was palpating my breasts, I was teaching the young fellow about how to never tell a patient they only have weeks or months left and my oncologist said she was still in shock that was ever said to me. I said that I actually believe I am one of the rare cases, (Because rare is how I roll), of oligometastatic disease, and she agreed. I even asked again if it’s possible, and she said yes. It’s a new term, and not many oncologists will agree to it.

Mine did yesterday.

If you look up that term, and get past the stuff that takes your breath away, they actually say that there is a chance for cure. They discuss metamasectomies, radiation, intense targeted treatments… but write the word cure. I’ll try to not think about the other treatments, look at the word cure, and hold onto that, instead of the pictures of people with disintegrating jaw bones that I also saw in my google travels.

I invited the young fellow to come feel my breasts, and he did. He gave me such a thorough exam he even brought out a tape measure to hold against my breast. I refrained from saying “Now that you’ve measured mine…”

Instead I said he was measuring the cancer carcasses.

My doctor had said last visit she would only do breast scans, but yesterday decided she wants a full body MRI in March.

I told her I knew that was coming, as my energy worker said that would happen, but not to worry, that it would be clear. My oncologist just shook her head.

She said to us that patients who attack this with all different modalities tend to do better.

I’m planning on it.

As we walked out, the ladies at the desk said goodbye. I gave them my blog website too, and told them that what they see all day long isn’t MY story. I told them to look at my blog, I’m writing my own story.

We left, then I cried all the way home.

Confession?

I fake it all the time.

I fake feeling great.

I fake my jaw not hurting.

I wear fake hair when I can.

I stay super busy so I’m not on the couch all day like I want to be.

I fake it so no one gets tired of looking at sad sack Keri who is always exhausted and sore and constantly fighting to stay out of the dark place and hold onto the light.

Fake it till you make it.

Some days it works and I feel better.

Some days it doesn’t, but no one’s the wiser.

A friend sent me this as I was trying to breathe.

I went to my parents and picked up my kids. I took a moment to just be still.

My mom held me on the couch, I laid my head on her lap, she stroked and kissed my head, and I cried and tried to not let the kids see or hear me.

On the way home from the center I played my Jesus music. A song played and I heard it in my head as my mom held me.

“I wanna go back,

To Jesus loves me,

This I know,

For the Bible tells me,

For the Bible tells me so”.

But I cant go back to being a little girl.

So I go forward.

But I know Jesus loves me, because my mom brought me to Sunday school, even when she had to walk through the snow and pull me on a sled.

Thank you, mom. Because you did that, I’ve got Jesus in my heart.

I have to go for more bloodwork in two weeks because they said yesterday it’s like I’ve started from ground zero again in regards to the chemo. Add that and the surgery and that explain the more hair loss.

Another oncology visit in four weeks.

A full body MRI in March, with only one injection, and NOT the one that may be causing my jaw issues.

That’s fine by me.

My Chinese herbalist said he didn’t want me to take it anyway.

I know im sharing a lot.

Here’s the thing.

There’s a lot of people on here going through crap.

You’re not alone.

I’m sharing… oversharing… so you can know that you’re not alone.

We are all in the arena.

We didn’t ask to be in it, but we are.

I laid on the couch and was kept company by Kasha the wonder dog. She stayed by my side all night.

I was sent a video by Paula with Oprah talking to Brene Brown.

She was discussing rising up. She said at one point that we all tell ourselves stories, and that our first draft is a “shitty first draft”.

That’s what I did on my car ride home. The dark place is the shorty first draft where my mind tells me the nightmare story.

Then I throw that one out, keep the touchpoints, rewrite it and fill it with faith, hope, Love, and Jesus.

There’s a reckoning, then a rumble, then a rising.

Yesterday was the reckoning…again. With stage four, there’s lots of reckoning.

Now it’s the rumble.

I’m letting you all see me rumble, so you can see it as it happens. Pick up some tips. Know I’m here with you, and maybe you don’t feel so alone.

I have opened myself up here, and it’s a pretty vulnerable spot to be in, especially when already in a vulnerable and fragile place.

But that’s how we grow.

We get shaken up, recognize it, rumble, get hurt and become vulnerable and uncomfortable, and then?

We rise.

We rejoice.

That’s my plan, anyway.

I’ll head downstairs, take the first pill of the next cycle, put on a smile, and fake it. I’ll pretend my body doesn’t hurt, gently chew my sploosh, stretch, then head to work and dance.

I’ll fake it.

I’ll make it.

In Jesus’s name, amen.

Xoxo

Keri