Finding Inspiration in Illness

February 24, 20162 Comments

There were some pretty dark days over the past year and I’m often asked how I kept a positive attitude. Well, if you were with me during those times, you’d know I wasn’t always a ray of sunshine. Fortunately, positivity is built into the core of who I am, so during the bad days, I clung to hope and believing my healing was possible.

In my recent Curetoday.com article, Defeating Cancer Using the Law of Attraction, I shared the activities of my law of attraction practice which helped me gain control of my health emotionally, mentally and spiritually. But, sometimes we need to see and hear real life stories of people who are on the other side of difficult health situations, such as cancer.

Here are some of my favorite videos, books and websites full of inspirational, odd defying journeys.

The Connection
An insightful documentary explaining the science behind the mind and body connection. The film follows several people who overcome dire circumstances, such as cancer, heart disease and infertility, using integrative medicine.

Amy Purdy TED Talk – Living Beyond Limits
After being given a 2% chance of survival from bacterial meningitis, Amy Purdy recovered at the expense of her legs, spleen, kidneys and some of her hearing. With her Mom shielding her from negativity, a kidney from her Dad and a lot of painful, hard work, she not only overcame her prognosis, but went on to become a Paralympic and World Cup medalist. In this TED Talk, she describes the blessings born from her struggles, using visualization and how life challenges can push us to go further than we or science ever thought was possible.

Crazy Sexy Cancer
Kris Carr is an entertainer turned activist, who revolutionized the living with cancer movement. Through this five year documented journey, she realized cancer wasn’t killing her, but rather pushing her to live. She even goes as far as calling cancer her guru. Her documentary and books are inspiring and share the tips and tricks she’s used over the past decade to defy her prognosis through healthy living.

Stories of Miracles
I love reading and hearing stories about people who did what science told them was impossible. Here are a couple sites I visit when in need of a little hope or proof that miracles are thriving.
The Secret Stories
The Radical Remission Project

Law of Attraction Books
My favorites are The Secret and The Power by Rhonda Byrne. Each book has a chapter on health, stories of improbable survival, suggestions on how to change your mindset and actions to attract the best possible outcome. I’ve downloaded the audio books and listen to these on repeat for a few minutes each day.

And when all else fails to inspire you, I found laughter to be great medicine. Over the summer, I spent hours laying in bed watching Jimmy Fallon, Lip Sync Battles and my favorite Vince Vaughn and Will Ferrell films. Not only did they put me in a better mood, but they helped me to escape, if only for a while.

Feel free to comment below with your favorite inspirational stories.

Waiting for Hair: The Toll of Chemotherapy and Cancer

February 10, 2016September 27, 20164 Comments

As featured on curetoday.com

My impatient husband is waiting for me to finish doing my hair. We’re meeting friends for dinner and already running late. This used to be a regular scene at my house on any given weekend night.

Now, I’m bald. I think about this as I sit at a coffee shop and look around at all the healthy people flaunting their hair — mocking me with curls, highlights, ponytails, bobby pins and headbands — while they run their fingers through their locks with no thought. I am green with envy and feel guilty for taking my beautiful hair for granted.

Free at last from the heat of a Nashville summer.

I acknowledge hair loss is a difficult and traumatic event for many during cancer treatment. For me, losing my hair wasn’t hard — it was the waiting for it to grow back that has been the most challenging. I finished my last chemotherapy treatment on Christmas Day and was irritated not to wake up December 26 with a full head of hair.

When I started chemotherapy, my doctor gave me three options of cocktails and explained the potential side effects. I asked her which one she thought would be best.

She gave her opinion and followed it up with, “It’ll give you crazy diarrhea and it’s the most toxic but you won’t lose your hair.”

Really? I was shocked my doctor thought I would rather endure weeks of diarrhea just for hair. On my first day of chemo, the pharmacist and I reviewed the side effects again. I decided to go with a less toxic cocktail at the expense of my hair. Up to that point, I only thought “hair” only meant was on my head. It was then that I learned I could lose everything. Yes, everything.

Two weeks after my first treatment, I ran my fingers through my hair and out came a handful. Within the hour, I called some friends to come over to shave my head. We made a celebration out of the event and created many styles. I had a mohawk over salad, a side shave over pizza and a nice patch in the front with a curl over dessert. No tears were shed, but there were a lot of laughs. Eventually, we shaved it down to a nice stubble and it felt great during that Nashville summer.

Even though I bought a wig and countless people sent me scarfs, I decided to be out and proud with my bald head. As if it were any consolation, I have a nicely shaped head without any Gorbachev birthmarks or funky lumps. I often forgot I was bald and people are pretty cool these days about not staring too much. A fellow survivor even bought me lunch once.

Much to my surprise, the stubble stayed and I never got Mr. Clean bald. Angry, I wondered if my shave was premature. Remembering everything, I stopped shaving my legs, until my husband said the hair was braidable. And even more annoying — that one hair growing from my chin. You ladies know what I’m talking about. I welcomed the loss of that little sucker. Nope, it never happened and I’m still plucking that rebel. Eyebrows, eyelashes and everything else remained in tact.

Halfway through my six rounds of chemotherapy, I got a two month break from chemotherapy for surgery. I was ecstatic when my hair started to grow back and continued to do so even after I resumed treatment. I thought that maybe I wouldn’t lose my hair this time. Sure enough, the day after the thought existed in my brain, I woke up to a softball-sized bald spot on the back of my head. I resolved not to do a complete shave and just let it be.

Today, I’m almost a couple months from the end of treatment and my hair is the definition of a hot mess. Picture a combination of cradle cap, a modest mullet and that terrible men’s hairstyle that looks like a wall at the front hairline. I’ve been wearing hats and oozing with jealousy at everyone and anything who has hair. This includes my German Shepherd and cat who just shed it throughout the house. I take a picture of my head every day and even though I feel my hair growing back, it doesn’t look like it in the photos. A watched pot never boils.

Having a buzzcut for the last six months is starting to take it’s toll. I am so ready to run my fingers through my hair again. No matter how many times my husband tells me I’m pretty, I still do a double take when I pass a mirror. I feel less feminine and despise how my bald head screams cancer patient. I’m ready to move on.

Who knows when my hair will grow back to what I consider a respectable length. But what I do know is that I can’t wait for one of those weekend nights, when we’re already late and my husband’s waiting for me to finish doing my hair.

Read on curetoday.com: Waiting for Hair: The Toll of Chemotherapy and Cancer

Read all my cure today.com articles.

A Chronology of Hair Loss

October 21, 2015

November 3, 2015

November 10, 2015

November 26, 2015

December 13, 2015

January 3, 2016

January 13, 2016

January 23, 2016

February 10, 2016

This Too Shall Pass: Healing After Cancer

January 14, 2016September 26, 20161 Comment

As featured on curetoday.com

Featured in Heal Magazine, Winter 2016

As I approach mile 10, the discomfort sets in. I’m surprised I made it this far without any pain, considering I didn’t prepare as I normally do. I found it very difficult to get up on a Saturday and run my tried-and-true training plan with a cancerous, symptomatic, metastatic, pancreatic neuroendocrine tumor.

Weeks before, I contemplated not doing the half marathon, but I could not let cancer take away my joy of competing after it had already robbed me of so much. So, out of pure defiance, here I am. My hips and hamstrings are tight, but what’s causing me the most discomfort is my stomach. Just past the mile marker, I reluctantly stop at a Porta Potty. In my previous life, I would never do this because it would affect my finishing time. I would have convinced myself three miles of discomfort was a blip in the grand scheme of life. I exit the bathroom, start running through the pain, tightness and soreness and I hear in my head wise words a dear friend says often: This too shall pass.

Days later, I find myself, once again, in an unrecognizable life. Saturday: half marathon. Sunday: MRI. On Tuesday, I was told I needed to start chemotherapy as soon as possible. On Wednesday, I lost my job. A year ago, I was physically stronger than any woman I knew my age, had a wonderful, lucrative job and was the epitome of health. Now, I find myself asking if this is real life countless times. “God only gives us what we can handle,” right? Well, God has greatly overestimated me because all of this — I can not handle. Not just the rug, but the entire floor has been pulled from under my feet. I wondered if this was the new normal or if this too shall pass. It’s my favorite season of summer, but the days have turned into the least favorite of my life. The disease has gotten ahead of the treatments and I’m scared to get out of bed each day. A good day is when I don’t spend several hours with nausea so severe I have to call my husband to take me to the hospital for fluids and intravenous meds. I’ve become a permanent fixture at the cancer center. Staff members greet me by name with a look of pity and a sick bag. My family, friends and I are shocked to see a beautiful, vain, active, social butterfly disintegrate into an reclusive, bald, shell of a person who wears pajamas and no make-up. They respond with cliche phrases such as, “Stay strong” and “You’re going to beat this.”

While I know these words are intended to comfort and encourage me, they only make my blood boil. As if I had a choice to be strong. As if beating it was my decision. I pretend to stay positive because I know the other option does not serve me and would make my supporters assume I have given up. Though there were many moments I wanted to quit, I desperately prayed to God instead — with every cell in my body — for these days to pass.

Getting out of the hospital bed after abdominal surgery is a process and an art. This being my second time around, I knew what to expect and how I should maneuver. Being cut in half was nothing compared to what I had already endured. Plus, the physical pain is minimized because it was preceded with the world’s most beautiful words, “We got all the cancer.”

I happily push the button to move the bed as upright as possible. Pull myself up using the trapeze. Lower the bed down. Sit up. At a snail’s pace, swing my left leg left. Gently rest it on the floor. Repeat with the right leg. Get my bearings. Grab my husband’s hands. Use my marathoner legs to stand up. Resist the urge to cough. Stand for a few seconds to gather my breath. Inch the right foot forward and then the left. Could it be that this season was finally passing?

I look up at the sky and see every existing color over the next twenty minutes. It makes me feel so small, but part of something so big at the same time, and I realize it’s because I am. It is the most beautiful sunset I’ve ever experienced and tears drop from my eyes. I pass a woman unloading groceries from the trunk of her car. She’s completely oblivious to me and the pinks, blues, purples, oranges and yellows taking shape above her head. I feel both sad for and envious of her unawareness because the beauty of this moment is something only available to someone who has stared its fragility in face. I know I am blessed and cursed for my new eyes which have given me an aerial perspective of life’s most precious moments. I pray to God that these feelings, these thoughts and this awareness will not pass.

Read this on curetoday.com: This too shall pass: healing after cancer.

Read all of my curetoday.com articles.