Fractions, Fatigue, and Fighting

Cancer. 

Yup, cancer, because apparently the Universe felt that in addition to surviving my son's suicide, followed ten years later by my brother's and two other important men in my life, that I needed a new challenge.

Honestly, I'm over it already. This year was supposed to be for blasting out my new memoir, Mustang Memoir: It's Not Just About the Horses along with my positive reinforcement equine business. It was perfect. 2026, the Year of the Horse. 

Instead, it went kind of like this:

     January- new personal bests in multiple Cross Fit lifts, release of my new book

     February- sick as a dog on the last night of the Lansing Women's Expo, end up in the ER

     March- two hospital stays, goblet cell carcinoma diagnosis, normal life comes screeching to a halt

     April- TWELVE HOUR SURGERY that left me with a scar from sternum to the good stuff and the removal of multiple body parts, followed by an emergency, life-saving surgery to fix the perforated bowel. 

Sixteen days in Grand Rapids Corewell Hospital. Those new PRs from Cross Fit? Pfffft! By the time I was discharged, I weighed 30 pounds less and was down to concave calves, jiggling arms, and basically zero muscle percentage. I didn't recognize my own body.

Imagine being so depleted that you can't sit up straight, can't lift your foot off the bed/ottoman without help, and can barely walk twenty feet with a walker because it takes all your strength. Taking a shower was an hour long process that required massive help from Chad. I couldn't sleep in my own bed because it hurt too much to lay flat. I was basically living in the recliner, eating a few bites of soft foods every few hours, and needing assistance for everything.

Not my ideal life plan.

I'd expected to gain strength once I was home, but there was no way I could have anticipated how very debilitated my body was from everything. I'd envisioned baby steps, but my baby steps had to be broken down into tiny slivers. Getting out to see Cinder was a major goal for me, but I realized it was going to take much longer than I had hoped. Since my abdomen had been thrashed, my lower back and sides were taking on all the work, causing me excruciating pain even with the meds. My body had become a stranger to me, scarred and fairly useless in my opinion. It was going to be a long time before I felt okay.

One perfect May afternoon, I wheeled myself to the front porch to breathe fresh air and get out of the house. Cinder was grazing in the pasture. She'd been through so much! Losing Cappy on Christmas morning, forced to be a herd of one, and then I disappeared from her daily life. I'd told her the night before my massive surgery that I was going to be gone for a few weeks but that I was doing it so I could be with her for the long haul. I needed to reassure Cinder that I was still hers. That afternoon, my voice was weak and shaky, but I called to my sweet Mustang, desperate for time with her. Immediately, her head came up from the green grass and she nickered, searching to find me. I called her name again, tears choking me, as Cinder found me with her eyes and nickered at me again.

I couldn't go out to her that day, but it was a start, a tiny sliver of progress that flamed my hope of fully recovering. Mentally, I have had to fight harder than ever before in my life, even after losing Robbie. As I fought to survive after he died, never did I question I would power through the pain into the next day. I had too much to live for, so I took the bull by the horns and fought for my life.

This cancer thing, however, holds too many unknowns, too many things that are totally out of my control, no matter how positive I try to be each day. There were multiple times while in hospital that I wasn't sure I was going to make it. Despite my fighting spirit, my body was exhausted and drained. That afternoon on the porch with Cinder acknowledging me, fed my heart and fueled my body. I knew it was a long road to being strong enough to begin chemotherapy, but that brief connection with my horse brought me a smidgen of hope.

This week I need all the hope I can find. Chemo Round #4 has been very busy kicking my ass the last four days. It's the worst one so far. Violent vomiting night one before I could even take the two additional anti-nausea drugs. They seem to have pushed off the need to throw up, but have me sleeping twelve hours at night. During the day, my insides are shaky, trembling atoms fighting off cancer in silent, invisible force. Frustrating me with a frailty and level of helplessness that I despise. 

Four chemo infusions down, eight more to go. Four twelfths. 33.3% finished in this six-month protocol. I try to trick myself with fractions and countdowns. Sometimes, it works; but, today was not one of those days. Today seemed impossible. Yet, here I am, trying to write something of consequence. Fighting fatigue and chemo brain fog. (The fog is real, folks!) 

I didn't quit. I slept. I cried. I raged at television characters. I let Chad take care of me. 

I did, what I could.

Tonight I will take my meds and sleep, hoping for more energy tomorrow instead of sleeping the day away. 

Tomorrow will be whatever it will be, and I will take it one sliver at a time. I never look too far forward. I've learned to take things as they happen, a skill demanded of me in all my favorite areas. Horse training? Live in the moment and figure out how to help the horse standing beside me. Teaching? Same. Fighting a rare and aggressive form of cancer? One minute/hour/day at a time or drown in the unknown. 

Today, I did what I could. 

I did not quit. 

I made it through. 

*Apologies if this is confusing or too rambling. This is the first 'real' writing I've attempted since March, and it was difficult as my brain bips and bops on chemo poisons. If you made it through the entire piece, thank you! I'm trying.