Journal entry by Kristen Kravecs —
Well, it's officially been one year since I was diagnosed with cancer. In some ways, it feels longer and shorter than that. Longer because it's been such a surreal process and I've just been "in it" so long that taking the time to pick my head up and look around and reflect leaves me feeling like it's always been this way. But it also feels shorter because so much of this journey feels so fresh and like it just happened.
I went on a short walk today, even though I wasn't feeling too great when I woke up, just to get some fresh air and feel the sunshine. Happy 1st day of spring, by the way. I even built up the courage and lung capacity to run for two 30 second bursts. Talk about humbling. While my feet always feel slightly numb and tingly now due to the neuropathy, going from walking to running really amped up that feeling. It was mildly frightening not fully feeling each step. It's so hard to describe because I have feeling and sensation in my feet, but it's just only maybe 80% there and running dropped it to around 50-60%. Have you ever had your foot or leg fall asleep and then tried to walk afterward? It's similar to that. I had to be mindful of telling my brain to take each step, and I really had to watch my feet the whole time. I hope that makes sense.
Aside from the neuropathy, it felt so good to be outside and be active. I took a few walks last week too, and each time it felt a little easier. "Easy" is quite relative now because my baseline is "can barely will myself to move," so "easier" means "actually moving and able to slowly crawl up small inclines".
When I started my walk today and got to thinking about the fact that it's been one year since my diagnosis, my initial thoughts leaned towards the negative. I spent a couple minutes thinking how I used to run these same roads, how I trained for multiple 10-mile races, and how I've never been this out of breath and sweaty (JK - I've always been a loud breather and sweaty mess. Anyone who has run with me can attest to that - Kelly, Steph, Emma, Karlen). I had worked so hard in the years prior to Lucy's pregnancy and my diagnosis to build my stamina and strength, and I'm starting over now.
Besides losses in health and fitness, I've lost other aspects of my life like work, teaching, being as active of a mom and wife as I'd like, feeling up to visiting with friends, and just feeling connected to the outside world. I miss the little things about what my life used to be - coming up with awesome lessons, going next door to visit Andrea between periods, seeing my students in class or the hallway, having lunch with my department, going to the grocery store with the girls, taking Norah out to get our nails done or go to the playground, having the occasional date night with Rob, inviting friends over for pizza, or meeting up with peopleto go to a brewery or restaurant. It's been a strange trip from diagnosis to treatment and surgeries to recovery. I was playing Eeyore for the first part of my walk and feeling kind of blah.
But as I got into the groove and actually felt the freakin sunshine (how amazing is that?), I was able to look around and lean to a more positive mindset. I'm about to hit you with some metaphors and symbolism. Are you ready? Ok.
It's the first day of spring and the temperatures are warming, the sun has a fighting chance against the cold, and the grass and flowers are starting to bloom and green again. But there's still some piles of snow by the curbs and in the shady parts of yards. There was even some ice on the pavement that I had to avoid as I reached the top of a culdesac on a hill.
My health is improving, I'm having more good days than bad, and I was cleared at last week's follow up with my surgeon to start exercising and lifting Lulu. I'm getting ready to start blooming again, or at least the dead grass of my health is ready to go from brown to light green - ha! I'm letting the hope shine through more often, and I'm getting out of the house. Those bulbs hiding in the dirt are ready to poke their heads out, and so am I. I'm with ya, crocuses!
But there's still some snow and ice lurking in my days. Those bad days are BAD and UGLY and exhausting. My body hurts, it's hard for me to move quickly, and I've had too many wedding dress shopping/bathroom scene from the movie Bridesmaid moments. But they're lessening and melting away week by week, and hopefully, in a few months, there won't be any snow mounds left in my world and the only ice will be in some summer cocktails or iced tea.
But those ice cubes will mean that there are still some small hurdles and side effects left. I'll still have appointments, bloodwork, and scans every three months. I'll still have the worries of "what ifs" and "is that cancer pain or just pain pain?" And I'll still have the memories of the past year pop up from time to time. But that's ok, right? You can't enjoy the spring without having survived the winter. And you certainly can't enjoy the summer without some frozen drinks.
So while I've had some losses - or maybe it's more like I've "misplaced" some aspects of my life or had to table them for a bit - I've had so many gains. I've found new perspectives; met so many new, supportive people and fellow colorectal cancer fighters; become even closer (as if we weren't close already) with family and friends; found strength and confidence; taken the time to slow things down and focus on what matters; and learned to give myself and others more grace. There are ups and downs in this life, and I'll take them both.
The other topic I wanted to write about is that I'm struggling with anxiety over starting to go out and seeing people I know and work with because I worry what everyone is thinking. One of the blessings and curses (that's too strong of a word...) of not losing my hair from treatment and having effective anti-nausea and pain meds is that I don't look too different from before I was diagnosed. My hair is thinner, I've gained weight (I'm really struggling with this, even though it makes me sound vain and ridiculous because weight gain is nothing compared to everything else), and it takes more energy and time to move around. That's probably all that's visible from the outside, and so I'm sure to most people, I look like I'm fine and recovered. I worry that when I post about being able to take Norah out to see Chicago at THS (everyone should go - it's another incredible production) or that I'm able to start exercising that people will wonder why I'm able to do these things but I'm not able to be back at work or doing more. For the record, no one has actually said this to me. I just can't turn off the worry about what other people think.
Let me play English teacher again and hit you with Hemmingway's Iceberg Theory: like an iceberg that only shows 1/8 of itself above the water, the real meaning of a story lurks beneath the surface. Or we can try the imagery of a duck who looks to glide calmly on the surface of a pond but is truly paddling like hell to stay afloat.
Like I wrote earlier, I'm getting better each week and having more good days than bad, but I'm still the iceberg or the duck a lot of the time. When I do get myself together and go out to the store, a high school musical, a restaurant, or on a walk, I'm fueled by adrenaline, pain pills for my neuropathy, and a good amount of Imodium. When I do get out, I'm usually in a lot of pain that night or the next day because my joints are so stiff partially from radiation and partially from lack of use. My back and pelvis are the worst culprits. I can compare it to being 8 months pregnany and feeling like you're carrying a bowling ball in your pelvis. For the men out there - it's not comfortable.
I'm in the midst of a terrible balancing act between taking the right about of psyllium or Metamucil to keep my system moving and Imodium to keep it from moving too much or too fast. I've had a few episodes in the past two weeks where I considered sleeping on the bathroom floor because I was barely making it out of bed to run to the bathroom. Sorry, forgot the TMI alert there. When I have those episodes, my localized pain increases by a stupid amount, and I feel helpless and hopeless that I'll ever be able to function normally again. There's no way I could teach right now because I couldn't imagine being mid-discussion with my kiddos and having to run out the door. Nope. It's not advisable to leave a class of 25 teenagers unattended, and it's just not comfortable to be an adult who isn't in control of her body. It's similar to being home with the kids. While Norah is mostly self-sufficient, she still needs her mom, and Lucy is in that "I'm just starting to walk and ready to crack my head on every piece of furniture you own" phase. It's difficult being home alone with them because I never know when I'll have to quickly leave the room for a while. Rob and my mom are taking on a lot of extra work helping to babysit us all.
My surgeon believes I have LARS (lower-anterior resection syndrome), and while it will hopefully improve over time, it'll never completely go away. It's a process, and I'm riding it out and finding my new normal. I'll have to play with the medications I take the foods I can eat to find a good system for my system. Cheerios are OFF the list. I learned that one the hard way. Heavy tomato-based recipes are hard too.
I hope this doesn't come across as too mopey. I just needed to write that out and explain what's going on behind the scenes. I'm doing much better than 7 weeks ago, but I still have a ways to go. It's a process. Day by day. Moment by moment.
I hope you get to enjoy some sunshine on this first day of spring. Thank you for your support, as always.
I went on a short walk today, even though I wasn't feeling too great when I woke up, just to get some fresh air and feel the sunshine. Happy 1st day of spring, by the way. I even built up the courage and lung capacity to run for two 30 second bursts. Talk about humbling. While my feet always feel slightly numb and tingly now due to the neuropathy, going from walking to running really amped up that feeling. It was mildly frightening not fully feeling each step. It's so hard to describe because I have feeling and sensation in my feet, but it's just only maybe 80% there and running dropped it to around 50-60%. Have you ever had your foot or leg fall asleep and then tried to walk afterward? It's similar to that. I had to be mindful of telling my brain to take each step, and I really had to watch my feet the whole time. I hope that makes sense.
Aside from the neuropathy, it felt so good to be outside and be active. I took a few walks last week too, and each time it felt a little easier. "Easy" is quite relative now because my baseline is "can barely will myself to move," so "easier" means "actually moving and able to slowly crawl up small inclines".
When I started my walk today and got to thinking about the fact that it's been one year since my diagnosis, my initial thoughts leaned towards the negative. I spent a couple minutes thinking how I used to run these same roads, how I trained for multiple 10-mile races, and how I've never been this out of breath and sweaty (JK - I've always been a loud breather and sweaty mess. Anyone who has run with me can attest to that - Kelly, Steph, Emma, Karlen). I had worked so hard in the years prior to Lucy's pregnancy and my diagnosis to build my stamina and strength, and I'm starting over now.
Besides losses in health and fitness, I've lost other aspects of my life like work, teaching, being as active of a mom and wife as I'd like, feeling up to visiting with friends, and just feeling connected to the outside world. I miss the little things about what my life used to be - coming up with awesome lessons, going next door to visit Andrea between periods, seeing my students in class or the hallway, having lunch with my department, going to the grocery store with the girls, taking Norah out to get our nails done or go to the playground, having the occasional date night with Rob, inviting friends over for pizza, or meeting up with peopleto go to a brewery or restaurant. It's been a strange trip from diagnosis to treatment and surgeries to recovery. I was playing Eeyore for the first part of my walk and feeling kind of blah.
But as I got into the groove and actually felt the freakin sunshine (how amazing is that?), I was able to look around and lean to a more positive mindset. I'm about to hit you with some metaphors and symbolism. Are you ready? Ok.
It's the first day of spring and the temperatures are warming, the sun has a fighting chance against the cold, and the grass and flowers are starting to bloom and green again. But there's still some piles of snow by the curbs and in the shady parts of yards. There was even some ice on the pavement that I had to avoid as I reached the top of a culdesac on a hill.
My health is improving, I'm having more good days than bad, and I was cleared at last week's follow up with my surgeon to start exercising and lifting Lulu. I'm getting ready to start blooming again, or at least the dead grass of my health is ready to go from brown to light green - ha! I'm letting the hope shine through more often, and I'm getting out of the house. Those bulbs hiding in the dirt are ready to poke their heads out, and so am I. I'm with ya, crocuses!
But there's still some snow and ice lurking in my days. Those bad days are BAD and UGLY and exhausting. My body hurts, it's hard for me to move quickly, and I've had too many wedding dress shopping/bathroom scene from the movie Bridesmaid moments. But they're lessening and melting away week by week, and hopefully, in a few months, there won't be any snow mounds left in my world and the only ice will be in some summer cocktails or iced tea.
But those ice cubes will mean that there are still some small hurdles and side effects left. I'll still have appointments, bloodwork, and scans every three months. I'll still have the worries of "what ifs" and "is that cancer pain or just pain pain?" And I'll still have the memories of the past year pop up from time to time. But that's ok, right? You can't enjoy the spring without having survived the winter. And you certainly can't enjoy the summer without some frozen drinks.
So while I've had some losses - or maybe it's more like I've "misplaced" some aspects of my life or had to table them for a bit - I've had so many gains. I've found new perspectives; met so many new, supportive people and fellow colorectal cancer fighters; become even closer (as if we weren't close already) with family and friends; found strength and confidence; taken the time to slow things down and focus on what matters; and learned to give myself and others more grace. There are ups and downs in this life, and I'll take them both.
The other topic I wanted to write about is that I'm struggling with anxiety over starting to go out and seeing people I know and work with because I worry what everyone is thinking. One of the blessings and curses (that's too strong of a word...) of not losing my hair from treatment and having effective anti-nausea and pain meds is that I don't look too different from before I was diagnosed. My hair is thinner, I've gained weight (I'm really struggling with this, even though it makes me sound vain and ridiculous because weight gain is nothing compared to everything else), and it takes more energy and time to move around. That's probably all that's visible from the outside, and so I'm sure to most people, I look like I'm fine and recovered. I worry that when I post about being able to take Norah out to see Chicago at THS (everyone should go - it's another incredible production) or that I'm able to start exercising that people will wonder why I'm able to do these things but I'm not able to be back at work or doing more. For the record, no one has actually said this to me. I just can't turn off the worry about what other people think.
Let me play English teacher again and hit you with Hemmingway's Iceberg Theory: like an iceberg that only shows 1/8 of itself above the water, the real meaning of a story lurks beneath the surface. Or we can try the imagery of a duck who looks to glide calmly on the surface of a pond but is truly paddling like hell to stay afloat.
Like I wrote earlier, I'm getting better each week and having more good days than bad, but I'm still the iceberg or the duck a lot of the time. When I do get myself together and go out to the store, a high school musical, a restaurant, or on a walk, I'm fueled by adrenaline, pain pills for my neuropathy, and a good amount of Imodium. When I do get out, I'm usually in a lot of pain that night or the next day because my joints are so stiff partially from radiation and partially from lack of use. My back and pelvis are the worst culprits. I can compare it to being 8 months pregnany and feeling like you're carrying a bowling ball in your pelvis. For the men out there - it's not comfortable.
I'm in the midst of a terrible balancing act between taking the right about of psyllium or Metamucil to keep my system moving and Imodium to keep it from moving too much or too fast. I've had a few episodes in the past two weeks where I considered sleeping on the bathroom floor because I was barely making it out of bed to run to the bathroom. Sorry, forgot the TMI alert there. When I have those episodes, my localized pain increases by a stupid amount, and I feel helpless and hopeless that I'll ever be able to function normally again. There's no way I could teach right now because I couldn't imagine being mid-discussion with my kiddos and having to run out the door. Nope. It's not advisable to leave a class of 25 teenagers unattended, and it's just not comfortable to be an adult who isn't in control of her body. It's similar to being home with the kids. While Norah is mostly self-sufficient, she still needs her mom, and Lucy is in that "I'm just starting to walk and ready to crack my head on every piece of furniture you own" phase. It's difficult being home alone with them because I never know when I'll have to quickly leave the room for a while. Rob and my mom are taking on a lot of extra work helping to babysit us all.
My surgeon believes I have LARS (lower-anterior resection syndrome), and while it will hopefully improve over time, it'll never completely go away. It's a process, and I'm riding it out and finding my new normal. I'll have to play with the medications I take the foods I can eat to find a good system for my system. Cheerios are OFF the list. I learned that one the hard way. Heavy tomato-based recipes are hard too.
I hope this doesn't come across as too mopey. I just needed to write that out and explain what's going on behind the scenes. I'm doing much better than 7 weeks ago, but I still have a ways to go. It's a process. Day by day. Moment by moment.
I hope you get to enjoy some sunshine on this first day of spring. Thank you for your support, as always.
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