Girl and Bunny

Trying to get back in the swing of things with regard to painting -- working through my available art supplies and using old photos I've kept on hand (for years, in this case) for inspiration. This is a 9" x 12" oil on linen.

Girl and Bunny

Man in a Red Shirt

Painting this was a happy struggle. The happy because I'm so grateful to be back in the art studio. The struggle because my body and soul ostensibly took the same beating from breast cancer, and I honestly wasn't sure if either my body or soul could handle the work required to paint. (Both can!)

It is always a boost of confidence when a loved one likes the portrait of their loved one. I'm pleased to say that is the case here.

This is a 20" x 24" oil on linen.

Dear Art Studio,

Dear Art Studio,

Thank you for patiently waiting while I focused all of my energy these past three years on the pursuit of living through a breast cancer diagnosis. During that overwhelming time, instead of being a refuge for creativity and artistic expression, you became a dumping ground for the endless amounts of cancer paperwork and medical bills. That must have been hard for you, but you accepted the change without complaint. Thank you for that.

Most days, I didn't even have the strength to stand at the easel, much less the mental acuity to focus on the process of painting. All of that is about to change.

I'm excited to announce that I'm organizing the medical paperwork and clearing out the mess, and preparing to paint again! Even though chemotherapy seems to have forever, or at least so far, damaged the sharpness of my thought processes, I have had a lot of time to think, and consequently, have some new ideas of what to put on canvas.

Soon, we'll listen to classical music and podcasts and create beauty together. I'm extremely grateful for this second chance at living, and look forward to your part in helping me transition back into the life of a thriving artist.

Thank you, again, for being silently affirming and supportive, and a reminder of what once was and can now be. Let's get busy!

Love,
Sarah

Sew What

6th and final (?) surgery - January 29, 2020

Back in February, barely a week after my last breast reconstruction (revision) surgery, I was invited to attend a trip to Rome in late April with a group of breast cancer survivors through the organization, Send Me On Vacation. With the generosity of those of you who supported this trip by buying a painting, I bought my plane ticket before the scope of the corona virus epidemic was fully understood. Without delving into the minutia of the timetable of plane rerouting again and again, and eventual cancellations, the trip was officially postponed until October. Again, minutia, but at this point though I've agreed to go on the trip in October, I've not yet bought my plane ticket, in large part because the ticket price is considerably more expensive, but also, with KLM I got a ticket voucher, not a refund, so I'm limited in purchasing options, and who knows what is going to transpire in the coming months?

Before the trip was postponed, I was preparing as if I would be going to Italy by, in particular, walking and sewing. Getting back in shape after each of the medical assaults on my body over the 2.5 years of chemotherapy, radiation, and six surgeries has been rather difficult. So I knew that if I was going to walk all over Rome, I'd need to step up, so to speak, a work out routine. Many of you know that a very long time ago, I was a competitive runner, which means that my go-to exercise of choice is running. With the aforementioned accumulation of medical procedures added to age, at best, what I do is wogging -- a combination of walking and jogging. It is what it is. 

In early/mid March, I got an undetermined sickness that had many similarities with Covid 19 -- fever, loss of smell and taste, blue splotchy feet and hands, small rash on the back of my leg, and more recently, hot itchy feet and sore pinky toe, but because I hadn't traveled to China, wasn't tested for the corona virus. I was tested for strep, flu, and x-rayed for pneumonia -- all results were negative. The Amazing Reese and I went to get an antibody test, and though I had a faint line that suggested I had been exposed to the virus, the conclusion was that we tested negative for antibodies.

Getting pricked for corona virus antibodies a second time because the first test was inconclusive. 

One thing I'm not is a great seamstress. I am big on ideas and enthusiasm and have been slowly attempting to reconfigure some of my clothes to adjust them to fit this torn apart and put back together body of mine so that I can look cute and feel cute when and if I eventually go to Rome....or anywhere. In this instance, frugality + desperation + time = creativity.

This was a small silk robe that no longer covered me properly, but I loved it so found a kimono at the resale shop and cut it up to add both length and width to the robe. Now, it's both cute and modest. Hat tip to Lacey Crawford for inspiring the idea. The ever Amazing Reese said the old lady house slippers had to go. 🙂 (I saved the pom poms for an upcoming project.)

This was a very cute sweater that I didn't feel confident in because the deep indention in my armpit area where my lymph nodes were removed showed. I actually took this one to the tailor and she added the silk sleeves for me and voila -- it's dreamy and covers my armpit area completely. 

This shirt I totally built from scratch -- no pattern, just a strip of fabric. I sort of copied one of my shirts, but turns out I didn't have enough fabric to do exactly what I had envisioned, so I improvised. If you see me in person wearing this, don't look too closely at the seams. It's a blue eyelet jersey fabric. 

The worldwide corona virus self isolating quarantine is not that different from how I've been living since starting chemotherapy back in 2017. Self isolation is hard, but why would I go through all the work of surviving breast cancer only to disregard the world's health experts? I've always been a team player, and to support Team World, I'm happy to wear a mask in public, sewn by our daughter, Anna.

Expect a hug from me two weeks after the end of worldwide quarantine restrictions.

Happy hour six feet apart on the front porch drinking wine through a straw with maker Anna in the background. Under the mask, I'm smiling. 

A Roman Holiday

Last September, I submitted a 26 page application for a Send Me On Vacation vacation for breast cancer survivors. Send Me On Vacation (from their website) provides breast cancer survivors the opportunity to initiate the process of emotional healing through a one of a kind vacation experience. They empower survivors to reconnect with their mind, body, and spirit. The organization's mantra of overcoming fear and fostering emotional fitness post treatment is supported by the concept of vacation rejuvenation transformation (which) helps subdue the fear that is often associated with surviving the effects of breast cancer treatment. Supporting emotional fitness is a critical first step in the recovery from the devastating effects cancer leaves behind.

The website for Send Me On Vacation clearly stated that just because you apply for a vacation, it doesn't necessarily mean you will be granted one. Since it had been five months since my application was submitted, I figured that meant that I didn't get it. But last week, an email arrived inviting me to attend a  Revive and Thrive vacation in Rome (Italy, not Texas) in late April of this year! (It's going to be my first trip to Europe.)

Part of the agreement with Send Me On Vacation is that I am responsible for my own transportation costs from my home to the destination hotel and back. Since the Amazing Reese and I are not frequent travelers by any stretch of the imagination and don't have a credit card for mileage points,  I'm asking around for suggestions/advice on how to buy an affordable plane ticket without getting scammed. (So far, I've looked at Kayak and Google  search for flights.)

In order to fund this journey, I am making these paintings available for sale for a limited time at $100 each. The tulips and the man on the green sofa are oil on linen but the others are all oil on board. The squares are approximately 16" x 16".

Below, the Sarah Hazel Personal Story is my 300 words or less Send Me On Vacation application essay. As I re-read it months later, it feels overwhelming and desperate. Much of this breast cancer journey has felt like that. I've cried more in the time since my breast cancer diagnosis than if you add up all the tears from my whole life before diagnosis.

BUT.......

Through a great program called the Flatwater Foundation, I've found an amazing psychotherapist, and, starting last October, we talk once a week via video therapy. (From their website,) Flatwater Foundation is dedicated to providing those diagnosed with cancer, their families and loved ones access to mental health therapy and family support. This includes access to both traditional and non-traditional methods of psychological counseling.  

My therapist has really helped/is really helping me with the process of emotional healing from breast cancer. It's been amazing to see the transformation in a few months from abject terror at getting my blood drawn to one of mild-ish concern. I'm so grateful that this therapy is helping guide me through the fear back to a place of calm. We've got more work to do, but I'm getting there.

The last of my breast reconstruction surgeries was two weeks ago. Everything looks good and is healing well. About three or so more office visits to the plastic surgeon to finalize the noobs and I'll be all done! Whew!

Sarah Hazel
Personal Story
September 2019

It took me about a year after I first noticed a lump in my breast, and then my armpit to finally get a mammogram. When you are hustling several jobs to help pay the mortgage so you don't lose the house, there's not a good time, or money, honestly, to schedule a doctor appointment. When I finally scheduled the appointment, and subsequent biopsies, because it was summer and the beginning of a holiday week, the results came back before I actually got a call from the doctor explaining them. Over and over the inanimate results screamed from the page, "associated with a relatively unfavorable outcome". Within a month I was sitting in an infusion chair being pumped full of chemicals to kill the cancer growing in my breast and lymph nodes. 

What no one tells you when you are diagnosed with breast cancer is how betrayed you feel by your own body. The scars where they removed my breasts aren't my only scars. The mental and emotional toll of these last two years has been relentless. My beautiful breasts (may they rest in peace) tried to kill me. If I'm being completely honest, they did a little bit. I'm broken -- mentally, physically, emotionally -- my spirituality got a beat down, too. It's all been so overwhelming. 

But, I'm desperate not to be "broken" forever. To that end, I'm currently enrolled in a twelve week Livestrong program at the YMCA, working to improve my physical health. I'm in the process of trying to find the right therapist to help me process my fragile mental state. And I firmly believe that a vacation will give my emotional state a chance to breathe deeply, love wholly, and laugh freely once again. Please grant me a Send Me On Vacation, Inc. vacation with my precious husband.

A final note -- the Amazing Reese will not be joining me on this trip. It is only for breast cancer survivors.

Chemotherapy Self Portrait

I'm happy to announce that my painting, Chemotherapy Self Portrait, was accepted into the Eleventh Annual Juried Exhibition at Archway Gallery.

It's a very vulnerable painting to present, but here it is for all to see. For my thoughts on painting it, when I was in the midst of the nastiness of chemotherapy a year and a half ago, click here. Also of note, this week is the one year mark since the end of all infusions. That was a rough patch. And next week will hopefully be my last surgery to put me back together. I can see glimpses of light at the end of the tunnel.

The opening reception is this coming Saturday, July 6th, from 5 - 8 pm.

In Between Stops

There have been so many stops and starts to "living" while undergoing breast cancer treatment and the ensuing reconstructive surgeries, that painting and other creative endeavors in life have taken the furthest seat at the back of the bus. All of my focus -- mental, physical, emotional, even spiritual was spent just trying to be as healthy (alive) as I could before and after every new milestone. Just get to the end of chemotherapy. Just get through the mastectomies surgery. Get through radiation. Get through reconstruction surgery. Get through 2nd reconstruction surgery. Even now, I'm focused on being as ready as possible before my 3rd reconstructive surgery in mid July. It will be 2 years at the end of this July of put on the brakes, put on the brakes, accelerate a little bit and live a little, put on the brakes, accelerate, put on the brakes, live a little, brake....it really messes with your head.

Something I've known about myself for a while is that I generally can do only one thing well at a time. Once upon a time when I was a fancy runner, all of my focus went toward running faster and faster. Then, when getting our yard and garden into shape, I perpetually had twigs in my hair, dreamed about plants, and literally had a green thumb. And then, a dear friend invited me to take a painting class with her and lo and behold, life had me taking an unexpected turn. With gobs of encouragement and new art supplies from the Amazing Reese, I embarked on a painting journey that has been incredibly rewarding and satisfying. So much so that over the years, people have found ways to compensate me for a painting. Even commissioned me! But, it's been a good long while since I've been in the studio, other than to file and organize endless amounts of cancer paperwork, and do I even know how to paint anymore? Did chemotherapy kill all of my creative brain cells along with killing cancer cells? (Hopefully killing ALL cancer cells though I won't be officially declared cancer free until a full ten years has passed. One year down, nine to go.)

So, between surgeries, only somewhat ready, and terribly apprehensive, back in the studio I went to work on (drum roll, please) a commission! After the initial sketch, it took several weeks of nerves, doubts, and stalling (self sabotage) before I fully mustered up the courage to put actual paint to canvas. It was humbling/exhilarating to once again be immersed in the process of painting -- connecting me to a creative, confident aspect of my psyche that has lain dormant for so long.

Thank you, dear patron, for believing in my abilities as an artist. It's an incredible blessing. This painting is 16" x 20" oil on linen and was a pleasure to paint.

(Want a painting of your loved one? Commission me -- we have medical bills to pay.)

Black Friday

It is with deep sadness that I report that our sweet Tilly the Wonder dog passed away this morning. It was very sudden. She will be sorely missed.

Greener Grass

There is no fence to balance on with a breast cancer diagnosis. Since July 2017, the "greener grass" side of treatment has required heavy doses of herbicide (chemotherapy) to kill the weeds (cancer cells), aggressive pruning (surgery/mastectomies), additional weeding (radiation), all before replanting and grafting new branches in a carefully pruned garden (reconstruction surgery).

From my limited knowledge and vantage point, the replanting and grafting part of my breast reconstruction surgery is progressing nicely. I've followed all of the doctor's strict orders, and hopefully will reap the harvest of an extended, healthy lifetime. (Doctor's orders included staying inside for weeks on end and sleeping in a recliner.) Just last week I was able to sleep in a bed for the first time since surgery (yeehaw!) and with my new found freedom of being allowed outside, I'm slowly emerging from a cocoon of inactivity and enjoying small walks (around the block) with the Amazing Reese and Tilly the Wonder dog.

This side of the fence is definitely greener, especially considering that the alternative was death. Many thanks to the team of professionals who have kept me alive and soon-to-be flourishing -- dozens and dozens of people who have worked and are working together on my behalf. It's so wonderful to be pruned, grafted, and replanted in a verdant, green garden in this great big world!

The Doppler Effect

The lovely view from the hospital room window really does have a soothing effect on my well being after breast reconstruction surgery on Monday.  I'm doing really well -- which is remarkable considering that the surgery which was supposed to be 12 hours ended up being 16 hours! The plastic surgeon took extra time during surgery because everything under my skin wasn't perfect....not perfect because breast cancer treatment, while life saving was also damaging. And even though we did lots of tests to make sure that I was a good candidate for this type of surgery (diep flap reconstruction) (I was), the plastic surgeon needed extra time during surgery to get things lined up and sewn together just right. I KNOW that it's lined up just right because...

My favorite part of the doctors and nurses checking up on me post surgery is hearing the strong beat of the doppler as they (we all) listen for a pulse in my newly rearranged body parts. The first day of doppler flap listening was every 30 minutes, then every hour, then every two hours, and now every four hours - progress. Everything that is supposed to be warm is warm, and everywhere that is supposed to have a pulse has a pulse. Amen. Alleluia.

I'll be laying low for a while, recovering. I'm feeling more hopeful than I have in a while, though, so that's good.

One Year Ago

One year ago, I was curled up in the fetal position on a loveseat in a waiting room as patients, nurses, doctors, and technicians went about their business. The fuzzy white bathrobe provided to me from the breast clinic did little to comfort or prepare me from the unfolding horror. Images from the mammogram I had just had were serious enough to warrant immediate biopsies, the results of which confirmed infiltrating breast cancer, already spreading to lymph nodes in my armpit. My life turned upside down not in the blink of an eye, but in the squish of a breast.

The ensuing days were filled with my body being poked, prodded, scanned, and cut all in preparation for an extensive regimen of breast cancer treatment, which started with chemotherapy one month later. Next week Thursday, I will officially finish my seventeenth infusion of the drug, Herceptin, which will be the last of my breast cancer treatment. 

The scars where my breasts used to be are not my only scars. The mental and emotional toll of the past year has been relentless. Hope, my ever faithful companion, has made a game of playing hookie, and so regret and despair snuggle closer to me on the sofa. The clearance to start running has made the most difference in my psyche, besides, of course, the love of friends and family. Yes, running! Whatever it is, this running habit that started decades ago in high school is the one thing that I can genuinely tell is helping me feel better - mind, body, and soul. 

The journey continues. The next big event will be breast reconstruction surgery at the end of August. If anyone is keeping score, surgery has been postponed by a month - giving my treatment damaged vessels a little more time to recover. In the meantime, I'm doing my darndest to prepare for a successful surgery, part of which involves playing with my favorite grandson in the backyard kiddie pool.

Blooming Life

Fair warning -- this post contains an abridged version of unpleasant medical realities. Don't read if squeamish.

It's been a very long and exhausting year. No, I'm not finished with breast cancer treatment, yet. Yes, I'm finished with chemotherapy. Yes, I've had my mastectomies and lymphadenectomy. Yes, there were good results from the surgeries. Praise God. Yes, I've had radiation. But I have three more infusions of herceptin for a total of 17 infusions every three weeks since last August. Whew. My body is tired. My spirit is tired.

 Trying to bloom where I'm planted

One month after radiation ended I started experiencing minor swelling in my hands and feet. The plastic surgeon thinks this is normal -- thinks that my body is still recovering from major surgery last December and that I need to give it more time. The physical therapists (yes, I'm in physical therapy) think it is cause for alarm. They think it's lymphedema, which is just one more crappy take away from everything else that is happening to my body. In physical therapy, we're working on my range of motion, but mainly the therapists are manipulating my lymph fluid around so that it can properly drain through my subclavian veins. It's complicated. And tiring.

After all cancer treatment is finished in early July, (I can't wait), then I have my next surgery, breast reconstruction, (at the end of July), which is a little terrifying, though I'm trying to be brave. The plastic surgeon is going to make substitute boobs for me from my belly fat, which means that I'm basically going to be cut in two from hip bone to hip bone, just below my belly button, just so I can feel and look "normal" in the long run. Normal meaning that when someone looks at me with clothes on, I will look like a woman by having boob like protrusions. Right now, I have prosthetics where my boobs used to be, which have been expanded to a point so that there will be enough skin to put my belly fat underneath it. But here's the freaky part, (like the rest of it isn't freaky), belly fat remains belly fat no matter where it is in the body. So if I gain weight in the future, it will go straight to my belly, which will have been rearranged to my chest wall. Belly boobs. I know, science! Crazy.

As demanding as this last year has been physically and emotionally, to prepare my heart for the stress of the next surgery, Tilly the Wonder dog and I are out walking and seeing our 'ole dog walking buddies. (!) The next surgery will put me out of commission for a while (again), so the Amazing Reese and I are also saying yes to small social engagements, if feasible. It's been nice to connect (reconnect) on a small level in the midst of such a difficult year.

Return to Life

A month ago, I finished what is now referred to as the "worst part of my breast cancer treatment" so far -- radiation therapy. The experience was so bad that I quit in the middle of it, only to coax myself to finish a negotiated reduced treatment course. I NEVER want to do radiation again.

Cancer treatment is not over. Every three weeks, I still have infusions of a drug called Herceptin. Herceptin is the only drug available that effectively treats my type of breast cancer, so I'm exceedingly glad that it was developed. Five more cycles of infusion therapy (which puts me finishing all treatment in July), and then I can focus on breast reconstruction surgery, which, I think (hope) will be the last step in this journey. According to blood work, almost all of my numbers are back to normal, which means that the good days outnumber the bad, though I do tire easily. Also, hoping to improve flexibility and strength in my upper body (post mastectomy), I will start physical therapy later this month.

The vibrancy of spring as new growth appears on the trees and blossoms bloom after a prolonged winter convalescence is the best encouragement -- that and the continued kindness of friends who remember me in their prayers and written messages. Every day, I'm trying to return to life and thankful for my little part of it/in it, however small.

Enjoying an impromptu visit at home from some young neighbor friends 

My Driving Force

Exposed, hurting, lying on what seems like a narrow mortician's table in a cavernous room, alone, encapsulated by an enormous machine shooting me with targeted radiation all in the name of cancer -- I am a science experiment. Technicians come and go, twisting and adjusting my body, laying a heavy gelatinous slab over the scar where my breast used to be, asking if I am OK....I'm not. Every day. It exhausts me. I think I am strong, and yet when the all clear is given and it's time to rise off the table, to leave my torture chamber, it feels exactly like trying to run away from a monster in a dream. My legs want to move but walking is slow and labored. I'm spent. Even though I have been technically released from the shackles of treatment, the heavy chains have really been piled in my arms, handed to me to carry until the next day, when I will be locked to the table once again. Day after day. Week after week. I hate radiation.

Friends drive me to and from the treatments. They sit in the small waiting area and do just that -- wait. Yesterday, my driver was my neighbor and her precious four year old daughter. The four year old asked me how it was when I was finished with treatment. I told her that it was not fun, but that the doctor said it was medicine that I had to take, and that it makes me cry, and she said that she had a flu shot. Empathy -- so sweet. "And did it make you cry?" I ask. "Yes, I did not like it." "But was your mom there to hold your hand?" (To which mom said, "I was there to hold her whole body.") "Yes," she said. "And you know that she loves you, right?" "Yes." "That's what it's like to have friends like you drive me to the doctor and wait for me and drive me home afterwards. It's like the love you feel when your mom holds your hand when you are scared but have to take your medicine anyway, like your flu shot. I feel your love for me and it comforts me. So, thank you for taking me to the doctor today. You helped me take my medicine just by going with me and waiting for me."

The entrance to my torture chamber

Gravity

It came as quite a shock when I was in the clinic the other day, that getting a tattoo was part of the preparation process for radiation treatments. Actually, it's five little tattoos marking the area that will be zapped for 15 minutes a day for six weeks. (Oh, by the way, radiation treatments start later this week.) I was really hoping that with my "pathologic complete response" report after surgery that radiation could be avoided altogether, but since the cancer is/was HER2 positive, and in my lymph nodes, radiation is still recommended as part of the overall treatment plan. To be honest, I'm more than a little apprehensive about radiation. It's just one more small step for this woman, but it feels like a giant leap. It all feels like a giant leap. Like I'm on the moon and a mission control room full of doctors and insurance agents are deciding my future, whether I live or die, from thousands of miles away. Each decision they make directly impacts whether or not I'll make it back home, to loved ones, to live life on earth. But here I am today, with my feet on the ground, and about to get zapped with radiation. I very much feel the gravity of the earth AND the situation. God bless them, I have enlisted a few friends to help with transportation to and from the radiation appointments -- transportation, yes, but also for the moral support. (I don't think I've told them that.)

In addition to radiation, the oncologist has added another drug to my infusion schedule, one which has caused a whole new round of side effects, though still not as bad as the chemicals used during the first six cycles of infusion. All of it -- EVERYTHING -- has slowed me down quite a bit -- starting with the port placement last July to chemotherapy to surgery to more infusions and now to radiation -- but I'm making it and doing as much living as I can when I can.

The doctors are pleased with my recovery from surgery and as such, I'm starting to use my arms beyond tiny t-rex motions again, and feel confident and well enough to socialize (on good days), and have a fuzzy selfie to prove it -- proof positive that in between all of the bad, there's a whole lot of good.

Looks like we all went to the same barber! 

To Lose by Winning

Four weeks post surgery, my "social life" consists of doctor visits and not much else. Doctor's orders have severely limited my activity level which is a trial in and of itself for someone who likes to DO stuff. The doctor said not to lift anything heavier than a fork, after which I asked if I could have food on the end of the fork! (The answer was yes.) The instructions are really not to lift anything heavier than five pounds. A half gallon of milk is four pounds, so really, I'm not doing much at all....except browsing the internet....which has gotten me into a little bit of trouble. I can't believe what I'm about to admit and I can't believe that I fell for it.

It's no secret that I enjoy all things vintage. Our home is very modestly filled with furniture found in estate sales, consignment shops, and garage sales. More than once I've "rescued" items from curbside (trash) and refurbished them and or repurposed them. The new term for this is upcycling. So, with that mindset in mind coupled with my limited mobility, the majority of my distractions in hunting and gathering has been on the internet -- the great world wide web.

One can search for very specific items on the world wide web....for instance, vintage and estate jewelry. It can be very tempting to look, for instance on Instagram.....no harm there, remember, I'm restricted from manual labor, but Instagram led to Etsy. Oooh, look at all the pretty vintage jewelry on Etsy! So lovely, but, and this is how the thought process went, I bet I can find it cheaper on eBay. I wasn't even SHOPPING for anything, just looking, but I'm very competitive, and when I saw a too-good-to-be-true auction item for .01 (plus $37.50 shipping),  I bid on it. And won. And got excited and bid on something else....plus $37.50 shipping. And won. And now, I've got two cheap pieces of probably plastic cracker box jewelry due to arrive anyday and I have regrets. Big regrets. Spending $37.50 x 2 is not fair to the lovely friends who have come along side us to support us in grand and small ways during this cancer journey/battle. It's not fair to Reese who works hard every single day taking care of me in grand and small ways.

Reese is, of course, kind, gentle, and forgiving about the eBay purchases, which I hope to return. He understandably doesn't want me bidding on anything else, but his grace towards me after I do something so foolish is one more example of why he IS the Amazing Reese.

Life After Surgery

Surgery to remove my breasts and lymph nodes was a little over a week ago. The surgeon called yesterday to tell me the results of the pathology. I burst into tears during my conversation with her. I immediately called Reese and burst into tears. And, moments later, burst into tears again while trying to relay to my parents what the surgeon had said on the phone. The news? Pathologic complete response after neoadjuvant therapy. What that means? In layman's terms -- no evidence of cancer in either of the removed breasts or lymph nodes! The tears were tears of relief. And joy. So much joy.

Doctor's orders have me using my arms very little -- think of tiny t-rex arms and their limited range of motion and you get an idea of how much I can do for myself (not much). There are a few other unpleasantries associated with recovery from the surgery, but they are manageable with lots of help from the Amazing Reese, and both mom and dad, who came to help after surgery. I'm overwhelmed in a good way with the super, terrific, incredibly great report from the pathology. I'm alive with the probability of an extended life, AND I'm home for Christmas. These last few months of hell have all been worth it.

me and dad and our matching hair dos

In Sickness and in Health

Hard to know what sort of update to post reagarding the cancer devil. Life isn't rosy these days, but it is still sweet. Even though I was not in best form, my (54th!) birthday and our family gathering around Thanksgiving still happened. Laughter, tears, goodwill, love, conversation, and friendship were in abundance. Reese and I have been accepting the help offered to us from friends and especially family -- help in the form of meals, cleaning, laundry, dog walking, and even Christmas tree installation. We're much more accustomed to being the helpers instead of the helped, so everything seems out of whack, but that's just the way it is for now.

The tumors aren't shrinking from the chemotherapy as much as was expected -- not great news. Other options are being discussed in addition to the already planned treatment path. Surgery is scheduled for the second week in December. Everything feels unnatural....almost like it is happening to someone else's life, but it's mine. Ours. The Amazing Reese and I are very much in this together. We certainly didn't expect this tragedy in our lives, but years of loving one another for better or worse (this is definitely worse), for richer or poorer, in (this horrible) sickness and in health as long as we both shall live (how long do any of us have?) is making it easier to bear. Not easy, just easier.

In other news, a couple of my flower paintings are in an exhibit at MotherDog Studios in the warehouse district of downtown Houston through mid February. Knowing that I wouldn't feel well enought to attend the opening during Art Crawl, I took some time before my last chemotherapy treatment to go see the show. It was well curated by John Runnels -- no surprise there -- and the studio is more that happy to welcome visitors and patrons of the arts during regular business hours.

Peonies Envy in MotherDog Studios 

Heads Up

There are no days where the bulk of my thought processes are not somehow centered around the breast cancer in my body. Though none of us know the time or the place of our death (generally -- there are a few exceptions), I certainly have been thinking of my life with a newfound awareness of its tenuousness. If I die tomorrow (not of cancer -- just some random accident), I'm 98.9% content that I've lived the life I should have lived with the gifts, talents, place, time, and resources that have been entrusted to my care. That's not to say that my life is 98.9% perfect, just that I'm content. There are a few more thank yous to voice, a few debts to pay, a few more things to do, and a few places I would have liked to visit on this earth, but by and large, it's been a great life -- including the adversity. So when I die, preferably later rather than sooner, know that I was grateful for my time here, for my place, and especially for my people, including everyone reading this. Thank you!

With my time yesterday, one of the sweet good days between chemotherapy treatments, I painted. (Only two more chemos to go -- yay!) It's something that I've wanted to do since my chemotherapy induced alopecia started -- not only to document this incredibly personal event, but to take away some of the power it holds over my fragile ego. This feels like kind of a big deal.

It's 18" x 14" oil on linen.

Round Three

Sitting in the infusion chair is scary. People think I'm brave....but I'm not. I cry every time. In order to live, I have to do it, sit there and take my medicine, but it's not easy. The Amazing Reese has been able to join me for every treatment so far, God bless him, but that's a luxury and likely will not last. So today? I'm alive and grateful for it. In this year long journey, the first half of phase one is finished. The tumors have shrunk -- significantly from the first treatment to the second, not so much from the second to the third treatment, but still shrinking. That's a good thing.

Thank you to the community of people both near and far who continue to reach out with offers of help and kindness. Though it's difficult, I'm trying not to compare my journey with others, because life isn't fair, and in any other circumstance, I'd sit and empathize with you about your aunt who lived for five years after a breast cancer diagnosis but died, right now I just can't afford to listen to those stories. For whatever reason, even the good stories can be overwhelming. I love people and value kindness above all, and appreciate that people don't know what to say to me, but maybe just being kind is enough. Maybe we don't always have to talk about cancer. Maybe we can just be.

Thanks for understanding.

Short and Sweet

Wow. I'm alive and in that sweet spot on the back end of the chemotherapy cycle, that one week of "wellness" before the next cycle of poison begins. After being in bed and in various stages of pain and discomfort for most of the day for the last two weeks, this feels like paradise.

Because of the distress of seeing clumps of hair fall out, I decided on an interim hair do of short -- because somehow it's less stressful to see little wisps of hair falling out than clumps of long strands. My wig is on standby as this short do likely won't last more than a few days.

The closest analogy of exuberant gratitude for this temporary feeling of wellness that I can think of is Tigger in Winnie the Pooh. Though I might not be bouncing around on the outside like Tigger, I'm jumping with giddiness on the inside. I feel well enough to think in complete sentences and paragraphs, so I write. I feel well enough to walk the dog, so I did. I feel well enough to go for a therapeutic float in a friend's swimming pool, so I will. I feel well enough to laugh, so tell me a funny story.

P.S.  As silly as it sounds, I've just gotten permission from the infusion nurses to unplug for a while during my August 21st chemotherapy session so that I can go outside and experience the solar eclipse first hand. I don't know if I'll feel up to it when the time comes, but there's a chance I will. Ever hopeful.

A Week One

(This is Reese writing this entry) It has been one week since the first chemo infusion. Our nurse, Lisa, at the Baylor College of Medicine, Lester and Sue Smith Breast Center, was simply wonderful. It was a very long day; 8am to 4:30pm. Sarah was a champ throughout the entire event. We visited, played on the Internet, read and sent e-mails, watched two episodes of Bob's Burgers (it always makes Sarah laugh), the time sort of flew by mainly because Sarah and I were enjoying being together. At the very end when they were unplugging the infusion pump, having Sarah fill out some papers, and having her watch an instructional video, it was like someone let all the air out of her tires. She was suddenly very exhausted. I thought we might need a wheelchair to get her to the elevator ... but we didn't. She made it under her own strength down to where her precious sister, Elizabeth, was waiting in the car. Elizabeth came all the way from San Diego to help with the first day of treatment. Week one has been very difficult. The chemical cocktail that was infused has done a harsh number on Sarah's ability to function. We are exceedingly grateful to everyone who has helped, offered to help, and most of all prayed.

Exhaustion

In the span of a few weeks, I've gone from training for an 8 mile race to barely being able to walk to the end of the block. It's certainly humbling. Without delving into the nitty gritty, the first cycle of chemotherapy was no piece of cake. Days later, and I'm still exhausted. 

Thank you so much to those who have reached out and offered support and comfort to me and my family. I've read every note and taken to heart the kind thoughts. 

ImPORTant Day

Dear friends,

Please forgive the impersonal nature of sharing this news. Nine days ago, I met with an oncologist who confirmed the sobering results of several biopsies from my right breast and armpit -- breast cancer. The days are starting to run together -- so much is happening so quickly -- I'm overwhelmed by the enormity of my diagnosis and the impending treatment.

Today I will have a small surgical procedure to implant a port to administer chemotherapy, which begins August 1st.

The treatment plan will start with 5 - 6 months of chemotherapy, followed by a mastectomy, lymphadenectomy of the nodes in my armpit, 6 weeks of radiation, then a drug called Herceptin for one year during which time, presumably, they will perform reconstructive surgery on my breast. My breast cancer is HER2 positive, which means that it's unreasonably aggressive.

Please remember me in your prayers as I begin this arduous journey.

Much love,
Sarah

Stable Friends

Last week, with permission, I borrowed an image (to paint) from a friend of mine whose horse and dog clearly get along well. The subtleties of the friendship between the horse and dog, the similarities of their coloring, as well as the neutral warm tones of the wood in the stable made for interesting, albeit complicated to paint, subject matter. As the painting has dried over the last week, the colors have continued to develop a certain richness. Who knew neutrals could be so exciting!?

"Stable Friends" is 18" x 24" oil on linen.

Since a well known gift giving time of the year is in the not too distant future, in case anyone is interested, all of my paintings are listed at $2 a square inch. And, for a limited time, all of my paintings sized 12" x 16" or less will be $1 a square inch, which includes everything in the photo below, which means that the paintings in the photo range in price from $35 - $180. (There are four 12" x 15" 's on the table.)

Come have a look.

Ever thought about commissioning a painting? There's still time for the work to be finished before the holidays, and I'd love to paint something specifically for you. Commission work is $3 a square inch.