Does this feel like its gone on forever for you too?

I dedicate this blog to a stranger named Francy......

Wow, I just sat down to write a blog and realised my last entry was dated 30th May, just over 2 months ago! I can't believe how quickly the time has past and just how slack I've become at contributing to my very own blog. I've also uncovered that the blog templates have been completely updated and changed so that nothing is familiar so its also taken me conservatively 15 minutes just to work out how I start a new post!!?? Arent these things meant to be intuitive Mr Google??

There was a time when I wrote at least weekly if not more regularly in my blog. Perhaps I had more to share, more to off load, more to express. Bundled up emotions trapped inside what felt like a shell of a body busting to get out. Disbelief, anger, sadness - that all seems so far away from me now.  Or perhaps my excuse is that now I am way busier, living more real life, filling my days. No time to sit and write, I'm busy doing these days! Yay to that!

Or.... Perhaps I'm just slack.....

How do I summarise the past 2 months so that this entry doesn't take forever to read? There's so much to tell I am reluctant to cut corners. I am also really only ever writing these things as a personal journal of my illness and recovery. So I guess in that respect there are no rules. I cover what I cover. Nothing more and nothing less. My little brother just asked me if I ever read back over my blogs like a book about the last 9 months of my life. I've tried, I told him, but it's sometimes too emotional and raw for me just now. The reality is I am still in it. Still fighting.  Maybe later.

So a quick update on my health status. My last blog revealed the news I am not a good metaboliser of Tamoxifin, the hormone blocker my body needs to ensure I don't feed my breast cancer any further aestrogen which it apparently liked. So lets starve it I say :) After much research, second and third opinions and lots of thinking, i decided the most appropriate course of action was to go ahead and have my ovaries and tubes removed.  Drastic and permanent yes but really, I havent been one to take the minimalist option with any of this cancer fight so why start now?  The concept was introduced by Boycey, seconded by A Team Oncologist Jodi and researched thoroughly by my very lovely GP, whom I trust implicitely.

It was not an overly emotional decision for me unlike many women whom I imagine struggle when faced with the same dilemma - even at my age.  I've never been the maternal type nor have I linked my femininity to my girly bits.  Ever since puberty, I've had a very clear view that I was never going to have children.  I love kids when they belong to someone else and go home with them prefereably before they start crying.  I also hold a much stronger passion for travel and great food and adventures like being able to chuck jobs in and go kayak to some remote island, or live in a Combi van for months and it just seemed that having the responsibility of raising children could never factor in neatly with those kinds of plans. Not ever.  I stated this fact at an incredibly early age and pretty much never waivered.  Eventually parents, grandparents, friends and your favourite aunty's stop asking "when the little ones are coming" and you realise with relief that they have finally resigned themselves to the fact that perhaps you actually meant what you said. Go figure. 

But putting the emotional aspect of this decision aside, I needed to consider how important aestrogen is to other things like bone density, good teeth and happy moods. I've never really been the grumble bum type but perhaps I now have a fantastic excuse to turn an episode on at any given moment!  Kym goes postal!  Look out!  I feel fortunate to be genetically blessed with unbreakable bones and rock solid teeth (both of which have been tested as a gymnast in my younger years surviving many face plants into balance beams and vaults and more recently smacked plenty of times by rogue surfboards), and so with all of this in mind I decide I have no reason to be overly concerned.  Before I have even calculated these risks in my mind,  Dr Maclean, my Cancer Coordinator, has linked me up with Sydney's finest Gyno and Anesthetist (enter Spunk A Team part 2) Greg and Michael and I was good to go!

This decision was essentially made around early June.  So the remainder of that month saw me undertake a discrete project at work, return to regular classes at the gym and spending time with lovely friends. 

One event I do want to journal was an interesting encounter I had in Ashfield sometime in June. I was racing through the Ashfield mall trying to find something quick to eat with one arm tucked over some work documents and the other arm clutching my wallet and mobile phone. At that time, my phone rang and it was a work colleague advising me of sad news relating to the death of lovely friend (and team members) mum. As I took the call I sat down on an available bench seat inside the mall so I could rest all the paraphernalia on my lap and give the call my full attention. I hung up and sat still in a blanket of sadness knowing how deeply sad my friend would be at that very moment there with her mum. Sitting next to me was a very frail, wizened up older woman with one of those shopping carts that have two wheels and a plastic lid in which you fill your groceries. She obviously overheard my conversation (yes I know I am loud) and I assume she looked at the files on my lap and recognised the DoCS or NSW Govt State emblem.  She then turned to me and simply said 'You care a lot and you are a good person, I can tell' as she reached out her boney hand and patted my leg. I wasn't quite sure how to react so I simply said 'thank you'.  I was at that juncture where you start to wonder am I sitting next to a crazy lady or someone extremely well meaning?  She then said something like 'look at me, I worked hard and cared a lot too and now I have things wrong with me that mean I cant work and I have to buy this' and she gestured with a wave of her hand at the gluten free bread and fruits in her basket.  I acknowledged to her that I had been unwell myself assuming she could tell (my hair was very short only just growing back from chemo) but I assured her I felt great and was happy to be back working. We engaged for a very short moment and I then excused myself indicating I needed to make another call - this time to my friend which I knew would likely go to message bank so I could express my condolences.  It was during this call that I became aware that the woman had gotten up from the bench and walked away. However, when I looked down on my lap, Francy (signed at the bottom) had left me a little pink note that read: Kim/Kym........I reckon you'll make it!!! (ps 1) don't become the CEO (2) say 'no' sometimes. Best Wishes Francy (go for the long haul) and she finished with a love heart and a small bunch of red seedless grapes which sat on top of the note now sitting on my lap.

It was random in nature, borderline creepy, but more importantly sweet and kind and Francy's gesture stuck with me for some time.  Why? Well to be honest I'm not quite sure.  I think perhaps it was due to the fact that it happened at a time of hyper-sensitivity for me. Trying desperately to resume my former life. Battling with my own appearance and a strong desire to look 'normal'. Wanting to manage a new round of workload and needing to get my head into that mode at the same time as knowing that deep inside me a raging battle was going on with my own health. I think all of that colliding at one time coupled with a completely random encounter with a stranger who felt compelled to leave me a personal note of care, just resonated with me.  Kindness expressed through a gesture is a lovely gift.  But kindness expressed through a gesture between two complete strangers, especially in a small barely detectable way, has the potential to change someones life forever.  

I carry Francy's note in the front of my diary.

Been a while between innings.....

It's a cold and wet Wednesday afternoon the 30th May and I am preparing to go visit Boycey my Oncologist for an impromptu visit. I acknowledge straight up that it's been some time since my last blog and so there's actually quite a bit of catching up to do. Which I will. But right now, I'm focused on the immediate and I'm hoping that the outcome of today's visit is one of relief - I'm even prepared to take embarrassment from Boycey telling me I'm overreacting rather than discovering my concerns are warranted.

Several days ago my left breast started feeling odd. A mix of sore and kind of weird. Different to the other boob and I guess if I was honest, more reminiscent of how it felt back when the cancer was first discovered. Not that those feelings are easy to remember more than 6 months down the track. It's like when you have a pain and people ask you to get really prescriptive about exactly how it feels and where it is and how long it lasts etc. and sometimes it's just hard to describe or determine exactly. But I do know that there has been a change in 'feeling' and like anyone that has experienced cancer or any other serious health issue will tell you, vigilance and action certainly have the upper hand over casualness and disregard. Call it paranoia or being delusional but every little twinge or pain post cancer sends you racing back for check ups. I once spent half the night feeling the back of my head panicking in the dark that I had grown some brain tumour only to discover the next morning that it was an ingrown hair the result of head shave number two! Oops!

It's actually my natural instinct to want to ignore this type of thing I must say. I spent a few days kind of rubbing the area thinking 'gee that push up, tricep dip, chin up challenge at the gym is really hitting my pecs hard', and i push the bubbling concern in the pit of my stomach aside. And as there really is a competition going on at the moment at the gym involving exercising to fatigue (roll eyes here), I truly hope that the feelings are totally associated with exercising specific muscles more than I normally would. All makes sense right? I have also used the opportunity to blame a particular bra I did own (now chucked) that had ridiculous underwriting and push up bits (I mean who seriously wears these things regularly???) and that I wore for a couple of days recently in an effort to fill out a new top. Hmmm? And then I could blame a recent surf maybe? And of course there is the endless lifting (the human elevator as aptly described in my house) of Murphy. Up stairs, down stairs, in back of car and at times, just off the floor. Perhaps I've somehow hurt my boob doing that? Whatever the reason may be, I am hoping like hell, it has nothing to do with cancer.

And so, in an effort to ease my mind and stop me from inventing scenarios that involve mastectomies and a second round of baldness, I am off to see Boycey my first base coach to seek his guidance and what I hope will be reassurance that the game is on target, I'm still in play and that it's ok to keep doing those unassisted tricep dips until I shake. Additionally I am waiting on news from some genetic testing I opted to have which should tell me my body will metabolise the hormone treatment I soon need to start taking......for the next 5 years!

I doubt I will finalise this blog before I have to leave so I will update when I get home. In the meantime, my last blog had me days from completing radiotherapy and I am very proud and happy to advise that all went completely to plan. I hit that Cancer Centre on Monday 30th April armed with two dozen Krispy Kream donuts for the lovely team and a vuvuzelor hand carried from Sth Africa which I blew as loud as I could several times to mark the occasion. Discretion never was my forte.
I did uncover the 'politics' which exist between the admin team out front, the radiotherapy technicians, and the nurses when I questioned with whom should I leave the donuts??? Apparently there's a turf war raging when it comes to gifts and gestures of acknowledgement from patients. I never hung around long enough to (a) even attempt to sort it out (I'd suggest that this issue is way bigger than my breast and donuts) nor (b) see just where the gift ended and whether the staff I had wanted to personally thank but that I didn't see that day, even knew they were in the building. Oh well. They sure heard my vuvuzelor :-)

My green gown was gladly deposited in the patient bin on final use and I drove home with my support crew on that day. On this note, I wish to acknowledge the amazing team of people i love that travelled with me every day for 6 straight weeks to be with me during my zapping. The incredible John, the beautiful Bono, the gorgeous Cate and the woman of science /crazy lady Julia at some stage or another in that time, endured the waiting game sitting next to a bald Kymmy in her green gown (Ms Geisher and her aqua Kimono). But above and beyond the call of duty I wish to dedicate this blog to my mum. Mum travelled with me every day bar two sessions in all of my treatment time (an hour and a half of travel time and whatever length of time in the cancer care centre) sharing the conversations with my cancer colleagues and their families. Not once did mum complain about delays or the inconvenience to her life and in fact apologised when she couldn't come on the one occasion due to a funeral indicating that she didn't want to 'let me down'! She was a fantastic source of information and gossip on the return trip having uncovered all sorts of private information about people I will never know outside of that waiting room during the time I was being nuked. I'm not sure knowing that the chatty bloke in the hat with the prostate cancer used to have an active sex life will ever come in handy for me but hey, ma uncovered it and we shared these snippets on the drive home. Thank you my lovely mum. I love you and your solid and consistent support I have leant heavily on throughout this time. You made radiotherapy manageable and in some ways, a bit of a mother daughter chick adventure.

So, I'm safe on third and really the race to home base is a doddle from here. I need to agree to a hormone treatment plan to ensure I block oestrogen and pass all my tests. I have a big test with the surgeon late July ( the first of a number) and by then I will have undergone my planned detox to cleanse my body of the last of the chemo and radiotherapy. I will most likely be back at work in some capacity or another and finally pulling my life back together after the shattering it took since cancer diagnosis. My hair is growing back and in fact I recently enjoyed my first official haircut! Anthony and I danced and hugged each other and then he snipped about a nano inch off my hair and plastered my scalp with product declaring I was on my way to the Pink rock star haircut I've been lusting after. My hair regrowth is strong, thick but bizarre in colour however I've been convinced to keep it given all the lovely comments. The colour has a number of names....steel, ash, blue heeler or Staffordshire blue if you are a dog person, Burmese lilac if cats are your thing. Really, it's grey with a smattering of brunette but hey, I think steel sounds so much more, well, better than grey. And I'm still enjoying the wash and wear of short hair. Girls......I promise you will love it. Go for it!

I have been asked countless times since my last blog how Murphy is! I am pleased to report she's great. It's been a slow recovery but really what you should expect from a 90 year old. She has somehow successfully negotiated a sausage roll every Sunday and she undergoes hydro therapy at least three times per week. Her life is impressive. She is now carried to and from her bed, has her food heated to take the edge off and in more recent days has enjoyed her day bed next to a log fire which operates if John thinks it's too cold in the house for her 24/7. Human contact therapy has also increased with the onset of cold weather and there are countless morning cuddles in bed during coffee drinking sessions. Yes, I know it's ridiculous. But it's also fabulous and nurturing and is good for the soul. Her legs are still wobbly and if she's been swimming a lot in the day, when she shakes the water off, she also falls over. But she manages to find her feet (well 3 of them anyway) and she wobbles her way back to the car for a soggy human elevator lift into the back. The most recent piece de resistance has been a discussion by John on how he can somehow try and support her legs while she goes to the toilet as its currently a bit tricky for her in the squat position???? Do I need to say anything more? Murphy and John have morphed into conjoined twins. I'm just there for when John travels as the back up plan and the occasional access to the treat on top of the fridge. Gotta go! Late for onco appointment!

Okay......so I've consulted my base coach and he's had a bit of a poke and a prod at the 'area of interest'. I'm relieved to report that Boycey thinks the feeling is simply a response to the hammering my breast took during radiotherapy. Yayyyyyy! He does want me to have the appropriate medical tests (mammogram and what not)but is relaxed enough about this to indicate I should just wait until the allotted official time already set in about 8 weeks. His response is enough to instil a level of confidence in me that there is nothing to worry about. Welcome back chin ups! New bra! And surfboard! Phew :)

However one slight issue (well significant really) is that my gene testing has indicated that I am not a good metaboliser of the treatment Base Coach was proposing as next. Drats and double drats. Boy, this cancer thing sure does test ones resilience! A new game plan now needs to be formulated.

So what does this mean? Well, I'm not entirely sure. One option is to return to the surgeons table to have a few more (this time internal) girly bits removed. Not like I haven't done that before and hey, I've still got my special cotton very cute undies ready to impress the surgery team for a second time! Boy, they will be so excited! And I do have a VIP pass at St George Private which gets me hand delivered coffee on the morning after op. So, if that's what's required then so be it. It's not girly bits I am specifically attached to and many many women live full and fantastic lives without them. Is it bad to also admit that I figure its one less body part to actually get cancer??? :-(

Alternatively I can consider a different hormone treatment which just has a variation on the side affects to manage. I'm flexible and I can roll with the punches. And I also have some time to decide. But not forever. The cancer clock is ticking.....and its loud and every thump beats a sizeable hole in my strong but tiring heart.

I totally understand that you good people just want this game over with. It's dragged on long enough and you all need to get home to your families. I know. I feel the same. But I also am not packing up my bases and leaving without a definitive win under my belt. So please hang with me. I have decided to sit safe on third for just a little bit to contemplate my next move. I've just dropped down on the base and crossed my legs and I'm drawing the options with a stick in the dust and dirt. I'm probably going to confer with my first A Team Base Coach Jodi just to see what she thinks would work best for me. Ultimately the decision of course is mine. After all, I have to live with it forever - more importantly I have to accept the outcomes of the decision I make. Not to dwell too much on detail and specifics but when you are sitting across the table from your Oncologist and they pull up on the screen a table that has all your stats plugged in it all becomes very clinical. There are three outcomes that are graphed and presented to you to consider based on the intervention you decide to adopt. These are 1. The likelihood of survival 2. The likelihood of recurrence and of course 3. The likelihood you are going to die from this disease. Naturally you want the optimum outcome but where it gets muddied is when you need to balance that with pain, side affects and inconvenience to your life. Add in a dose of resilience and what you've got left to give. The good news for me is that I'm not even close to being tired of fighting just yet. Mate I've still got a right hook and a damn fine roundhouse kick left in me. And i am so so very grateful that I have options and the capacity for choice along with plenty of internal strength to keep plugging away at this game.

I've been teaching a pump class in recent weeks that has a song with the lyrics
Anything worth having, Sure enough is worth fighting for,
Quittings out of the question so when it gets tough, fight some more.

Seems these words mean a whole lot more to me tonight than bottom half bench presses.......
New game plan to be advised. This next ones going to have a sting in its tail and a home run in the bag. Until then, sweet dreams x

Trumped by a geriatric Golden Retriever! Is there no lengths this dog won't go to?

It's Anzac Day - April 25th - and a gorgeous day here in Lennox. I woke early enough to attend a dawn service but in the end opted for snoozing and a casual coffee on the floor next to Murphy. And while clearly this is super un-Australian of me, I can provide a very good reason for my choices.

You see this past week Murphy decided she had had enough of the health focus being on her mum ("and where has all her hair gone anyway - as part of the pack there is an expectation we all have fur!") and on the Sunday afternoon a week and a half ago, decided to have what can only be best described as a doggy stroke. John was sailing and I had been having a lovely afternoon coffee with the gorgeous Gaye when my mobile rang to tell me a neighbour had Murphy 'distressed and unable to walk' in her front yard. I had just arrived home and to be honest was completely relaxed about the call assuming that the neighbour wasn't used to Murphy's wobbly back legs and sooky ways. However when I arrived and discovered the terrible state she was in, I quickly realised this was much more serious than a case of Murphy being tired and looking for a piggy back home and a couple of schmackos.

I hoped to no avail that she would settle down and eventually fall asleep in one of her 8 beds (nope, not kidding) but in fact she continued to pant and drool and refused food so after an initial telephone consult with the after hours vet, we opted to drive her to the clinic. Michael the on call vet was amazing and diagnosed the problem immediately but made it clear Murphy would need hospitalisation for many days and that her prognosis at this stage, very poor. By the time we left her there and took the somber drive home, it was close to midnight. In the space of one afternoon Murphy clearly trumped me in the health stakes. From then until now almost every telephone call, every conversation, every sleepless hour the result of worrying that Murphy might not make it. I have longed to get to a point where cancer and my ability to beat it didn't occupy my thoughts so much but I never wanted the replacement distraction to be concern for Murphy.

Since last Friday there has been a 24 hr vigil to watch over her. Makeshift beds downstairs, a calendar of medication requirements, hand feeding, carrying outside, carrying to the car and carrying to the toilet, coaxing to stand and walk and of course, endless and endless pats and a whole lot of cuddles. Slowly, ever so slowly, i am relieved to report that she has started to improve. Her mobility is increasing and she's eating some food. But there's still a way to go. There have been many times in these past 6 days since coming home from hospital that I've sat and watched her sleeping and thought how much Murphy deserves my every effort to care for her and nurture her back to health. After all, she's been such a faithful and beautiful friend to me and has hung in during my low times. As they say, dogs are miracles with paws.

And so during this time, with all of the distraction of a very sick dog in the house, I've managed to almost complete my radiotherapy! Yes, I have less than a week to go! I want to get excited about nearing the end of this treatment phase but I must admit, the worry of Murph has somewhat dampened my enthusiasm. It's hard to believe I am almost there. Six long weeks of daily nuking of my left breast has resulted in quite bad burning to the skin and a discomfort that's hard to describe. It's not hideously painful, just provides for a general throbbing that never subsides. I'm now at the point of having to apply a dressing to the area following every radiotherapy session. It's ok though because the tubes of gel like cream are a really cool shape and I've gotten pretty good at self application. Well, good is probably a stretch but at least I can go out in public these days with it on. The first time I did it I somehow made my boob look like it had exploded in my bra top and I had gauze and fluff sticking out of several spots of my top including the back of my neck??? Yes I know, I don't know how either??

I know in my last blog I mentioned the characters one meets in a radiotherapy waiting room. Those relationships have continued to be nurtured in our green gowns within the four walls of the cancer centre sterile environment. I have enjoyed the banter and the support of my colleagues especially the compliments and sideways winks from the good old blokes in there.

"The Spanish Dancer must be buggered after trying to tango with you young lady" a particular favourite.

The impact even greater if you can imagine that many of them are sitting around with no pants on. Enough said about that. You never quite know who or what you are going to get every time you turn up for your appointment. A veritable lucky dip of characters and cancer issues. This past week I felt the heavy pangs of empathy when I met Debbie from Casino who is just starting on this part of her journey. She has both breast cancer and a brain tumour. Twice daily sessions for her and many more weeks of treatment to go. Debbie turned 60 this year and had announced to her family that it was 'her year' - time for travel and fun with less work. Two weeks later she discovered her cancer. You learn a lot about life as you sit in this room. Debbie and i moved our conversation to pixie hairstyles and laughed at the 'colour' options for our new hair and despite her sad soulful brown eyes, i detected a spunk in her that i truly hope will see her through. It also once again reminded me that regardless of the fact I am a fellow radiotherapy client, I have much cause to be extremely grateful.

My life is gradually returning to normal. I'm back at several gyms and absolutely loving every class. The energy and support network in those sweaty rooms has carried me so much throughout my cancer journey. Big love to my fitness friends.
Additionally i have had the pleasure of working on a discrete project which has given me cause to speak with many of my work colleagues recently....so good to hear their voices and share in their collective brains trust during consultations. I am lucky to be surrounded by such smart, capable women and I've missed them terribly.
And finally I am moving to a stage of recovery where I can start to make plans outside of medical appointments and schedules......soon, very soon, trips away and holidays and nights out and fun stuff within my reach.

So as I sit here watching the afternoon sunset, with Murphy snoozing beside me, I formally enter the final 3 hits of radiotherapy which will run over the next 5 days given a weekend in between. I feel more and more confident of Murph's return to good health and I think the Langill girls will have cause for many celebrations in the coming weeks.

At the close of this month it will be a half a year of cancer diagnosis and all that it holds in terms of medical intervention and recovery for me. To my fellow cancer colleagues now celebrating years of a cancer free life, I know I am only in recovery infancy. But I have to say I also feel like I've lived a long time with this demon now and I am eager to draw it to a close.

I can still hear the stadium crowd chanting my name and encouraging me to run harder.....and I can see third base is close. Only I've now realised, right at my heel is my gorgeous pal running along side me, a heartbeat at my feet and a waggly bottom and squinty eyes when the umpire finally yells SAFE on third.......for both of us.

I love you and thank you again for your support. K and M xxx

Conflabs and Confidence

It's a lovely gift when someone you respect says something or does something that indicates they have a confidence in you. It can sometimes be the smallest of gestures and at times can mean you push yourself way out of your comfort zone to ensure you rise to the occasion so as not to let them down. Its clever and empowering and i believe is one aspect that sets the difference between a manager and a leader. I've generally had the good fortune of being managed by amazing people whom I have loved and respected enormously throughout my career. Knowing they have confidence in your capacity to deliver on a specific task, identifying your strengths and capitalising is in my mind, the role of those in leadership positions. And when they express that confidence to you, it can make you feel like you are on top of the world.

As I write this blog I am reflecting on my earliest memories of being given the gift of confidence. I'm sure my parents, who were nothing but incredibly supportive continually provided in that way. But I have a specific memory of my Grandfather Gimbert (Bill) showing he had confidence in me when I was just a very young girl visiting his house in Yamba. Grandma and Grandfather moved from Sydney to Yamba to retire well before I was born. If you've ever visited you will know it is a gorgeous seaside town on the Far North Coast of NSW but for my Grandfather I am sure that was a secondary consideration after the predominance of good fishing spots. He was an avid fisherman with more rods and reels and hooks and sinkers in the garage than you can poke a stick at. And I remember clearly him taking me, just me, out with him on his boat and going fishing together. On this specific trip he refused to bait the hook for me but gestured in what could be misconstrued as a grumpy old man kind of way, that I was capable of doing it myself. It was a confidence moment that sticks with me to this day. And as he inspected my job with an approved nod and a toss of his arm out to sea to indicate I could throw my line, I felt warm and fuzzy and like I was the best ever 5 year old fishergirl on the planet. I can't recall actually catching a thing that day but it didnt matter to me. Because someone I loved and respected showed a confidence in me. And yesterday, 2 weeks into my radiotherapy, my base coach endorsed my pace and technique with a gesture of confidence.... Cancer sure picked the wrong chick because I am stomping all over this thing!

If you are any good at maths (which I'm not! - its why calculators were invented right?), you will work out that I am one third of the way through my radiation and while each day hits me with an accumulated thud, I am actually feeling tip top with minimal skin damage and almost no fatigue. I'm making new friends with my daily waiting room get togethers and I now know almost every technician in the cancer care centre by name AND whether they have pets, kids, secret talents and what they have planned for the weekend. I also know when I lie naked from the waste up on that big machine that the first 'number' (the secret radio-code these people use to communicate with each other) is 19.8 and 8.5 to the left :)
New career possibility for me? Absolutely not but I do wish to pay tribute to the Radio-oncology unit staff's daily dedication to a room full of people like me dressed in green gowns and looking anxious or in many cases very ill and anxious. The staff all have smiley dispositions and take absolute care to ensure the accuracy of their work. Thank you.

So can you describe the process please Kymmy I hear you ask. You arrive at the cancer care centre which in Lismore is a relatively new building with a clinical feel. The first time I attended John came with me and we laughed when I cautioned he couldn't park in the allocated car parking spots as they were marked for 'patients only'. John had to point out that this was in fact a parking spot for me! Doh! I still sometimes forget that I am attached to the word cancer.

You then walk in through big sliding doors into a large waiting room dotted with blankets, brochures and beanies. It's taken me two weeks but I've only just realised that while the blankets are for borrowing while you wait, the beanies you can take and I suspect get used during your bald period with an expectation you return for a new friend to use. Fortunately for me I have an extensive hat collection ( some gratefully borrowed ) AND my hair is starting to poke through so I am more and more inclined to travel commando these days. The beanies can stay for someone else to use.

You then get 'checked off' by the lovely admin staff and take a plastic card that gives you access to the stage 2 waiting room. The room is surprisingly small with a row of chairs up against both hallway walls, a couple of change rooms and tea and coffee facilities. No TV but access to an array of ancient magazines and one space set aside for those who like to tackle a jigsaw puzzle. You quickly change into your own personal green hospital wrap around gown (I prefer the exotic term Kimono :)) and then you sit and stare at each other or the carpet until someone kicks off a conversation. My experience has been that if you are a new kid on the block, you sit and eavesdrop on the others as they have the established relationships from daily attendance at stage 2. But it doesn't take long before the crew get to know you, know what you are there for and how long you've got to endure this phase of the treatment. Today for example there were two of us being treated for breast cancer, 1 x bowel cancer and a handful of testicular cancer lads. I find the men the funniest as they tend to be good old blokes, the kind you'd normally find perched on a bar stool, and they love to tell a yarn or a REALLY bad joke. However they do occasionally make me sad when I hear them comment in their blokey way that they probably won't be around to see a grandchild graduate high school or that their 'missus' will be left to sort the house out once they've gone. Defeatist yes but not knowing their reality it makes it hard to jump in with a counter argument as to why they shouldn't be so negative. So instead you catch their eye and smile and a little piece of your heart sinks.

I made a promise to myself on the first day of this dash to third base that I would dress up everyday to attend my radiotherapy. I'm not talking gorilla suit or Elvis dress up (although its not out of the realm of possibility) but just nice business style attire with jewellery and high heeled shoes. I made this decision for a number of reasons.
1. It makes me feel good to dress well.
2. I don't look in the slightest bit sick regardless of my bald head which up until a few days ago I covered with matching hats to my suits.
3. I think it's respectful for the professional staff I am meeting with every day to look my best(and if you've ever read Almost French you will understand the logic).
4. It has been the source of lots of conversation in the waiting room re: comments on my shoes, hats, scarves, perfume and yesterday, my necklace. And that sure beats talking about cancer.
5. I reckon it's lifted the game ever so slightly with a couple of my waiting room colleagues moving up from tartan slippers to casual scuffs - hey, you celebrate every milestone.
6. When I am lying on that cold machine naked from the waist up and my legs covered by my hospital gown, sometimes the only bit of me I see that feels 'normal' are my feet in my fancy stiletto shoes or knee high boots and for the few minutes of blasting, I hold onto that.
7. I want my old life back which was filled with meetings and schedules and so dressing like I am attending a meeting rather than a medical appointment draws me that little bit closer to that life.

So, that's been my approach and I will continue to uphold the promise through to the end.

From Stage 2 waiting room you are called by a technician to come with them and you're led to another holding bay which is essentially two chairs (there are two radiotherapy rooms) again equipped with trash magazines from 2010. Not that anyone looks at them. Because at this stage you are moments off being sent into the room for a blast of the ray gun! I have to say that I think this point is probably the worst stage for me. Partly because I am mentally preparing myself for yet another topless exposure with poking and prodding and shifting and laser lineups etc. and every day adds to the external burn. But more so because as you wait outside the room, another colleague is being nuked and during this process there are signs on the wall flashing warnings of keeping clear and hazard area signs splattered all over the entrance to the room and there is a beeping warning alarm that is offensive to your soul.

And then it's your turn.

The technicians are lovely and for the most part I feel should be travelling on some rampaging Contiki tour dancing til 4am instead of lining me up for therapy. When did they get so young and fresh faced? Today I met Isaac as well who is on student placement from Newcastle Uni and I swear doesn't look old enough to be bagging groceries.....oh wait, they dont do that anymore do they? Lol.

Anyway, they get you to recite your details (every day) as you are removing your gown and between very quick small talk and a series of technical numbers they set you up on the machine. They ask you to not move an inch. And then they leave. And you spend the next few minutes holding tight to bars above your head while this massive and amazing machine whirls and squeals around you. I swear I dont move a muscle. I either close my eyes or as I said concentrate on my shoes, my breathing or a spot on the ceiling. I live in fear of the machine not being perfectly lined up to hit my breast and actually hitting my lung instead. It's an extremely minimal risk but it is a risk nonetheless that I signed as part if a waiver a few short weeks ago.

And then minutes later it's over and in comes the efficient technician to give me permission to get off the machine as they prepare for the next person. I have no idea how many people they see a day but I don't think there's much time for morning tea or a birthday cake. Go team. I love your work.

My skin looks fine with only a minimal tinge of redness. I am sure that will increase with time but I'm being obedient and religiously smearing fresh Aloe Vera from the garden along with an array of lotions and potions. It seems to be working well. The fatigue they advised me I would experience has not yet ramped up and I simply feel just as tired as I would any day after teaching gym classes and running around which is exactly how I am spending my days.

Yesterday I had a game plan huddle with my third base coach Michael. He asked if a student could attend our meeting which I gladly agreed to. I sat down and he asked specifically how I was travelling physically and emotionally and whether I was able to attend the gym at all at this stage of the treatment. I replied that I had taught 4 gym classes the day before, 1 class that morning already and had another to go that afternoon so I felt really pretty happy with my progress to date. He put his pen down, pointed to his door and said jokingly 'Get out! You are wasting our time!!' he then turned to the student and smiled and said he'd get someone in that actually had issues to talk about but that there was nothing more to say to me. It was a lovely exchange which I welcomed with open arms. And as I left my base coach there was a hop and a skip in my step because I sensed his confidence in me. And just like a 5 year old on her Grandfathers boat, I felt that same lift in myself simply because someone I respect indicated through the gesture of a lighthearted joke and a wink that he is not at all concerned about my capacity to deliver on this project. And deliver I will.

So I dedicate this blog to those in management positions that hold responsibility for supporting and nurturing others. More broadly i dedicate this blog to being a leader in life and that's for all of us. The small gestures and the opportunities we all have to lift the confidence of someone lucky enough to cross your path should be seized with both hands.

I realise I'm still running but third base just doesn't seem that far away anymore......

Much love Kym xxx

Bench presses and anxiousness.....

It's Tuesday 13th of March and I'm blogging to you after smashing myself in a Pump class less than an hour earlier. It was my 5th class in two days and I felt every rep. For those of you out there rolling your eyes and saying 'she's doing too much!' I promise I am not. I'm not at full throttle but I am pleased to say I can feel myself getting stronger with every passing day. I'm not doing too much, I'm just doing what I do and it feels fantastic. I am listening to my body and right now, it's asking for more!

To be honest though, I am highly anxious about this next phase - radiotherapy starts in two days.  I'm not really sure why i am so nervous as for all accounts and purposes, it's meant to be easier than chemotherapy. The expectation is that I won't feel nauseous like you do on chemo and there are only minimal side effects. My hair is growing back and at the moment is kind of soft and fuzzy on my scalp - much like the skin of a peach :)  It feels nice when you run your hand over it - the spikes have been replaced with kind of down-like hair and i am now finding myself constantly touching it in some mesmorised state! Im digressing but in a weird way I will miss my baldness. It's been an empowering experience and has proven convenient in many ways.

For a start I've been told constantly that my head is a good shape!??? Hmmm what's that mean exactly? Apparently I don't have bumps? Do you? You won't know unless you shave your head.

See, now I know. :-)

Your travel bag for another is much less bulky without ghd, blow dryer, hair product, shampoo etc. and personal preparation time to go out significantly reduced! My hat collection is healthy and I've enjoyed wearing big chunky bling in my ears and on my neck to draw the attention away from the white shiny scalp. Mind you, on the flip side recently my head was featured as a shiny disco ball, covered in sparkles, in a pump class! Again baldness equals versatility! And if I ever backpack again - I can assure you the clippers will make a reappearance with a much more joyful shaving ceremony!

Now I really am digressing but let's just clear this question up while I'm at it - yes you lose your hair EVERYWHERE girls! Nothing more to say there.

My eyebrows are thinner but hung in there and my lashes are patchy but can still take a dose of mascara. I'm looking forward to them returning very soon. You'd be surprised at how watery your eyes get when they arent protected by lashes. I did lose one finger nail in the chemo process but the rest of my nails and toenails are just fine. The cough that plagued me for almost 4 months has finally left the building!

Why am I telling you this? Well, because radiotherapy will not cause ANY of these side effects, so why am I dreading the next phase so much?

To try and explain it I decided to consult Dr Google and I found a fantastic saying that comes from a very funny woman whom, ironically, died from Ovarian cancer in 1989. Her name was Gilda Radner - she was a comedian, actress and an Emmy Award winner.  I wanted to capture an explanation or a saying that sums up uncertainty for me. Because that's how I feel. Uncertain and quite nervous. When I think about it, it's not really the act of undergoing radiotherapy that makes me feel so unsure. I kind of know what to expect for the most part. But I think it's the elements of the radiation 'package deal' that fills me with dread. The daily grind of an hour and a half of driving to and from hospital, the waiting around in a room filled with sadness and hope, the isolated side affects, the commitment of time and my body once again to this cause. More poking and prodding.

Radner was quoted as saying....."I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned the hard way, that some poems dont rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle or end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next.........delicious ambiguity"

I am anxious because once again I'm starting over. Im facing a new stage just at a point where I'm feeling relatively healthy with small signs of personal recovery - both physical and emotional. It feels like I've just gotten to my feet on second base, im breathing heavily but the third base coach is waving me in! Geez, am I ready to run for 6 straight weeks? I'm not going to be declared safe on third until early May and that's dependent on a smooth run. May. Feels like ages away.

Don't get me wrong, I am hungry for the end of this game. And the home run can't conclude if it doesn't start so let's get into it! But if i can just hold out hope for one thing, its that the gains i have made recently are not lost on that radiotherapy table. That the uncertainty of my future doesn't detract from the hard work and effort of recent weeks. That the love and support of the here and now carries me the required distance.

And that the ambiguity or uncertainty of the next couple of months as I carefully place back together the puzzle pieces of my life, brings me healthy and happy outcomes that taste absolutely delicious. Thank you Gilda Radner.

Much love to you. Kym xxx

I just got my first tattoo!!!

I had one of those moments today, in this cancer roller coaster I currently find myself, that can only be described as surreal. Bizarre. A 'how did I get here' moment. It's happened a few times since being diagnosed and sometimes it doesn't take an event like today. Sometimes it can be as simple as driving somewhere and I rest my head into my right hand, elbow on edge of the open window, and I become conscious of the fact that I only feel scalp. Or when I am grabbing the towel in the bathroom dripping wet and I suddenly notice the incision on my left breast. Or the other day when I gathered up all of the anti nausea and 'chemo' medications, the Dexy, the Emend and the Maxolon and there were bottles and bottles and as I nursed them in my T shirt up the stairs to go into a cupboard and out of sight I thought 'how did I ever end up having to swallow all of this just to feel ok'?

Today I found myself back at the Cancer Centre in Lismore this time for a scan and what is referred to as 'planning' for my next stage - yep the race to third base is about to be on! There was a great deal of waiting around in between seeing professional staff to discuss next steps and what I can expect from 6 weeks every day (bar weekends) of Radiation Therapy. At one stage I was led into a big cold room with a giant scanning machine (my knowledge of correct medical terminology leaves a lot to be desired) and the Radiation Technicians walked me through what I can expect from the therapy - the good and the bad. I'm thinking more good than bad - if it zaps the absolute last of this cancer out of my body, I will gladly take the potential burns and the drudgery of daily drives to Lismore.

The technician offered me a rotating curtain to stand behind as I undressed and put on the gown (split to the front please Kym). It's a tokenistic gesture of privacy because the minute you walk out from behind the curtain you are asked to lie down, arms out of the gown and full top half exposed as they poke, prod, move you ever so slightly up, down, over, no too much go back - aligning you carefully on the machine. Clearly precision is of utmost importance. Finally after two technicians spent what feels like an awfully long time getting it right, they then ask you to continue holding two metal bars that are above your head and not move an inch while they draw on you, slide you in and out of the machine, speak in code to each other and then request the presence of my third base coach Michael to come in. Now I have three people staring at my breasts, drawing on me and even making a traced replica on a plastic cover as an extra triple check of the required 'zapping' area. But wait, there was more. They then moved in with the tattoo needles and gave me my first 'ink' which I had hoped would be something small, sexy and meaningful but in fact turned out to be three freckles. :-) Doesn't matter - I still feel wild and edgy and like I now need to buy a motorbike......clearly shaving ones head is soooooo 2011. I also have a new respect for the pain threshold of people who actually pay money to have tattoos placed on really sensitive areas of their body. The second tattoo for me was in the centre of my chest right on my chest plate and it really hurt! What a wimp....
The finale was the technician requesting permission to photograph me lying there, from the position of my legs to the way my hands gripped the bars above my head and all points in between.

After all of that was done, Michael nodded his approval and he and the two efficient technicians left me there to undergo the scanning process but assured me that they were just outside and could see and hear me if needed. It was during this process that I had my very surreal moment. Alone and as I lay grasping this big cold medical monster of a machine, naked from the waist up with all sorts of drawing all over me I could hear it wizz and click as it did its thing. And as I was being slowly moved further inside to be positioned just so concentrating hard on not moving a muscle I thought 'how on earth did I ever get to this place and how can this be happening to me'? Even after four months of dealing with this unwanted invader, i still question its actuality. I feel like a fraud. I am not the typical person that gets cancer, so therefore it can't really be happening can it? Even more ironic is that cancer for me occupies an enormous part of my head space. From the minute I wake up aspects of having been diagnosed with breast cancer, the symptoms related to the cure, medical appointments, dealing with the worry of its return fill my brain daily. So how is it that I then have moments of wondering if it's actually real? What's that about?

It may be because it feels like time stands still in these moments that even the act of breathing becomes a conscious effort and so it forces your brain to focus on exactly what is happening right then and there - and nothing else matters at the time other than working in partnership, for example, with a medical machine. Being in that moment means all the other aspects of your life fall away and you are alone with your body and the cancer and maybe it's all too intense?

It may be because every step of this journey is about focusing on the positive, digging the deepest you've ever dug both physically and emotionally to ensure that you give this cancer the greatest fight of your life. And in doing that you realise there have been so many distractions in your life, things you worried about or worked so hard to achieve, that are now no longer important. And the fact that cancer has given you this opportunity for a major priority rethink messes with your mind?

Or maybe it is because you thought you knew what fear felt like until you were diagnosed with a life threatening illness and now you've been provided an actual opportunity to be legitimately and completely terrified.

Whatever the reason for me today, it was a bizarre introspective moment of complete surrealism. A fleeting moment of impossibility in my head happening at the same time as the cold reality of permanent tattoo markings and scary medical machinery.

As quickly as it comes, the moment passes and you go back to making boob jokes, laughing with the friendly staff and racing to get your clothes on. Kym returns to the hospital foyer. And the wait for next stage continues.

Despite my description of what went on quietly in my head today, i am pleased to announce I am scheduled to begin the race to third base kicking off on March 15th. I am tracking well and my base coaches have all given me the big fat tick of approval! Another hurdle to get through but I feel even more confident about this next run than the previous innings. It's shorter in time for a start and although they tell me I may suffer fatigue, I am hoping that it will be minimal. Tired and sleepy! Baaaaa - i will catch up on sleep in my 90's! Right now i am regaining energy and I'm raring to go! Radiation does mean there may be some potential skin effects so sorbelene will become my new friend along with aloe vera cut fresh from the garden. And yes, it means a daily commitment of hospital visits and waiting rooms but I know already it will be my opportunity to meet new friends with their stories and their smiles. I find such strength in the resilience of the cancer colleagues i meet along the way and i am sure those undergoing radiation at the same time as me will be no different.

I know the next 2 months will come packaged with its own challenges and i am in no way dismissing the seriousness of this next round of treatment but in comparison to what chemo packs as a punch, i feel confident that this next phase will be just a friendly scuffle. Bring it on people - I love a good rumble and I'm competitive in nature. I will have radiation pinned to the floor and screaming for mercy! And this tattooed chick means business so step aside, I wouldn't want to hurt you on my way to victory.

One of the most sublime experiences in life, is to wake up feeling healthy after feeling sick...

It's day 13 after my last chemo hit. Had I been prescribed 6 or 8 cycles I would be gearing up for another dose this Wednesday. But I'm not. I'm free. And I feel better and better with every day. In terms of where im at in this game I feel like I'm on my feet and at the point of dusting off the dirt and grime and my foot is absolutely safe on second base. I'm not quite at waving to the crowd stage - but I'm only mildly winded. I just need a moment to catch my breath. Most importantly, I feel happy. Relieved. Determined.

All things considered this last chemo hit hasnt been too bad....or have I already started to forget? Wait a minute! It was hideous! Well, definitely the most unpleasant in terms of symptoms anyway. It's funny how your memory fades as you start to feel better. I guess thats a good thing? Allows women to give second children a go, athletes to return to the gym the next day and people like me to walk back into that Oncology unit.

Besides, there are the ever small gains I am quietly celebrating knowing I get to keep them. Today it was brushing my teeth. You see only a chemo colleague will understand the agony of trying to brush your teeth while your gums are throbbing and so incredibly sensitive that on really bad days you can only press the super soft toothbrush gingerly into your mouth and hope it can clean something. No back and forward scrubbing, just a tentative push of the bristles coated in a gel toothpaste called Biotene followed by Biotene mouth wash. It's not at all refreshing nor satisfying and there is no minty fresh blast at the end of the process. Often you are dodging festering mouth ulcers or at least their potential and using dental floss is a distant memory just in case you break the gum.

But today, day 13, I was feeling so positive about my progress, I ditched the soft toothbrush (bin!) charged up by electric toothbrush and I scrubbed the hell out of my teeth using normal persons toothpaste - twice! Oh the joy! When it was over I actually, and I'm almost nervous to admit this, let out a good old country style YEEEHAH and gave myself the thumbs up sign to my own reflection. Yes. It's true. But I am celebrating EVERY gain people and that's just one example of a long long list. The next few weeks are going to be fun!

So what's next in terms of treatment? Well, I have to technically finish this cycle of chemo. How long that actually takes is anyones guess but as I'm feeling as good as I am right now, I'm thinking days rather than weeks. Of course getting my hair back etc. will be much longer than that, but I'm already planning my first new pixie style in that respect. Its funny, my Grandfather whom i was actually quite close to growing up always called me 'Baldy'. I have no memory of him actually ever using my real name. I was Baldy even beside him during the last days of his life. I know he loves this new look of mine and to be honest, Ive grown into my baldness myself and have enjoyed the freedom of styling and hair products and ghd straighters. Don't get me wrong, looking forward to hair but for me, being bald has just been another aspect of cancer that began as a challenge however has in fact facilitated discovery of other things about myself. Things i would have never known otherwise.

I also have a lot of hats :-)

I am waiting on what is referred to as 'planning' for my radiation therapy. I've hassled the Cancer Care people so much wanting them to lock in a start date for me, that they 'politely' advised that they have record of my MESSAGES (said between clenched teeth) and there was no need to call again, someone would call me. Uh oh - the old don't call us routine! But I need a start date! A start date means I have an end date! And that's important to me.

In the meantime I celebrate my gains, I spend time reflecting on what the last 3 months has taught me and making plans and goals for what I want the future to bring. I continue to embrace the time I spend with people I love and doing things that make me happy. It seems so simple but i know when life speeds you up and sweeps you along - it's easy to dismiss or be distracted.

So I ask you my friends to share with me this week appreciating something small about your health - your strength, your sight, what you can smell or touch. The fact that you can run to chase your kids or the bus or along a stretch of road. If you want to change something, achieve something or make something better, dont wait until tomorrow. Do it now. It doesn't need to be big in fact sometimes the smallest personal change has the greatest impact. It also only needs to be noticed by you. Share with me finding the time to notice the sunset and when your favourite song comes on the radio, turn it up and sing it at the top of your lungs. Have a fabulous week. I love you x

Sliding in and SAFE on second!!!!

It's here - finally! I'm on the slide, left foot forward like I stand (when I'm lucky!) on a surfboard and I'm skidding onto that second base to be declared safe! Ive run so hard the wind has whipped my hair off, I am just a little scarred and this run between first and second has been so so long. The noise of the crowd is deafening and from where I am, I can see your smiles and it swells my heart. I don't want to let you down - you've been such loyal amazing supporters and you've sustained me with beautiful notes and quotes and messages and trinkets and love. I am forever indebted to you and I am so incredibly grateful. It's approximately 1 hour off....

Yep, blog coming for the LAST time from the comfort of the chemo couch. I've already had the hand injected Cosmo given to me this time by Nurse Unit Manager Garth and now I am on the big bag of toxic fluid. 57 minutes to go and counting. When I get out of this chair I will be declared safe. I may have to lie on the base for a while, in the dust and possibly face down. And I may be slow getting to my feet, opting to go to hands and knees first. And when I get to my feet, I may need to lean on my knees for a moment to catch my breath before I finally straighten my back and stand. But once I stand, I will rise up as tall as i can and raise both arms in the air and you will see the biggest beaming smile lighting up that second base. There may even be a punch in the air. 49 minutes to go.

I've still got the symptoms to endure of course. I just don't think anything is going to rattle me this time because no matter how bad, as I dig myself out of the hole, I know I never have to go back there.

Not ever again.

And that feeling supersedes any pervading symptoms that may be waiting this time for me. Go hard chemo is all I can say. I feel like I can just about take anything on from this place. I only see victory. I only feel success. I am wrapped in love and support. I am safe.

I had the pure pleasure of engrossing myself in the Australian Open finals this year. For anyone that has the slightest interest in tennis, the men's final between Djokovic and Nadal was in my mind the most epic and extraordinary tennis match Ive ever watched. And I took something from that match which I have locked away in the corner of my psyche. These two warriors fought hard and fought long. Almost 6 hours of gruelling tennis of the highest standard. Some rally's went for over 30 strokes of the ball. And these guys know how to smash a tennis ball. It was as captivating as much as it was inspiring. The stakes were high given its a Grand Slam and both players were hungry for a win. And as I watched these two amazing athletes I really tried to focus on their body language and gain some kind of insight into the psychological battle that 6 hours of intense warfare on the court would require. They played with heart, big heart. Neither player asked for time out. They played until just after 1:30am! Both players had their chances. The switch in energy and emotions from set to set was noticeable. In my mind it really came down to psychological strength, clearly both players matched in skill and fitness (although id still back Nadal all the way), and a tiny bit of lady luck. Just two points was all it took. Psychological strength and a peppering of luck.

And as I enter this last chemo match I am taking all of the aspects of that tennis final that inspired me last Sunday night, and I'm going to try and emulate that approach. Im hungry for this win. I want it over. I will use my mind as much as I use my body to beat this. When the symptoms take me down, I won't give up. I will fight as hard today as i will next week. And the week after. I have great supports and I'm being carried by so many, I know I can't go wrong. And I feel sure I am sprinkled with just a tiny bit of lady luck. 19 minutes to go......

We were educated this time by Garth as he injected the Cosmo into me as to just how toxic these chemicals are. I now understand that those science lab people (thank you thank you thank you) have to make these chemicals up by being completely protected from head to foot and even then, undertake the work by inserting their hands into a sealed glassed box. That way it ensures any particles released stay sealed inside the pressured air inside the box and can't seep out. It's so incredibly toxic that even with all of those precautions, they are tested regularly for toxicity levels. Scary to think I now have that coursing through my veins. No wonder your hair falls out! But it's all necessary to ensure I walk away from this with a cancer free confidence. 11 minutes to go...

This blog can't be published without acknowledgement of two consistent people specifically linked to my chemo treatment. Little Kez, a woman who juggles so much in life and yet always has time for her mates. Kez has ensured that a bright bunch of flowers is sitting here every time I arrive for my treatment. Today, I particularly know is a challenging day for Kerry, and yet the flowers were still here for me. You are a diamond and i absolutely adore you - thank you. Finally to John who has insisted that he sit cycle after chemo cycle in this hospital ward with me. It's not a fun place to 'hang' and I know he has to negotiate the time lost in this ward and squeeze it somewhere else in his already overloaded schedule. I know that my cancer hasn't just affected me. In fact in some ways this cancer has travelled a long way into the lives of others. No more so than John. As I glance over at him scrunched up in the corner between my toxic couch and the one on the other side, he looks up from his reading and gives me a big smile and a wink. He can see the finish line too. And he has run this race with me, at times carrying me, adjusting his life and his commitments and investing bucket loads of emotional energy and above all love. If you think you have a best best friend, you haven't met John. 2 minutes......

This blog now posting a day late. I didn't get time to finish in the chair. Was whisked off the machine and hugged and sent off with a 'hope we never see you again' sentiment. Trust me, it's a feeling well and truly reciprocated. As lovely as they all are. I had intended on finishing at home but the chemo has come out from its corner fighting hard. It swiped at me early - within hours I felt nauseous and my body moved into rejection mode. Enough said - I've been crook. But that's ok - one more climb, that's all I have. So as I lay here on my day bed, Murphy lying on the deck beside me, I am so proud and happy to post this blog with concentrated strength and a renewed energy to get to my feet safe on second base. And when I finally raise both fists in the air please know that my gesture is in recognition of your strength and support. The love ive been shown has absolutely carried me from the minute I signed up for this game to where I am right now. A wise friend and male chemo colleague wound down his window as I was on one of my power shuffles this week and amongst other comments indicated I would be "richer for the experience". Even at the bottom of this current tunnel, I already feel that. And most of the wealth comes from the nurturing and inspiration i have been so fortunate to receive from you. Let's gear up for the dash to third team. Lots and lots of love. Kym xxx

What a difference a week on the grindstone makes.....

Quick blog is a good blog they say so this quickee comes to you post teaching an RPM (spin) class in Byron Bay exactly 1 week after my last grumble bum post. Welcome to the roller coaster ride of energy and emotions that is chemotherapy.

This time last week I could barely lift my head off the oversized couch pillow to moan about how bad I felt, today Sunday, I am feeling energised and bubbly and full of beans. I have basically two more days of improved health and well being before I burst my own bubble and extend my arm out for my toxic Cosmopolitan. Boom. Back to clawing my way from the deep dark poisoned tunnel. However, this time the light at the top is shining that much brighter and the climb, which is now so very familiar, wont be easier (it's an accumulation that means the worst is saved for last) but it will be mastered with a sure foot and a steady hand knowing its my final climb. Like the old Capricorn Goat, i will put my head down and steadily climb to the top, not stopping until i can only feel sunshine on my back and now very bald head (or flooding rain as the case may be!). Either way I won't care. Because I will be done with chemo.

I feel so strong at the moment that i wish i could piggy back some of those beautiful people inside that Oncology Unit and take them with me. But for many, a final climb sadly is a way off. I've talked about taking a small bottle of champagne into the final chemo on Wednesday and celebrating with John and the staff, but I am conscious that my situation would only serve as a painful reminder to others that they aren't there yet. And that just wouldn't be right. So as much as I'd like to get out of that chair Wednesday and do a Toyota 'oh what a feeling' tuck jump in the air, hug everyone that dares to be within arms reach, cartwheel out and dance down the hospital corridor singing loudly, I will actually quietly thank my base 2 Oncology Team, wish my chemo colleagues all my best and do my celebrating in private. But you out there, my bloggy friends, my beautiful amazing supportive incredible team had better get ready for a major punch in the air, twirly hug and big fat sloppy kisses from me. Sooooooon!

I have already had preliminary contact with my third base coach Michael. He's a surfer dude from Melbourne that 'commutes' to Lismore during week days and is based in Lennox Head. Talk about an arrangement that provides the best of both worlds. Coastal gorgeousness week days and bright lights big city weekends. An arrangement he grinned when indicating works well for he and his family. I really like him, he's kind of casual in appearance but when you dig into credentials, clearly knows his stuff. We have more appointments and discussion (official term "planning") to do which includes scanning and a tattooing process! Tadaaaa my first tatt ! And I always thought it would be on my hip and be something mysterious and sexy. Oh well ;-)

The weather continues to work well with my lethargy and crappy symptoms - flooding rain and winds that pretty much discount any chance for outdoor activities unless you are into 'tough mudder' which is apparently some new boot camp craze where Exec types sign up to be yelled at and made crawl through mud tunnels and climb slippery ropes army style all for a sizeable fee. And yes, I did google to see where the closest one was cause it kinda looks like fun :-) You get an "I am a tough mudder" free t shirt by the way if u sign up. Just saying.

My gorgeous colleague Silvana whom I will hug so tightly I'm going to make her squeal when I see her next, left me a quote in my last blog which Ive hung on to all week. She said 'Life is like a Grindstone - whether it grinds you down or polishes you depends on the material you are made of'. I love it and it spoke deeply to me this past week as I struggled through some of the harder symptoms of this treatment so far. I needed to look deep deep inside myself to remember the person i was or am capable of being. Every now and then i recognise Kym, the old Kym. Just this week in the throws of flooding rain and a little house in Wooloweyah near Yamba, i cranked a favourite song on and danced in the rain with these big fat droplets falling on my bald head. It felt amazing and i thought to myself 'how fortunate am i to experience this as a woman?!' - I was all alone (well Murphy thought it was a dumb idea) and I sang at the top of my lungs barefoot and bald....

Like a gift from the heavens, it was easy to tell
It was love from above that could save me from hell
She had fire in her soul it was easy to see
How the devil himself could be pulled out of me
There were drums in the air as she started to dance
Every soul in the room keeping time with their hands.....

I can confirm that no matter how tough its been i never lose sight of the fact I have every intention to emerge sparkley Kym at the end of this journey - with the hardest game of my life behind me and a whole lot of amazing life yet to experience. My grindstones working overtime right now cause I'm chipped, broken and a little cloudy but I'm also made of tough stuff that I have faith will polish up ever so well.......heading to third base, enter Sparkely Kym. X

What can I do?????

It's Sunday afternoon, day 5 of chemo hit three. It's a critical stage for me and based on how I've travelled in previous chemo hits, I know it can tend to be a low point. I am reluctant to blog on these days because they really are few and far between but I guess it wouldn't be an accurate journal of this process if I avoided talking about the occasional low day. I may write this then delete it and never share in some cathartic effort to shed my disposition. Or I may decide you poor suckers have to share some pain with me and go ahead and publish. My advice is if I have gone ahead and this is my blog, stop reading and go pour yourself a drink or go have a swim or something,anything other than subject yourself to my grumbly rantings. I have an oversized pair of cranky pants on and i cant find the shoestring to untie them right now. Even Murphy is over me today. And I knew it was going to be a hard day almost instantly after I opened my eyes this morning.

It's raining which doesn't help although in my own glumness, I am quietly relieved that my inability to get up and get out there is reflected in the weather also. It's so much worse when it's gloriously sunny and your blood count is so low you can't find the energy to look in the cupboard for your bikini let alone lather up and deal with sand. I feel for the last of the holiday makers, the stragglers and the hard core, still hanging in up here as the weather turns a bit so so which gives me hope i can still summons empathy for others instead of being so focused on myself. But enough about them....... :-) ahhh the weather, one minute its steamy and sunny, the next a downpour. Be nice to run in, if only I could. Baaaaaah.

I've tried not to blog much about the symptoms of chemo and there is a reason for that. I have hardly been whacked by them. I have really felt pretty happy with how Ive managed to work through each of the cycles with minimum pain and not THAT much inconvenience. But today it seems that chemo has decided to amp up its efforts against me and hit me with several whammys all at once. Of course, I need to embrace these signs as it clearly is my body confirming for me that the treatment is working. I'd yell 'go your hardest' but today, I think it is. I was starkely reminded by Boycey not that long ago when I asked about taking a muli vitamin to help build me up, that and I quote " we are trying to kill things here Kym" and so we are. And today, right now, I feel like chemo really is slowly killing me. My resilience and efforts in applying a positive mental attitude is being very much tested, right now, as i write. I have been lying almost comatosed on the lounge for hours watching the rain fall in between the sunny hits. There is a section on the back deck where the rain strikes more heavily than other parts ( fix-a-upper house this one) and I've been lying here watching the droplets fall noticing that the wood on that part of the deck has been worn down over time much more than the rest of the deck. And I feel the parallism with every drip drip. It's not one thing, we can all cope with one symptom or another, but the accumulation that is wearing me down. Over the past day or so I have experienced....from the top people,
Sensitive scalp linked to hair loss;
Stinging eyes which I fear has a link to eyelashes falling out (altho I am happy they're still here!);
Aching gums;
Metal taste buds;
Nose bleeds - due to platelet levels;
Sore mouth in general although I am soooooo happy to report no ulcers;
A cough and cold which has now been going on 22 days, quite frankly,just ridiculous;
Aching bones specifically in my chest plate
And a general lethargy which makes recognising myself almost impossible.

I am tired. Really tired. Not just in the physical sense but mentally. This treatment is wearing me down. So what to do? Well, rest is not even an option but an obligation. I have no choice, my body refuses any other remedy. I am also reading. At the moment I am reading Andre Agassi's autobiography Open. It's been great because (a) Andre's bald like me and (b) he talks a lot about his demons, his mental attitude, his vulnerability, his pain and his search. It's been great to read into the psyche of someone whom presents in their peak form but in fact, has the greatet battles mentally within themselves. Command and control. Shouldn't it be that easy?
Apparently not.
I am laying low today although Bert in her magical way still managed to get me out briefly (a thousand loves to you) and I will return the check up calls and texts tomorrow to the other beautiful people I have missed today, I know I will.

I also know today will pass and tomorrow I could well wake at 5:30am and think about a walk and a swim, a gym class, popping into the office or a goal or 7. Therein lies probably the number one all blazing symptom of chemo for me.....I just won't know until tomorrow. Above all I will work hard at exercising patience and acceptance that this is what 'normal people' experience as part of chemo and that it's all ok. I need to resist viewing rest as a sign of weakness or laziness.

There is a quote I've discovered in my search to boost my inner strength and resilience and it's from a British Politician and novelist that says
" Patience is not passive, on the contrary, it is active because it is concentrated strength".

Concentrated Strength. I like it. That's what I'll do.....K x

It's the official half time call to second base :)

This blog is coming to you live from the chemo chair! Yep, I am tilted back, comfy cosy, under a blanket as it pours outside punching out a one handed blog. My other arm is strapped to a big bag of toxic fluid and I'm choosing to pay it no attention. I still do my visualisation with the giant mop throughout my body but I am less hypnotised by it these days and a bit more matter of fact. Chemo shmemo, Cause Ladies and Gentlemen.....I am half way through this chemo business!!!!

So to describe the Oncology unit and process - I have discovered that an early arrival is highly beneficial. Firstly it is much more peaceful and feels like a more controlled environment. In an hour it will be full of patients like me, along with support people, all needing attention in some form or another. It just means the staff move faster, chat less and the noise level rises. Right now I am only one of 4 being treated and to my pleasure, I am hooked up first and on my way. They warm up my arm with a wheat pack to pump up my vein and then in goes the cannula. It hurt a bit today as the vein they chose was right on the side of my wrist with not much between vein and bone. Ouch! I then get a saline flush, an injection of steroid with the nickname Dexy (as in the midnight runner) and then my giant syringe of Cosmopolitan gets manually injected through the cannula and in to me. The cranberry mop. It looks toxic and as I watch it travel along the plastic tube into my arm, I visualise it racing to every inch of my body - from the tip of my skull to my toe nails and all points in between, seeking out any rogue cancer cells and snuffing them out - obliterated, expunged, eradicated, stamped out and swept away. Gonski.

The staff are dressed in chemical warfare gear from head to toe. Bright purple rubber gloves (and I've noticed my file is purple, my hospital arm band is purple and the big plastic bags they dump everything into is purple so I can only assume it is the official cancer colour in the NSW Hospital system). Either that or the staff have a fetish for the purple dinasaur Barney. Knowing a special Barney myself I can completely understand ;-) But it is certainly in stark contrast that in some weirdly lopsided partnership you sit together, one team member looking like they are entering a nuclear plant holding a giant syringe of something dreadful while the other sits in Lorna Jane pants and singlet top with an exposed arm and gives permission to be injected with it.

There are Volunteers that wander around the room asking if you want a tea, a bun, a biscuit, a tea, a blanket, a chat, a tea. They are generous women who generally have their special volunteer day and they get to know you on a personal level. Occasionally on the quiet, they morph into pseudo nursing staff although to my nervous amusement, they tend to have to lean in close and whisper their medical recommendation or observation to you or alternatively they talk out of the corner of their mouth so as not to be caught crossing the obvious boundary. Its probably incredibly annoying for the qualified nursing staff but i find it comical to watch in a slightly disturbed kind of way.

But really, everyone in this room has your best interest at heart and as you glance around and catch the eye of a fellow patient, there is an immediate connection of empathy and understanding and a shared respect for the staff and volunteers scattered and busy throughout this ice cold room. I may have blogged about this before but one of the surprising aspects of an oncology ward is that it is completely devoid of privacy. There is no quiet space for consultation and as I write this two of the staff are discussing the nausea and diarrhoea concerns for the frail woman sitting two chairs up from me. I want to cringe on her behalf but she seems fine having the conversation - perhaps she has been in that chair long enough she has become immune to the fact her personal health issues are being openly discussed in the presence of strangers. For me, I was horrified the first time I was exposed to an oncology unit and even more petrified during first chemo when i realised my cancer and my treatment and any side effects would be openly discussed in a forum such as this. So much so I asked lovely Kylie from last treatment did she know why the set up is like it is. It seems the overriding reason is the capacity of the nursing staff to monitor multiple people at any one time and so having us all lined up in plush chairs allows that to happen. And given I have been one of those 'problem children' turning a deep shade of purple (I was just trying to fit in with the corporate colour!) during the administering of my treatment, I was grateful to have several staff at my side in a skinny second turning machines off and sorting me out.

So here I am celebrating the half way mark between first and second base by blogging to you. The optimist in me wants to say that when they pull this giant needle out of my arm and I wave goodbye to the lovely staff and leave, I am in fact three quarters done. And I am in terms of chemo treatments. But the realistic Kymmy acknowledges that I still have to endure this cycle and all that is packaged in it (and who knows what that might include) before I can actually say I've only a quarter to go. So, today, I sit at the half way mark and I feel a sense of renewed energy for the back end of the chemo push.

It has been a nervous lead up to this point. I've been battling a cold and cough since New Years Day that I just can't shake. On top of that I had a game plan huddle with Boycey last Friday and he told me my bloods (taken the day before) were "disappointingly low". Oh no, I can't bare to disappoint my base coach. In that same conversation he indicated if my white blood cells didn't throw themselves a major regeneration party between now and the day before chemo - Boycey would be calling time out on the game and benching me for another week. I was gutted to say the least. One week delay just pushes this whole experience further from my reach. So i took the initial emotional energy of disappointment and turned it into a personal mission. How do I regenerate blood cells quickly and how can I ensure my chemo proceeds as planned? Well, first of all you tell every person that will listen to you that for the next three days they are to send positive thoughts and if that includes 'a soft shoe shuffle white cell dance' in their lounge room, then so be it. Then you eat lots of good stuff and you drink vegetable juices, exercise (moderately) and you conduct yet another visualisation. For me this consisted of a good white cell kind of wobbling to dance music and as it vibrates, brushing against a dormant white cell, bumping the dormant cell into action so that they both vibrated to music together - multiply that visual by thousands and my whole body is alive with dancing white blood cells. Like one giant rave party that lasted for three days. And it worked!

Yesterday after I gave blood, I figured my fate was sealed. I couldn't change the outcome and I wouldn't know until that afternoon what it was so I would push a new boundary with my first 'run'. It was technically a run/walk really as I'd decided I would run for 10 minutes, walk for 5 minutes, run ten, walk five until I'd kicked over 1 hr. It hurt. A lot. My lungs felt like someone was squeezing them - hard to know whether that's chemo and low cell count or deteriorated fitness. I'd guess both. But what I am happy to report is that there is nothing wrong with my mind. I feel strong, determined to make this happen and as I was running I set small goals and achieved them. Just run to the next corner and you can stop. Now your almost there, just run until track 6 ends, now run until you pass these people etc etc. so that actually I ran longer than 10 min intervals and walked less. During my run/walk two cars passed me and beeped, sticking arms out with the thumbs up sign. I have no idea who either of the drivers were, my sunglasses were splattered with misty rain but also my focus was so sharply tuned to my breathing and my internal conversations. However if your reading this blog and it was you my friend, thank you from the depth of my heart. Your simple act of recognition and support physically boosted me as I ran and I hope you saw my smile in your rear vision mirror.

The rain grew heavier as I got closer to the end almost like Mother Nature knew I needed a lift in intensity to get through the last 15 minutes. So I whipped off my Nike Skull cap (because baldness should never compromise cool factor :-)) and I ran the last section with my exposed egg head and rain beating down on it. It is an amazing feeling. Despite my ailing fitness, I am very happy with my internal strength. You see I am a Capricorn and I am surrounded by Capricorns, my Poppa was one, my Mum and Dad are both Capricorns, my sister is too along with my Fairy Godmother and mentor Wendy, my sister in chemo Nel and my beautiful mate Xanthe who in her late forties is still representing the state for dragon boat racing in a boat full of chicks half her age. So proud of you - go girl. And one thing about us Capricorns is that we never never never give up. Like an old goat, we just keep climbing and we always find a way to our goals. As I ran yesterday I played an old RPM (spin class) release and the final track is aptly named 'Cry For You'. Of course it is about a breakup but as I ran I felt like the song was speaking just to me about my cancer "Forever and ever, life is now or never. You'll never see me again! So now who's gonna cry for you? You'll never see me again, no matter what you do." I cried as I ran the last section but it was a happy empowered cry. And this morning I played the same song for my early morning spin class (love that team) and instead of crying there were cheers as i whipped my dry-fit red bandana off (because baldness should never compromise cool factor - hehe) we climbed a mountain together knowing 2 hours later I would be strapped to this chair. Again, so so grateful for the solidarity, love and support.

I intend to train my body to meet my mind over the coming months. My chemo is officially done for today and the cannula is out of my arm. Half way. Second base just doesn't seem so far. :-)
What the human mind can conceive and believe, it can achieve.
Much love xxx

Gee, I'm running pretty fast for a 29 year old........

Okay, I'm going to just come straight out and say it. I turned a year older this week. So bloody what. What's a year? If you talk to my new best friend Boycey, I'm young. And he's really really smart so dont even bother arguing with him because he'd out debate you in his quiet talker kind of way AND he has access to nuclear weapons of mass destruction. So there.

Yeah yeah, 43, I'm even prepared to fess up about that in case you were wondering. It got me to thinking, as I often do these days horizontal on my new daybed (have I mentioned I'm in love with that thing?) just what amazing things have been achieved by someone my age. I think Im needing to focus on what lies ahead for me as opportunities, new adventures, living the extraordinary because right now, im feeling very ordinary. I look unwell, even though im actually feeling pretty good for someone on massive doses of toxin. But being bald kind of sticks you in the sick corner whether you are sick or not. Its like being unjustly punished and sent outside in school for something you laughed at but didnt instigate.

My fitness is slipping away from me, even though i try to do something physical daily. But the reality is, i cant go hard at anything. My lung capacity and low blood levels just wont allow it. I got a bit of a cold and a bad cough on New Years Day and basically i just cant shake it off. Again a sign my body is idleing at low gear and no matter how much my head wants to push into fifth and burn it up the hill, it's not shifting.

In saying all of that, and following on from my last blog, the new cocktail of chemo has in fact been quite good for me and I am pleased to say I feel incredibly grateful as ive hardly been sick at all. I have had comments from friends that I am 'glowing' (could that be a result of the nuclear plant gurgling away in my veins???) and look great etc. This is why you surround yourself with beautiful friends who know just the right thing to say when you feeling the most vulnerable. I do feel vulnerable. And I do feel like I am in a continual battle between my head and heart which want to remain positive, happy, cheerful and my body which feels at times like its completely given up on me, picked up stumps and is taking the slow walk home with its head hanging low and the occasional kick at a stone in the gravel. It's actually kind of tiring at times having to have the internal conversations to keep your spirits up, remember this is a short time in the grand scheme of life and that this will pass. And I do have them and I'm pleased to say, for the most part, my head and my heart win out every time and I can almost always find reasons to smile and remind myself why I am so fortunate to be who I am and doing what I am, right now.

So, I consulted Dr Google on successes at 43 for others and actually discovered something incredible. JFK was in fact my age when he became the US President! Now THAT is pretty impressive! Given I am only 4 days post my birthday, there's still time for my political career! And geez, the campaign tours in full swing RIGHT now for our US counterparts so if I just grow some hair quickly, decide on a platform, get some cash backing (readers?) and head on over, I could become the female equivalent of the identical achievement! Twins with JFK. :-)

How was your birthday i hear you ask? I woke early on the morning and wondered how the day would unfold. It was a divinely sunny day, even at 6am and the summer heat that had been steadily rising with every day on the far north coast, was reaching breaking point. It was also a full moon so night time equally spectacular. It was too hot to even have coffee on the deck early and so between telephone calls and social networking I had a busy morning chatting. John had indicated he would take the day off to take me to lunch 'out of town' where I could feel comfortable knowing no one would recognise me if I wanted to just whip my hat off and dine hard boiled egg style. I have to confess that I assumed John would wing it, not having the time to actually organise anything and that we would just drive and choose a spot to eat based on availability and view. And I am here to concede I completely underestimated him on this occasion. Because in fact he HAD booked a gorgeous restaurant in Burleigh Heads (1 hr north) and when we arrived, out on the deck overlooking the very clear ocean (nice right hand breaks for you surfers out there) were sitting Lyn, Ash and Julia! A coordinated effort by the A Team for a birthday surprise! It was a fabulous present - to spend hours chatting over good food with people that I love and that I know love me. Our friendships span almost two decades and are like food for my soul. The Woodies had taken the 2.5 hour drive south to be there which essentially meant a long 5 hour round trip and no time for guru business for lunch and Julia (aka Woman of Science/Crazy Lady) had boarded a plane from Sydney and would fly home that afternoon having taken a prescious day off work to be there. Thank you thank you thank you......love love love. And special thanks to Johnny the accidental CEO who planned and coordinated the day, also took a day off work to support me on my birthday, and who knows me well enough to know how much a gesture of this nature means to me. You are extraordinary. Oh and a special mention to my mum who ensured Murphy was looked after at home and undertook storm watch duties as the afternoon heat rolled on.

So I had a gorgeous birthday whilst simultaneously running to second base. Yep, the game continues and even while chowing down on prawns and sashimi, my body is hurtling towards a declaration of safe on second and the end of chemo. I'm close to half way.

In the list of amazing achievements for people at aged 43 was also a woman named Annie Taylor who was a widowed school teacher. I'm not sure why her profession or her marital status was important enough that the web site needed to state it? But, what is important, is that Ms Taylor climbed into a barrel and chucked herself over the 160 foot Horseshoe Falls in Niagara. Now having the privilege of visiting Niagara Falls myself i can tell you that when you stand on the edge of the falls you actually have to scream at each other just to have a conversation because the noise and power of the water cascading a very loooong way down over the rocks is so incredibly loud. So to think some woman my age decided she would climb into a barrel and have someone push her over the edge, what for, to see what would happen? For the thrill? To make some record? Well, it's impressive in a stark raving mad kind of way and I get it. Maybe Annie had just gotten to the end of a health scare and felt the need to do something extraordinary. It's not running the free world I grant you, but I still think its an amazing feat and in fact, I relate more closely to Annie Taylor than I do with JFK. So if you drop by my house and find me hammering away at an odd shaped vessel, start gearing up for some bizarre and out there event. However it could just be me showing you how I can roll down Survey Street with high heels on????!!!!! Hehe.

You see readers I haven't forgotten I am emerging as a new Kym once all of this is over and that includes doing things that are extraordinary. Making a difference. Living an enviable life. And being grateful that I had this opportunity to know the challenge, every raw and edgy piece of it, and that I still managed to take it on and beat it. I have the desire and the embers are burning inside.......sparkly Kym is on her way.

Much love always xxx