more than 1 1/2 years later:
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It's been a long time since I wrote on this blog.  Like whistling in the forest, I need to write about my cancer experiences, even if there is noone to read it.

They teach children to list different emotions. Well, I can attest to two, very different, very strong that I experienced over the last few days.
It was time for my bi-anual Petscan. That which decides who will live and who will die.

The appointment was made 6 weeks in advance. The day before, I have to semi-fast and am banned from all excercise (actually, a gift). Near noon, I get a 'phone call from the clinic that does the testing, DCA, that they do not have authorisation for the test. Total panic ensued. Turned out that the clerk in the oncologis's office forgot to fax them the prescription. It took me hours of stressful  begging 'phone calls to get her to make the one tiny little call to get the authorisation. When she finally did, it took less than half a minute to get the authorisation.

During the 2 hour test, in which your body is filled with radioactive and other weird substances, I was engulfed in a strong sense of grattitude for the year that I have been given. True, there were ups and downs, but my overwhelming emotion was thankfulness for everything that I have been given.

Upon leaving, I was told that the results would be out either that day, Friday, or Monday. I know that it usually takes minutes for the radiologist to read the test. Friday - no call. My friend, Dr J, told me to 'phone, but by that time, they'd all gone home. So, a worrying weekend. So much so, that I missed my early morning swim on Monday in order to get the 'phone call in first thing they got to work. Oh, I'm told, we faxed the results at 10.15am on Friday to Dr D. Problem was that it was Dr B who asked for the test. So they faxed them over. Then, the real nightmare began. No matter how I begged, Dr B's office would not tell me the results. The more time passed, the more it began to look very bleak and both RR and I were going through the sense of shock that this could be happening again. Eventually, after being clearly avoided for 2 hours, RR suggested that we go to the Doctor's office and tell them that we aren't moving until we get the results. The lady at the window, shut it hard and fast in our faces. We heard her demand over the 'phone "what should I do with them?" as though we were some kind of pestilence or disease that had to be sanitized. Well, after almost another hour, the clerk came out waving a paper "here it is", quite cheerfully. I asked what it meant - after all, I am not qualified to read medical reports. The results were that all is well. No sign of cancer.

Needless to say, when that sank in, I burst into tears and even RR was in tears. To have been put through such hell showed me that the staff, working for a doctor who is dealing with seriously sick people have exactly zero compassion. Their indifference to what we endured was incredible and showed me humanity at a pathetic level.  Clerical errors caused me untold anguish from before to after the test and not one person was willing to make the slightest effort to alleviate my distress.

Yes, it's been an incredible year and a half. Rollercoaster. This was one of the downs, that landed up, being an up. Maybe all of life is like that, but cancer is particularly so.

As R said: if it takes 5 years to say I'm in remission, then I am one down, 4 to go.

my new blog is on www.brendaginsbergblog.com
hope you like it.

Good morning.
My newest blogs are brendaginsbergblog.com
Since cancer is not an ongoing subject, I'm writing about other things that are of interest to me and I hope you too.
I hope you find it and enjoy it.
Brenda

afterwards

There is no real afterwards for me. I will never be cured. I will always have chemotherapy. The sword of Damocles will always be hanging just above my head, but I am a good ostrich and manage to live most of my time without thinking about it. How horrible to be so self-engrossed anyway.
But, I will say that the aftermath of intense treatment is not a giant party.
Suddenly, you have to pick up your old life and truck on, seamlessly. No support. Just deal with it. Your hair starts to grow back and it's horrible. You have no right to complain. Turn it into a joke.
For the first time, I feel ready to join a support group. Maybe I will.

never over

Something I've learned since I finished radiation therapy is that once you have cancer, it's figuratively 'always there'. I supposedly had a CPR ie complete pathological response, which means that my last petscan (somewhere around May), showed no cancer.
But how do I know that it won't come back?, isn't back already?, how long do I have without it? There seems to be more of a burden to deal with now than while I was having treatment. Then, I was doing something. I had a whole team of specialists encouraging me. Now, it's me and my mind. Quite alone.
And that's another biggie to deal with. After months of continuous company, support and interest in my well-being, now, people assume that I need to get on with my life. Well, I do. But I don't have all the confidence in the world at all times. In some ways, it's really tough putting your life back after it's over.  On the other hand, there is so much to do. So much to enjoy. I am living the cliche of life being so short, make the most of every minute.

hair again

It's unavoidable. With cancer, you do talk about hair. Anyway, it's back. I do not like it one bit. It has come back a big mess, with curls that are just wrong. Maybe, it's still too short to be so decisive. I hung on to the scarf for a while, but then Reuven put me under a lot of pressure to remove it (claims he likes the hair - what a joke!) and then, my doctor simply pulled the scarf off my head to 'take a look'. In public. Well, the secret was out and so I had to face up to the awful truth.
I am avoiding mirrors like the plague.
I know that mainly the S Africans will understand when I say that I feel like a karakul sheep. My dear P in Cape Town said: Haai Bokkie: forget about the antiques and let's go into making coats.  I haven't stopped laughing.

a big gap

Today, someone mentioned that it's almost 3 months since I updated my cancer blog. Most people realise that this means good news. It means that instead of dealing with doctors and treatments, I'm getting along with my life. Whatever that means, which is certainly a topic unto itself and deserving of it's own blog.

I last wrote in the euphoria of the significance of our trip to Israel. How could anything live up to such anticipation? The truth is, that it did. Our trip to Israel was awesome in every way and beyond mere words. From the moment that we touched ground it was a major blast - meeting most beloved friends and family, a variety of known and unknown people. Places - from the non-stop action of Tel Aviv to the mystery and spirituality of Jerusalem and everything inbetween. All the senses were indulged: sights, sounds, tastes, smells. We saw a play about cancer; we toured and I stood on the Lebanese border in a grotto with enormous waves pounding and banging all around, in Templar and Crusader fortresses, history all around at every level. Nothing can convey Jerusalem. It is said that when the world was created, that city got 9/10ths of the world's beauty. It is true. Watching hundreds of thousands of people of every persuasion converge on the Wailing Wall past midnight takes you to a level of experience that can never be explained. There was the aggravation of dealing/failing to deal with Israeli bureaucracy - enough to bring us back down to earth with a bang.

Our trip to Israel has absolutely nothing to do with cancer except for one thing: en route, about to board the 'plane to Tel Aviv, a man bashed into my chest. The operated breast. I knew that something big happened, but in the chaos of boarding that was temporarilly the end of the topic. About 5 days later, an enormous lump appeared. No doctor that saw it has seen anything like this. Today is exactly two months since the 'accident' and the lump is still huge and black. I am told that it will take a very long time to disappear.

We did not have time to digest all of that because we got home on the day of Rosh HaShana and had a fabulous visit from my sister and brother in law. Rushing into a totally different reality.

A lot has happened since then and there is a lot to discuss, but I will leave some of that for next time.  Tomorrow, I go for my routine chemotherapy.  Rush in, rush out. I hope.