cancer – Page 2 – Welcome to Samsmom. I'm Heather and this is my journey as we navigate love, loss, rare disease, hope and resilency. Our family carries a POLG-1 genetic mutation that took my two children, Jack and Samantha and most recently, my brother Ryan. It's not an easy place to be, but here we are- with humor, love and grace, here we are.

I need some good news: I love this toe-tappin ’ song by Shaboozey. I would listen to it in the car when Ryan was sick, my hand tapping in tune on the steering wheel, singing the lyrics. But I could never get through singing along; I would always tear up, choke up, and let Shaboozey take the wheel.

Man, what a hell of a year it’s been
Keep on bluffin’, but I just can’t win
Drowned my sorrows, but they learned to swim
Man, what a hell of a year it’s been

It hurts my soul to write that we are calling for some good news, yet again.

Are you hanging on?

Are you saddled up with me?

Because this one came from out of the universe and smacked our tight-knit, surviving family on the side of the head.

Our Cynde, my stepmama, Nonnie, and Pops’ beloved, was diagnosed with Ovarian Cancer a couple of weeks ago. I won’t give stages, because really stages mean nothing, but I will tell you that this cancer is meaner than a rattlesnake in a sleeping bag. Not that any cancer is nice or cooperative; none of them are, but this one is particularly assy.

We have gone through diagnosis and had a plan last week. It was a tough plan: chemo, surgery, chemo wash during surgery, chemo. We like our oncologist, and Anschutz was on it.

But these terrible cells hold court in her belly, making eating, drinking, and pooping impossible. Cynde has been miserable and unable to hold food down for over a week. Eating a cracker is an impossible task.

When you can’t eat a cracker for seven days, and you have assy cancer holding court in your belly, AND, since Ovarian cancer makes your blood really clotty, so blood clots are an issue as well, you end up in the ICU.

Which was exactly where we found ourselves yesterday.

To make things a little more complex, Pops, being the amazing Pops he is, was dropping the Phews off in Michigan yesterday BECAUSE my sweet Phews JUST lost their dad and they need some time with cousins on a lake.

Cynde’s journey to the ICU started as an appointment to drain fluid from her belly. A friend took her to Anschutz early yesterday morning. (Thank you, Sue).

Around noon, Sue and I started texting….

Things aren’t great; I think they are going to admit her.

We are in room 123

They are concerned about a couple of things… going to the ICU.

When can you get here?

Call when you get here.

It’s funny how trauma takes you back. How you can drive that same route to the hospital, smell the same smells, yell at the same cars. How time can stand still, and the medical world moves so fast.

A brief hug with Sue at the entrance and into the room to talk to the doctors. A long story short (er), they scoped Cynde’s belly and determined that these terrible stomach issues do not require emergency GI surgery, but they do require a super uncomfortable NG tube, rest for her stomach, and hope that she can eat a cracker very soon.

Pops came in- in a rush to hear the good news that surgery on a Sunday night was not needed.

Today, things look better. The NG tube is pulling out cancer goo. The clots are being addressed with meds; Cynde is upright and alert.

We have moved from are we dealing with a surgical emergency?” to “Can we medically stabilize her and figure out the best cancer treatment plan?”

Is that the good news, Shaboozey? I guess we have to take it as such.

I know….I know, I know, I know. It is a lot. But I will tell you this about my people-

We are strong in a crisis. I am not tooting my own horn, but I know this about all of us.
We have a great medical team.
Whether we like it or not, this is where we are right now.

What is needed? That is a tough question. For my friends, I ask what I asked six months ago when Ryan went into Hospice… please let me move in and out. I might not respond to everything, but don’t count me out- I need my people. And thank you for letting me keep taking all the oxygen in the room.

For my Pops. Call, leave a message, call again. Take him golfing, take him to lunch. Hold his hand if he cries, make it awkward.

For Cynde, I have known this woman for over 40 years. She is so strong, tough as nails, and so private. She doesn’t need a meal train; she doesn’t want a fuss or pity; she doesn’t want flowers because she says they die and that makes her sad….she wants to manifest all of her energy into fighting this terrible disease. She wants to be here for her husband and grandchildren…..send that into the universe and give it a little extra moxie.

People will tell you during times like these to take care of yourself. Sometimes taking care of yourself means knowing exactly where you need to be and showing up anyway.

So that’s what we’re doing.

We’re showing up.

For Pops.

For Cynde.

For each other.

And for now, we’re taking our good news where we can find it. No emergency surgery. A stomach that can rest. A medical team we trust. A woman tough as nails who is still sitting upright and fighting.

Man, what a hell of a year it’s been.

We’re still here, Shaboozey.

I have not posted since November 2024. My last post featured a rider on a horse being unceremoniously thrown off as I talked about my terrible day.

Looking back at the months later, I would have thought the horse was thinking, ‘HA! Hold my beer.’

I didn’t write in this space for six months because I didn’t know what to write. Sometimes, life has a way of taking up all the space.

After my post in November about the no-good, terrible, awful day, I went in for a routine mammogram. Two weeks later, I was asked to come back for another screening. That additional screening turned into a biopsy, which turned into two additional biopsies and a lumpectomy. Twelve weeks after my no good, terrible, awful day post, I was given the all-clear: stage zero cancer (that’s a thing!); continue with your life; sorry for the disruption.

To be clear, I am grateful that they care enough to disrupt. But as much as I tried to keep a stiff upper lip, it threw me for a bit of a loop.

I continued working during these 12 weeks. Working, trying to find revenue from the account we had lost. I would wake up in the middle of the night and think about where and how to find that next account.

I stopped dreaming. Nights were peppered with anxiety. Days were filled with ways to prove my worth.

On February 26th, I was given a clean bill of health and a nice two-inch scar on my left boobie.

Two months later, I was dismissed from my job.

I stopped writing here because I was so overwhelmed, which is ironic because I have gone through so much worse. I stopped writing here because I didn’t quite know who I was.

As of today, June 8th, I have been unemployed for six weeks. It has taken six weeks, but I am slowly finding my footing—I recognize the person looking back at me in the mirror. I dream again. I sleep through the night. I am carving out hours for me.

I swam outside the other day. The day was gray and overcast. Halfway through my workout, it started raining. Heavy raindrops hit my arms as the rest of me was submerged. Randomly, I started singing…….

I’m swimming in the rain. Just swimming in the rain

What a glorious feeling! I’m happy again.

I swim and I smile, I could go another mile.

Just swimming, just swimming in the rain…..

Hello me. I missed you.

Tag: cancer

We Need Some Good News

I’m Swimming in the Rain