There is a quote that floats around the internet that says something like, “Losing my hair didn’t make me feel beautiful. It made me feel like a cancer patient.” I imagine that’s true for many people. Hair loss isn’t just about hair. It’s another reminder that cancer has arrived, and it announces itself to the world before you’re ready.
So here we go…..
This is a busy week for Cynde and Pops. On Thursday she’ll have her chemo port placed, and on Friday she’ll head back for another round of chemotherapy. Nurses continue to come and go, monitoring blood sugar, TPN, and her central line, but everything is moving in the right direction, the direction that gives her body the best chance to be as healthy and as strong as possible for treatment.
Tomorrow, Cynde meets with her hair stylist to talk about what comes next.
She’s always said she doesn’t want a wig.
But I also think we have an opportunity to have a little fun with this, because, Lordy…we could all use a little fun.
So we decided to imagine a few possibilities.
The Basics
What if we just embraced it? No wig. No pretending. Just Cynde- beautiful, striking, and strong. Add a colorful scarf, a cute hat, some fabulous earrings, and let her smile do the rest.
Then We Got a Little Creative…
#1 Soft Pixie #2 Sleek Bob
#3 Textured Pixie #4 Soft Layered Bob
And Then…Well…Things Got a Little Crazy.
The best part?
When you’re getting a little “wiggy with it,” you can be whoever you want to be. Cher one day. Meg Ryan the next. Maybe even Dolly Parton if the mood strikes. Whatever makes you laugh. Whatever makes you feel fabulous. Whatever helps you forget, even for a moment, why you’re wearing it in the first place.
This week is another big step in this journey. We’d love your healing thoughts, prayers, good vibes, and positive energy as Cynde heads into another round of chemo.
And if you have a favorite look from our little fashion show…feel free to vote.
I woke up this morning thinking about where we were just one week ago and how far we’ve come in seven days.
Last Saturday, Cynde was incredibly sick after Friday’s chemo treatment. She couldn’t keep anything down, so she and Pops spent the day in the Emergency Room searching for answers.
There really weren’t any answers that day, just an overzealous doctor who insisted she eat a Saltine cracker. Around midnight, after a frustrating standoff over that poor little cracker, they left exhausted, discouraged, and wondering what came next.
Sometimes these medical journeys have to get worse before they can get better.
Cynde’s angry Tum finally demanded the attention of exactly the right specialists, and that’s what it got. Aside from a couple of bumps along the way, her care has been exceptional. Every day has brought a little more progress, and right now, that’s exactly what we’re celebrating.
I also owe everyone an apology for disappearing after Wednesday’s update. I’m hoping we can all agree that when you don’t hear from me, it’s usually because things are quietly moving in the right direction.
So where are we today?
Cynde is getting stronger.
The TPN has allowed her digestive system to rest, and it seems to be making a real difference. The body wants to heal when we give it the chance.
And sometimes the biggest victories are the simplest ones.
She took a shower.
She’s walking the halls.
She’s sipping tea.
Then this morning they casually told me they were having breakfast together. Naturally, I assumed that meant Pops was enjoying pancakes while Cynde continued her gourmet TPN through her central line.
Nope.
She had scrambled eggs…and an English muffin.
Last weekend, one little cracker seemed impossible.
Today it was eggs and an English muffin.
All of this is about getting her strong enough for the next round of chemo because, in the end, it’s this stubborn cancer that’s causing all of these roadblocks. Her port will be placed on July 9, and chemo is scheduled to begin again on July 10.
I know this all sounds overwhelming, but her medical team continues to reassure us that, as difficult as this has been, none of it is unexpected with this type of cancer.
When I talked with Cynde yesterday, she said something that has stayed with me.
“We can do hard things.”
That’s what she wants everyone to know.
This is hard. And she can do hard things.
So we’re looking ahead to a possible Monday discharge. Home. Healing. One step at a time.
Thank you, as always, for your prayers, your messages, your encouragement, and for walking this road with us.
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.
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.
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. 