Smooth Sailing — Well, Pretty Much.

23 11 2011
Me, Don and Theo, testing one of the sky lanterns for the Dec. 3 Sky Lights of Love Benefit. Photo by Kristi Rugh Kahl.

Test runs are important. We learned just how important last Sunday, when Don, Theo and I met at Van Buren Park with Sky Lights of Love Organizer Kristi Kahl and her son, Logan, and friends Jodi and Randy Krueger, to give it a try, figure out the logistics.

I’d never seen a sky lantern up close until my bff Kristi pulled up with a half dozen or so samples. I was surprised by how BIG they are! Even though I’ve seen them in pictures and in videos, I never realized their size. They must easily be three feet tall once they’re fully inflated and ready for lift-off.
The picture of me, above, sending a pink ribbon sky lantern into the skies looks like it went off without a hitch. It did — until it got snagged in a tree. So, though the outlook point at the park, which overlooks gorgeous Belleville Lake, was great in theory, we realized then and there that there are just too many trees. So, we moved to a nearby open field, where, once we got the lanterns lit, they expanded with air and took off. And all of us breathed sighs of relief.
These babies remind me of miniature hot air balloons in both the way they look as well as how they soar into the sky. They ascend higher than I ever imagined. After several minutes, they’re still going up, up, up — until the naked eye can no longer spot them. I love that. They then self-extinguish at some point and fall to the ground. They are biodegradable, so no harm done. Just lots of love and wishes sent into the night sky.
The mechanics are pretty simple, once you get them down. That’s what we worked on with several of these lanterns Sunday — and after a few trial runs and burn marks (on the sides of the lanterns, not us!), we’ve got it. At the Dec. 3 Benefit, I will give everyone a run down of how to do a safe lift-off via the PA system, and we will have people roaming through the crowd to help.
There’s still time to join us. Lanterns can be purchased through Sunday, November 27. We will be sending up a number of the pink ribbon lanterns like the one shown above, but also, some beautiful In Memory Of lanterns that I just this week realized are available. They are white with gold trim and there is a large tag on the top on which we will be writing the name of the person or people indicated by the purchaser. There is a section on the PayPal order form where you can indicate if you’d like to light one off in someone’s memory — or, if you are unable to attend, we will do it for you. The sentiment on the memory lanterns is beautiful: In memory of those who have left us, may this light rise to the heavens to shine with you for all eternity.
To order a lantern, click here, or go to the Events tab on the blog’s homepage and look under Upcoming Events. If you have questions, please feel free to contact Kristi Kahl at kristikahl@comcast.net. If you have already placed an order, and would like to designate a lantern In Memory Of, but haven’t yet done so, please email Kristi. Also, if you are planning to attend the event, please drop Kristi a quick email and let her know. We are looking forward to filling the sky with light, hope and love with all of you on Dec. 3.
Copyright 2011, Amy Rauch Neilson
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“Don’t Look Around. Look Up.”

19 11 2011

Photo Copyright 2011, Kathy Stadtfeld

Editor’s Note: A two-part article on me, my family and the BRCA genes appeared Sunday, Nov. 20 on the front page of  The Detroit Free Press. Part II appeared Monday, Nov. 21.  Also, the Canton Observer ran a nice piece on the Dec. 3 Sky Lights of Love Benefit. You can go to the Events tab on the blog homepage and click on Upcoming for more info.
When my close friend Kathy Stadtfeld shared this photograph with me, I was astonished.  I hadn’t yet shared the story of that January night with her, but somehow, she had captured on film the very vision of God’s pure white light as I see it in my mind’s eye.  I begged her to let me use it on my blog.  “But of course,” she said.

It was three-thirty in the morning on a cold winter’s night last January. I was sitting alone in my home office, exhausted from the physical and emotional battering I’d taken. In the two weeks leading up to that night, I’d found a lump wedged between my left implant and the thin layer of skin on my chest. I’d been through a biopsy and very quickly learned that yes, breast cancer is possible without breasts. I’d undergone surgery to have a port inserted on the right side of my chest, in anticipation of numerous rounds of chemotherapy. I’d been through a very painful lung biopsy to confirm what we already suspected — the cancer had spread to my lungs. I was a Stage 4.

That’s a heavy dose of hard reality for anyone, but especially for the mother of a five-year-old boy. Hours earlier, he’d  fallen into a deep sleep, not a care in the world, clutching his stuffed bear. I’d just finished reading to him about the antics of a monkey named Curious George.

Beside me in bed, my husband, Don, had finally succumbed after a string of sleepless nights filled with the terror of my diagnosis, his world closing in and crumbling around him. I couldn’t sleep. My tossing and turning disturbed Don, who would change position or roll over. I decided that if I was going to have insomnia, it’d best be someplace else. I crept downstairs.

Nighttime never seems darker than in January. Gusts of wind blew the tree branches to and fro, and they took turns scraping noisily against the windows, then the side of the house.

I was alone and completely exhausted. I had nothing left to give the night. No more tears, no more worries, no more ‘what ifs’. I was done. After what must have been an hour or more, I thought about heading back upstairs to bed, but couldn’t summon the energy. So, I sat there in the dark, at my desk, the mixture of snow and freezing rain pelting the skylights like so many forks striking champagne glasses at a wedding reception.

And that’s when it happened.

One minute, I was sitting there in complete darkness, silent, ridden with fatigue. The next, I was filled with a white light. A powerful, pure, all-encompassing white light.

I never saw the light, yet I knew instinctively that it was white. Then words: Everything’s going to be OK. YOU are going to be OK.

But the words weren’t audible. I can only describe them as a rapid-fire communication that came from someplace outside of me and entered my mind in a nanosecond. It wasn’t a conversation. It was an understanding.

I felt nothing but peace and serenity in those fleeting moments. And they were fleeting. As quickly as the white light filled me, the message was communicated, they were gone.

I was still sitting in my office, but I was different. I knew. I knew that it had been a message of comfort from God.

And though it took me a while to process, to truly absorb, what had happened that night, I’ve never had any doubt as to what it was. Not for a moment. Not even a flicker.

It’s going to be OK. I’m going to be OK. And I have a lot of work left to do here on earth before it’s my time. This I know for sure.

Yet, I’m a mere mortal and inherently flawed. And though I’d like to tell you that since that night, I’ve been able to push all fear, all doubt, all questions aside, and proceed with utter confidence, I haven’t. There are still times — and plenty of them — when I am wracked with sobs, days that are filled with despair, void of hope.

Perhaps my sister Julie said it best when she told me that during the toughest, most grueling of moments, I must not look around, but rather, up.

That’s a tall order when you’ve been hurled into a world of white coats, blood draws, chemotherapy infusions, regularly scheduled scans to see whether you are one of the lucky ones whose cancer is shrinking…or not. When, in the months that followed, you hear over and over again the words from the people here on earth who preside over your course of treatment:

Stage 4 breast cancer is incurable.

The average lifespan for a patient with your diagnosis is three years.

You think you can live 20, or even 10 more years? That’s just not realistic.

You will need to undergo some form of  chemotherapy for the rest of your life.

Each utterance is a blow, some harder than others, but all require psychological recovery time in much the way my body needs time to rebound physically after each chemotherapy infusion. It is hard to remember to look up when the script is playing out all around you.

I have my tough moments, times when I cannot imagine continuing this course of treatment that on numerous occasions has physically ravaged my body to the point that I’ve needed to be hospitalized in isolation, or transfused with platelets and bags of whole blood. Times when the ER doctor has looked at me and said, “You’ve got about a 50/50 chance of making it.”

Yet, I will continue. Because I know I am on the path to healing and that my work here, God’s work, is not done. Not only did He tell me so, but I’m watching it play out. Just this past week, a member of my medical team remarked that my results from nearly a year of treatment — 44 chemotherapy infusions — have been “robust.” I love that word and the context in which it was used. Indeed, my progress has been steady, with each scan revealing a continually shrinking cancer, along with areas that have fully healed.

Still, I know the road ahead will continue to have its twists and turns, its bumps and potholes. It is in those darkest of moments when I need to remember the light and the communication from that dark January night, and my sister Julie’s words. “Don’t look around. Look up.”

Copyright 2011, Amy Rauch Neilson





Guest Blog: Sky Lights of Love Benefit December 3, 2011

7 11 2011

By Kristi Rugh Kahl


Imagine if you went to your job every day and it made you feel sick to your stomach. Not just the thought of going to that dreaded place, but so physically sick that you couldn’t get off of the couch or out of bed when you got home. Your head pounds and you feel queasy. It’s difficult to eat, but you know you have to in order to keep up your strength. You’ve got to go back to that job. Your survival depends on it. Then imagine that after two weeks of doing this, you wait for your paycheck thinking, OK, I guess it’s worth it. We’ve got to pay our bills. We have a little boy to feed, a household to run.

But the paycheck never comes. Yet, you have to keep going back, two weeks on, one week off. Repeat.

Sad but true, this is the life of most cancer patients on chemotherapy. Not only are they unable to work, or, like Amy, only able to work limited hours, but the bills continue to pile up. The old bills — like the utilities and the groceries — and the new bills: medical. Amy is blessed to have health insurance. But even with that safety net, there are copays and percentages that have added up to thousands of dollars since her January 12, 2011 diagnosis.

Amy’s schedule is no different.  Every two weeks of chemo (what the doctors call “a Round”) takes its toll on her body and puts a financial strain on her household.

A couple of weeks ago, one of her two employers called to let her know that they could not wait any longer for her to get better. Yes, they loved her writing and editing work and found her to be very talented in both arenas. They had recently told her she was “the whole package” — and they meant it. She was offered other writing work that didn’t have the hard and fast deadlines that her editing work for the company required. She took them up on that offer, and understood, but it broke her heart to lose the copyediting position she had, working with a team she loved.

When she called me to tell me what had happened, one of the last things she said to me during the conversation was this: “It was so very hard to know that I can do the job and do it well. When I was healthy, they loved me and I loved working for them. All those years of education and various jobs in the trenches had paid off. Yet, that day, as I held the phone to my ear, I realized that while my mind wanted to scream, Don’t Replace Me! I can do the job! I want to do the job!, my body was telling me a different story. I knew they needed someone in that position who was healthy. Right now, that person isn’t me. And there’s nothing I can do about it besides keep going to chemo, keep praying and doing everything I know to do in order to get better as soon as possible.”

Yes, this is the price for survival, but it doesn’t have to be so hard if we all come together to celebrate her life and help defray her expenses.

When I first mentioned the idea to Amy, she loved the vision of a gathering of people and the lantern release over the lake. But she wasn’t, at first, comfortable with the idea of another benefit for her family. She didn’t want to keep asking so much of so many people. That’s when I told her that asking for help doesn’t mean you’ve failed; it means you’re not in it alone. And that is the theme of the recently released song by Martina McBride, I’m Gonna Love You Through It, that inspired this event (see more on this personal story about Amy and Don on the Events page).

In celebration of Amy’s birthday (November 29), we are hosting a benefit called Sky Lights of Love on Saturday, December 3, 2011 at the Van Buren Township Park.  We will gather at 4:30 p.m. and, at 6:00 p.m. sharp, we will release the lanterns from the Lookout Point over Belleville Lake — a place that is near and dear to their hearts.

The cost per lantern is $10 and the proceeds will go to the Amy Rauch Neilson Benefit Fund to help Amy with her ongoing medical bills and expenses. 

If you can’t attend, you can still participate by ordering a lantern. We will release it in your name or the name of a loved one.  Or if you’d like, please consider giving a donation. 

We all know times are tough, but they are even tougher if you are fighting for your life. As for me, the time is now for my bff Amy. Together, we can make it better by celebrating life and collectively lifting all of our spirits as we watch hundreds of lanterns filled with pure, white light rise up into the night sky. I hope you can join us on December 3, 2011!

Lanterns available by PRE-SALE ONLY – purchase by 11-20-2011
Purchase Lantern or Make Donation Below:

  • Purchase a Lantern, and join us as we gather together to release hundreds of lanterns of light over Belleville Lake in Amy’s honor ! Lanterns will be distributed when you check-in at the event.  Lanterns are available by pre-sale only.  Purchase Lanterns by November 20, 2011.  No Lanterns will be sold at the door.
  • Can’t be there? You can still purchase a lantern, and we will release it on your behalf.
  •  You can make a donation to the event here! 




Trying to Focus on Bright Rather Than Bleak

3 11 2011
It’s the Great Pumpkin, Theodore Neilson! Photo by Amy Rauch Neilson.

Life just feels really hard right now. So, I am extra, uber-grateful for moments like this one. On Sunday, Don, Theo and I went to a local pumpkin farm and spied this big orange beauty. It weighed in at 121 pounds — and that was WITHOUT Theo inside! 🙂

Usually, these prize-winning sized pumpkins go for in the neighborhood of $80. That’s why we’ve always stuck with the, er, well, more “traditional” size.
Not this year. The farmer told us he was offering deals that day. It was, after all, the day before Halloween and the demand for his crop would be plummeting in a matter of hours. He knew it and I knew it.  Supply and demand basics from Econ 101 back in my freshmen year of college…
“$34,” he said.
I shook my head.
“$25?”
“Nope.”
“I’ll give you $20,” I said, waving a crisp bill in front of his face.
“Sold!” he said, taking the twenty dollar bill, loading our big prize onto a dolly and heaving it over and into the back of our SUV.
It was a thing of beauty — the reflection of all of that orange in the back of our car. We drove to my bff Tabitha Green’s house, where it took six of us — Tabitha, Rodney, their daughter Lauren, me, Don, and Theo — about 2 1/2 hours to carve it. Talk about entertainment. We had a blast. Right up there with the best $20 I’ve ever spent.
We all stood back to admire our work when Tabitha said, “Hey, I bet Theo would fit inside!”
Theo’s eyes got wide and he looked like he wanted to simply disappear. He finally agreed — as long as he could keep his socks on. He’s got a thing about goop.
So, in he went, and indeed, he fit quite perfectly!
What fun we had with that pumpkin! I brought it along as a “prop” to Theo’s school for Trunk or Treat Monday morning. We lit it with an uber-large candle Halloween night and the kids who came to the door wanted to know if that great big pumpkin outside was real. Indeed it is, I assured them with a wink and a grin.
These are the moments of my life that I cling to when the going gets rough. And it’s been rough.
I consulted with the dietician who works with Dr. Waldo (the specialist from Indianapolis) last Friday morning. With the help of my bff Jennifer Amprim Wolf, I cleared the cupboards, fridge and freezer of all the things on the “cannot eat list,” of which there are many. No dairy, with the exception of butter and Almond milk. No sugar. No coffee. No beans (allergy tests showed I’m allergic). No gluten. No yeast. (We found one loaf of bread at Whole Foods that contains neither.) It’s a challenge, to say the least.
I’m allowed meat, like steak, chicken and turkey (I also have seafood allergies). And potatoes are fine. Lots of veggies and some fruit. Lots of nuts. Still, the choices feel so limiting to me and the change so dramatic. “You might feel a bit of depression as your body adjusts to the chemical changes of this new diet,” the dietician said to me. I’ve been feeling more than a bit of depression.
Yet, I’ve not cheated since I began the diet last Friday. I’m committed. Dr. Waldo told me that if I cheat, I have to start all over again. This current diet plan is quite strict, will go on for about 8 weeks, then hopefully, if my body has made progress, the dietician will slowly begin to add in more foods. I’m hoping for coffee, bananas and strawberries — all on the “no go” list right now. But we’ll see.
I’ve also had severe pain in my right rib cage. So Tuesday, when I went for chemo, the doctor checked me and is quite sure I have a broken rib. He sent me for multiple Xrays and an MRI. There’s concern over the CT Scan from two weeks ago — some possible areas of question along my spine. So, they’re taking a closer look there. I should have results today. Don is taking me to chemo so he can be with me for those results.
I’m really scared. If there’s progression, not only is that terrible news, but I would have to go off of the PARP Inhibitor — per protocol of the trial. I’m also down in the dumps because the oncology staff indicated Tuesday that my chemo regimen is a lifestyle — not likely to come to an end. I will have breaks — like the “chemo vacation” I’ll have in December — a whole month off. But as of now, they don’t see anything changing. Keeping my cancer stable and in check may mean indefinite, ongoing rounds of chemo. It’s hard to imagine living like this, permanently, three trips to the hospital two weeks in a row, one week off, repeat.
Each round of chemo is cumulative, and my body is getting really beat up. I liken it to a Rocky movie, where each time the opponent goes down, the referree begins the count and it takes longer and longer for the boxer to get up. This past week, that was especially noticeable to Don, who says I used to lie down for an hour long nap, then pop back up. Now, he finds it harder and harder to wake me. And, usually, I rebound well during my week off. Last week, not so much.
We’re looking into other options as well. The name Dr. Burzynski has come across my radar several times in the past few months, and more prominently so recently. He is a doctor based in Houston, Texas, who has patented a number of cancer-fighting drugs that are successful in patients with certain genetic fingerprints. Blood tests determine whether or not you are a candidate. The treatments are less toxic than chemo, and studies show, more effective. Don is knee-deep in research on Dr. Burzynski, as are many of our family and friends, and I’ve been asking my doctors for their opinions as well. I may be heading to Houston in the near future.
In the meantime, I’m trying to keep my head up and continue to do what I need to do to give myself the best chance of staying on the planet. Please pray for good test results today. I will keep you updated, and I will continue to post pictures of the bright moments in my life, of which I am blessed to have many.
Copyright 2011, Amy Rauch Neilson




“I’m Gonna Love You Through It.”

14 10 2011

A couple of times early on after my diagnosis, Don called me from work to say he’d lined up a sitter for Theo and that he’d like to take me out to dinner. Just the two of us.

Sounds romantic. And it is. Except.

Except that I was gripped by this terrible, irrational fear that he was going to tell me he couldn’t do this anymore, go along with me on this journey.

So, when we got to Carrabba’s and I was looking like a deer caught in the headlights rather than a wife out with her husband on a Friday night, he was confused.

“What’s wrong?” he asked once we were seated in our booth. “Did you want to go somewhere else?”

I stared at the table for a moment, then worked up the courage to say, “I’m afraid you’re going to tell me you can’t do this anymore.” And how could I blame him, really? This, my second cancer diagnosis in five years, the first coming when Don was just 32, me, 37.

Don reached across the table and covered my hands with his.

“I just want to have dinner with the woman I love,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

It isn’t all that irrational if you look at the statistics — as many as 50 percent of marriages dissolve after a cancer diagnosis.

But we all know that when you’ve got the Real Deal — a hubby like mine — statistics are bunk.

It was silly. But I was scared.

A few days ago, Don sent me the most beautiful music video by Martina McBride that captures what this whole journey is all about. Then, this morning, my neighbor, Sue, sent it to me as well.

Me and my hubby, enjoying a ride on our pontoon boat. I just watched it. Again. And cried. Again. But they were very happy tears and a reminder that while the journey is tough, so much of what comes out of it can indeed be beautiful.

It is amazing. But a word of caution before you press “play” — grab a box of Kleenex first. (Click on Martina McBride’s name, above, and it will take you to the video.)

Copyright 2011, Amy Rauch Neilson





The Gift Is The Present

5 10 2011
Monopoly Junior — one of Theo’s favorite games. Photo by Amy Rauch Neilson.

Where have I been?

Thinking. Pondering, Wondering. Questioning.
The last 10 days or so have been particularly harsh.
I lost a good friend, quite unexpectedly, to a brain tumor.
I lived through a couple of days while doctors ruled out ovarian and uterine cancer in my sister, Lisa.
And I’ve been giving a great deal of thought to my niece’s surgery next week. As a carrier of the BRCA 1 gene, and the daughter of a two-time breast cancer survivor, she has opted to take the preventive measure of having an elective double mastectomy and reconstruction.
So many times in the last couple of months, since we learned her surgery date, which, ironically, would have been my Dad’s 76th birthday, I’ve wished. I’ve wished that I could change things, that her risk of developing breast cancer without taking this drastic step wasn’t 88 percent. I’ve pictured myself running into pre-op — just moments before the doctors whisk her off into surgery — with the answer, the cure, whatever it would take to give her a surgery-free, cancer-free life, without the emotional and physical pain of the surgery.
But I don’t have the answer. No one can offer a more reliable preventive step than what she is about to undergo next week. And so we move forward in the realm of what is current scientific reality — this is the best we can do, she can do, for herself, her husband, her brand-new baby boy, her family. It’s what must be done. But it doesn’t make it any easier for any of us.
I so hoped and prayed over the years that we would find a better way before it was her time. But we haven’t, yet.
We will. Someday — and I believe it will be in my lifetime — we will have a better answer to genetic breast cancer prevention. I picture myself far down the road, decades from now, a grandmother, telling my grandchildren the story of what we had to do to save my life, my sisters’ lives, my niece’s life, all those years ago. The surgeries, the treatments, the frequent scans and doctor appointments. I picture the shock on their faces as they hear the stories of the harsh reality that was genetic breast cancer early on in the millenium, much the way I recoil when I hear the stories of the best medicine had to offer in the 1920s, 1930s and beyond.
We’ve come a long way, and we’ve got a long way yet to go.
But I know we will get there. Medicine has already made amazing progress, with new discoveries every single day that will impact our present and our future.
In the meantime, I try to be aware of the place I am, wherever that may be — walking a trail with the crunch of fall leaves beneath my feet, at the Tiger’s Playoff Game #3 with my bff Jodi Wolford Krueger, watching as Justin Verlander strikes out batter after batter, on the floor with my son, Theo, and husband, Don, playing Theo’s favorite game — Monopoly Junior.
The squeal of Theo’s belly laugh each time one of us lands on “his property” is a beautiful sound. You can’t help but light up with joy when you hear it — even if you do have to hand over your Monopoly cash.
The gift really is the present and one of the best gifts we can give ourselves is to stay there, to be present, to create an awareness of the moment we are living in, and all of the beauty that is there before us to enjoy, lest we miss it.
It’s not realistic or possible 100 percent of the time. That much I know.
There will be times when each of us must grieve a loss, or wonder why life has put something undesireable in our path, or in the path of someone we love deeply.
There will be those times. I’ve been experiencing quite a few of them lately.
They’re tough. Grueling, even. But we must not let them rules our lives. We can’t change them, but we can choose how we respond.
We must make a conscious effort to truly be in the moment whenever we can, taking in everything that is all around us, stretching our senses to the very brink, whenever possible, whether we find ourselves skiing a Black Diamond run or listening to the belly laugh of a six-year-old child.
Copyright 2011, Amy Rauch Neilson




Dark Clouds, Yes — But Don’t Overlook the Silver Lining

16 08 2011

Photo courtesy of: jittajack.blogspot.com

This is Week 2, Round 8 of chemo. That means I’ve now sat through 30 infusion days — and 120 total infusions — since chemo began Feb. 1, 2011.

Ugh. Yuck. Blech. Ewww. That’s how I feel after today’s chemo. I often have trouble with word retrieval in the hours following my infusions. My Chemo Buds notice this on Tuesdays — my hard chemo days — as the second infusion, Gemzar, makes me go pale and honestly, a little loopy. I sometimes slur my words and feel like a drunk who never had the pleasure of the cocktail — the chemo cocktail, yes, but not the Whiskey Sour that’s my standard order.

It feels like a bout of the flu coming on — headache, body aches, nausea. But I slept for a couple of hours this afternoon after I got home and it recharged me enough that I could eat a few slices of bread and a couple of peaches along with the antioxidant green tea that is super good for me and that I am drinking by the gallon daily. This little hiatis won’t last long — I need to hit the sack shortly. But first, some silver linings to share with you. A few of my favorites:

1. Support of Friends and Family. I keep waiting for chemo to be fun (I’m the eternal optimist), but so far, it’s disappointed me. I CAN say that it is really reassuring and supportive to have the many loving family and friends in my life who show up on time, drive me to chemo, sit there beside me, drive me home and tuck me into bed. Today, my Chemo Buddy was my bff Elaine Schultz. I enjoy the conversations with each of you and treasure you and your friendship. Not only that, studies PROVE that cancer survivors who are surrounded by a loving network of their peeps have much higher rates of long-term survival. Thank you.

2. Positive Test Results. My tumors have remained stable and/or shrunk every time since February that I’ve had a CT Scan. The latest one taken in the hospital mid-July showed the same results. That’s a LOT to be happy about!

If that isn’t enough, the way I FEEL is! The coughing linked to the tumors in my lungs stopped two months after chemo began; three months later, Don noticed that my stamina had dramatically improved, and honestly, I am feeling terrific. People have been noticing — people who haven’t seen me in two or three months. They’re surprised.

“You look really good,” they say.

I shrug it off and say, “Maybe it’s the tan?”

I mean, that seems like a reasonable explanation.

Nope. They’ve already taken that into account and they are sure I look better, healthier than just two or three months ago. Waaahhoooo!!!!!!!!

3. Amazing Blood Counts! This is a biggie. For the first time in many, many months, my blood counts were SO good today that I don’t have to do those awful, painful Neupogen (white blood cell booster shots) this round! They are worse than chemo, as I’ve said many a time. Very painful side effects in my bones (think rib bones that THROB) that last for 24 hours per shot, and the regimen calls for five days of shots. So, hooray for a small victory that is actually quite BIG!

My doctor attributed it partially to my changeover to a more healthy diet. It’s a slow but sure process, but I’ve already whacked most of the refined white sugar from my diet — replacing it with natural Blue Agave (available at most health food stores and quite good) that does not cause blood insulin levels to spike. I’ve got to keep my glycemic index in check. (For more on the glycemic index and cancer fighting foods, etc., see David Schreiber’s book, Anti-Cancer: A New Way of Life. I can’t recommend it highly enough.)

I’m also eating tons of fresh peaches now in season from our local orchard, raw veggies, whole grains, tomatoes and fresh green beans (raw) from my garden, and EEEK! I ate a mushroom yesterday. For those of you who know me, I’ve had a lifelong hate-relationship with mushrooms. They are one of the only foods I cannot stand to eat.

But.

But they are extremely beneficial cancer fighters — lots and lots of great, healthy properties. So, I’m gonna find a way to get them down. Eww. Ick. My close friend and Theo’s godfather Ken Bagnall tried to lessen the pain of my palate yesterday by covering a raw mushroom in spinach dip.

Still yuck. I nearly hurled. I compare it as being on equal footing with the one time I ate a huge, garlic and butter sauted escargot. That was 20 years ago and I swear, I need to bring it up in a counseling session sometime.

4. Back on Track. It is a victory in and of itself that I was finally able to get through a full round — four sessions — of chemo after all these weeks. I’d been off since the end of June due to low blood counts and the infection that hospitalized me. I am so grateful that I am back on my regimen. That really is a silver lining!

5. The End of Chemo is Near. Nope. I’m not holding out on you. I still don’t know when the end of chemo will come. No one but God knows that. But I do know that getting back on schedule means that I’mmmm bacccckkkk and heading in the right direction, AKA The Finish Line.

Let’s get this chemo thing over and done with ASAP so I can return to my regularly-scheduled life, shall we?

Copyright 2011 Amy Rauch Neilson








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