February 2018 – pruneandpear

I have been thinking a lot about hope. Hope is where I live right now, but my shelter is fragile. Fear comes calling often, and so do doubt and grief and worry and anger and pain. And there are cracks in the walls and leaks in the ceiling that I must constantly mend. Some days they are easy to patch and others, not so much. With an important post-treatment CT scan looming on my horizon, my battle between hope and fear is raging.

I have a tendency to expect the worst–or at least, to not expect the best. It is one of my most trusted defensive plays; by expecting the worst, maybe the disappointment will sting less. The problem is that I sacrifice opportunities for joy, surprise, and delight. I fail to see the power I have as the author of my own life. I get too caught up in grim possibilities to recognize what is good and wonderful right now. I am working on that.

A few weeks ago, Lucy and I were on the road to my mom’s, heading down the freeway on a typically gray February day. Eyes straight ahead, I drove on, aware of the cars around me but pretty much on autopilot, having made that same trip countless times. I was jolted out of reverie by a sudden exclamation from Lucy in the backseat.

“There’s a RAINBOW, Mommy!”

I glanced over, expecting a faint swath of color or some reflection in the window. (She has no difficulty finding wonder in the most ordinary things. She makes friends out of scraps of paper. She thinks dust motes are beautiful.) Instead, I was startled and amazed to see a perfect, full arc stretching across the sky. It was complete, vibrant from end to end, each color equally strong. It was the most beautiful rainbow I have ever seen, and I almost missed it. I’m so thankful for the eyes and heart of my brilliant daughter. I am grateful for the way she sees the world and shares the magic she finds. She teaches me to notice and appreciate life and to be excited about it. What a remarkable gift at a time like this.

I hold on to these moments, these sparks, with more care and tenderness than I used to. I am learning I can change, that maybe those fatalistic tendencies are not my true nature. I am finding that I believe in magic and miracles and signs and meaning. This cancer journey has released my spiritual world, a world that has always lived in my heart but which my rational mind has been shy, ashamed even, to embrace.

I am learning to change my perspective, to soften and bend and be vulnerable. To give way to hope, to let it fill me with light and comfort and ease. To forgive. To really love, unconditionally, and without expectation. To let go of guilt and resentment and bitterness towards myself and others. It feels good. And though I struggle every day to keep the fire going, to strengthen it, to believe in it, I am shifting toward a truer peace and happiness than I have ever felt before. The battle is raging, but hope is winning. She is stronger than fear. She can outlast.

My scan will come and go. It will be good to have it over with, no matter the results. I have found it is better to know than to sit with uncertainty in these situations. And there will be more scans and tests and anxious moments in my future. There will also be plenty of other worries and fears that are not related to my own personal health. But there will be rainbows, too, lots of them. I just need to notice.

Rainbow Soup, aka minestrone
adapted from The Cancer-Fighting Kitchen by Rebecca Katz

I acknowledge that I have been a big ball of emotions in my last few posts, but I do intend to continue sharing recipes on this blog. I have learned a lot about the power of nutrition in strengthening the immune system and supporting the body’s ability to fight cancer and recover from treatment. Rebecca Katz’s fabulous cookbook has been life changing. I hope that some of the ideas I share here will inspire or help someone else who might be going through cancer treatment–or who just wants to cook and eat healthy, delicious food.

It has been very chilly in our neck of the woods lately, and I have been eating a lot of soup. This one is hearty, colorful, and full of flavor, especially when topped with basil-lemon pesto.

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Serves 4-6

Ingredients:

1/2 bunch Swiss or red chard, stems and leaves separated
2 tbsp olive oil
1 medium onion, diced
Sea salt
3 carrots, peeled and diced
2 stalks celery, diced
2 small or 1 medium zucchini, diced
1 tsp (or more!) minced garlic
1/2 tsp dried oregano
1/4 tsp dried thyme
1/4 tsp fennel seeds, crushed (Use a mortar and pestle or a rolling pin.)
Pinch red pepper flakes
8 cups vegetable or chicken stock
1 14-oz can tomatoes (Use tomatoes that are already crushed or diced, or get whole tomatoes and crush or roughly chop them.)
1 15-oz can red kidney beans, drained, rinsed and tossed with a little lemon juice and sea salt
1 cup shredded purple cabbage (about 1/4 of a small head)
4 oz short pasta (elbows, ditalini, rotini, etc), cooked and drained
1/4 cup chopped fresh parsley

Instructions:

Finely chop the chard leaves AND the stems. Set each aside separately. Heat the olive oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add onions and a pinch of salt and saute, stirring occasionally, until soft and slightly golden, about 5 minutes. Add the chopped chard stems, along with the carrots, celery, and zucchini. Saute for an additional 3 minutes. Add the garlic, oregano, thyme, fennel seeds, red pepper flakes, and a large pinch of salt, and saute until fragrant, about 30 seconds to 1 minute more. Add 1/2 cup of stock and deglaze the pan, scraping up any brown bits and letting the liquid reduce by half.

Add the remaining 7 1/2 cups of stock, along with the tomatoes, beans, and cabbage. Bring the soup to a boil, then reduce the heat so it simmers gently and cook, uncovered, for 20 minutes.

Stir in the chopped chard leaves, along with another big pinch of salt. Cook for 3 minutes more or so, until the chard is slightly wilted. Add the pasta and parsley and stir. Taste, and adjust seasoning as needed.

Serve topped with Basil-Lemon Pesto (recipe follows) and grated Parmesan cheese.

Basil-Lemon Pesto
adapted from The Cancer-Fighting Kitchen by Rebecca Katz

1 cup loosely packed basil leaves
2 tbsp freshly-squeezed lemon juice
1 tsp lemon zest
1 clove garlic, crushed and peeled
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/4 cup walnuts
1/2 tsp sea salt

Place all ingredients in a food processor and process until the walnuts are very finely chopped and everything is blended well together. Taste and add salt or lemon juice if needed.

I have been having difficulty finding the appropriate story or recipe with which to come back to this space. It feels like a major announcement, like a really big deal, to share what I want to share, and I want to do it right. But mostly I just want to do it. I want to get it out there so I can move forward. Because, you see, what I need to tell you is not exactly a good thing, at least not at first glance. It’s a really, really scary thing. And it’s hard for me to think about and I don’t want to freak you out. But I need to get beyond it. I need to heal.

So: off with the band-aid.

I have cancer. Or had cancer. I’m not sure yet if it’s gone. I hope so. I’ll know more next month. I found out about it just over a year ago, last January, a few weeks after my 37th birthday. I got thrown into the waves, bobbing, gasping, dog paddling, barely keeping my head up through eleven rounds of chemo and its myriad side effects. And then, in July, I found out I had a metastatic lesion on my right hip bone. Stage 4. I went under.

I thought my life was over. From that first moment in January when I learned that I did, in fact, have breast cancer, I prayed that it was anything but stage 4. I knew that earlier-stage disease could be treated, even cured, but that stage 4 meant chronic, terminal. No. Nonononono.

I was drowning. My doctors, my family, my beautiful little girl, my friends…they surrounded me, lifted me, pulled me back to the surface. I did some research, learned that remission was still possible. Learned that cancer statistics aren’t everything. I read that a small percentage of women with metastatic breast cancer never have a recurrence. I resolved to do everything I could to get myself into that group.

A month after I finished chemo, I had radiation to the hip lesion, followed by a double mastectomy and lymph node surgery. I had radiation treatments to my chest and armpit for 32 days in a row. I am now on hormone therapy and am also getting infusions of Herceptin every three weeks. My hair has come back with a vengeance, and my energy has returned. I have healed from my surgery and the radiation. I marvel at my body’s resilience, at strength I didn’t know I had.

Not long after learning that my cancer was stage 4, I began seeing a naturopath at the treatment center. If I’m going to stick with a nautical metaphor for this experience, she would be the one who steered my lifeboat to shore. She helped me understand that there were things I could do to affect my outcomes. She gave me real hope and practical tools. She empowered me to take back some control of my health and well-being. With her help, I have changed my diet. I practice yoga. I meditate. I see a counselor. I take supplements. I get acupuncture. I breathe. I laugh. I allow myself to be happy.

The hurricane has passed, and I am still here. And though I am not sure if I am through the storm or merely in its center, all that matters today is the blue sky and sunshine. There is so, so much to be grateful for.

I do believe I have many years ahead, and I intend to make them beautiful. I choose joy. I choose courage. I choose love.

I choose to live.

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. See you soon. XO