Your Freeze Frame Moments

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs, Treatment by

The freeze frame moments – moments so good, so wholly, purely, simply good, you’d like to stick a pin in them and keep ’em forever. Those are the moments I try to remember; sitting here, laying there, holding my dog when she was a puppy, celebrating the publication of an article, cuddling up to my husband, walking through a warm sun shower, meeting up with friends, feeling good just because . . . those are the freeze frame moments I’m sure everyone can relate to.

Dr Alexandra Ginty tweeted me, Katie and Terri this week about a freeze frame moment, saying she was enjoying a beautiful wine while at the cottage. And I thought, “what a fantastic expression, ‘freeze frame’.”

The only problem with trying to remember those moments as vivid recollections is that so often the mind moves on, the goodness  slips away, and while we might want to re-submerge ourselves into ‘that time when everything was wonderful’ it instead becomes a shadow of the past.

During treatment I longed for those memories to feel real. After my third or fourth treatment of the ‘really intense’ chemotherapy (with over ten more sessions to go), as determination began to subside to exhaustion, more often than not I found myself dreaming of better times. Better times in the past, and better times to come.

Maybe you are right there, right now, fighting through the shock, the physical changes, the strangeness of seeing a different person in the mirror (you, but not you) . . . and all around life goes on, and you go on too. Sometimes you have the strength and find those moments of goodness, other times (quiet times, when hardly anyone is looking) you break down and just wish – wish so hard – that you could return to one of those freeze frame moments.

I think everyone remembers differently, but whenever I was longing for a bit of goodness, here’s what helped me. Maybe it could help you too? And really, I think this is applicable far beyond a cancer treatment. Anyone can call upon their favourite moments to help alleviate a down moment.

Write it down. When things are good, write them down. Describe how it felt. Tell yourself a story in that moment so when you read it over later (years later, days later) those emotions can be regained.

  • Draw a picture. Just doodle it on a piece of paper – doesn’t have to be good, and you don’t need to show it to anyone. Drawing taps into a different sort of memory, and coupling that with the movement of your hand and texture of the page, it becomes in itself a wholly, purely, simply good freeze frame moment.
  • Tell a story. This is what you do when out for tea with friends, or lying in bed, or having someone who loves you rub your feet: tell them the memory that’s floating through your mind. Don’t worry about it making sense or sounding eloquent – just tell them about that time you laughed till you cried, or felt totally happy and the world was just perfect.
  • Look at pictures. There’s a great way to trigger lost memories. Have a photo book on hand and flip through, taking time to enjoy the memories that you had forgotten. Zsolt and I print out photo books after our adventures; it’s a fantastic way to make sure the good times never fade.
  • Make a plan. This is a BIG deal, and basically one that will carry you out of that slump. Make a plan to go somewhere you love, do something you love . . . even if you are in the  middle of treatment, make a plan. Whether or not your follow through might depend upon your determination and energy levels, but don’t give up if it’s at all possible. Heck, I dreamed of going home for Christmas despite chemo, setbacks, and the general opinion of its impossibility. And guess what? It happened. And honestly, being at home was one of the most healing times during my entire journey through treatment. So if you remember being happy by the lake, or with some friends, or whatever, make a plan – believe in that plan.

Happiness is a huge bit of ‘awesome’ in life, and goodness knows it can be challenged and withheld at times. During my chemotherapy (and a little bit afterwards too) I experienced depression for the first time in my life. Thank God that passed, but I cannot forget what a sluggish, discouraging, deep situation it threw me into. . . and during those times, all I could do was remember those freeze frame moments. Since those times, since coming through treatment and trying to regain my life – I’ve lived those wonderful experiences, and plan on living a whole lot more.

(This is also a great way to establish what matters most in your life, don’t you think?)

What were your freeze frame moments that helped when things were discouraging? Is there a particular feeling,value or memory you like to recall?

Anyhow, there’s my list of ways to recall the good times. If you yourself have any ideas, please share them in the comments section. My list was quite ‘Catherine’ centric (i.e. focused on what I love) and you may have a way to remember that’s completely your own – do share. If nothing else, I’d just love to hear all the different ways people enjoy themselves.

Until later! 🙂 Catherine

For Zsolt’s Grandmother

Posted in Life, Love by

Zsolt will be flying home to Hungary early next week for the funeral of his Grandmother, Gyöngyi Angyal, meaning something like Pearl Angel, a.k.a. Gyöngyi Néni (Old Lady Pearl), who passed away yesterday evening. I’m telling you this because she was an opinionated, cheeky and hugely emotional woman who deserves at least one small story written about her. Really, I think she and her daughter (Zsolt’s aunt) combined could fill an entire novel with their antics (goodness knows I’ve been tempted), but I guess for this moment a blog post will have to do.

When he was a little boy, Gyöngyi babysat Zsolt and his sister. Looking back on this, as he and I lay in bed yesterday – twenty some years later – with our late-night wonderings, Zsolt remembers three things in particular about his grandmother. First, were the doughnuts; she’d bake puffed-up, golden doughnuts with jam-filled centres. Apparently they were like heaven on earth. Second was the dinner table; no one was allowed to leave until they’d finished their meal, as served by Gyöngyi. But as soon as his grandmother turned her back,  the pot suddenly became a little more full with discarded soup or cabbage, or whatever they were eating that day and didn’t want to finish. (Presto! An empty plate.)  Thirdly, probably shortly after the ‘magical empty plate’ trick, he remembers being chased with a wooden spoon – though she was never able to catch him. As they ran around the furniture and tables (something Zsolt still does), Gyöngyi would wave her spoon and say, “No, megállj csak!” meaning, “Wait till I get you!”

The first time I went to Hungary, after Zsolt and I had know one another for about two months, I met his grandmother (and his aunt, a whole other story, but one that always goes alongside Zsolt’s grandmother – they were a mother/daughter power team). From the first meeting onward, she’d ask when we were getting married. Then, later, she’d cry because her grandson was going away (to England) . . . and made me promise to take care of him. And as Zsolt graduated from university with a doctorate degree, there was even more crying – but this time with tears of happiness.  “A doctor in our family!” she kept declaring. Tears upon tears upon tears. “A doctor!”

She was a woman who didn’t just give one kiss on the cheek. She’d get you in close and kiss-kiss-kiss-kiss-kiss you on the cheek, because she loved you, and she wanted you to be happy, and because she couldn’t stand the idea of saying goodbye.

She messed up her hair when her daughter tried to fix it. She’d burp at the table. She’d speak her mind. She’d give generously to her family. She was a property manager of various apartments (her tenants called her granny – and they were of the rougher crowd, yet somehow she charmed them all). She tended her garden meticulously. She made delicious wine with the grapes from her yard. And she loved her family, very, very much.

Ever since meeting the Sámsons, they’ve taken me in and held no grudge or prejudice toward me as an outsider (i.e. someone who couldn’t even speak their language!). In a country where people are weary of strangers, I was instantly considered family, and Zsolt’s grandmother was in every way a part of that acceptance.

I guess the very best thing I can say about Gyöngyi, is that she was funny. Really, really funny. To her, there were no formalities, only pure emotion – nothing ever hidden. There would be tears, but alongside that there would be laughter. Lots of laughter, and even at the age of eighty-nine years old, she could giggle with the best of them. I hope she’s laughing now, free from the pains of old age, and looking down like an angel from heaven. That would be a fitting end (or beginning) for Zsolt’s grandmother, Pearl Angel Sámson, who loved and laughed with all her heart.

BRCA genetic testing result

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs by

Well we have arrived, it is the end of another week. And this week was particularly interesting not only for having done some volunteering, seeing my (i.e. Facing Cancer Together’s) PSA advertisement hit the electronic news stands – see page 31 for me and my very white teeth, or trying to arrange a photo shoot (an attempt to describe my current state of hair may not have been so clear, as they kept asking me to bring along my wig), but also because this is the week of my BRCA results.

Genetic testing has been done. And I’ll get straight to the results, then talk about their meaning. Basically – for the two BRCA genes where they have identified a known mutation linked to high probabilities of cancer – I am A-Okay! No mutation. Everything works tick-a-dee-boo.

WooooHooo!!!

(Insert here the happy dance that Mom, Dad, Zsolt and I did this afternoon after sharing the news. Dad cranked up Depeche Mode’s Question of Time and made us all dance around the kitchen in celebration. And you are welcome do dance as well, if you’d like.)

So while the mystery of ‘why did you get cancer’ remains unsolved, I’ve nevertheless been spared this additional weight in my journey. What that means is I am lucky, very lucky, to not have to consider removing my ovaries and uterus due to high risk . . . and my left breast is also giving a sigh of relief.

None of this means I cannot be vigilant – checks, scans, tests must all be done regularly. After all, I did have cancer, and yeah, that doctor in the UK quoted me at fifty percent of a pizza . . .so yes, I need to remain on guard.

But I guess my chances of developing a second cancer are not drastically high. The genetic consultant did this lovely test for me where she calculated the likelihood of my developing a second cancer . . . she arrived at a life-time risk of 16%. But that is when I’m eighty. Right now, here in my thirties, it’s like from less than zero to one percent.  

They did, however, find a bizzaro mutation on my BRCA1 gene that cannot be identified. Generally speaking, they feel it’s not pathogenic (i.e. not cancer causing) but they cannot be positive. This means that every three or five years, I’m meant to call into the clinic and check to see whether that particularly (currently mystery) mutation  has been linked to cancer. Hopefully it becomes confirm as ‘not a bad thing’ as the gene is further investigated.

Honestly, I am thankful to not be identified as having hereditary breast cancer. I am thankful for myself, and my body/baby related choices, but also for my mother, my cousins, my family, and – hopefully – my future children. I am very, very thankful.

People who are diagnosed with the messed up BRCA genes live incredible lives beyond cancer (or even without cancer!) – think about Terri from a Fresh Chapter, for instance. But nevertheless that’s a heavy slice of knowledge about a body that could potentially turn on you. (Of course this is the case for everyone, not to be too ‘doom and gloom’, but imagine having a doctor say, “there’s a 80% chance you’ll get cancer if you don’t remove those breasts.) I cannot speak for their journeys, but I do know they are journeying despite a certain monkey on the back, and that in itself is hugely admirable.

Anyhow, today was a relief and I am thankful, very thankful. It’s such good news . . . I don’t want to boast, but it’s such very, very good news.

And for today, that is all I’ll write about that.