A Note From Rebecca

Hello to all the readers of this blog. This is Rebecca writing this time. For those of you who don't know me, I am Sarah's younger sister. I have been staying with Sarah, Dan, Marek and my mother since Tuesday. I fly back to Chicago tomorrow, where hopefully signs of Spring are anxiously awaiting my arrival.

I feel honored and privileged to be writing in this blog, using the same chair, same computer where Dan and Sarah have written already, sharing the story of what has become their new life, their new way of moving through this crazy world, that unfortunately came out of nowhere and with no directions.

I am excited to share my side of the story, my personal account as to what it is like seeing my sister, my best friend, go through this process called cancer. Seeing her for the first time on Tuesday was bittersweet. Her physical body looked exhausted and in a lot of pain. It looked like she had been losing weight, a little pale in the face and a sadness in her eyes that this day, Tuesday, was one of the "hard" days. I knew she was feeling the effects of the shot, as every tiny movement she made seemed to send slicing pain through every inch of her body. I could feel the lump of tears gather in my throat when I saw her. A fiery weakness came over me and I wanted to throw up my hands and scream into the sky that it's not fair, that this isn't supposed to be her life, this isn't supposed to be our life. But it is her life, our life, and this week has taught me many valuable lessons as to what it actually means to be alive.

When we got home from the airport, Sarah needed to rest. She was in so much pain, I told her to lie on the floor and I would start doing some bodywork on her. I stretched her legs, and started doing Tui Na on her back, trying to move some of the stagnation that had become stuck in her joints. It felt so good to be physically touching her, giving of myself whatever healing energy I could to make her feel somewhat more comfortable. At one point, she began to cry a little. She said to me she felt like apologizing, for being like this, for being in the state she was in. I could see why she would want to say that. Most people with hearts like hers want the last thing to be someone else hurting because of their pain. I see this in her urgent will to make sure Marek gets taken care of through this, that he experiences as little pain as possible.

I immediately reassured her that I love her just as much as a sister with cancer, vs. one with no cancer. Being in a place of total vulnerability and pain and having someone to love us just the same is to me, one of the greatest gifts. I see that my sister has not one, but many of those in her life. It is one of the few things that brings me peace when I think about her journey.

Wednesday was a "better" day. She had taken advantage of the pain medication given to her, and was finally able to get some relief for the excruciating pain that had been occupying her entire world. We went on a walk that day. A long walk in fact. A walk that, for that day, changed my consciousness about life. We walked through a gated community with incredible views of the ocean and surrounding forests of Santa Cruz. The temperature was in the 60's and the clouds were scattered over blue skies . It was supposed to rain the whole week I was here but instead we had the opposite. Sarah said the walking really helps with her sore joints and it feels good for her to get out of the house and move her body. As we walked to the top of one of the big hills, I remember looking over at my sister, my mother, and with eyes bright, mouths open, we were all laughing. One of us would say something and it would continue the laughing, the kind that you feel in your belly. For that short second, a tiny slice of time, all of the stress of the last months seemed to be suspended. She wasn't in pain, she wasn't getting chemo, she didn't have cancer. I soaked it in, letting it flood my memory so I could go back to it in the future. After we stopped laughing I thought to myself, wow, what an awakening lesson. Isn't this how life should be, just a bunch of moments we should be grateful to have? Easier said than done right? I know, it's a hard mind frame to stay in. But for that walk, my life consisted only of those moments. Laughing outside on a walk with people I love.

After that walk, Sarah and I have been on that same 2 hour walk every morning since. It helps her a lot with the stiffness and pain, and it's a much needed release for my sluggish Chicago winter body that hasn't seen much exercising in the last few months. We talk about the journey she is on, the immense amount of strength she is going to need to get through the next 10 chemo treatments, the next 9 shots and the weeks of radiation to follow. We talk about how crazy it is that this is real, that this is actually a part of our history now, I am disappointed I can't go to chemo with her on Tuesday, I would like to know what she goes through during that process. But after being out here a week, I have gotten a pretty good grasp on the reality that is not just her life but Dan's life as well, along with my mother's for the time she is out here. It's not easy to think positive all the time and to smile and say "well at least it's a treatable cancer." It's hard for me to do that sometimes. It's hard find comfort in the "At least its not..." scenario because I can't go to any other scenario that the one she is in and the one she is in involves 8 months of chemo and radiation and shots of Neulasta that cause severe muscle and bone pain. But maybe that is just my way of grieving at this time. If anyone has a knowing she has the spirit and drive to get through this it's me, but it doesn't always take away the "real life" sadness I feel as I watch my sister and her family go through this.

I have been doing various types of bodywork on her, including myofascial release, deep tissue massage and tonight we are going to do a craniosacral session. She has been experiencing a throbbing pain in her left arm that is most likely due to the chemo infusions as well as the injection site for the Neulasta shot.

I know she is bummed that she can't go out into public right now because of her low white blood count and we talked about it today on our walk about how ironic it is that she is only allowed to be in her home or in nature. Frustrating for sure, but interesting that her healing is forced to take place where most of us should spend most of our time anyway. At home with our family and out in nature. Being under that same roof with my family for a week as well as being out in nature every single day is something that hasn't happened in years. What a nice reminder as to what is truly important.

I want to thank all of you who read this blog for your continued support for in helping my sister and her family through this incredibly challenging time. I know some of you have been trying to reach me through this process and I apologize for not being the easiest to get a hold of. My schedule with school and work is a little random, but if you'd like to reach me my email is rebecca.furlano@gmail.com and my cell # is 920-412-0377.

It will be sad to leave tomorrow, but this week has been very healing, sad at times, but healing. I will miss them with all of my heart. I think I am going to start going for walks once back in Chicago. For me, and my sister.