When it rains it pours

Hi Everybody,

Yesterday was another milestone for us. Sarah had her fourth chemo treatment, which means she's a third of the way through. This was both exciting and daunting all at the same time. It is nice to know that we have traveled a significant distance, but the road ahead is long and full of uncertainty. Let me back up for a moment and get you all up to speed.

The last treatment was rough. Sarah was dealing with the increasing pain of the $$$ shot, along with a host of new side effects. First it was the horrible taste left in her mouth by the treatment. This sounds minor, but living with it every minute of the day is excruciating. I think candy turned out to be the best remedy in the end. Once that let up, the sores came. Sarah's mouth was full of sores which made it a serious chore for her to eat, and even drink water. The mouth is full of fast dividing cells, which are the cells targeted by the chemo.

Another place we find fast dividing cells is in our hair follicles. This week Sarah's hair began to fall out. She had it cut shorter to ease the transition, and to curb the exodus that had begun. The doctor predicted that this would get worse over the next couple of weeks. This will be one of the hardest parts for me, and I'm guessing for others as well. Right now, Sarah does not look sick. She looks tired, and perhaps not quite herself, but not sick. Not Cancer. We all recognize the bald head as a sign of a cancer patient. It is beaten into our conciousness. Cancer is everywhere. It's in print and on television, surrounding us in our daily lives. Until now I have been able to filter it out with little effort, but that is no longer an option for me. I now must face the images, and realize what they represent. The hair loss is a sign that the fast dividing cells are dying, which means that the cancer is dying as well, and in this I can take solace.

It's time I explain the title of my post, for I have found new meaning in the phrase. We are definitely feeling the weather, and it is spreading into every area of our lives. This week marks the end of an era. After a long and drawn out battle, we've finally put Sarah's Mercury Tracer to rest. It took two tows and four trips to the mechanic to figure out that "the little car that could", could do no more. It was an inconvenient and expensive addition to an already overly complicated atmosphere, and it is hard not to assign the stress and intensity that we are already feeling to all of the ordinary trials and tribulations that life throws our way.

We tried to look at the positive and think of all the great places that little car has gone, from the Telluride bluegrass Festival to the Florida Everglades for the Phish millennium festival. The Tracer served Sarah well, but in the end too much sugarcoating only causes decay. It gets harder and harder to look on the bright side of things, constantly blinding ourselves in an attempt to block out the reality of our situation. I think that we've settled in to our routine, and learned to find our comfort elsewhere. The calls and e-mails, the facebook messages, the meals and the generous donations, these are are where we draw our strength from when the well starts to run dry. You have all shown us that good can flow like flood waters, just as easily as the bad.

I have two bits of good news that I've been saving for the end of this post. The first is about the $$$ shot. After Monday's blood draw we found out that Sarah's white blood cell count was high enough that the shot is not necessary this time around. This shot has been a great source of pain for Sarah, so it is a welcome blessing to skip it this round. It may come back in the future, but we are very thankful for the reprieve.

The other bit of good news is that our friend Katherine Upshire has offered to organize a benefit event for Sarah, which will help with the mounting cost of this experience. We have decided that a music event is the best fit for us, so we're having a concert and silent auction in early May. Many people have offered their artwork and services as auction items, so if any of you reading this would like to donate to the auction please contact me at fulopx2@gmail.com. I will post with more details about the benefit in the days to come.

I can't express strongly enough our gratitude for all help we have received so far.

Thank you for your love and support,

Dan

Pictures

The Straight Story

Hi Everybody,

It has been a while since I've written, so I'm planning to do a couple of entries over the next few days. I'd like to start with a thank you, followed by an update.

First of all I'd like to thank Sarah and Rebecca for there wonderful entries. Everyone has been waiting to hear from Sarah, and they could not have received a more heartfelt and honest address. It all has so much more gravity when the words come from Sarah herself.

My second tip of the hat goes out to Becca. It was a joy having her here with us, and our only regret is that the time went by so fast. Her eloquence on the blog is only matched by the depth of her compassion. Thanks a million Rebecca!

My third thank you goes out to Sarah's Mom Lori, who has given us the closest thing to normalcy that we could possibly achieve in a situation as abnormal as this one. She has worked tirelessly to keep our son Marek as happy and healthy as possible, and for that we will be forever in her debt.

Last, but certainly not least, I'd like to thank all of you who have donated money thus far. It has been our saving grace in a time of true uncertainty. Words cannot display the gratitude we feel towards all of you.

That said, let's get on with the update.

Life has been hard. Not in the ways we we're used to, but in a whole new capacity. The off weeks that we were so thankful for have become less and less of a relief since the Neulasta shots began. These are the insanely expensive shots that Sarah must receive every other week to keep her white blood cell count high enough to receive each subsequent chemo treatment. They are a gift, and a curse. Each shot allows her to move forward in her treatment, but this comes at a price.

The shots cause muscle and joint pain, which lead to more pills to manage the pain. The cycle seems never ending, and the off week has all but disappeared. The low white blood cell count has also brought on a temporary quarantine. Sarah's immune system is compromised, so she can no longer be in public places. The risk of her catching something is too great.

I apologize for painting a dismal picture, but that has been reality for the last couple of weeks. A series of hills and valleys, highs and lows. The deeper we drop, the harder it is to climb. The positive side of this, is the darker it gets at the bottom, the better the view gets from the top. I've spoken of the relative nature of our situation before, and it is reaffirmed with every step we take.

Fortunately I get to end this entry on a positive note. This weeks trip to the Oncologist revealed that Sarah's white blood cell count is up. She can go back out into the world, and if everything goes well, she may not need the shot next time around. The view from the top has changed again.

That's all for now.

Thanks for all the love and support,

Dan

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.