Let’s Not Be Friends

Chemo and I just don’t get along.  That is the truth of the matter, at least at present (according to Dr. G), and I am done.  Two rounds of high-dose and everything seemed okay until the week before round three when I dropped to a platelet count of 67.  I realize no one especially cares what my numbers are, but for basic understanding we all should be at 150 or better.  I got a call telling me not to bend over or pick up 5lb objects until further notice.  There was a whole list I don’t remember.  Ultimately, it meant Mark had to carry in the groceries.

After a few weeks I bounced back, but the chemo is definitely over.  Dr. G says that in a few years (I love it when he says that) if I need it again I may respond completely differently to it.  Fine, I take each of these as they come.  I don’t choose to look ahead and wonder about future problems—make that possible future problems.  My MRI a couple of weeks ago showed no change. The level 3 is still gone!  Nothing is growing!  And they are certain that the small color they saw before was just dye, just as they said last time.  Things are looking good.

I am still tired / run down, and my brain doesn’t work quite the way I want it to.  Medicine changes affect my tiredness for weeks—I wasn’t prepared for how much it could do to me.  I keep hoping my spelling will come back, but it is wretched beyond belief.  I’ve been reading all along since my last surgery, but not my usual level of books.  If I read too much at a time the words would start swimming in front of me.  I kept trying, though, reading longer articles in Vanity Fair for example, and a few weeks ago I picked up the book I was reading when I went into the hospital.  I’m now reading, carefully and not every day, Brideshead Revisited.  I can’t tell you how excited I am about this.  I used to read multiple books every month, and it has been nine months since I have read a proper book.  Just writing that makes me sad.  I can’t help, in this moment, but think of all the blind kids who are denied the ability to read by not being taught Braille.  Maddening.

My hair is growing like wildfire on all but one square of my scalp and my left eyebrow has decided to give it moral support by switching to half power.  My hair was fully punk at my friend’s wedding, where I also read aloud and did not choke.  It was one of my favorite pieces ever, which might have helped.  Or perhaps it was the small church and town, surrounded by generations of my family starting in the 18^th century (we don’t move much in Delta).  Mostly I think it was knowing Mark was right there, his own copy in hand, ready to jump.

I hope everyone has a wonderful fall, as we intend to.  I’m hoping getting out of this house a little bit will shake off the last remnants of these awful drugs.  And while we’re hoping, let’s throw one in for the Orioles, too!

Love,--Kristina (& Mark)

It's "Going Around"

From this angle, I don't look bald at all!

Here is what has been happening in the three months since my last update:   Just as I got the go-ahead for chemo I got sick.  Just plain sick, a bug that was “going around” (said my Drs) and I was laid up for a month.  I couldn’t walk more than five feet without sitting down; I needed to rest between putting on separate articles of clothing; I once fell asleep between putting on socks.  When I started to get some strength back at the end of those weeks my blood counts were far too low to go on chemo.  I’ve had my blood drawn every Monday of this year (*sigh*).  

However, I have now had one round of higher-dose chemo (June 7-14), and my second one arrived today!  Will I make it to round 3?  Who knows?  I might just not be able to handle chemo.  For now, I’m working on this week and next.  These chemo pills are nasty buggers when it comes to delayed affects.

 My second post-radiation MRI was a little more messy, more like we expected to see, and harder to read.  Basically, my Lloyd-zone is now a mushy, colored area on the scan while it gets itself resituated.  It is scary while it does this, but I knew it was coming.  Mark reminds me when I forget, which I am very grateful for.  Everything is still doing what it is supposed to: things are good.

So apart from spending a month sleeping, then some recovery, I have been really well.  Mark and I went to Dallas for the National Federation of the Blind convention and I got to see a lot of my friends.  It was wonderful being there.  We have spent time with my family at The Dinner Bell Berry and Veggie Farm in Delta, PA (look them up on Facebook!)  Mostly, Mark takes home all the berries & jam he can get his hands on and my mother loves him for it.

My hair has started to come back, largely.  There is still a definite bald patch, but it is much smaller now.  One of my oldest friends is getting married in September, and I’m thinking seriously about getting that hair “added onto” before then if that is possible.  At this point, it is still a mystery.  However, my hair grows remarkably fast—I might have possibilities!

Love,--Kristina (& Mark )

P.S.  For those wondering (you know who you are), we are currently on Dove brood #4

At the end of May I shaved off the few wisps of remaining hair on my bald side and had Mark paint me a (temporary) henna tattoo. Unfortunately, it just wouldn't take on my scalp skin, but it sure was a cool design.

               

                 

               

               

Tail Kicking

My month of radiation recovery, during which I’m told many patients spend taking a vacation (against our doctors’ wishes), is now over.  And I now understand why they ask us not to go anywhere and cannot for the life of me understand why anyone would not obey—it was not a good month!  I have been a hazy/loopy, ever-worsening lump of deaf craziness.  I’ve spent my days in dreams while awake, which made sense to me, and trying to remember who I might be talking to.  My left ear deafness got much worse (I cannot hear from it at all), and my right ear is partially deaf as well.  It is maddening.    

All of this groaning is to say that it turns out I’m on a three to four week hang from the effects of what I got in treatment.  Gosh, I wonder why my radiation doctor, Dr. K, my head guy for the six weeks of treatment, didn’t make sure I had that information?  It makes me laugh to think about it.  Just as all the bad effects start to show up Dr. K gets to scoot out, I spend 4 weeks “recovering”—i.e. “suffering”—and then Dr. G gets to deal with me.  Pretty good set up, radiation staff!

I kid, of course.  That whole staff was amazing.  And do I really want to be convinced in advance of just how bad it is going to get?  (Answer: No, I do not)  Also, I was slowly weaning off of the remainder of my steroids, and that is never any fun either.  Advantages here now include sleeping fully through the night!

Now: exciting news arrived from Dr. G yesterday.  He reported on my MRI to see the results of all this hoopla and the results show, “No apparent enhancement.”  This means no level 3 chunk is there anymore.  Doesn’t it seem like it should sound like more of a big deal?  It naturally says lots of other things, but that is pretty exciting.  It says that my brain is still puffy, that Lloyd in general shrank slightly, and that I am in quite good shape.  I am kicking tail.

Next: I go back on chemo.  I am not looking forward to it, but we will get through it.  Five days on, then three weeks off; a significantly higher dose; for six months or as long as my body can withstand it.  Dr. G gave his personal advice to take anti-nausea meds on the sixth day, too.  I think I will obey.

It has been so nice outside, and I’ve been upsetting the doves (who are already on their second set of 2012 babies)  just by being in the garden so often.  I recently realized I’m better than half-bald—the bottom third of my new hairline takes a sharp turn to the right.  My ponytail is not going to win any contests.  

Things are going genuinely well, which is a funny thing to say when you can’t hear and still don’t feel terrific, but it is true!  I’m on the upswing, my treatment WORKED, and the chemo will continue to do the job.  Back in December we were minutes from a very different path—one with no chemo—and look where we are now!  I am incredibly lucky to have the doctors and staff I do, the friends and family who support me, and mostly Mark.  

I say it all the time, but I am the luckiest person I know.  

 Love,--Kristina (& Mark)

Almost Done!

Radiation is almost over.  Friday is the first day of each week for me, and St. Patrick’s Day is the first of my last half week.  March 20 is my last day:  thirty-three zaps.  I learned that things change rapidly during treatment, but overall it has still been very easy.  I never did get tired or lose my energy, and I never did go bald.  I did go half bald.  That is it—exactly half bald!   After that third week my hair has only come off in small amounts.  Mark really likes it and is in strong favor of a henna tattoo once my skin is recovered.  Which brings me to my minor complaints: my bald skin/ear has just begun to be a little irritated in the last couple of days, and I am now deaf in my left ear.  The ear is driving me crazy, but I’m told it is likely to get better after radiation ends.  I did go deaf in that ear when I had my first craniotomy in 2008 for several weeks and it returned then.

I did have to go off of chemotherapy early.  My platelets dropped thirty points two weeks in a row, but they kindly leveled out right at 102.   100 is the cutoff to stay on chemo, though 150 or above is where you want to be.  They’ve been going back up ever since (very good news), and I got a total of 4 1/2 weeks of radiation and chemo together—which is great.  I have a month off starting next Tuesday, then if my platelets are where they need to be, and my doctors don’t decide to change the plan, I’ll go back on chemo for another 4-5 months. 

I am looking forward to going off the steroids, or at least taking less of them, more than anything.  The sooner it can happen, the happier I will be.  I misspell things so badly it is outrageous.  I make Mark check anything written in pen, and spell-check is only good for so much.  I misspelled my own last name in pencil at a check-in list last week!  Online, I used “sights” for “sites.”  It seems trivial, but when you do it constantly it gets old very quickly.  I am looking forward to getting some of my spelling and reading ability back.  Very, very much.  In the meantime, there isn’t anything to do but laugh about it.  Kristina Wadea makes a lot of errors.

The Pear Trees (which I spelled Pair in an e-mail to Mark today) on our street are blooming right now—so early!  However, they are as beautiful as always.  I hope everyone is having a wonderful beginning of spring, as we are.  We intend to fling ourselves it into with even more gusto next week!

Love,--Kristina (& Mark)

Zap Zap Zap!

Today was week three of chemo and radiation—my fifteenth zap.  I am doing extremely well and am now halfway done!  Everything is going as expected, and we are thankful for that.  

I get zapped ever weekday at 8:45am, and it takes about 6 minutes to happen.  It is so ridiculously fast and easy it is almost unbelievable.  We only live about ten minutes from the hospital, I don’t have to change out of my clothes, we just walk in and scan my card and are usually back out the door within ten to fifteen minutes.  It is hard to describe how truly easy, painless, and simple it all is. 

The end of my hair-this was week two.

 

 

Dr. K told me my hair would come out around week three, and he was right.  I am truly okay with this now and not upset.  However, it is stubbornly refusing to come out anywhere but right around Lloyd proper.  The result of which is that I am now half bald.  I was working on this prior to leaving the house this morning and realized I had created a comb over as a solution!  This is clearly not going to work.  Either the right side of my head needs to catch up or the clippers are coming out.   

My platelet count dropped for two weeks, which was quite a concern, but came back up this week.  This is excellent news, as I have absolutely zero control over my platelet count and need it to stay up to be able to stay on my chemotherapy.  Speaking of which, I feel absolutely fine and am not even taking anti-nausea drugs.  The only thing the chemo drugs do to me, and this is a pretty big deal, is they prevent me from being able to drink COFFEE in the morning.  It is just awful.  I have to take them on an empty stomach two hours prior to radiation, so until 9:15 am every day I am without coffee.

I have one other major complaint, and that is my level of loopiness that comes from taking steroids.  This is simply something that is going to happen for a while, but I don’t like it.  I am operating at much different (ie: lower) levels than usual, and I am just not quite myself.  However, this is an important part of my treatment—much more than I even realized.  I learned this week that I’m supposed to take a higher dose of steroids even before I take overly regular doses of Acetaminophen (Tylenol).  It keeps my brain happy, relaxed, and calm.  As I said previously, I am obedient to whatever my doctors and nurses tell me to do—I really do whatever they tell me.  I’m no brain surgeon/nurse/radiologist…you name it.

In other news, my house is once again in amazingly fine shape.  I know where everything is, cabinets have been searched, drawers have been emptied and refilled, and unused items have been taken to Goodwill.  My kitchen has been painted.  My jewelry studio (which has been largely ignored for three years) has been emptied, fully inspected, and restocked.  The cats are starting to accept me as a daytime member of the household.

Mark and I are truly well. Things are going just as they should be, just as we want them to be.  I feel well, aside from this loopiness which will go away with a change in drugs at some point, and everything is taking the course it is supposed to take.  After the next three weeks, we have a month totally off before we start up the chemo alone.  It will be nice to enjoy the beginning of spring, which it already feels like here in Baltimore this week, with no Lloyd for a few weeks.

Love, -Kristina (&Mark)

Lloyd is Nothing

Because the people who love me are everything, and the life I lead is the point.  I am surrounded by love and support from so many people—my family, my doctors, my friends near and far.  And it means so much to us as we enter our next step this week.  Thursday I step back into the tube for another test round, and Friday will be my first actual radiation treatment.  This time I will be taking chemotherapy pills—Temodar—along with my daily ten minute zap for six weeks.  After the six weeks, I’ll have a month totally off, then start back up with just Temodar for another 5-6 months.  

So—in honor of my zap and chemo, my friend Liz Makowske created the most wonderful present for me: her boys dressed at my request for Valentine’s Day.  They are stunning, and so is she.  The link is on Facebook, but I can’t resist stealing two (I think she will forgive me).  You have to be lucky enough to know Liz to understand her love of dressing up her boys, let alone the simple love of having her in your life as a friend.   

Happy Valentine’s Day, everybody!

Love, 

-Kristina (&Mark)

 

On January 19, Kristina wrote (in response to some awesome other photos that were sent):

“I love that your children exist (in small part) for my amusement.  I’m going to start putting in advance requests.  For Valentine’s Day, I think white robes with gold and a bow/arrow would be appropriate—Roman style.”

On January 22, Liz wrote:

“Ummm I LOVE that you just gave me an idea/project.  I have marked my calendar for Feb 3.”

Lloyd is No Surprise

New Year's Day

Today I had my staples removed, 17 days after my surgery.  I heal well, and it feels great to finally have the metal pins out of my scalp.  We learned from Dr. L that the new piece of Lloyd is indeed a level 3 cancer.  This is exactly what we expected to learn, and this proof lets us now directly attack him like the level 3 he is.     

The next steps are—surprise!—another fitting of a mask to wear for my radiation schedule, which will likely be getting under way next week.  Radiation will be a bit more intense since we now know that Lloyd is playing a little rougher.  The main difference, though, is that I will be taking chemotherapy drugs while I undergo radiation.  Bam!  We are whacking this thing hard, right now.  We are not waiting.  I’ll take the radiation and chemo at the same time, then have a month “off”, then go back on chemo for another few months of somewhat undetermined time; probably around six months.  They are resolute to keep me healthy and happy throughout, and I am obedient.  No getting sick and spending my days ill—all I get to do is lose my hair and be tired during radiation.  And this is going to work.

All in all, this surgery was almost shamefully easy.  I was home in two days feeling normal and barely hurting.  I did get a painless black right eye, and there are always mystery bruises in the oddest of places when I get home from the hospital.  Still—how such an event can occur in only two days is amazing to me.  A wonderful, saving mystery that is letting us treat me exactly as I need to be treated. 

We are terrific, I feel great, and I am truly happy about getting this news today.  These people are working with me to save my phenomenal life, and it is going awesome.  The only thing “wrong” at this exact moment is that we are running low on pie…  

Thank you all for your love and support—it means so much to us!  I will keep the news coming.

Love, -Kristina (&Mark)

Christmas: not too bad!

Awesome Brain Surgery Scar 2011

Another successful surgery-thank you Dr. L!

I spent a lot of time wondering what I would find under this mask...

I had a better expectation of how much it would hurt this time, so it didn't seem so bad. I also had no expectation of getting to sleep, so every 10 or 20 minutes was a treat. Altogether-not nearly so bad as the first time; mostly (I think) because I knew what I was getting into. And it is worth it!
Now for checking out (hopefully this afternoon), healing, and getting better. Dr. L is very happy with his biopsy, and this time I'll keep my metal staples on for two weeks while I heal.
Everything has gone just great, my pain meds are flowing (smile), and I am going home for Christmas. Thank you all for your love, concern, and support!

Merry Christmas,

Love, -Kristina (& Mark)

Surgery Successful!

Mark here. Kristina came out of surgery about three hours ago and, with the exception of a headache and some cheery carolers trolling the ICU (correlation does not necessarily imply causation), she's doing well.

Our surgeon, Dr. L., informed us that he got the tumor sample he was shooting for with 95% certainty. He also encouraged me to purchase the latest iteration of The Kindle. I happily took his endorsement as a sign that he was genuinely pleased with the outcome of the surgery and Kristina's condition. He also seemed to be psyched on the Kindle's slimmer form factor and higher contrast screen.

I'm at home right now decompressing and plan to visit Kristina again this evening. She will likely be moved from the ICU to a regular ward sometime tomorrow morning. I have a good feeling that she will be home by Friday!

The Face Mask that Wasn’t to Be

Tuesday was my test day in the radiation room (which is behind a metal door 4 feet wide and easily 2 feet deep).  I didn’t even get much zappage, as it was just setting up.  I asked if Mark could come in and take some photos of me and they were totally cool with that.  They like what they do and find it interesting.  Please enjoy the photos of my awesome mask here, because none of us will be seeing it again!

When I arrived yesterday, they told me Dr. K wanted to see me before treatment.  Well, things like that send me into a panic.  When he informed us Dr. L was joining the meeting it became clear this wasn’t a, “Good luck on your six weeks of radiation!” first day routine.

In the course of preparing the radiation treatment, new images were produced of my brain.  Dr. L now believes he has an excellent chance of obtaining a small piece of the new dark spot in Lloyd to determine what kind of cells they are.  This was discussed at the Monday Morning Meeting, and between my doctors throughout Tuesday and into Wednesday morning.  As you can see—it came down to the wire.  So—do we want to go in and find out what this thing is?  YES.  Without knowing whether it has changed to a level 3, we must treat it as a level 2.  If it is NOT a level 3, we should treat it as a level 2.  Not knowing is maddening.  The only reason we didn’t operate is because we couldn’t.  Now we can.  Merry Christmas to me!!!

Speaking of which, guess what I’m doing next Tuesday? 

This is surprising, amazing, unusual, and very good news.  We are very happy about this, and I should be home by next Thursday or Friday.  I know what to expect this time, and that includes my awesome scar. 

I will be saying Merry Christmas again,

Love, -Kristina (& Mark)

 When it is time for me to go back for radiation, they tell me I will have to be fitted for a new mask!

Prepare Battlestations

Changes are underway so that the next battle can commence.  That, at least, is what it feels like (and what it is helpful to tell myself when I don’t like the changes!)  Last week was hard—too hard to title this after David Bowie's great "Changes."  Besides—I’m an Elvis girl.

We have decided to take the route of radiation alone.  This was a difficult, complex decision with multiple opinions coming from bright, bright doctors.  It took a while to reach, but we are comfortable with the decision we have made.  To put it even more plainly, this means that chemo is out.  For now.

Radiation will be six weeks, five days a week, for 20 minutes of actual zappage a day.  (I just invented that medical term)  They told me to plan on being there for an hour a day and that I have to wear gowns even though it is my head.  Lame.  My main concern, honestly, was what I would do for 20 minutes a day in there.  Forty minutes every 3 months in the MRI tube gets old.  Twenty minutes every day for six weeks?  My new radiation doctor, Dr. K, told me I can bring cd’s and they will play them for me.  I was greatly relieved to learn that I won’t be spending 600 minutes, or 10 hours, lying around “meditating” as Mark suggested.

Last week we had an appointment to begin the process of becoming a radiation patient, and after meeting with Dr. K and signing forms, testing blood, taking photos, etc., I was outfitted with my own radiation mask.  The process had to be one of the strangest experiences of my life, and that is truly saying something.  It only took 10-15 minutes, but a team of people passed me through a large wide MRI tube multiple times, draped a hot wet plastic-y molding mask with holes across my face (which doesn’t allow me to open my eyes or mouth, but I can breathe) and mashed it until it fit all over.  They started sticking things (dots?) to it as they continued padding it to my face, as a team, sent me back through the tube, shot me full of contrast solution through the vein in my wrist and one of them said, “Don’t worry, I know it feels like you’re peeing you pants, but you aren’t.”  As my mouth was held shut by the mask, I couldn’t respond, but I will say that I appreciated being given that information.  They left, I got scanned alone, they peeled the mask off, and it was over.  SO weird.  Mr. Mask and I will be seeing a lot more of each other.

Now the radiation department is using all of the information they took from me to create my course of treatment.  I go back for my first trial run on the 13^th, which will take much longer than a usual visit.  Once I have my system running, we go for our hour appt./20 minute zappage five days a week and meet with Dr. K once a week to check in.  He will take care of me as things get harder.

So here is where adjustments start coming into play.  I will be tired—okay.  I will likely have headaches—okay, nothing new there.  I will lose my hair—what??  Yes.  All of it.  Probably around the 3-4 week mark.  It is unknown whether it will ever grow back.  We are bringing the radiation in to hit Lloyd from all sides of my brain.  My hair is getting creamed.  I am not ashamed to admit that I am upset about this.  I haven’t ever not had long hair (with the exception of a shoulder length mistake my mother made in 1^st grade).  But—it has to happen.  I’m allowed to be upset, but I’ll get over it.  I can get a wig or wear hats or scarves or simply wear it bald —who knows what I will decide.  I will cross that bridge when I get there. 

Next adjustment- I have left my job.  Last week was my final day working at the NFB, and I absolutely hated to leave.  I miss it terribly, I think about it endlessly, and I know I can’t be there.  

On the other hand—I have plenty of good.  The people I worked with seem to like me as a whole, and I live close and can visit them whenever I want.  Also, my radiation center is ten minutes away from my house (at Hopkins).  I look cute in hats.  I have three cats who will be ecstatic to take midday naps with me when I’m exhausted from radiation—a definite plus in January.  Speaking of which: this is going to be over at the end of January.    

Thank you all for your kind words and support.  Please don’t think too little of me as I recover from last week and prepaid for next.  I am ready for this, as is Mark, and I appreciate the support I get from so, so many of you.  Change is tough, but so am I.  

Love, -Kristina (&Mark)

Lloyd Returns

Kristina & nephew Andrew at the Fair in September

Lloyd has woken up. Sad to say, he has decided to have a little stretch. My last Dr. Day was almost three weeks ago and produced almost entirely the usual results—with one tiny difference: a new, very small dot in the midst of Lloyd. Well, crud.

So now my “wait and see” phase is over. It was a nice three years, and I’m glad I had that long. Now comes the treatment portion of my cancer journey. It is as simple as that—it just took me a bit to change my way of thinking. Us—it took us some time. I speak as myself, but I always mean ‘us’—Mark and I are a team in this, and his job is harder than mine (at least in my opinion) all the time.

So we’re getting used to the new phase of the journey. In some ways, it is like finding out I have cancer all over again. In other ways I am excited to be doing something about it. My hope is to go through treatment and have another nice chunk of time (years, please) before we need to do anything again. Just go back to sleep, Lloyd. You know you want to.

Treatment is… hard. Not just the doing of it, but the deciding what to do. My doctors are some of the best in the world, and still my own tumor board is not entirely in agreement with which steps to take. The community of doctors who treat my disease is not completely on the same page, and which way do you go? Do you go on trials, or do you take the standard path? Everything has risk. Lloyd is inoperable at this point, and it feels as though no matter what we do it is a crapshoot. Welcome to cancer. Wait, haven’t I had cancer for three years?

We will figure it out together and make a decision. Radiation is a near certainty, probably six weeks; chemo is a big question we are trying to answer at this point. I won’t even get started on the other questions. Mark is pumping me full of freshly churned juice (ie: vegetables) nightly and had a flat screen installed downstairs WITH a link to the DirecTV to get me on the treadmill daily. If a person can be “saved,” Mark is going to save me. He scolded me for eating a cream cheese sandwich last week. *sigh* I didn’t even retaliate. (I did love you, cream cheese sandwiches…)

Meanwhile, we are gearing up for this battle as best we can. I have resigned from my job with the National Federation of the Blind effective at the end of November (unless treatment begins sooner). This is a great sadness, as I do love my job and my friends in the Federation. However, I am not disappearing from the Federation (or the world), I’m just not coming in to work everyday. I need to focus on kicking Lloyd around for awhile. And, apparently, doing a lot of sleeping, if anything I’ve heard about radiation is accurate. And this is my brain, after all. I do need it.

I will write more when I know more, should you want to keep in the loop. My e-mail is kristinawolf@yahoo.com

Love,

Kristina (and Mark)

Mark went as a "dandy" to the western-themed Halloween party we went to last weekend.  He's ready to fight (even if he is pretty).

My Brain and I are Trying to Get Along

Yesterday we watched a report about a “major discovery” in the fight against cancer. This was nice to learn, and it got me thinking about cancer. Since I’ve been getting some worried e-mails from lack of posting, I thought maybe it was time to write again. The truth is, most of the time I don’t think about cancer at all. It isn’t that I don’t have it—I very obviously do. And I am not sticking my head in the sand and pretending that I don’t—I am not that brave and/or stupid. It just happens that my cancer is taking a long, slow unpredictable nap which is very easy to ignore. Additionally, I have side effects that are far more bothersome that anything cancer has directly handed me lately. I suppose it all came from the same basket, but I am content to associate my irritations to the disease of the doctor who treats it. Dr. G= Lloyd. Dr. R= seizures. And I am so very, very tired of seizures.

We’ve been playing with my seizure drugs since November. It has been difficult. I’ve been on four different drug ventures, each requiring 4-8 weeks of slow adjustment of dosage. The brain is a terribly sensitive little petunia, and although it insists upon this gentle handling, it feels absolutely no need to treat me in kind. I simply gave up on pleasure reading for a few months. It wasn’t until late May that I was willing to try a book, but I made it through The Hairstons: An American Family in Black and White with the wind at my back, and am now thoroughly engrossed in Game of Thrones. I am not back to “normal” yet, but I am as close as I have been since last fall. I’m more hopeful than I’ve been in a long time, and of course that is a good thing.

None of this is so very sad and terrible—this isn’t illness and misery, it is simply frustration. To engage in conversation and not be able to keep up—not because I don’t have anything to say, but because I can’t come up with the words I need quickly enough—is frustrating and makes me feel uneducated and uninformed. Many people have no idea why I point and stammer, and I find myself halfway wishing for a little badge to defend myself. I’m laughing at myself as I say this, but I also get laughed at by the ice cream stand boy when I point at what I want. I memorize what I want before I order, but the least change in the routine sends it away in a puff—I didn’t pre-plan for cone or cup (because obviously I want a cone), so the whole order has turned into pointing and smiling, as all my words are gone.

I seem perfectly well, and by most accounts I am, and so my odd behavior makes me seem simple when it crops up. Those who are around me the most have experienced the sudden (but now familiar) “I need a minute” prelude from me as my language ability crumbles to pieces, then has to rebuild (usually anywhere from ten seconds to a few minutes), and some of you have even been with me when this has happened and never known it. I can’t spell anymore (you are enjoying the powers of Microsoft Word), and I often feel as though I have lost much of what I am supposed to be spending my life gaining. Is that not the point of living? To gain a rich life? I feel as though I am aging in reverse—with the knowledge that if I were to compete with my eight year old self I would rank dismally against both her spelling and IQ tests.

One the other hand: I’m here. I think of a girl I knew in high school who died of brain cancer the year after we graduated. It hit her suddenly: She didn’t go to college; she didn’t have a husband; she never left home. How can I possibly say I haven’t had a rich life, don’t continue to have one? I think of her when I know I am simply feeling sorry for myself. The truth is, I am the luckiest person I know. That is truer than I have words to make anyone believe. Just as a jumping off point, I have Mark.

That is the story of the last half-year of my brain and I trying to get along. It is a relationship that has taken more energy and focus than I would like, but it has not been at the forefront of our lives—not even remotely. Mark and I both like what we do for work, who we spend our days with, and where we live. We have spent time with family and friends on both coasts, and a new baby boy has come into the world in my sister’s house. We have been swimming, and we have been fishing. Summer is here yet again, and my life is bright and illuminating.

Love, -Kristina

Please note that I have removed a tiny yellow sock in order to enjoy the inspection of his adorable footie. I just can't resist.