Health and Fitness : Laugh With Kathy - The Caregiver

*In recognition of October being Breast Cancer Awareness month, Dean and Val have asked me to share some stories from my book Laugh With Kathy, Finding humor in the journey through breast cancer. Each week day during October, I will post an excerpt from my book on Vinton Today. Our hope it that these articles will give you a glimpse into what it takes to beat breast cancer. Proceeds from books sold in October on Amazon and from my website will benefit the Survivors of Benton County. Please note that I was diagnosed with breast cancer four years ago, had two years of treatment and I am now living cancer free. www.laughwithkathy.com Saturday, January 3, 2014: Over the past year, I have often wondered whether cancer is worse for the patient or the caregiver. In the first month of diagnosis and treatment, I apologized to Gene no less than two dozen times. He finally turned to me and said, "Knock it off. I would take this burden from you if there was any way possible, but I can't. We are in this together."� That stopped me in my tracks. There was no way I would let him or anyone take on my cancer so I could get out of it. I wouldn't wish this on anyone. So we began this journey together, and he has walked each step at my side. My days were filled with doctor's appointments, procedures, and sometimes simply focusing on living until the next chemo treatment. Gene's days were filled with worry. I watched him and saw the effects of the stress as he tried to make each day easier for me. I saw his strength, his gentleness, his compassion as he asked me to try to eat just two bites of something. He helped me set up a chart for my nausea medications. He walked slowly by my side when I insisted I was going to take a walk and said words of encouragement even when I couldn't walk more than halfway to the shop. And he walked Dolly Dog when I simply couldn't find the strength, and I sat and watched them from the window with tears in my eyes. I saw his frustration when he knew that all he could do was sit by my side. I hated what this disease was doing to him and my children. But through it all, we found humor. Shortly after I was diagnosed, I decided it was time I taught Gene how to cook so he could survive if I didn't make it through my journey. I remember taking him into the kitchen the week before my mastectomy and saying, "I want to show you how to make a few simple meals."� He said, "No way. You aren't going anywhere."� And he turned and walked out of the kitchen. I stood with my mouth open and then laughed. Draw a line in the sand, Gene, and hold to it! We ate a lot of pizza, let me tell you. That man can order a pizza better than anyone. We had rules about laundry. I would sort the clothes and leave them in piles on the bathroom floor. Gene would carry a pile to the washer, but he wasn't allowed to touch the controls. No way was I going to have both of us wearing pink for the next year. I found a handy dry cleaner who would actually drive to my door and pick up Gene's work clothes and deliver them back the next week. Cool beans! We laughed so hard at Christmas when the kids opened their gifts, and I was so surprised at what they got even though I was the one who purchased and wrapped them. "Chemo Brain" had struck. We would laugh at my memory lapses, and Gene would just shake his head when I watched movies as if it were the first time I had ever seen them. The storage room in the basement was a treasure trove of mystery and entertainment as I would open a box and find new stuff in it. And I swear it was just for entertainment that Gene purchased me a new vehicle recently. I resisted Gene's and the salesman's attempts to get me to test-drive it. After all, I could barely remember how to drive my current vehicle much less figure out how to drive a new vehicle. At times, I couldn't remember where the cruise control was located or how to operate it. So the learning curve on a new vehicle has been nothing short of hilarious. The first time I drove it by myself, I had to go to chemo. Just before leaving, Gene called me to tell me that it was raining and asked if I knew how to turn on the windshield wipers. Hmm? No, I have no idea. Gene goes through a five-step process to explain it to me. Seriously? I can't remember three things in a row without writing them down, but I nod on the phone and say, "Got it. Thanks."� Three minutes later, I am in the vehicle, and it turns out it is raining. I don't remember anything Gene has told me. I look around and see no source of help. So I sit in the driveway and call him at work. Maybe this will go better if I am actually sitting in the car. He laughs and patiently talks me through what now seems like a seventy-two-step process, offering various alternatives and what-ifs. He can't help it. It is the scientist in him. The wipers appear to be working, and I have no plans on doing anything like making an adjustment until I arrive at my destination. "Got it. Thanks,"� I say. There is a pause on his end. I can hear the gears in his brain spinning. I grin as I imagine the beads of sweat forming on his brow as he worries about me driving alone. "How hard could it be?"� I ask. "Love you,"� and I hang up. As my treatment is drawing to an end this month, I see him relaxing more. He no longer cringes when I drive myself to town. He laughs with me at my forgetfulness and the mistakes I make. Our house is starting to return to normal. We are both ready for life after cancer.