My Timeline: Short But Full of Life

I went to the DMV last week to apply for a handicapped-parking permit. For the record, this is not where you go to do this—you have to go to the state building downtown. I didn’t have enough battery life on my portable oxygen backpack, so I had turned it off, making my DMV experience even more “life-sucking” than usual. On my way out, the "Nebraskans for the Death Penalty" accosted me for my signature. In my lack-of-oxygen haze, I didn’t reply back with something clever and witty, although I should have said this: “I already have the death penalty, lady: it’s called metastatic breast cancer.”

This morning, Brian and I went to the doctor, and we were faced with the same scenario: the [cancer] death penalty. Going into the appointment, I knew that I was running out of chemo options, and my deteriorating breathing convinced me that the current regimen was probably not being very effective either.

What I did not expect to hear was such a short timeline. Last fall, when I was diagnosed with “metastatic” (stage 4—spread elsewhere—in my case, mostly to my lungs) breast cancer, my doctor told me I had maybe two months to live or I could do chemo. Obviously, I chose the chemo route, and, in the meantime, I managed to live my life according to my true “I CAN. I WILL!” style—taking on new experiences from skydiving to African safaris. While it wasn’t surprising, since I have now been completely dependent on an oxygen machine to breath, I did not like the fact that my current timeline was cut much shorter—to a week or two.

Despite facing three cancer diagnoses in the past five and a half years, cancer has never felt like a “death sentence” to me. Why? Because even though there were a lot of lethal injections involved, I always had my “inmates” to back me up. I know that I am very lucky to have the best friends, families, and supporters in the world. I love you all.

If Brian and I need anything, I promise we will ask for help.

I CAN. I WILL!

Andrea Kabourek

The New Normal

Since my initial breast cancer diagnosis in November of 2009, I have endured surgeries, chemo, radiation, a stem cell transplant, and I’ve thrown back a pharmacy of pills. I’ve dealt with unintended side effects—an exceptionally high resting heart rate, removal of “non-essential” organs, and now, the latest—completely destroyed lungs. Overall, during the past six years, I have negotiated the torture pretty well, and I’ve somehow managed to keep my sense of humor and the “I CAN. I WILL!” attitude through it all.

In the past few weeks, after getting home from South Africa, my lungs have decided to revolt. I have found myself strapped to various breathing devices, tethered at home to a heavy machine with a long leash and attached to a (really ugly) backpack breathing-contraption when I leave the house.

My humor and attitude are still intact; however, I had to admit, right now, it’s a little harder to laugh when I’m out of breath. I’ve had to make lots of hard decisions in the past few days. I’ve usually been a quick decision-maker (my dad and I claim we can buy a car on our lunch break). And, since I’m always right, I always make the right decision, no matter how fast I make it.  This week’s decision was not a simple one, probably because it was difficult to determine what the “right” decision really was.

After teaching for a full week, trying to negotiate my fake lungs/breathing machine contraption, I wound up in the hospital for a couple of days and then had to take this week off from school. We did some scans and tests, but the doctors didn't find anything else contributing to my new breathing problems, other than the initial breast cancer (that, of course, has cruelly climbed into my runner's lungs). I found myself struggling to suck in air, unless I stayed in one place. If you saw me walking in the hallways (or cursing at the malfunctioning elevator), you'd know that a normal easy trek across the building turned into a legitimate marathon.

While I am certainly not admitting defeat, my "Darth Vader" like breathing was not helping me do what I needed to do to be an effective teacher. Teachers do not teach from a desk…we are constantly moving around the room, circulating to provide help and one-on-one instruction. If I can’t give 110%, I feel like I am not giving my students what they need. I do not like talking and putting periods in the middle of my sentences that don’t belong there. I had two realistic options: I could teach part-time, focusing on my two Creative Writing Classes, or I could take leave and spend my energy volunteering at East, cheering at cross country meets, and finishing projects, such as my South Africa photo book.

I decided to take leave. My decision feels right. It does not feel like I am giving up; I am just steering in a different direction, navigating an untraveled path.

I am learning to adapt to the new normal:

• I accept that “Choo-Choo Hill” at Pioneers Park is now the equivalent of Mount Everest.
• I know my friends will carry my bags for me.
• I can pacify Toonces with Lorna Doone cookies when he starts to chew on the newspaper because he is hungry—his cat food is downstairs and I don’t want to climb back up.
• I know my movements need to be very slow and deliberate—and methodical.
• Instead of panicking when I can’t catch my breath, I remember how I felt after finishing a hard interval or race—I need to breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, and don’t bend over, restricting the air.
• My bucket list will need an overhaul—too many of my goals rely on having functional lungs. Since I cannot be like Tony Stark/Iron Man, I will reevaluate what I can accomplish. And then I will do it.

I had my 5-minutes to feel sorry for myself. It is time to move on.

I CAN. I WILL!

Taking a Deep Breath for Personal Reflection

It has been a while since I have written an actual blog entry. Instead of writing, I found myself documenting my summer in a series of photographs focusing on henna head art, detailing events from the Brooks’ Inspiring Coach of the Year Award in Seattle, capturing my 20^th year high school reunion, hanging out with my lifetime friends and family, and highlighting our adventures in South Africa.

Health History: When I was at the pulmonary doctor’s office last week, I was asked about my surgical history. There have been so many cancer-related events since 2009; I can’t even remember the entire timeline. The paragraph version: I was diagnosed with breast cancer two weeks after running the 2009 New York City marathon. After a bilateral mastectomy, reconstruction, and chemo for a few months, I was “clear” for almost a year. In March of 2011, I was diagnosed with leukemia (ALL), and received several rounds of chemo during 4-5 day stints in the hospital. I had full body radiation and a stem cell transplant in July 2011. My mom and I lived from August through October of 2011 in an appointment 30 minutes from UNMC.  Since then, I have popped a lot of prescription pills, expelled my gall bladder, kidney stones, and reproductive organs, fought a blood clot in my leg, and lost and regrew hair.

Health Update: Last July (2014), I was diagnosed with metastatic (stage 4) breast cancer, which means that the breast cancer cells had spread elsewhere, and, in my case, to my lungs (like I’ve said before, cancer in the lungs is a cruel joke for a lifetime distance runner—no, I have never smoked a single cigarette). I think a lot of people don’t know the difference between breast cancer and metastatic breast cancer. Some people have asked me when my chemo treatments will end—they won’t end, unless they aren’t helping anymore. I don’t want them to “end.” My chemo treatments are for maintenance purposes, and the goal is to increase the distance and quality of events on my existing timeline.

We have switched drugs several times over the past year, and I am on drug number six at this point. My drugs get changed when they stop helping me make positive progress. Currently, I am on round 2 of the latest drug—the name escaping me at this point (thanks, chemo brain). Side effects from this chemo treatment have been pretty minimal—my fingertips burned for a couple of days (I need to hold my hands on the ice packs better during treatment, instead of trying to one-finger text).  My next chemo treatment is what I call the “birthday edition.” When the nurse asks for my name and birthdate, I will just be able to say, “Andrea Kabourek. Today.”

Shortness of breath and coughing are two obvious challenges to me currently. I don’t need to be hooked up all of the time, but I have found great relief from the oxygen machine. While my giant home contraption is loud, it has helped me breathe deeply at night and just hanging around the house. We all have to be mindful of the cord—it really should be retractable. Spartie, initially, wanted to chew on it; Toonces just started gnawing directly on the box. This cord gives me a 25-foot leash, so I’ve been testing out the parameters—I can make it to the refrigerator. Somehow plugging the machine into the wall creates oxygen, and I’m not going to pretnd to understand the science behind it. Sleeping has been better for both Brian and me—he claims I am no longer “trumpeting” (there is a blackmail audiotape of my breathing from one of Brian’s sleepless African nights, which he played for my doctor). The inhaler and hardcore cough medicine I got from the pulmonary doctor (a former cross-country/track parent) has helped considerably with my disgusting “school-glue” (“awesome glue quality”) drainage, and I haven’t been coughing so much, probably because I’m not out of breath either.

I’m supposed to get a smaller, portable oxygen machine this week. I think it will function on battery or being plugged in. Maybe a new phrase that will be heard in the classroom (and, yes, I’ll talk in third person): “Plug Mrs. Kabourek in.” If you are a fan of the ABC show The Middle, there’s a scene where Aunt Jennie has be plugged in outside Mike’s trailer at the quarry. I feel like Aunt Jennie—plug me in, so I can breathe. For a few days, I think I’ll be carrying around baby oxygen tanks, which look kind of awkward. I’m sure I have a few cool backpacks in my arsenal to carry my new technological devices.

Oxygen is just my new medicine. It’s not that big of a deal, even though the tube looks strange on someone with a history of iron running lungs. It’s the new normal; I’m okay with it. I do not need anyone to feel sorry for me because I am hauling oxygen around.  Hopefully, this blog will answer those questions pertaining to why I am now carting oxygen, so I don’t have to get out of breath repeating the really boring story over and over again. I’d rather spend my time talking about fun things… During Ninth Grade Day, I am going to (attempt) convince my students that I am on helium, and I’m going to talk in a high-pitched squeaky voice.

* * *

In July of 2014, I was told that if I didn’t do chemo treatments, I had “two months.” Clearly, I made it past that short frame. Chemo continues to buy me more time, and I am certainly going to take advantage of every moment that I am given.

Bucket List Items Crossed Off Since July 2014:

(How many of your bucket list items have you crossed off?)     

• See a great white shark from a cage
• Get another tattoo
• Go on a safari in South Africa
• Tandem Skydive
• Learn to say “no” without feeling guilty
• See a big cat in the wild
• Run a half marathon (during cancer treatments)
• Visit Katherine in North Carolina
• Pet a big cat in South Africa
• (I also self-published three new yearbook-style blog books)

Goals for this Fall:

     

• Celebrate my 38^th Birthday (September 1)
• Watch my teammates run in the NWU alumni meet
• Present my 250-word (Exactly) Speech at NWU Legends and Legacies Ceremony (September 17)—Recipient of the Young Alumni Achievement Award
• Talk to classes at NWU as a part of the Legends/Legacies Ceremony (September 18)
• Facilitate SEED (for the millionth year) with Kim Samuelson
• Help coach/”mascot” the cross-country team with Brian as head coach
• Ride with Market-to-Market Relay team (October 3)
• Teach English 9 and Creative Writing First Semester
• Cheer on my I CAN. I WILL! Team at the Good Life Halfsy (November 1)—I am signed up to run this…
• Complete Annual Prank at Jane’s Fall Staff Party (Sorry, Jane)
• Hang out with friends and family at every opportunity
• Enjoy every single minute in the classroom
• Have new, unusual experiences
• Create my South Africa Blog Book
• Create my South Africa Photo Book
• Add new items to my bucket list that are not quite so “aerobic” in nature (for example, I had never bothered to get a pedicure (However, I’ve done several other strange spa treatments)—I did that this Saturday

While there are starting to be fewer and fewer people that I can beat in a road race, I am still ready and game for everything. Bring on the laughter, the humor, the obstacles, the challenges. 

I CAN. I WILL!

Last Day in Cape Town

It Took Five Continents to Break the Curse

The Baker Kabourek whale curse has finally been broken. I've been on whale watching expeditions in Hawaii, California, the Galapagos, Ireland, Australia, and New Zealand. South Africa panned out!