Thursday, June 2, 2016

viaticum


Radiation to my brain and entire spinal column was absolute hell, that is not hyperbole. I'm still experiencing the effects almost a month out. I have scans on June 9th to see how my cancer has progressed/regressed at this point. There's no more viable treatment options and they have recommended me to hospice. I'm still hoping to try a clinical trial if it fits. We'll see. Right now, after being in nonstop treatment for the last year, I just want to live life feeling as well as possible.

Which leads me to my art show opening this Saturday in Gramercy park-- I hope any readers from the NY area can come. Here is a flyer, and I'm also posting my artist statement below.









































Viaticum

I believe that a human being is fundamentally a spiritual being, and that our visible world must be extended to encompass all of the invisible energies with which we have lost contact, or from which we have been alienated.
 —Joseph Beuys

To make art is to take from one's inner world and make it material, to give it life in the physical realm.  Keats said that poets are the midwives of reality. Our thoughts and feelings are diaphanous and ephemeral, yet our creation can be sensed and shared. With this we can communicate what is otherwise unknowable and save what would otherwise be lost. 

As the artist or midwife functions as a bridge to another world, so, too, does the Medium vacillate between material and immaterial. In the nineteenth century, Mediums would display an emesis of cloth from various orifices, known as ectoplasm—the physical manifestation of the soul. 

In Brazil there is a long history of Spiritism, a mysterious mélange of Catholicism and shamanistic mysticism— the belief that the medium is a conduit for spirits, and those spirits have the divine ability to heal. After the trauma of battling cancer for almost a decade, I set out on a pilgrimage to see the renowned Spiritist medium Joao de Deus. 

It is said this faith healer conjures the spirits of the greatest doctors throughout history to perform psychic medical miracles. I was, and still am, in need of a miracle. My journey to Joao was as much about finding hope as it was about finding a cure. 

Viaticum is the receiving of the Eucharist, the bread and body of Christ before death. In times before Catholicism, pagans would place a coin in the mouths of deceased to provide toll for the underworld. The viaticum can be considered provisions for a journey— it is meant to provide spiritual victuals and safe passage.


According to Beuys, art possesses curative properties; the function of art is to heal. The creation of this series is my own Viaticum— sustenance for the spirit, fuel to keep going.



Thursday, April 7, 2016

a bad hand.


here it is.

my cancer has moved to my spinal fluid.

I woke up last week with numbness in my foot & pain in my legs, which I chalked up to overexertion from vacation. An MRI yesterday revealed the real culprit.

They immediately stopped my chemo, as it has not been effective.

Now we're looking into palliative radiation.

I know what this means. I've watched all my friends go through the same. It comes back in the lung, then brain, then spine, and then you die. It could be a matter of months. I'm hoping for longer.


In one of my most beloved films, Jean Vigo's l'atalante, the first mate is divining his future with a deck of cards. "all spades! must've been shuffled wrong". 

And this is all our life has been, Jean Vigo and mine-- a bad shuffle of cards. but still a shuffle, still a chance to make something with our hand. better than no cards at all. 

I just can't stop hoping.


Monday, February 15, 2016

heart bones



In my last post I wrote about a close friend and the unfortunate intricacies of human emotion. We must all be allowed to mourn-- to rob someone of that right is selfish and inhumane. My reason for finally opening up about this deep wound I've been concealing is as follows: this is a confessional blog about young adults with cancer, and this is something we all go through yet never share. I've watched many of my brilliant friends die unfair, painful deaths at a young age, and I know I await a similar fate. Each person/family deals with trauma in an entirely different way. Some need you more, and you feel guilty for not being able to be there enough. Some push you away out of misplaced anger, or due to a coping mechanism, or simply to conserve energy. With such a delicate and confusing subject, you try to take cues and read between the lines-- you try to do what's best for your loved ones. Sometimes you get it wrong, sometimes you never know. Sometimes there is no closure, or their family denies you closure. The key is communication and empathy: the feelings involved in end-of-life decisions are never easy, and all of them are ok. We must be mindful that everyone mourns in their own way. Even anger and irrationality play a part in the mourning process. However-- it is not ok to deny someone the right to love, mourn and find the closure they need. Don't let anyone bully you into thinking you've no right to mourn: it is their own irrational & misplaced anger, not any fault of yours.

Throughout the past 8 years I've realized that there are so many variations to how the story ends. And also that it never really ends. Through the blur of pain we must keep our focus on love. I feel sorry for the people that succumb to anger (especially the ones that endeavor to cause others pain just to relieve a bit of their own) but I will love them just the same. We're all in this together.




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Chemo update: I'm on my 5th cycle of 12. It is the hardest thing I've ever had to do-- go through this intensive chemo alone and still manage to take care of myself. As the years go by, the more chemo I take, the more my body just disintegrates from the inside out. Every new relapse is harder than the last. I need a blood transfusion after every cycle. I'm too weak to get out of bed most days. I've fallen behind with friends, keeping up relationships is impossible-- I think of them daily but don't have the energy to visit or even converse. I sleep a lot. As always, I'm just trying to get through it and praying for another remission.

Usually the last 2 days before I start another cycle are my best, which means I have 4 days a month wherein I'm feeling ok. ish. Let me tell you-- I'm trying to make the most out of those 4 days. I recently took a trip to Washington D.C. to see the National Gallery, Smithsonian collection, and pandas (!!!)... life-long dream realized! I've also resumed work on an art project involving the journey to healing and death that I'd put on hold, ironically, after my relapse in July-- I'll be having a show in June, stay tuned.



Tian Tian!


I know my posts are as rare as my bowel movements as I go through treatment-- follow me @kaylinandres on Instagram for slightly more regularity.



Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Chemo 3.0

Just had my first round of Cyclofosfomide and Topotecan-- my last hope defense against the Ewing's Sarcoma that I've been fighting for the past seven years. My hope is that this yearlong regimen will give me another remission, perhaps a year or two, and in that time a promising clinical trial will finally come to fruition. For now it seems like a pipe dream, but it's my only hope at extended life. If this chemo doesn't work, it will be palliative radiation and surgery as tumors arise, until they become too numerous and dangerous, and then I will be considering hospice, and my own death.

But for now, I'm back to the middle, back to purgatory. The brain radiation worked-- my scans look promising. I have no active tumors in my body, but it is obvious Ewing's is floating around waiting to take hold again. I will come to Sloan for my daily communion and pray it extends my life.

First day of Cyclo/topo was mild & I didn't need nausea meds. The hardest part is psychological-- back to the infusion suite, the familiar chairs and IV pumps and sugary apple juice. Every fixture the same, yet everything has changed. Most of the nurses I used to know have gone in the last few years (except my favorite, Louise, aka Weezy, who is still here twice a week to take care of me like old times). The most poignant difference is the loss of all of the friends I've met and loved here. My mind goes back to the last chemo year and our little group of young unfortunates, how we'd congregate in the dark, back recliner area and pass the time talking about popular culture, gossiping with the nurses, and complaining about cell counts. They were a light in the middle of those dark days, and they are not here anymore. And not for the reasons I'd like. I'd like to say they've been cured and have moved on with their lives. But that hasn't been the case with anyone I know. Ewing's either kills you, or you survive a little longer until it tries to kill you again. The closer you get to the end of the book, the easier it is to predict the ending (or will there be a twist?).

Most of all I miss M. I haven't been able to talk about her since her death and the way it was handled with her parents. In the last few months she developed animosity towards me because I was in remission while she was dying (at least, this is what I was told by friends). Whatever it was, she never told me, just cut me out of her life. I tried to understand her thought process-- I understand the anger of having your life cut short for no reason, and I understand the frustration of having nowhere to put that anger, no one to blame. It was painful, but I was happy to be the scapegoat if that helped her cope. And then her parents banned me from attending her funeral-- the memorial of my best friend, roommate, ewing's sister. That I could not understand or forgive, I can't even express the pain I felt during that time. I wrote an elegy that I never published. It just never felt right-- as if I didn't have permission to mourn this person who had such an impact on my life. To this day I don't speak with her parents and I have no idea what caused that animosity in those last days. I'm just left with unbelievable pain. And that pain is front and center now that I'm back at Sloan, getting chemo like we used to together, as sisters.

I'm here hooked up to the IV getting premeds as I write this. The idea of chemo for another year doesn't make me cry. Writing about the pain that came with a best friend's death and the rejection I felt from her family-- that makes me cry. I'm not even sure why I am finally sharing this. I've carried it with me for the past year, maybe this will release some of that pain. Maybe I will publish that elegy soon.

I promise I'll write something more upbeat soon. New projects and new developments.

If you look back through my archives, you'll notice I used to joke about everything.

7 years later and I'm a little burned out.


Thank you for all of the well-wishes in the comment section, I wish there was a way for me to respond to comments individually. Rest assured I read them all and appreciate every one. Your love & support have gotten me through, the least I can do is keep writing. Follow me on instagram @kaylinandres if you can, I tend to update there more than here!





Thursday, September 24, 2015

Dynamite or Curtains

It has been over a year since I've updated this blog. I've never been a particularly gregarious person, generally I am quiet and keep to myself. I started this blog in 2008 because I couldn't find a single YAC voice out there in the internet ether that matched my own. No one was sharing their story openly, honestly, in a way that might help fellow young cancer warriors prepare for their own fight. I created what I needed to exist at that time. Now there are thousands of YAC blogs, twitters, tumblrs and instagrammers candidly sharing their respective journeys. I felt my voice was no longer needed. Plus, I was in remission after four cancers and desperately trying to rebuild a normal life, yet again. In the interim I worked freelance art production with some amazing artists, and planned a new series of photographs and sculpture centered around themes of healing and renewal. After two years of remission I was finally allowing myself to consider healing, to consider the future.

And then the headaches started.

The first one, early this summer around my 30th birthday, I assumed to be a migraine. Though I'd never experienced a migraine in my life, I knew from friends that they often came with light sensitivity and could be intense enough to leave one bed-bound. This headache did just that. But it resolved by the next day, and when I had another one a few weeks later, I popped some Exedrin and thought nothing of it.

... Until they got worse.

The day-long headaches turned into weekend migraine marathons that kept me in bed in a pitch-black room. The pain was so severe it caused me nausea and vomiting. And then, just as suddenly as it came on, it was gone again. After a few months of these gut-wrenching brain-aches progressively getting worse, I gave in and went to the ER for a CT scan and MRI. Doctors soon told me I had a mass on my pituitary gland that was pressing on my optic nerve. The neurologist reassured me that pituitary adenomas are benign and extremely common, especially in women. He confidently proclaimed that my migraines were a separate issue and had nothing to due with the mass. Now, if you know my history, you know how many times I have been misdiagnosed (like the time Bellevue doctors told me my giant lung tumor was a hernia), so of course I knew he was full of shit immediately. Problem is, you're still at the mercy of your doctors, so I had to wait three weeks before being re-scanned. By that time the headaches had become constant and I can honestly say it was the most intense pain I have ever experienced. So, I was relieved when the neurologist frantically called me after my scan, telling me to come to the ER immediately.

Turns out the mass had grown, which means cancer. They wouldn't know the type of cancer until after the surgery-- they thought it would likely be ovarian or thyroid (both of which I have had, and have hormones controlled by the pituitary). The dark horse in this race was good 'ol Ewing's Sarcoma-- though they had never heard of it setting up shop in the pituitary, it was possible. Just very, very unlikely.

For the surgery they went up my nose and drilled a hole in the back of my sinus cavity. They removed 75% of my tumor, while the remaining 25% was left in-tact because it surrounded my delicate optic nerves. The neurologist said I was very, very close to losing my eyesight permanently. It's amazing how lucky I've been in these strange, small ways throughout the years, amidst so much misfortune.

Surgery was terrible and painful, but I healed without complication and started immediately on 6 weeks of radiation, of which I have only two days left. Brain radiation has left me incredibly tired, nauseous, weak, and forgetful. My hair is falling out, but not noticeably to anyone else, thank god.

So... is it a boy? Is it a girl? No,  it's Ewing's!

Now that my very aggressive and deadly bone cancer has come back for a third time, I don't have many options. It is almost a certainty that it will kill me. There is one regimen of chemo left that might prolong my life, but of course chemo is absolute hell, and I am on my own here in NY with no family or husband to take care of me. I'm not entirely sure I can handle it on my own, for the third time. So now I am trying to decide what the rest of my short life will look like: do I stay in NY? take a break to feel healthy and enjoy myself before chemo? Or start right away to maximize my chances of remission? Should I move back to CA where I have family to take care of me? Should I be planning my death? How should I spend the rest of the life I have left? All questions swirling in my head, all questions I might never have an answer to, until life unfolds.

One of my favorite books is a little known novel by Jack London called The Star Rover. I discovered it two years ago, right as I was beginning my last remission. It has nothing to do with the outdoors or adventure, at least not in the physical sense. It's about a man in solitary confinement who is forced to endure torture in a straight-jacket for months at a time, weakened and sensory-deprived. He learns to project himself outside of his body and through time to past lives that he recounts in vivid vignettes. With this meditation he escapes the jacket and is able to survive, mentally and physically, torture that would normally kill a man. I related to this novel on such a deep level, because his description of solitary and torture in the jacket is so, so much like going through intense chemo and illness. The man in the book is being tortured because the warden suspects he has hidden dynamite somewhere (he hasn't, of course, he is our enlightened protagonist and remains truthful). The Warden doesn't believe him and tries to kill him several times, all unsuccessfully. Throughout the book the Warden says the phrase, "Dynamite or Curtains", and he echoes back, "Dynamite or Curtains". I think of this saying often and have adopted it as a battle cry: I can either accept the extraordinary, the spark of life, the fire, or I can accept death. I will always choose the former.






Saturday, April 26, 2014

New Year, Same Fear.

Ewings is a nightmare that refuses to end. Some of us, for some unknown reason, are granted the reprieve of remission-- we wake up in a fog, only remembering bits and pieces of the terrible dream, but the feeling, the overwhelming exhaustion of the struggle, the terror of confronting something so threatening and horrifying, remains with us. We are so relieved to see the day break, we go about our waking hours with a new appreciation for light. We try to forget the night, but deep down we know that eventually, sooner or later, our bodies will grow tired and this terrible dream will find us again.

How's that for an update?

I finished my year of chemo, surgery, and radiation in late October. I am in remission for the third time, but the indelible stain of the past five years remains fixed.  I don't understand why I'm still here while my loved ones are gone. It's not for lack of spirit, or fight, or hope. There is no reason and we must accept that. I feel like a veteran of war, except the war is inside my body, never-ending, and there is no escape. How to live, then? I've learned the art of detachment and it has served me well-- I am able to laugh, feel happiness, make half-hearted plans for the future, fall in love, travel, visit friends, make art, make mistakes, and not think of cancer. I pretend to move on and I pretend to be "all better", partially because it's what everyone wants, including myself,  and because it's the only way I can survive. Fake it 'til you make it. Or break it, whichever comes first.

So this is what I've been doing since my last update-- enjoying life as best as I can, pursuing new opportunities, blocking out the past. I'm still trying to make sense of this monstrous struggle that has consumed most of my twenties. Despite everything, the pain and the loss, I am happy with life.



Something noteworthy: After two years of fighting, appeals, and endless paperwork, I finally received my disability approval last month. TWO YEARS-- during which I relapsed, went through 12 months of treatment, was truly disabled, and desperately needed monetary support. Better late than never? Since finishing treatment I have taken a string of freelance jobs to support myself, now finding a niche working on production for visual artists in the NYC area. The pay is negligible, but I am able to set my own hours and invest my time working with artists I respect on projects that inspire. It makes me truly happy collaborating with amazing minds.

Which brings me to this show.

More detailed post to follow, but if you're in the NYC area Thursday May 1st please join me for the opening of Chemosynthesis, a visual and performance art show benefiting Ewing's Sarcoma research. Together with poet and fellow survivor Max Ritvo, we attempt to confront the complexities of a terminal cancer diagnosis in our twenties. Opening 6-10pm with a reading and performance at 8:30.



My next scans are scheduled the morning before I hang the show. It will be... a long day.

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

ALEA IACTA EST

Portrait of me and scar by Melissa Carroll

It's been an eternity since I've last posted. It's been 10 months of chemo and after this week, I'll only have one cycle left. It's been rough, but we have no choice but to move forward.

I haven't felt like writing about myself-- this blog has 5 years of my story documented, and with the mtv show I feel I've said my piece. For the past year I've just been going through the chemotions, the same old, same old. Now that treatment is almost finished, I am starting to look forward. I want to use this blog as a platform for other young adults with cancer. I want to showcase their talents and encourage others to create.

Since moving to New York I've had the enormous pleasure of making friends within the young adult cancer community, and without them I doubt I'd have made it through my recurrence sanity intact. I can't stress enough how important it is to have someone to vent to, someone who understands what you're going through, someone to commiserate with, someone to party with (cancer patient style: drinking 4 seltzer waters and home by 12). I noticed early on that all of my cancer friends have an unnervingly low bullshit tolerance-- we skip the smalltalk and go straight for the meaningful conversation, whether it be about death, hope, fear, or of course, cancer. We share our scars and our stories eagerly. There are things I'd never be able to express to anyone else in my life, but my cancer friends get it.

My cancer friends are also amazingly talented and strong individuals that have managed to balance the rigors of treatment with their respective creative endeavors, from poetry to journalism, painting to songwriting, photography to social activism. Like me, they've used their skills to express their cancer experience to the world. Here are just a few:

hanging by a thread, Melissa Carroll

I met Melissa through this blog-- she contacted me years ago and we became fast friends with much in common. We both have Ewing's Sarcoma and both relapsed around the same time. We also live together and look similar-- we're like the Doublemint gum commercial but with cancer. Melissa is a brilliant painter and lately she's been doing a heavily introspective series of watercolor self-portraits that capture the feeling of cancer like nothing I've ever seen before. She's a master of subtle expression; that look in your eye when you're too nauseous to speak? She can capture it.


Another Friday Night, Melissa Carroll

Melissa is having a solo 1-day show at Andrea Rosen Gallery 2 in NY August 22nd. I will be at the opening, come and say hi!



This is a portrait Melissa did of John. I met John at Sloan Kettering where we're both getting treatment. He's 21 and has AML leukemia, but more importantly, he's a talented skater and songwriter.  John has a blog that continues the tradition of candid cancer confessional, and I find myself relating to so much of what he has to say. You can find it here: http://johndschmidt.tumblr.com/ 

Kristin, Erika, Suleika, Myself, Melissa: cancer babes
I met Suleika earlier this year. She is battling leukemia (soon to be in remission) and has accomplished more at 25 than most achieve in a lifetime. She writes a regular column in the New York Times about her cancer experience and addresses issues important to the young adult cancer community. She's also the spokesperson/ambassador for numerous charities, lectures at colleges nation wide, is writing a book... I am in awe of her energy; I'm tired just from writing this paragraph!

memento mori: death rules all men

And a small progress shot of some work I'm doing for a group show scheduled for early October featuring 5 artists/cancer survivors. I'll be designing a small capsule collection and showing embroideries with the hair I grew during 3.5 years of remission, stitched on hospital gowns. 

All of us have shared our story for the same reason-- an overwhelming desire to ease the suffering that we ourselves have felt, and a desire to connect. I've felt a genuine connection with every young adult cancer survivor I've met and even though at times it feels like there is no future, only a dead end... that end is false. The future is mutable and ever-changing. There is ALWAYS hope. We are the future until our last breath, and I want to encourage others to continue creating, even with cancer.

Have you had cancer and channeled your creative energy into expressing your experience? Did cancer help you find your voice? Post links in the comment section, I'd love to see everyone's work!