Sad. More than just normal sad--it started to overwhelm me a few months ago. I didn't tell anyone. 

My young, beautiful, outspoken and amazing sister died at such a young age (48) from complications of an immune disorder last July. 

I've only felt this a few times in my life:
1) when my mom died
​2) before I ended my first marriage
3) and now. 

I started to pull away--physically--from everyone including my family. I found a space at home that made me feel safe and I went there. I pulled up the blanket. I tried to disappear. I was pulling away from them. 

I didn't realize that by keeping my sad feelings to myself, I was feeding them. It was getting bigger and worse. I finally made a plan.

1) I texted my two BFF girlfriends and told them I was depressed and needed a girls' weekend ASAP (they obliged) 
2) I called a close, adult family member and admitted I was sad and overwhelmed
3) I sent a MyChart message to my primary care physician asking for help with medication options (ended up on Effexor 75 Mg as Zoloft reduces the effectiveness of my anti-cancer Tamoxifen medication) 
4) I signed up for BetterHelp.com for a few months and did online therapy 
5) I talked to a life coach and asked for help
6) I created some music play lists that made me feel good
7) I also stopped cooking meals - but continued to buy groceries. No one starved. You can take a break too. 

I've experienced "complex grief" according to my counselor. 

After a few months, I am in a better place. I felt motivated to write this in case it helps even one person.

Please don't hold in your feelings. Please tell one person. Any person. If it's anything like my situation, I felt even a little better as soon as I shared my feelings and asked for help. 

May is mental health awareness month. My sister was such an advocate for mental health. I dedicate this post to her.

Stephanie
Sister, friend
Healing, teaching, caring
Hero and mental health warrior forever
​Missed

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I’ve never been a runner. The idea sounded awful however no metabolism felt equally as bad. So back in December I hired a personal trainer to help develop some workout plans involving lifting weights, walking and light jogging. I got into a routine and really tried to think of it as a gift of 30-40 minutes to myself and not as a punishment. Within a few weeks, I felt stronger. My muscles ached. It felt good.

Pre-Covid 19, we went on a trip to Florida, and joined a gym. I would usually walk a mile on the treadmill, but it seemed wimpy. The girl next to me was running. Chris was running. So I ran a mile straight through at a very low pace (just above a walk). And I was proud!

I gradually increased my distance every few weeks and gradually increased my speed as well. I am currently running just over three miles a day. I prefer to run on a treadmill, in a temperature controlled environment, with a TV on with closed captioning while listening to music. Not surprisingly, I’m pretty pampered.

Our annual 4th of July family trip to Minnesota was approaching. I wanted to keep running, but had never done it outside, so Chris and I went for a jog on the beautiful trails in the Cedar Valley.

Chris Corkery’s post:
June 27, 2020
Sarah: “Should we run together..?”

Me: “Sure that works.”

I “jog” 6 miles a day, and she runs 3.5 miles the math works. From the very beginning I knew something was wrong ... she’s been on a treadmill for months and her muscle memory was set on 10. I have been on trail leisure mode 5 for that same amount of time... no surprise to anyone who knows me my math did not work.

This picture is the closest I ever got to Sarah “FloJo” Corkery. I am positive that everyone who met us on the trail, read the look on my face as someone who was chasing her. All I wanted to say was, “Oh she’s fine - there’s no way I’m ever going to catch her...”

At one point Sarah turned back and gave me the thumbs up like this is all great and I said, “You run really fast!” It was an accusation. We finally reached the designated spot for her to turn back and me to continue on... I would be lying if I didn’t feel at that moment like when the trainer shifts attention to another person and I can go back to using my knees to do pushups.
The good news: we both made it home safe and sound and I ran the fastest two miles of my life.

Should we run together? Absolutely and I will even give you a high five when I meet you on your way back. ✌️❤️😂

PS - as I wrote this walking back up our hill Sarah popped out of the bushes and almost gave me a heart attack. “What killed him? Running? No running with his wife...”

Cut to the Minnesota trip, Chris goes into town to pick up some pizza and I thought, I’ll go for a quick run. It was hot – about 85 degrees. It was hilly. There was no shade. Cars were not always pulling away from me as early as I’d like.

I found when I looked too far ahead and saw the next hill, I would get discouraged. I’d run fast, then walk. Repeat. It was hard. It was not fun.

The next day Chris offered to run with me if I promised to go at his pace. I wore a hat and we went a little slower… it was nice. I intentionally only looked about six feet out ahead on the road - I didn’t look at the hills. Chris would give me notice when a car was approaching. I felt much safer.

What I learned over the last seven months:

• Don’t look too far into the future. Look only as far as you can control. Too much may cause worry and will not help you live in the moment.
• Life’s better when you go together. Alone can be hard so if you need a friend, I’m here. I’m open to socially distanced conversations outside. We can get through this together.
• Ease into new things. I didn’t start out running very fast or very long. I’ve never been out of breath during or after a jog. I took it slow.
  
• Listen to your body. Being over 40, menopausal and surviving cancer has been hard on my body. I don’t love running, but I don’t hate it either. And when I do it, I feel better. I have since lost the weight I put on over the last few years. I’m also eating much smarter too (www.skinnytaste.com), which I’m sure also helps.
• Some time outside with friends and family feels good. If you need a good destination to get away that’s not more than a day’s drive, we highly recommend Lake Crest Resort in Northern Minnesota.
  

What things have you been learning during this time? Please comment and share. I’d love to hear from you.

Recently I attended an event where I ran into someone I had not seen in years. She asked me how I "was doing" and how my “little boy was doing." I said we are doing well. When I asked how her family was doing, she said with relief, “healthy.” 

Healthy is not bragging rights. Healthy is not #blessed. Why? Because many times, especially with cancer and conditions you are born with, there is nothing you can do to change it. 

First, what causes cancer? Mutations cause cancer. And mutations happen every day to all of us and don’t cause any problems. However, some errors, simply through bad luck, can affect one gene instead of another. This is what causes two-thirds of cancer. The other one-third is made up of environmental and/or inherited genes. We can’t control what we inherit. So many people will develop cancer no matter how healthy they behave. 

"It's not your fault," says one researcher. "Nothing you did or didn't do was responsible for your illness." People should certainly not feel guilty about getting the disease. In most cases, there is nothing they could have done to avoid it.

Adversely, if you don’t get cancer, it’s not something you should tote as bragging rights—because it’s just dumb luck most of the time. 

I am thrilled for a person I know who is expecting a baby. She said (a phrase I’m sure I've even said myself in the past), “We don’t care if it’s a girl or boy just as long as he/she is healthy...” Ouch. As the mother of a child who has had health challenges and two children without health challenges, I can say that you love them the same if not more. 

If you feel like saying “healthy” replace it with “happy,” because we are all in control of that status. ​

Life is full of change. And change is hard. Even good change can be difficult.

We recently moved to a different house. It's gorgeous and larger than our previous house - one reason we moved was so that our kids could each have their own room. Lucy and Jude had been sharing a bedroom for four years. So, the first time we toured our soon-to-be new home, long before negotiations lead to the purchase, each kid picked out their own bedroom. They were excited. Cut to us on moving day and the kids came home from school. Lucy walked in and cried tears of happiness. She said she couldn't believe we were actually going to live here. Later that night, I went to check on her in her new own room. She was crying in her bed. When I asked what was wrong, she said she missed our old house and her old room. Even though it's the room she had to share with her little brother. Change is hard.

When Chris and I took foster parenting classes, we learned a lot about how people, and especially kids, process change. They don't like it either. They said kids who are in foster care will cry and yearn for their "old home" even if it's a mattress on the floor over a new room that is fully furnished with new toys.

I also think of Jude, who dislikes change on a daily basis. He has the same lunch everyday: a beef stick, a cheese stick, a fruit snack, a piece of chocolate and apple juice. As brilliant parents, we decided to buy some local beef and have it processed. We bought ten pounds of beef sticks. Jude took one bite, and said no thanks and that was that. His preference was Old Wisconsin beef sticks. So, we went back to what he likes. Some battles are worth it; but lunch is not one of them.

I saw another group of people dislike change recently. It was over soup. Campbell's changed their recipe for Chicken and Stars soup. They made the stars into actual pasta-shaped stars. I'll admit, I didn't like it either. There was something nostalgic about the original recipe with the small stars. I tried to find the original with no luck. A quick online search led me to a post on Campbell's Facebook page. There were hundreds of comments, all negative, about the change.

Good news. As you can see, they are bringing it back.

Very rarely do we get our way when it comes to change. Jobs change, people move, people get sick and people die. And yet babies are born, Winter turns to Spring, new school years start and there are fresh beginnings.

I frequently look back at old memories on Facebook with mixed emotion. I see little Lucy the age Anna is now and I miss the little person that she was. I see little Jude who endured so much before the age of two and I am sad. I see little Anna and remember how I hoped she'd become a Corkery and I was so scared. I see Chris and me and we look so youthful and I am proud of what we've come through.

And yet, I look at each of us now, and I wonder what amazing things each of us will do in the future, especially the kids. I realize now that it's okay to yearn for the past and allow a moment for reflection. Change is hard, but if we keep one foot in front of the other and move toward the future together - change is good.

There is probably a reason that no one really tells you how long all the cancer treatment will take.

For me it was almost a year: two surgeries over two months, almost five months of chemo, two months of radiation and then my hair started growing back.

The photo below is of Chris and me heading to a wedding about five days after radiation ended. 

I got dressed up, I felt good and I had enough hair to not wear a wig. I literally thought for the first time in nearly a year, “Maybe, just maybe, I will be okay.” After the wedding, one of the grooms said, “You look stunning” to me as he ushered me out of the aisle. It made my day. 

A few weeks later, I was asked by the American Cancer Society to provide a line of copy for their donor wall at the Hope Lodge because we had made a small gift. We were given just 20 characters of space, so I filled it out.  I started with my name: Sarah Corkery.

I got up to scan it in to send it back to them, and I thought, that’s not complete. So I wrote a little more…you'll have to scroll to see it. 










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Today I rocked a little tiny faux hawk hairstyle--and only one person thought it was on accident.

I had comments that I looked feisty, fierce and that my hair rocks! I’ll take it.

Today I think I'll make it. 

At the end of cancer treatment, many people celebrate and ring a bell in the lobby to signal their completion. I’ve decided I’m not ringing the bell. I may bring Scratch cupcakes, but that’s another post.

After my cancer came back, I spent many hours in the lobby of the cancer center. On one of the first days back, I heard someone ring the bell. And all I could think is how long my path would be before I would ring it. It would be two months of surgeries, four months of chemotherapy followed by six weeks of daily radiation. All in all, it will be almost one year when I consider this over from when I found the lump.

And there is no guarantees it’s over. After a double mastectomy I felt falsely invincible from cancer. Although there was no bell for me to ring. In my mind I rang it loud and clear - never having to deal with breast cancer again. Never say never.

I’m not ringing it because too many people don’t get the chance to ring the bell.

● People like my uncle Mike who had Glioblastoma (brain cancer) and who forgot the name of my grandfather while leading his burial service. Mike’s funeral was less than a year later. He had just retired from the ministry and simply wanted to ride bikes with my Aunt Myrna in their days ahead.

● People like my own mom. How I wish I had a mom right now. I hope I can be a mom for a long time. That’s why I’m doing all of this treatment.

● People who are just now at the beginning of their cancer journey.

I wait in a little area each day before my radiation treatment. A few days ago I met Connie there. She also had Glioblastoma. I complimented her on her hair and then I pulled my wig out of my purse and showed it off. She said I looked so healthy and had such a great wig. I asked her about her treatment plan, and she said, “First I had su, sur, S, U, R …” and I said, “Surgery?” and she said yes. She also said not being able to find words was a symptom of her brain cancer. I said chemo can have a similar effect. I said, “I think it’s called aphasia?” She agreed and we laughed at two women trying to find the medical word for not being able to find the word. At the end, she stood up and said, “It was great marrying you today… –I can’t believe I said marrying! I meant meeting!” And I laughed with her and said, “It was great marrying you today too!” and off I went to have radiation.

While I’m not ringing the bell, I respect others right to do so. Like cancer treatment, everyone’s path is different. Everyone processes information differently, and everyone chooses their treatment based on what’s most important to them.

God speed to all of you.

From my very first appointment in November, I found this oncologist to be confusing, dismissive, arrogant and lacking of any empathy. Of course, I thought I could “just get through it” because I don’t like to complain and I didn’t want to delay treatment any longer. I want to beat this disease, and although our meetings were uncomfortable and awkward at times, I needed someone who could help me–so I kept the complaints to myself… and to my husband.

My husband gives me plenty of credit for being strong and has watched me be cut apart by surgeons and poisoned now five times with chemo - after which I’ll usually say I’m fine or something along those lines.

I remember what a technician once said to me during a medical procedure. It required four needle sticks to my breast while awake and with no numbing medication—and then four more sticks when the first procedure didn’t work. She said, “You don’t complain much, do you?”

Well I complained about my doctor. With the help of my sister, I navigated the Patient Advocacy system at the hospital. I gave the person my specific examples of this doctor’s confusing and dismissive comments.

So now I have a new doctor starting on Monday.

What I’ve learned from all of this is straightforward
• I’m the boss
• I need to feel confident in my healthcare team
• My priorities should be known and respected

I hope you remember those tips. It’s okay to complain sometimes. And maybe if we all complain about the right things, the wrong people will not stand in our way—especially when it comes to our well-being.

What can I say, but thank you.

• You showed up.
• You brought meals.
• You took my kids on play dates.
• You sent me texts.
• You checked on me a million times.
• You helped me buzz my hair.

You know who you are. Thank you.

I had my first round of chemo on 12/16/16. The pharmacist talked to me for a long time during my treatment. He said the hair was non-negotiable, and it would fall out less than two weeks after the first treatment. I had already purchased an awesome wig with the help of a close friend and Lisa at LBL  in Cedar Falls. But I made the pharmacist repeat it--I will lose my hair. I could tell he wondered if I even had a plan, but I needed to hear it out loud. It’s going to fall out right around Christmas.

I’ve been trying to research what to expect, and I found a great beauty blog from someone who has permanent hair loss. She has a post called, “6 Things Not to Say to Someone Experiencing Hair Loss (and 3 Things You Definitely Should).”  If you have said some of these things to me or anyone else—no worries, we all find ourselves saying things like this thinking they might help.

A few years back, I stumbled upon a great article called, “How not to say the wrong thing.”  It’s spot on. My cancer is about me. I get the benefit of saying whatever I want about my cancer. It stinks. I’m mad. Others have to tread more lightly.

If someone has gotten any sort of bad new, please don’t use these two words back to them: At Least. “At least it will grow back.” “At least you still have X, Y or Z.” At least. Years ago when I was a teen, my mom died, and of course kids don’t know what to say. But I do remember one note: At least you still have your boyfriend. What?!? No. Just no. But they were kids just like ours--which brings me to a conversation I had with Lucy and Jude.

I asked them if it’s going to bother them when I lose my hair, and Jude said, “No, you’ll just be bald like dad.” So thank you, Chris, for forging the bald path ahead of me. You make it look pretty good, so hopefully I’ll be as lucky.

The other day I saw a note at a store that said, “Laughter is the best medicine” and I thought, unless you need chemotherapy. Then chemo is probably the best medicine.

1 chemo down. 7 to go. Then 6 weeks of daily radiation. Cancer—I’m going to kick your ass this time. I get to say that.
You don’t. :)

I called the Magnolia Hotel in Omaha today and asked them to send me a photo of their soap. I’m sure this was the first request of this nature. I told my story (briefly) to the housekeeping manager, Greg. He sent it to me in about a minute and said, “Please let me know if there is anything else I can do.” People are so amazing.