Photo by Molly Plann.

My husband and I love to take vacations, because when you have cancer, time away from chemo is probably what it feels like for an employee to take a vacation away from a nasty boss: pure bliss.

I love to go to Vegas, try my luck at the blackjack tables, see a show and eat some fancy dinners. It’s a great vacation where you can get everything done in a long weekend, but what I didn’t know was that my bowel loves vacations, too.

Sound weird?

Our Vegas trip was set, bags were packed, money in hand and the only thing left was getting on the plane. Little did I know, my view of the water show at the Bellagio would end up being a view of the cancer-center parking lot; my down comforter pillow with 1,000 thread count sheets would be a stiff hospital bed; and instead of enjoying a pinot noir and filet at Le Cirque, I would be eating ice chips at Le Cancer Ward.

The night before we were scheduled to leave I awoke with this unbearable pain centered in my stomach and radiating into my back. No big deal, just ignore it because nothing was going to keep me from boarding that plane. Regrettably, by 3:30 a.m. I was sobbing, and on the pain indicator (the one you see at doctor’s offices with a smiley face all the way up to a red face with blown up cheeks), I had hit the face off the radar.

Imagine a purple, mascara-stained face with a look of absolute horror, sweat pouring and matted black hair; that was me.

I had a bowel obstruction. Bowel obstruction equals a five-night stay in the hospital with no food or drinks, praying it will heal itself by giving the gut a rest hoping to eliminate the need for surgery. Needless to say, there was no Wayne Newton. Only my husband doing a rendition of Viva Las Vegas with his own twist, Viva Las Foothills. I laughed and cried at the same time.

After spending four days in the hospital, my bowel obstruction was looking less like an obstruction and more like an ileus, or “sleepy bowel.” Basically, a small part of your bowel becomes inactive sometimes requiring surgery. Luckily, I dodged that surgery, was released from the hospital days later after my “sleepy bowel” decided to wake the heck up, and we are rescheduling our trip for Nov. 13.

We have to make light of it. This is the fifth trip that we have had to cancel due to unforeseen complications from my disease.

Having cancer has forced me to disregard how I’d like my life to go and accept whatever comes my way. Not dwell on the bad, and enjoy the good, even it’s watching a funny made-for-TV movie on a 13-inch hospital television. My family, husband and friends sat in my hospital room laughing at our misfortune and enjoying each other’s company, which, at the end of the day, trumps all.

I just wish my Vegas package wouldn’t have been downgraded to a single in the west wing of the Foothills hospital.

— By Deandra Trevino
Trevino, of Boulder, was diagnosed with stage 3C ovarian cancer in July of 2007. Check out her online blog at www.carepages.com, and search “deandramtrevino.” Contact her at deandra.trevino@gmail.com.

Children are independent of their parents when they no longer require help walking. As you grow older, independence means you live alone, not needing help in a nursing home.
I think independence is when you are self-sufficient, self-determined and victorious in making your dreams become a reality.

Growing up, I was always told how independent and determined I was to make a name for myself. This determination landed me my own salon by the age of 26. It was liberating signing the documents for the purchase. In a few months, my vision had become my reality.
Independence was a trait I valued until Independence Day of 2007, when I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer.

How ironic.

At that point, what I had previously considered independent pulled a disappearing act, and I became quite the opposite. Dependent became my new role.

Having a chronic illness humbles you. You sadly realize how much you need your loved ones to complete your daily routine. When I was sick, I needed my mom to play nurse. When I didn’t have the energy to walk to my bed, I needed my fiancé to carry me.

One online dictionary defines independence as “freedom from control or influence of another or others.” This rings true to me because, although it was helpful to have the support of my family and friends, depression set in once I realized cancer was controlling my life.

It’s been almost two years since my diagnosis, and though with each day I gain a little more liveliness, there are still times I feel completely out of control. At these times I have to remind myself that misery doesn’t mix with a self-determined woman fighting for her life.

I have begun to realize that each time I made it to a chemo infusion, each time I laughed or enjoyed a simple day with family and friends, I was independently beating cancer. Every day is a gift.

— By Deandra Trevino
Trevino, of Boulder, was diagnosed with stage 3C ovarian cancer in July of 2007. Check out her online blog at www.carepages.com, and search “deandramtrevino.” Contact her at deandra.trevino@gmail.com.

Deandra Trevino

I’ve heard it all my life: “I know who Deandra is! Isn’t she the one with the straight, black hair, down to her waist?”

Um, not exactly. At least not anymore.

After being diagnosed with late-stage ovarian cancer in July 2007, the pressing thought was, “Am I going to be OK?” Though stats were not on my side, I knew I had a fair shot, after hearing the surgeon went ahead with a complete hysterectomy, bowel re-section and the “burning” of more than five contaminated lymph nodes.

His exact words were, “If Deandra were a lot older, she may not have been able to withstand a five-hour surgery of this magnitude.”

I was in the clear to fight one difficult battle: the battle for my life.

Where does hair come into this picture? Well, I don’t recall requesting emergency appointments with my therapist after hearing the devastating news I would need to start chemo, and my hair would be waving hasta lavista! Nor do I recall shedding a tear after telling my mom that I would be shaving my hair off before chemo to avoid the grief of watching it fall out.

What I do remember is trying to pry open my “pain management box” with a screwdriver in order to get that pain medicine flowing at a faster pace. I was not happy when, after pressing the release button, it was followed by four “sorry-no-can-do” beeps, singling I had not hit the passable time period for a “happy dose” jolt.

But that’s beside the point. I knew that having some of my best friends as hairstylists — because I own a salon — would alleviate some of the depression of going bald.

For other women battling cancer, I have a fantastic plan you can follow after finding out you will be losing your hair, keeping in mind that you are saving your life.

All 12 of my stylist friends met at the salon, each sporting fashionable bandanas and drinks in hand, ready to ease me into the bald head look.

(I recommend a small tranquilizer if you can get your hands on one.) We all agreed no tears, only support and laughter. Each stylist took the clippers and shaved off a section of my hair while we jammed the music and shared in a drink — or three. It was refreshing, liberating and powerful, to say the least. As I watched sections of my hair fall to the ground, all I could think of was the tasty nachos we were going to enjoy on the Foundry’s rooftop.

We all went hand-in-hand — my girls and their bandana’s, and me and my beautiful bald head.

Trevino, of Boulder, was diagnosed with stage 3C ovarian cancer in July of 2007. Check out her online blog at www.carepages.com, and search “deandramtrevino.” Contact her at deandra.trevino@gmail.com.