keeping abreast | keeping a breast

i can’t think of a better way to ring in the new year than to post about dying! not really, but i’ve had some space and time (on the couch, in bed late at night, on the plane) to have a few good cries about what the hell it is i’m going through and why i want to crawl under my bed. mike is going to post an update on where i am in my treatment plan (upset alert: i have about a year or more left. you heard it right: a year or more. i have an aggressive cancer, remember?), so i’ll save those details for him to share and reiterate to those who might not be reading. i know everyone wants me to be done, but hearing your surprise at how long i have to go doesn’t help.

before i reflect with you, christmas in illinois was so wonderful to be with family and see a handful of friends. we savored every minute, every smile, every hug, every story about your lives, every snowflake, and every bite (once i could eat more normally).

now that we’re back, however, reality is..real. i look back on some of my posts and get annoyed at how upbeat and motivated i was. i’m contending with side effects like acid reflux, a nasty sinus infection that is tougher without nose hair and might influence if i can get chemo tomorrow, changing insurance companies in the middle of a major health event (i know my employer is saving money but i can still be frustrated over it) and being on the phone for approximately 3 hours with 26 different calls (i counted) today alone to get things right, and seeing that despite my positive treatment response, i still have a long way to go. i’ve read the studies that conclude staying positive actually doesn’t help when you’re delusional and not recognizing the very tough shit you’re going through. recognition….check.

so why a post on dying? i’m still trying to connect the dots psychologically and am doing a dry run here.

a cancer diagnosis conjures up vivid images–either of ones we have witnessed, seen in movies, or fear the most for ourselves. sterile dimly-lit hospital rooms, pale, thin and bald patients shuffling around with IV poles, families camped out with somber faces, otherwise criss-crossing the country for a last ditch miracle trial, organs shutting down one by one, and ultimately a quiet passing and funeral smattered with pictures of the person when they ‘were healthy.’ i’m not diminishing what has too often been a reality. i’m just sharing the reel that’s been playing in my mind, wondering if it will be me some day.

maybe because cancer is so prevalent, we think we know the end of the story once cancer announces itself.

it’s taken me awhile to zoom out of that frame and recognize that cancer patients are living longer, both having come through their disease without reoccurrence or managing it more like a chronic disease. even if i remember these facts, it doesn’t lessen the blow of reality. no, cancer is not the same as high blood pressure or diabetes, but the oncology field seems to be moving that way. as do the patients. in the documentary, crazy sexy cancer, kris carr has a rare stage iv cancer (her liver looks like swiss cheese, full of tumors). the film traces her experience over several years, as she tries out different lifestyle changes and comes to grips with what living with cancer means to her. at one point, her diagnosis is reframed as ‘living with a set of tumors’ and not the c-word. that sticks with me. and through the video and since then, she’s tried to give cancer a makeover so that the images we have of cancer patients are replaced with others, of vibrant human beings who are out living their lives fully and richly.

on the dying part…well yes, any one of us could get hit by a bus tomorrow (for the record, i hope not). and we know the odds of me getting through treatment and surgery without fatal complications are high. i will live past my cancer.

however, i now have a more proximate idea of what i will die from and how i will die. the movie in my head could be a reality, no matter what reframe i or anyone else gives cancer. it still takes lives in a very step-wise fashion. so what’s better–being blissfully ignorant and bam, the bus hits you? or knowing that some uninvited cancer cells might have a foothold and survive beyond brutal beatings, just waiting to grow again in a more complicated way…that makes you criss-cross the country searching for a last ditch medical trial, etc etc etc?

why is it so scary? why is cancer so scary? for me, beyond all the treatments that aren’t necessarily a cake walk, i’m realizing that it’s less about dying (we know we’ll all die some day and anticipate it’s at a ripe old age), and it’s more about not living and not living too soon, with too many unfinished, undone, unstarted, unlived things out there. dying would make me really sad. it’s related to an earlier post about grieving the life i dreamt for myself too.

so my new years resolution: focus on the not dying part, the living part. don’t put off living until i ‘get through this’ because frankly, as i said, it’s going to be a long time in the physical sense and maybe forever in the emotional sense.

i’ll take my cues from the many amazing women and men i’ve met in the cancer world so far, and friends who have stepped up with compassion so deep and adventures to promise for the future, and mike’s christmas gift of the 1000 things to experience on this planet.

starting tomorrow when i come out from under the bed.
until then,
xom
ps i had these professional photos taken before i started treatment, to capture the ‘me’ then for a project For Luli to help newly diagnosed women. i offer it up here because it makes me both happy and sad and reminds me of who i was and who i am.

“it is perfectly okay to lay face down and pissed at the world from time to time.” this message in a card to me (thank you, susan) was especially appropriate this week and is even more so today.

in light of the tragic mass shootings in Connecticut, this post feels narrow. i just can’t imagine what it’s like to lose a child, especially to guns and violence and in a supposed safe place where kids go every day to be enriched. no one should imagine it, yet alone live it.

i started writing yesterday so will continue to let you know how things are going, with some modifications.

have you ever had to give your pain or discomfort on a scale of 1-10? the only way i can describe the physical effects of chemotherapy is using this scale. before cancer, i was likely a 12, off the scale, active and heathily normal without aches and able to eat and drink whatever i wanted. under taxol, while each week was different and accumulating, i was a 6-7. under AC last week and into this week, i was a -2 and and am now holding steady at 4 since tuesday. the anti-nausea meds i had were not effective at fully eliminating the nausea roller coaster, and as one new friend described, they seemed to be generally holding back a ferocious lion. the nausea went away tuesday morning after i got more fluids and steroids monday afternoon at UCSF.

i now have chronic issues, like mouth sores, exhaustion, peeling skin, and digestion. while there are ways to ‘manage’ most of these things, it remains tricky to figure out how my body is faring on the inside–do i try and take something to speed things up? or slow things down? i’m being fairly general here because frankly, no one needs to hear the extent of someone else’s butt or stomach issues (except my favorite on call nurse, Robin, who keeps telling me daily that they are going to get me through this).

the other challenge is food. my go-to for health is food. eat well to feel good. now, i can’t digest raw foods (e.g., salads) or small grains (e.g., quinoa, flax seeds) at all. like, literally. so that adds in some emotional complications, as i feel paralyzed on what to eat that won’t backfire (thank you, angel, for this book. it’s both inspiring and helpful).

today, my boss and mentor barry and i had a good talk. (pictured here with shaved head–pretty nice, right? my awesome work team went bowling the week before i started AC. beyond barry’s surprise bowling shirt, we witnessed some other star moments, like someone unnamed bowling 2 gutterballs simulataneously). barry reminded me that i was, in fact, lucid when i made the decision to go with dr. rugo at UCSF and the most aggressive treatment. because i wanted the best chance at never having metastatic breast cancer, or getting the lowest reoccurence rate i could of ~16%. but over the weekend and especially monday morning, in between tears and snot and vomit, i was on my knees and fully decided that i was fine with only 1 AC. juuuust one. however, now that i’m more hydrated, not nauseous and can literally see straight, i’m back and happy to be reminded that i had a plan. i appreciated what barry said, that that’s what people do. we make plans and when they get hard–whether it’s training for a race, learning a new language, or going through chemo–we quickly yield to the difficulty and change plans. i was definitely there, feeling desperate, helpless and unhealthy, only able to fixate on the fact that i just ingested an amount of poison that was calculated so it wouldn’t kill me outright but come pretty close.

so there are the details.

i’m here, on the other side of something.

on tuesday night mike told me, “you got through the day.” like many of you, i couldn’t stop reading the news today. i keep thinking of all those families and hoping they too get through the day.

an article about how to talk to your kids about the shooting is sticking with me. no matter what age, it’s ultimately about making them feel safe and secure, addressing their fears. isn’t that what we all want too? and through this cancer business, it’s exactly what i want.
thinking of you all and families everywhere,
xom
ps more on the BAYS holiday party later. mike drug me off the couch there, and i’m thankful for it. and was thankful to see so many shining beautiful women on the other side of something too or still bravely and proudly working through it.

today is the first day i’m sitting halfway upright after my first AC infusion on thursday. our favorite male nurse is very busy…keeping me on a schedule of eating something small (including baby food – yes, we’ve reached a new low) and taking 3 different meds on a schedule to incrementally ward off the nausea that refuses to fully leave. focusing on something else like writing helps for awhile and then it’s too overwhelming. so i lay down quietly with whiz by my side, when he isn’t gnawing on the christmas tree, and listen to guided meditation. next up is figuring out how to properly use my weed stash. and walk for 10 minute stretches (so maddening after i did a long yoga class this week).

apparently nausea is more acute after AC in young, healthy women. no f*cking fair! my NP thought the fancy anti-nausea meds in my IV like emend and aloxi would do the trick, and sunday would be the day of nausea reckoning after they wore off. but, it came about 30 minutes after we walked in the door on thursday. i couldn’t even get up off the couch except to pretend vomit in the sink. strong smells are too much and bland food is all that really works right now. i can’t even think about drinking gatorade again without gagging (see attached infusion pic of the adriamycin, which they have to push manually). this is the stuff chemo nightmares are made of.

when we went in for my booster shot yesterday, i got a big bag of fluids to hydrate me and help curb it all. the nurse told me that AC is the toughest drug combo they give and reminded me that not too long ago, patients were hospitalized to even receive it. how far we’ve come and how far we have yet to go.

i’m not sharing this with you to get a “woe is you” but to let you in on the reality of the ups and downs.

we were temporarily bouyed by the great MRI results i received this week. my tumor is completely shrunk, and the results read, “near complete resolution.” like, for real. (i know, i should have led the post with this but it’s almost a forgotten memory right now). even my surgeon emailed me acknowledging my good response to treatment, and my NP said she was “over the moon and i made her week.” so, the bumps and bruises of taxol were worth it, of course now that they are a distant memory (even my tingles are mostly gone!). the AC is the exclamation point on any cancer cells hiding out and trying to gain footing for the future. this is what we have been aiming for all along, but i just wish i felt better to celebrate it. must keep eyes on prize.

one little snippet i’ll leave you with is about some additional perspective i gained this week. i’m part of the Bay Area Young Survivors (BAYS) support group, an amazing group of women from all walks of life and profound resource for me every step of the way. in between my chemo cycles when i had more energy, i signed up to help with meal support for another BAYS member. she’s my age and living with stage iv breast cancer. it was discovered too late, unfortunately the result of a doctor not taking a young woman’s concerns seriously enough. she just went into hospice. (for another blog post is how distressing it is that there have been only minor improvements in survivorship of metastatic breast cancer).

what i thought was going to be a quick food drop off or a tough experience turned into a warm, lovely visit with her and her mom. she shared chemo tips with me and gave me some home-baked muffins. she continues to give me perspective as i sit here slouched on the couch. yes, nausea can be debilitating but it’s relatively short-lived. with stage II cancer, i’m hopefully just facing a temporary bump in the road. she’s bravely facing her life ending too soon.

i share this, because all the support you’ve been able to give me in many forms–meals, letters, texts, visits, messages, prayers, meditations–has allowed me to support someone else. it’s a big beautiful circle. and when i’m fully well, i just wanted to let you know that i’ll keep paying it forward.

there’s really nothing else i can leave you with on today’s post, other than to share this image of i have of my new beautiful friend, sitting and smiling at her kitchen table, her hair mostly grown back after rounds of chemo, listening to christmas music and talking about whether we’ll feel up to going to the BAYS holiday party tonight. because she’ll be there, so will i.

xom

even though this was a week off, i’m not counting it as such. a true week off will be in mexico, on a beach, with the inklings of a real tan. that will come in 2013. we all knew there would be weeks like this. where sweet and caring words and visits and calls and food and prayer intentions and parties and cupcakes and a very special glass of wine don’t really help (and we had all of the above, save for the wine, in spades. and it was all quality and full of love and laughter, don’t get me wrong.). the bay area winter storms and whiz-induced mangled christmas tree (see attached photo, which, fittingly, i can’t get to turn right side up) are more parallel to how i feel, and how i feel.

i’m deeply sad, tired, bone-sore, and have this annoying anxiety symptom where for stretches i can’t get a deep breath. then there’s the patchy hair making a brief appearance before i embark on the AC bus this thursday (see also: chia pet).

after powering through 12 weeks of chemo, the breathing issues just started last sunday. maybe it was something like a finals flu? or the fact that a week off of chemo, even if planned to let my body recover a bit, means i’m not actively doing something to eliminate the cancer? the trouble breathing was familiar from 5-6 years ago when i was letting work stress add up. while i can mostly control it through counting and mind exercises, shortness of breath has been thisclose all week. my monday appointments with the integrative oncologist, echo, and MRI finished as planned (i’ll save the ongoing contradictory medical advice i, and most cancer patients, have to sift through from the UCSF care team for another post). in the MRI tube, i tried to be a hero and not take ativan, thinking the hour would go by quickly because of all the good things in life rolling around in my mind to distract me. not so much. longest hour ever, made more long by the juxtaposed christmas music the tech was playing. in between trying to breath normally, squeeze a ball if i had shortness of breath (um, define shortness of breath, please), and stay still, and atop the noisiness of the MRI magnet, the ‘fa la la la la las’ were killing me. this coming from a big fan of holiday music. i’ve never been so thankful to get out of a confined space, but not after the nurse left me with a huge bruise on my port when she removed the needle.

wamp waaaaaaa.

our fertility doctor told us we probably had underlying fertility issues because frankly he’d expect more from our embryos. this after him telling me i’d regain ovarian function but then doing a take-back because he forgot i still had to have AC (he gets a pass this time because i love him so much, but still, ouch. and our totsicles are just fine, so we still have that for the future. so maybe it was some complex of being an A student and hearing that some of your embryos are Bs. kind of like hearing that your baby is ugly. i can’t quite find the right parallel but you get my drift.).

i spent a few long stretches on the phone with insurance because i’m getting double-billed for the august MRI. resolution still pending.

when i move too quickly (aka normally), i’m reminded of what i just went through. turning off the nightstand lamp at night even seems to be a chore.

so i keep trying to breathe. early and often. and i go on, mostly pretending to be fine with everyone. because it’s easier, or likely more polite, to pretend. when someone asks, “how are you?”, s/he really doesn’t deserve to hear “i have f*cking cancer, how would you be?”

this stuff is really hard. even if some of it is temporary, it’s really f*cking hard. please don’t apologize to me for feeling this way. and please don’t tell me to stay positive. it’s all part of the package and to feel the highs i have to live through the lows.

in what might seem like a non sequitor, mary and eric welcomed beautiful baby ann monroe to the world this week. mary sent this poem by clarissa pinkola estés to mike a few months ago. it’s very relevant this week and will serve as my pep talk because i will come back around…when i’m ready.

refuse to fall down
refuse to fall down.
if you cannot refuse to fall down,
refuse to stay down.
if you cannot refuse to stay down
lift your heart toward heaven
and like a hungry beggar,
ask that it be filled,
and it will be filled.
you may be pushed down.
you may be kept from rising.
but no one can keep you
from lifting your heart
toward heaven —
only you.
it is in the midst of misery
that so much becomes clear.
the one who says nothing good
came of this,
is not yet listening.

xom

yesterday, when walking out of walgreens at 16th and mission, i came across someone who made my day (beyond all of you and your thanksgiving wishes and support). a sharply dressed man wearing white pants and a bright orange blazer was selling flowers. when i walked past, he said: “damn grrrrrl! if you’re sexy and you know it clap your hands!” at first, i thought he was talking about someone else. i mean, bald henna head wearing fleece pants and a purple puffy vest hiding behind sunglasses isn’t high on many people’s sexy list. but, he dropped his post and started walking next to me and said, “i love your henna, just love it. let me give you my number–it’s a 925 #, east bay, so you might not recognize it easy. but man, you look like someone who i could have a good time with night or day, NIGHT OR DAY!” ok, that got me. while it was slightly creepy and a lot overboard, it made me smile, which he was also happy about, “see! i got you to smile girl! MY girl!” so, there is hope for the world if on my worst days, someone can make me that happy and vice versa. don’t worry for mike, i didn’t write down his number and peeled off into a veggie market so i didn’t have company the 2 blocks home. but i did have a big smile on my face for a long while afterwards.

i’ve been thinking a lot about my other grandma, nana, this weekend given the 2-year anniversary of her death. we lost both grandmas less than a month apart. you might be asking, isn’t it kind of weird to entitle a post with the word “sexy” and talk about your grandma in it? well, yeah, kind of. but, my grandma nana always looked good, like damn grrrrlll. meaning, she was ready to have her portrait taken at all times with her estée lauder make-up, sophisticated white hair, and blingy jewelry just so. and, as mike and i decorated our christmas tree last night after watching the irish win yet again (woo #1!), we hung the beautiful, hand-beaded ornaments we inherited and set out the hand-stitched tree skirt and stockings for the mantel. it’s all beautiful and still style-appropriate after all this time. of course it is. i gave a big shout-out to her (see the tree all lit up, both before [and after] whiz tried to climb it). she survived breast cancer–twice. i was too young to remember most of it, or maybe i was old enough and she didn’t let on how tough it was.

i loved swimming at her and my baba’s condo in florida, even if all the other senior citizens didn’t like it when we overtook their water aerobics. and the windmill cookies always ready for us, or the homemade spritz cookies. and her always commenting how she loved my “hairs” (i wonder what she’d say about them now). when on her literal death bed, after mike and i got to the hospital right from the airport, she was in so much pain she had to keep her eyes closed. we hugged and kissed her, and she said, “i bet mike looks good.” still flirting at 92. and when nathan asked her what she wanted for christmas, without missing a beat she answered, “a new body.” and her ring from my grandpa that i proudly wear as our engagement ring. the advice she gave us with the ring that i think about so often, is that “love is a little word and a big word.” and the lesser profound but equally as important, “don’t get bothered by the damn piddly things.” she also told us that night, “you’ll get a lot of surprises in marriage.” oh boy was she right, on all of the above.

i’m blessed to be born into a wonderful group of people. i know you all have special people in your lives too, and i hope they know you’re grateful for them.

we received more good news at the clinic last week, that my tumor is hard to measure externally. right now, it just feels like dense tissue and cannot be easily grabbed. i also was accidentally enrolled in a study for stage iv cancer patients to analyze circulating tumor cells in my bloodstream. the results showed that i have zero circulating tumor cells, as one would expect but it was still an accident that continued to give concreteness to a business that is generally less than certain.

this week is my “week off,” as my NP told me. “week off” in cancer land includes an integrated oncologist appointment, echocardiogram, MRI, fertility specialist (forgot to include that in my first post!) and acupuncture. most of these are check-ins to see how things compare to the august baseline. i start up chemo again next thursday, 12/6. in the meantime, i will enjoy that week off, with mike, our house, my job, friends, whiz, and a glass of wine at some point (big previously forboden treat!).

take good care.
xom
ps if you’re wondering, i have a million journals full of things written down that people say or i’m thinking. they might be one of my favorite possessions. you never know, something smart you said might come back to you too!

do you remember those PSAs from the 80s? the one with eggs getting scrambled or the girl diving into an empty pool? the ominous narrator chimes in, “this is your brain. this is your brain on drugs. any questions?” well, he kind of wasn’t joking. my brain is on drugs, and it is really wacked.

i’ve heard from other cancer patients that their short-term memory is gone, finito, sh*t. and now it’s happening to me. what does this look like?

when i can’t concentrate for more than 30 seconds at a time.

when i lose my former ability to multi-task, forgetting about scrambling eggs on the stove because i’m engrossed vacuuming in the other room (this happened today, so the PSA is feeling spot on).

when i begin most sentences with: “did i tell you [insert anything]?” and your answer is a resolving “yes.”

when i lose my words. there are plenty of examples like this last one, but, i haven’t found the words yet so can’t share them. true story.

when i tell you a big piece of news that you actually had told me first.

when i take forever to get out of the house. this is a pre-condition to chemo but has been totally exacerbated because of it. sorry, mike.

thank god i’m not driving on the freeway, folks!

my NP said they don’t quite understand the biological reasons behind chemo brain, but it is medically recognized as a condition. she did offer up some ponderings on it though. like, your brain partially shuts down to prevent any more trauma. or you have PTSD from your diagnosis and can’t process what’s continually happening to you. or the drugs produce the fog. or your fatigue and low blood counts cause it. or the drive-by that is chemo attacks your brain cells in some way.

the good news is that with growing recognition of this real side effect, the research is also starting to pay attention (see here for a recent study that showed EEGs of patients receiving chemo having “high amplitude;” that is, more brain activity when doing cognitive tasks. in other words, chemo patients had to work a lot harder to think.) (yes, first the research needs to confirm it’s true before they can figure out how to treat it. thank you, science, for confirming what cancer patients have been saying is true for decades) (chemo brain can’t kill my sarcasm, dammit!).

this might be the side effect that bothers me the most. i’m not ready to have senior moments, although they would go hand-in-hand with the hot flashes. chemo brain can be short-term while receiving chemo, or, worst case scenario, can last a few years or longer. i get my life but lose my brain. so please humor me for the time being, when you witness or are part of an interaction with any of the above examples. the only comeback i have is borrowed from a t-shirt i saw in the infusion room: “i have chemo brain. what’s your excuse?” cancer humor, slightly dark and mostly snarky.

up this week: getting me some more of that fancy chemo! my 12th and final taxol, right in time for turkey day. i’m thankful to have received all my treatments so far on time and without life-threatening side effects. pretty low bar but there it is.

i’m also continually thankful for family and friends, whether it’s here on caringbridge, in the city or across the miles. it might be meals, letters, visits, texts, trips to pier 1, or getting henna-ed together–it all is deeply meaningful. and that last experience, getting my head painted with henna, was totally awesome. i got more than a few double-takes out and about today, with people likely being initially afraid of me for being so hard core to tattoo my whole head. but the interactions–“what’s the occasion for the henna?”–were way more positive than i usually get in public (e.g., eyes averted, fear, discomfort). art is beautiful, and now i get to wear it on my head.

happy short (US) week to you all. enjoy the cornucopia this week brings and safe travels if you’re headed out.
xom
ps some of you have inquired – we cannot see who reads the blog unless you heart a post or comment. i’m not asking for either but wanted to share how it works from our end.

i finished my 10th chemo treatment on thursday.

during my infusion, one man, living with stage iv cancer, was receiving his 33rd chemo treatment in the past 3 years. i wanted to scream at him, “thirty-three f*cking chemos?! how are you managing???” but in my benadryl fog, i couldn’t open my eyes or talk sensibly for that matter, so i just listened to his upbeat attitude, his intimacy with the staff, his thankfulness, his matter-of-factedness about it all. then i started calculating for myself….12 taxols/herceptins, 4 ACs followed by 4 neupogen bone marrow boosters, and another 14 of herceptin. that’s 30 + 4. 34. all in a year. this is not a game i’m particularly thrilled at ‘winning,’ but i learned a lot from just those few minutes overhearing him. and hearing how my dad approaches his stage iv cancer too. you might as well not even call it cancer, in their minds. as my friend anne said to me, “cancer is, amazingly, becoming a chronic disease that can be managed and lived with for a very very long time.” while i know it’s not true for everyone, it’s true for many. blessings and curses.

back to the infusion room. i love it in there. i don’t dread my thursdays. how gross is that? it’s true though. it’s the best of humanity. it’s raw, from the heart, and real.

overhearing people talk about the mundane (a middle-aged couple arguing over tree stumps they need to dig out of their yard), current (a hemp-seed snacking man listening intently to the VP debates and celebrating “joe’s punches”), and catty (a mother and daughter talking trash about the sister trying to “find herself spiritually for too many years now”). there is also the profound, though it’s less spoken and more in movements and looks. watching people’s eyes, both the patients and their guests. how can eyes express so much? terror, concern, empathy, tenderness, and even flirtaciousness…especially with ning, everyone’s favorite technician.

it’s not a particularly social place, but when i have talked with another patient, i hear some pretty amazing things and meet a cross section of people. my favorite has to be the gentlemen from sonoma who rodeos, has colon cancer, and has only told his closest family because he doesn’t “want to be pitied or looked at differently, ya know?” i do know.

and the staff too. mike and i have said it over again, but they are so wonderful. and upon reflection, i am really getting to know them well too, especially the nurses. pauline from ireland, who swore i had ringworm instead of a taxol rash because she always got it on the farm growing up (i can’t make this stuff up). annette who is training for the sacramento marathon. and ilonah who was running to catch the cal-train, tripped, and blew out the knees of her scrubs.

so, that’s what it’s like in there. no one wants to be there, but everyone makes the most of it.

assuming my weekly bloodwork is solid and side effects manageable, i close out my taxol treatments right before thanksgiving and start AC in december. i’ve told many of you that AC is the nasty stuff, the stuff that could overtreat me, threaten to damage my heart now or in the long-term, and/or give me more classic chemo fatigue and nausea. all of it could also cause a secondary cancer of the blood. it occurred to me today that every time i talk about this with any of you, anxiety builds. it’s like living through a trauma multiple times without living through it yet, if at all. because the truth is i don’t know what will happen or how i’ll feel. and, i’m the one who chose the most aggressive treatment plan with the best doctor to give our best effort at me only going through cancer one time. so given this, i don’t want to talk about AC anymore until i’m having it. and i might not want to talk about it at all then either (except maybe to marvel at the guaranteed red pee that comes along with it).

badabing badaboom.

i’ll close out this post with something i’m really thinking about a lot today. my friend gary gave me a set of cds about the will to live. you know, a small topic easily covered by a double disc. one reflection is on chemotherapy but i think it’s relevant to everyone. the quote most sticking with me: “we must look at our wounds and our difficulties, these things we have survived on the path of life, not as a victim. that we must look not with self pity but we look as survivors, with curiosity, with wonder, as a witness to the power of the life in us.”

happy sunday to you all. and thanks to all the MCI retreaters, who were so amazing to visit with and made me the world’s biggest (and most awesome) get well card. it hangs proudly in our home.
xom