Tag: chemo

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Holy suffering, Batman!

So, the past week? 
That sucked.  Really. 
First, we had Monday, the day of infusion.  I tend to feel great when I go to the clinic
because it’s been a while since they filled me with poison.  So I show up optimistic, energized, ready to
go.  The infusion was fine. 
For those not familiar with how the process works, I’ll give
you a quick run down.  I have a medi-port
device, named Portia, that is installed in my chest.  It is accessed by a big scary needle and
fluids can be administered through it and blood can be taken from
it.  It’s pretty nifty and saves you from
ruining your arm veins.  Upon arrival, I
am weighed, and vitals are taken.  I am
weighed each time because the volume of chemo you are given is based on your
weight.  Blood is taken and a couple of
quick tests are done while I am administered pre-meds – steroids, hydrating
fluids and anti-nausea medication.  This
takes about an hour.  Then I am hooked up
to Oxaliplatin and Vectabix, two chemo drugs that are given over several
hours.  At the end of that, I am given a
bolus (injection) of 5-FU (yes, it’s really called that) and then hooked up to
the Wonder Woman Power Pack (aka Fanny) that I wear home.  This contains more 5-FU which is pumped into me for 48 hours.        
During this time, at the cancer center, I visited with nurses I know, showed off
my latest Wonder Woman accessories, read, rested, watched funny YouTube videos.  I even did a conference call with my staff
via FaceTime.  Ah, technology.  After, Kevin and I had lunch at Panera, stopped at Old Navy to
buy some new “visiting jammies”  (it’s
important to have decent lounge-wear when people stop by often as people do
when one is ill.)  I went home, took it
easy, did a little catching up on work and felt mostly ok. 
Wobbly, but ok.  Wobbly is the
name I give to the feeling that sets in once chemo has been administered but
hasn’t yet unleashed its fury.   You feel like something is off, your brain isn’t
sharp, you feel slightly queasy and a little tired.  The next day and a half, I was mostly getting used
to lugging that fanny pack around. 
Tired, uncomfortable.  Then the
heartburn of an angry dragon set in.  This was a
new sensation – burning from my belly, literally up to my ears.  I looked it up and that’s a thing – burning all
the way up into your Eustachian tubes. 
Ugh. 
Wednesday I got unhooked from the Power Pack and was
administered more anti-nausea meds and a prescription for heavy duty heartburn
medication.  The heartburn
persisted.  I dragged myself into work on Thursday to attend our Day of Hope picnic.  Familiar faces and an event celebrating God
on the North Shore lifted my spirits even though I felt pretty low,
physically.  I felt like I was literally dragging myself around,
wondering if people could tell how I was only about 50% sure I wouldn’t vomit
right there in front of the crowd.  A
homeless man spoke to me as I passed by and said “Ma’am, you look like a
princess.”  I looked around to see if he was really talking to me, and when I confirmed that, I smiled and said to him very genuinely “Sir,
you have just made my day.” 
I came home and made dinner and the efforts of the day just wore me down.  Just as we sat down together, I got so sick I couldn’t eat it.  What a shame!  I had three bites of a delicious meal and my body just shut down.  This was very discouraging.  I went to bed and barely saw my family that day.  Emotionally, this was the hardest day.  Your little girl just wants to tell you about her day and you have no choice but to be alone in a dark room and just get through it.  Your exhausted husband has worked all day and now has to handle every aspect of the evening – clean up the kitchen, bath, math practice, lunches for the next day.  This is when sadness and “it’s not fair!” threatens to take hold of me.    
Friday, I’d agreed to attend an important meeting.  I truly relied on God to get me there,
through the meeting and home.  I was glad
I went, and so grateful to get home, put my non-visiting jammies on and just
settle into a weekend of rest. 
Unfortunately, Saturday, the heartburn upped its game.  My insides felt on fire.  Nothing touched it – believe me, I’ve tried
everything from prescription meds to kimchi (which is delicious, btw!) so save
your well intentioned “Have you tried ginger tea?” for someone who has
heartburn because they ate too much Vincent’s pizza.  This is the chemically induced destruction of
the upper portion of the digestive system. 
My doc is on the case, so we’ll hopefully figure it out, but mint leaves
and popcicles aren’t going to tame this dragon, my friends. 
Sunday, let’s just say I spent more time in the bathroom
than I did for my past two colonoscopy preps combined.  Man, I don’t know what hell was unleashed on
my tummy, but you could audibly hear it churning from across the room.  Because I’m stubborn and crazy, we decided to
go to the Science Center anyway.  I can
tell you where every bathroom on every floor is.  My apologies to anyone who was there Sunday.  We came home and I laid in agony while
watching The Devil Wears Prada.  I want
to be Meryl Streep in 30 years.  Or be
neighbors with her.  We would visit over
chai tea and talk about the most wonderful things, I just know it. 
The weekend was really miserable.  Many times I lifted my eyes heavenward and
said “A little help, here?”  No specific
answer came – just the truth that only what is needed is what comes and that
which is not needed stays away.  This is
needed.  Don’t know why.  But I don’t need to know.  To say we need to know is to say we know
better than our creator, and that just doesn’t make sense to me.  He knows. 
He has set me upon this path and is deeply aware of every
experience.  He uses all for my good.  So be it, and may I be grateful
throughout. 

Today, Monday.  I am a
new woman.  The storm has quieted.  The fire in my belly has reduced to a
smolder.  I am so thankful to be mostly
restored.  And I am grateful to be able
to say I leaned in to the Lord in search of wisdom and comfort, not away in
despondent bitterness.  As John Newton
says, (something to the effect of) if we’re going to the throne of grace where sits the King of Kings, the
Father of all creation,  in search of
comfort and relief and we aren’t getting it, we certainly aren’t going to get
it from staying away.                  
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Portia the Port

So Wednesday, I went to UPMC East hospital to get my new port installed.  To my surprise, my surgeon was the same man who valiantly performed my very difficult biopsy.  As soon as we came around the corner, he said “There she is – my lung capacity champion!”  This man is really impressed with my breath holding skills.  (Is there any way I can make money with this skill?)  Anyway, I felt confident in his ability to do the port procedure, after all we’ve been through together.  Dr. Varma is a young-ish kind of cute Indian surgeon.  I like him.  Probably because he likes me – isn’t it funny how that works?  I remember telling my mom when I was little that I liked one of my dad’s friends, and she asked me why and I said “Because he likes me.”  And she asked how I knew he liked me and I said that he smiled really big and his eyes got squinty when he saw me.  I’m pretty sure the guy was an ex-con for some non-violent crimes – Well, I guess I started early believing people deserve second chances.  Anyway, I like Dr. Varma. 

Along with him came a big, bearded, shaved headed, tattooed anesthesiologist.  When I told my dad this, he made a disapproving sound, and I said “NO!  That’s good.  I was happy.  That’s the kind of guy who isn’t going to hold back on the anesthesia.” 

See, apparently when Dr. Cordaro my surgeon who put Mort in just knocks you right out.  Dr. Varma has you awake but in “twilight.”  That can mean a lot of different things from my experience.  I know that during this procedure, your arms are basically tied down – look, if you feel the need to TIE DOWN MY ARMS, then you should probably just make real sure I do not care what’s going on.  So, biker-dude anesthesiologist and I had a little chat.  And I’m happy to report, we understood each other perfectly.  The procedure began with him injecting me with some drug that starts with an F.  Maybe fluvoxa-something?.  And he said “Your cocktail, my lady.”  And then he gave me another one.  Dr. Varma asked “How are you feeling? ”  And I said “Fine now, but scared it’s going to hurt.”  He gave the ok to give me another dose.  Then he started cutting into my chest and neck, but I could not possibly have cared less.  They had a little paper sheet over my head and I stared at the blue fabric with great interest and mentally floated on clouds.  Soon, they were done and I was wheeled back to the recovery area.        

My new port and I are getting used to each other. 

She’s new.  She’s sleek.  She’s a lean, mean, chemo delivery machine.  Introducing…Portia! 

I broke up with Mort the Port at the recommendation of my oncologist in February.  The severance was quick, not exactly painless but I healed quickly.  I thought I’d try being on my own for a while.  But it turns out, I’m not cut out for port-free living. 

Portia and I – I know, it’s a new relationship, but so far, well, we just work.  Unlike Mort, she doesn’t mind if I sleep on my side.  And she doesn’t insist on bulging out quite so brashly, announcing to the world that we are together.  She’s more confident, secure in herself.  Humbly dignified.

As long as she’s not shy with the chemo nurses, I think I’m in this partnership for the long haul.  Eat your heart out, Mort.       

We met with my doctors (liver surgeon, Dr. Tsung, and my trusty oncologist, Dr. Mehta) on Friday.  Apparently my case made it to the UPMC tumor board, whatever that is – a group of specialists that discuss interesting cases, I suppose.  Dr. Mehta likes to brag about me so he told everyone about my triathlon and breath holding skills. 

We got some good news Friday.  One is that Dr. Tsung doesn’t feel that my cancer is particularly aggressive – it’s been growing slowly, he says.  I wonder if my physical activity and generally anti-cancer lifestyle have helped.  Doctors tend not to think that way, but I think you have to look at the big picture.  How can what we eat and how we live not have an impact?  I’m not saying you can cure yourself with leafy greens but it’s worth giving up the bread and cake to give yourself an edge.  Since my CT scan, I have gotten very serious about my diet.  I am actively attempting to bring my weight down to reduce the amount of fat in my liver (down 11 pounds so far!)  And I am avoiding foods that are known to be cancer-feeding.  So this means:  no sugar, no processed junk, virtually no starches (I’m eating some hummus and beans which have a little starch in them) no red meat or pork, no fruit except berries.  So what I AM eating is:  lots of fish, organic chicken and turkey, organic veggies and some strange things I’ve researched that seem to boost one’s immune system and fight cancer including:  Noni juice, a raw, organic green super food powder, lots of fresh ginger, garlic and turmeric.  The noni juice smells and tastes pretty terrible.  I figure it must be doing SOMETHING if it tastes that awful.  🙂

Other good news we’ve gotten is that I am negative for two genetic mutations that are bad.  I’m not clear on exactly why, but if you have them, your cancer is harder to treat.  So, I’m in the “best” camp of Stage 4 colon cancer patients.  This situation is not good by any means, but my spirits definitely lifted some when I heard this news.  Both of my doctors seemed energized and ready to get to work on this stupid cancer. 

We start tomorrow.  Dr. Mehta is adding a third drug to my chemo regimen.  He cautiously delivered this side effect news to me:  It’s going to make my face break out like the worst teenage acne I have ever seen.  He said “The effect varies but you need to understand, your face will not be as pretty as it is now.”  I am struggling with this for one reason:  I have always been able to decide if I want people to know something is “wrong” with me.  But between this fanny pack infusion business and my face looking like a disaster, that choice seems to be less available this time around.  It will be humbling to draw attention in this way.  But as my mom and I discussed – what an opportunity to show my daughter, who could very well have acne in coming years, how to deal gracefully with this particular life challenge. 

I’m wrestling with the feelings.  Annoyance, fear, embarrassment, worry and frustration with myself with caring about how I look.  I’ve never “gotten by on my looks” per se.  But I never really stopped to appreciate just looking “normal.”  Cancer is a thief.  It tries to steal just about everything.  Physical comfort, energy, hope, confidence.  But. 

God is in His wheelhouse right here. 

Do not conform any longer to the patterns of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind… 


Beauty is fleeting but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.


Instead (your beauty) should come from your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle, quiet spirit.  (I know, I need some work here.)  🙂


Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction…


Consider it pure joy when you face trials of many kinds…


Blessed is the man who perseveres under trials…

It’s another thing to entrust to Him.  Plus, I’ll know who my real friends are, when people start avoiding me because I look like The Swamp Thing.  🙂     

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Our downfall: ingratitude

I can honestly report to you that I am doing OK. I do not feel afraid right now.  Something has been allowing me to live above my circumstances. Allowing me to live up higher and float slightly above the reality we face.  It’s not illegal drugs 🙂 or tired cliches of God not giving me more than I can handle.  It’s not a unicorn farting sparkly fairy dust or a mantra.  

It’s gratitude.  My readings and listenings and thinkings and prayings have led me to a special place of thanks.  I’m grateful.  For my life so far.  My family.  My friends. My job. The love of many.  Everything is a gift.  I’m reading this cool book that is right in line with this.  It’s called One Thousand Gifts.  (Score another one for my mentor, Lisa.) It’s encouraged me in this thinking.  
Our problem is entitlement, and not just the millenials.  All of us.  Between Hollywood, fairytales, and everybody’s Facebook highlight reel, we think we deserve a loving partner, our health, freedom from pain, a dog that doesn’t chew the couch, a DVR with endless memory, perky boobs, a sweet ride, a head full of hair and perfectly above average children.  
That’s what seems “normal” so we think we deserve at least that.  So and so has it, why can’t I?  
There are a few problems with this thinking:
-people have more problems than you think they do. Believe me, I know. Because when you have my kind of problems, people reach out and tell you their problems.  Which I love and see as a gift.  Seriously.  People have illnesses they don’t want to tell you about, pain that is difficult to share, shame that requires medication and worries that rattle them to the core.  But their family photos look sunny and fun, their smile is firmly plastered and they are deeply committed to making you believe everything is fine.  (Unsolicited advice:  Be a safe haven instead of a competitor.) 
-most of the world has nothing close to those things you think you require in order to be ok. Much of the world is inhabited by people who are not sure where their next meal is coming from, if their sister will die during childbirth, if a bomb will destroy their home, if the water is safe to drink or if an anaconda will eat them. (The last one is sort of made up.) 
If you’re reading this, you’re one of the lucky ones.  Put here by God and your ancestors hard work and decent genes.  Forget about the facelift and the $400 sneakers (unless you can have them AND truly be thankful.  Which, I think, is hard.) 

-if you feel entitled to those things, you can’t appreciate them.  And you’re missing so much!  Look around your house…The one that isn’t big enough or nice enough.  Can you give thanks for it? Try.  Your kids/spouse/brother are crazy.  If only they would just…  Stop.  Look at them.  They are so great.  Just give thanks for them. 

-perfect isn’t normal.  You know what is normal?  Some mix of monotony, love, tragic loss, fun, boredom, physical pain, pleasant enjoyment, white hot fear, depression, hilarity, relief, dullness, excitement, betrayal, surprise, anger, healing.  That’s a lot more normal than a perfect family that never has any problems.   How about we expect to have problems, small and occasionally big, and learn to respond with a thankful heart – yes, crying, screaming and such is fine for a time.  We all have to experience difficult emotions one way or another.  But there is great comfort and opportunity on the other side of that wall of fear you think you can’t get over.  There is a ladder nearby.  It is called Gratitude.

When you begin to see everything as a gift, your perspective changes.  Realizing you’ve been acting like you deserve something is a wake up call.  You’ll think “why?”  Why have you acted this way?  This entitlement?  Because you do good stuff sometimes or try to do less bad stuff, or you go to church or don’t swear or something?  That’s very common and understandable but let’s be real – it’s bad theology and simply not how life works.  Fred Rogers died of stomach cancer.  Shit happens.  To really great people.  

But there is so much hope in letting go of the entitlement. 

Your heart grows and your brain relaxes and you unclench your fists and you begin to take in the scenery a little better.  Set backs are less devastating, because…look at all of these gifts!  Maybe you didn’t get the Malibu Barbie, but there’s a freaking Cabbage Patch Kid over there!

Yes, there is cancer.  That nasty thing.  But also…

There is a friend who would move mountains.  A mom and dad at the ready.  There’s a good job.  A strong husband.  There’s your aunt who really loves you.  There’s a cold drink.  A warm bed.  A fluffy cat.  Your little girl with mischief in her eye and love in her heart.  There’s The Golden Girls when you can’t sleep.  

And if you see that there is a gift giver and He is the mighty captain of this ship, and He is big and good and generous and very skilled at steering.  Well, then you can enjoy the gifts and enjoy the ride.  




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RIP, Mort the Port

I spent the past 17 months with a compass sized contraption in my chest.  It looks like this:

That long tail thing that goes into the jugular vein freaked me out a little.  It hurt a lot when it was installed and it took some time to get used to the idea.  But I understood that it would be my chemo delivery system and I should make peace with him.  So I named him Mort the Port and considered him an ally.
I recently got the news that my oncologist doesn’t think I’ll need him anymore.  This is huge.  The idea that your conservative, careful cancer doctor doesn’t think you will need any more chemo for the foreseeable future is a big deal.  A break in the clouds.  A bright sunbeam of happiness!  
So two days ago, I went to the hospital.  And I looked like this:
And then they put me out with some heavy drugs and scraped out Mort.  So I liked like this:
Cute, huh??  So Kevin took me home and let me rest with a cat on me, like this:
I got a little more energy from snuggling with this little bug:
I got brave and took off the bandages yesterday.  Eeeek:
It’s so swollen, it looks and feels like Mort is still in there.  But I know he’s not.  It’s a new era in my journey.  So many prayers have been answered.  Since we got that awful news, literally from that moment, everything, while difficult and painful at times, has gone with perfect precision.  This blessing does not escape me.  I am so grateful.  
I met a Brazillian faith healer by a river in Oregon, who talked to me half in Portugese and half in English. (Yes, I know this sounds made up.  It’s not.)  So I missed a lot of what she said. And she said a lot of strange things to me (including the f-word every sentence or two and that dogs cure cancer) but she grabbed my hands and urged me to trust in my having been healed by God and to be fearless.  Interestingly, the same day, I went to this bakery and had a cookie so delicious I’ll never forget it.  
Live fearlessly, my friends.  

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Hope realized.

Last week I had a doctor’s appointment where my doctor analyzed the results of my latest CT scan and blood work.  He deemed my results “excellent.” Relief and gratitude washed over me.  As you can imagine, waiting for those results is maddening.  It’s like balancing on a fence for a week, being told you may not hop down.  One one side of you is a fluffy mattress, puppies, a massage therapist, a nice Malbec, endless episodes of Parks & Rec and like, George Clooney or Ryan Gosling, I mean, my wonderful, handsome husband whom I love very much.  On the other side of the fence is fire, spiky things, expense reports, your 7th grade math teacher, Mrs. McKinney, who was void of soul and mean as the day is long, humidity, spiders, pop-country music, scratchy wool sweaters, pantyhose, mayonnaise just lying around in glistening, awful mounds and a cloud of farts.  Broccoli farts.  

While on the fence, so to speak, for one week, I was basically a crazy person.  My head was cluttered with all kinds of worries.  Each day, I would have to bring myself back to sanity. I busied myself with work stuff, prayed and played a lot of Trivia Crack.

When the time came, I got tipped over into the wriggling sea of puppy kisses.  I feel like I’m sane again.  I feel like I have been given, for now, a wonderful gift.  I know it isn’t a gift everyone gets.  I know some well loved friends that are still on their journey of actively battling cancer. I know some dear people who have gone to be with The Lord after fighting a long time.  I worry that my victory, my blessing, my gift is painful to those who are missing someone whose story ended with this battle.  I am careful to recognize the need for utmost humility as I celebrate this battle won.  
Additionally, cancer never goes away entirely.  Even if it truly dies within you, you fear it’s return and who it will attack next.  
Trusting God, as always, is paramount.  I have shifted from praying for healing and am focusing on praying for wisdom.  Like serious, deep wisdom.  I can’t think of anything more important to ask for.  The wiser someone is, the more they seem to trust God.  Having that trust and understanding is more important than what the circumstances are.  You can have health, admiration, financial stability, even love.  But those things, valuable as they are, do much less to help you feel strong when you are weak.  To have peace when you are afraid.  
So Mort the Port comes out next month! This is A Big Deal to me. For one, this foreign object has been in my chest for a year and a half. It has helped to save my life. I have become accustomed to it. It makes blood draws a snap! Letting them take him out means that I submit myself to that whole vein hunting, pricking nonsense.  You get spoiled with a port.  But it’s exciting to close that chapter.  I may even have a little Bon Voyage party for Mort.  He’s been a good ally.  
I’m off to California in a few weeks and Oregon after that.  (Work trips.)  Then my surgery to say au revoir to Mort.  I’m happy.  I’m grateful.  I’m excited for the present.  
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Next stop: Duke University

My next step on the journey to fully defeat cancer starts on September 8th.  I will be traveling to Duke University in the Raleigh-Durham area of North Carolina to participate in a clinical trial for a vaccine that is intended to bolster my immune system in order to prevent the recurrence of colon cancer.

 

 

 
That’s what it looks like at the cellular level, apparently.  A preschool art project.  
 
Yes, as far as we know, right now I’m cancer free. But there is a high likelihood that my cancer will come back. And while it’s entirely possible that it won’t, I am not comfortable just sitting around and waiting for that to happen.  So, I’ve decided to be a guinea pig.
 
It was not an easy decision. Of course all kinds of weird books and movies go through my mind. I’m getting injected with a virus! I could actually start the zombie apocalypse, People!  
 
But after a lot of thought, research, prayer and conversations with people I respect, I’ve decided to go for it. I am not excited about getting on an airplane four times in the next few weeks. I hate flying,  I hate traveling unless it’s for fun.  I’m sick of my life being disrupted. I’m not a fan of getting poked and prodded. I don’t really want more doctors in my life. Doctors are mean sometimes! I’m a little bit scared that something weird might happen to me.  I don’t want the inconvenience for myself or my very accommodating family.  I don’t want the side effects.  (Nothing too crazy, just nausea, fever, fatigue, etc.)  I don’t want to keep feeling like I’m under a microscope. I don’t want to have to think about cancer all the time. I don’t want to schedule my life and other people’s lives around another cancer thing.  We’ve been through so many tests and procedures.  Surgery.  Chemo. Side effects. I just want NORMAL for a while.  
 
But I want to live. And this is something I can do to increase my chances.
 
There’s so much I want to do, so much to live for, so much to see, so much to learn.  I’m busy!  I have plans!  I still haven’t met Bono!  Cancer, like those horrible terrorists in Iraq, has this tendency to go away for a while and then sneak up on you. I’m not letting that happen, to the extent it’s possible.  This vaccine might be the Seal Team Six to add to my already active forces.  
 
Besides, we might be making history. I might be a part of groundbreaking research. We might be curing cancer.  This is a way I can help.  
 
So, after reviewing my oncology records, they approved me to do the on site final screening.  I will go down for the initial visit (sadly, spending my 8th anniversary away from my husband) and hopefully get my first injection the next day. I will be traveling there every three weeks, three more times, to complete the cycle.
 
The officiant of our wedding, John, who is in ministry in the area, along with his wife, has agreed to house and shuttle me around for the first visit.  What a blessing!  It reminds me of the realness of the body of Christ. This is a man who I knew only through friends and a few good phone conversations back when I lived in Seattle.  In 2006, he agreed to do our premarital counseling, and travel from North Carolina to Pittsburgh to marry Kevin and me.  We have only seen him twice since then. And now eight years later, he was quick to offer help with all of this.  Two close friends of mine (one who is in the middle of moving!) were so quick to offer rides to the airport and any help that I would need. My husband is a little nervous about this whole deal, but he kindly booked my flights for me because I’m notorious for screwing that process up.
 
I said recently that we need fewer activist Christians walking around judging people’s behavior, and more silent servants of Jesus. This is what I’m talking about. Service.  Once again, cancer, enemy that it is, shows me love and care and glory.  Once again, I’m humbled.  
 
Pray for me and this strange chapter of the battle.  
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Mother's Day

I love Mother’s Day.  It’s right after my birthday so basically the first half of May belongs to ME, bwahahaha!  I get to sleep in, I get a special breakfast, I get to plant my garden in peace and then!  We go to Kennywood!  I know that’s not every mom’s idea of fun.  But I’m not very mom, am I?  And even better…MY mom likes it, too!  Fun rides, yummy junk food, walking around all day making my daily pedometer goal an easy accomplishment.  Plus my kiddo is happy as a clam.  Everyone wins!  

So, I love this day.  
Bu I deliberately spend part of it in prayer for those who have a rough time on Mother’s Day.  If you’ve lost your mom or a child, or you can’t get pregnant, or you’re estranged from someone that makes this a tough day for you…I’m so sorry.  I’m sorry that Facebook is one giant faceSLAP to you, what with all of the photos and sentiments.  Especially from some people who maybe don’t seem all that grateful to have a mom, or that almighty mom-status.  I can’t imagine.  
Well, maybe I can a tiny bit.  I’ve spent a lt of time contemplating the distinct possibility that cancer would kill me.  I’ve kicked it’s ass but it might come back.  And one of the things I’ve thought about is, if cancer won, what would these days be like for my kid?  And my husband.  And my parents.  Oof.  
Would people be sensitive toward them? Would they hate this day forever?  Would someone have the good sense to remind people that not everyone is having brunch with their mom today?!  
So, the toughness of this day does not escape me.  For now and hopefully for the foreseeable future, my family has the privilege of enjoying a joyous Mother’s Day.  I don’t forget those of you who can’t get out from under the sadness of it.  I’m praying for you.  May people be kind to you, today.  And may you be aware of God’s astounding love for you.
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Moving on…a little

Today we head to the school where Cass will begin Kindergarden in a few short months.  Apparently it’s Kindergarden Bingo night.  Should be interesting.  

It’s nice to be thinking ahead.  There have been a few chunks of time recently where I have actually forgotten I had cancer.  When I was standing along the marathon route craning my neck to spot my husband chugging along, cheering with friends, that whole time, I totally forgot about cancer.  I was in a meeting that got heated recently.  No cancer on the brain for a while.  Someone said something that irritated me recently and I found myself mulling it over.  (For the past 6 months that stuff didn’t even hit my radar – I just dismissed it as totally unimportant.)  I woke up the other day and it was a solid 20 minutes before my mind went there / to Cancer Town.
It’s almost like grief – nothing seems to alleviate it for the longest time.  But then one day, you cautiously realize the pain is a tiny bit smaller.   
Not long ago I really wondered if it would ever not be on my mind.  And yet, here I am, with my mind just relaxed enough to worry about some other crap for a while.  It’s nice.
One moment recently that definitely had me thinking about cancer was when I crossed the finish line for the 5K I ran this past weekend.  A race I trained for while undergoing chemo.  But the way I was thinking about cancer was good.  Triumphant.  Fearless.  Defiant.  Those feelings won’t be how I feel forever.  But they ruled the day.  And they were awesome.  
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California Love part 2

Today is a scan.  I’m nervous.  A little nervous. Not like crazy nervous.  But, unexpected bad news today would be really upsetting.  And good news, while very much hoped for, isn’t a guarantee about anything except right now.  Grappling with the idea that I may never feel totally free of cancer is hard and sad and weird.  But there is something special about the pronounced feeling of uncertainty.  Basically, I just have to live my life, trust God and enjoy each wonderful moment.

So instead of ruminating on fear and nerves, I choose to let it go (enter the Frozen song) and instead, tell you about my trip to California this week.
It was great!  
Our direct mail partners are so smart and helpful and treat us so well.  We love you, Russ Reid!  I also love the weather, staying in a nice hotel (nice hotels have such glorious beds!)  the actual work we do when we’re there (yes, I actually love staring at bar graphs!  Especially when they confirm that we’re doing good work!) I also love the views, the coffee (great coffee is everywhere!) and of course, my trusty travel companion/lap top operator, as well as my friends who have moved there.
Some pics:
And one from Detroit (the airport, anyway.). Because this fountain is sweet.

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I don't know how to do this

Well, I don’t.  But one thing I’ve gotten good at is figuring out how to do stuff I don’t know how to do.  And it usually starts with asking people who have done it or are doing it in a way I can relate to.  So I’m reaching out to those inspiring people who have or are beating cancer and are living large – and by living large, I mean going about their business, working, taking care of families, accomplishing great things like finishing advanced degrees, having babies, planning vacations or emptying the dishwasher, being positive and thankful.  

My first order of business is to calmly wade my way through the next 9 days, which include Easter and a business trip to California, leading up to my next CT scan.  
I choose not to worry.  I have to choose this daily…sometimes hourly.  But it’s my choice and I can reject the temptation to fret, and choose instead to put my trust in God and get on with my day.  So that’s what I’ll do.  
And I’ll be calling on the cancer conquerors for advice and support.  
Also, my chemo destroyed the skin on my fingertips.  They are now covered in what appears to be a collage of hashtags.  
Exhibit A