Four Years

When I was diagnosed with cancer three years ago, before I knew its name or prognosis or treatment, my world went entirely grey and I was gripped by an overwhelming fear. It wasn't for myself (not at first, anyway. That came later). It was for my girl.

Ryan was just finishing up middle school. She was at a vulnerable age. She still had high school ahead of her - four years of high school. After that, she'd be off to college, off on her own, making her way in the world without me.

But until then? She needed me.

So I needed time. I needed four years. Just four years. Anything after that would be icing on the cake.

It's an interesting thing when an Atheist is faced with an existential crisis. There is no asking God for a favor, no bargaining with him, no prayers that will help. Oh, one can "send thoughts/needs/desires out into the Universe," but when it comes right down to it?

One must deal on one's own.

So I sat myself down, shaking with fear, sick to my stomach, and I crawled into my own head. I reminded the sad, sick, tired mama staring back at me that she was not alone; that there was a little girl (for she will always be a little girl in my head) who needed her, no matter the diagnosis, prognosis, or treatment.

Period.

That little girl - that best-by-far thing I have ever had a hand in creating, that brilliant, funny, self-sufficient, utterly fabulous, completely colorful person - wasn't finished growing up yet. And though she had people who loved her, who could help her to stumble through Life, she only had one mother.

Me.

So I resolved that no matter what the oncologist said, I would get four more years. No matter what the cancer was called, no matter how much of me it wanted or needed, the wants and needs of the girl who calls me 'Mom' would take precedence because she - she - would always be more important.

We are now three years gone.

It hasn't been an easy time. I've spent a lot of time sick and tired and frustrated and angry. And though the prognosis is not devastating (for which I am ever so grateful), the cancer has still taken from us - from both of us - in measures of time and well-being and peace of mind.

But we are here. Together. I will get my fourth year. And I will get icing on the cake, too. Now I'm looking beyond next year; I'm looking forward to watching my girl graduate from college and going on to do big things in this world. And she will do big things, in part, because she was mothered. By me. I don't take credit for her accomplishments, mind you, but I do take credit for giving her the love and support she has needed to become the spectacular person she is.

So today, on my 17th Mother's Day, I'm looking back on the last three years, but only for a moment. Today I look forward to all the Mother's Days I will celebrate with my girl. The cancer will still be with me, always there, lurking in a dark grey corner of my head... but always - always - far less important than she.

Here Comes The Sun

In the words of the Beatles, 

Here comes the sun

Here comes the sun

And I say, it's all right

Little darling

It's been a long, cold, lonely winter

Little darling

It seems like years since it's been here

Here comes the sun

Here comes the sun

And I say, it's all right

That what they say. What do I say? 

I say, it's about damned time!

It has most certainly been a long, cold, lonely winter and I am more ready for spring than I think I have ever been. I took my fuzzy boy to the park this afternoon and we had a lie-down in the grass, just soaking up the sun. I'm reasonably certain I'm very, very low on Vitamin D. 

Although I'm always ready for winter to be over, spring feels even more important to me this year than it has in the past. I'm ready to feel better, physically as well as in my head and heart. I didn't expect to feel unwell this winter, especially after such a difficult summer, but Life has a way of throwing curve balls at you. I got hit with one, square in the face. 

But I'm back up, on wobbly legs, ready to move forward. 

And I say, it's all right. 

And it's gonna be all right. 

It is. 

It's My Party and I'll Cry if I Want To

Today is my birthday. I'm 51. I don't feel 51. I don't know how old I feel, to be honest. In some ways, I'd swear I'm but a few days past 22. In others, 82 would be a closer bet. Usually, I'm kind of split... part of me still feels like a kid, like I simply can't believe some idiot would heap all this responsibility on my head long before I was trained up to deal with it. The other part of me feels completely and utterly world-weary.

Tired.

I've dealt with depression a few times in my life. And one of the warning signs, a sign that I'm on that downward slope, is fatigue. Not just I need a nap fatigue, but that bone-tired, I don't wanna move ever sort of fatigue.

That's how I feel right now.

Depression, for me, is situational. It's usually the result of some significant stressor - death, divorce, money woes, illness. In fact, the first time I really dealt with it (that is, acknowledged and faced it), after my dad died, I wouldn't even admit at first that it was depression. I didn't believe it was depression. I always believed things would get better (I always believe things will get better), and I thought that if you knew there was a light at the end of the tunnel (even if you couldn't yet see it), you weren't depressed.

I was wrong.

Depression, for me, is not about medicine. I understand that it's necessary at times and that it works for others, and I'd never say people shouldn't medicate when necessary. But I've never found it necessary. And the therapist I saw for some time, during the deepest depressions I've weathered (after my dad died and after my marriage ended), didn't feel it was necessary either. And since medicines seem to rarely work for me the way they do for other people, I'm quite happy about that.

 So I'm in this state of significant fatigue at present, fending off a bout of depression I do not want or need. I spent much of the year after my 50th birthday celebration dealing with the stress and worries that come from having and being treated for cancer - the side-effects and illness, the financial difficulties, the single motherhood aspect, the residual foggy brain and memory problems, the realization that I am, indeed, mortal, and that mortality can be quite a fleeting thing. And I thought it was all over for a while. And then it wasn't over after all. And a whole year has passed in the blink of an eye and everything feels... not right. And all of it has left me tired.

Exhausted.

Most days, I plug along, cheerful enough, my sense of humor intact, grateful for all I have and for the people in my life, with the ability to turn that gratitude into positivity. Most days.

But some days? Like today? Even though it's a day when oodles of people have taken the time to wish me well and say wonderful things to and about me, all I want to do is STOP. I want to take a long vacation - like MONTHS long - in a warm place, where all I have to do is sit in the sunshine and swim and read books and eat healthy food that someone else has prepared for me.

I know, I know. Everyone wants that. Can you blame them?

But that's not Life, is it? Life is getting up every day, even when it's cold and rainy and miserable out, taking the dog for a walk, cleaning the cats' litter box, cooking meals (mediocre though they may be), playing chauffeur, going to work, doing laundry, figuring out how to make a paycheck stretch much farther than it really should, and trying, trying, trying to get from Monday to Friday without breaking down, falling down, or bringing everyone else down.

Exhausting.

Thankfully, depression, for me, is not (usually) a long-term thing. So, in a few days, weeks, or, heaven forbid, months, I'll feel mostly fine again. Not so worried. Not so tired.

But today? On my birthday? I'd just like the world to stop. Just for a little while.

It's not so much to ask. Is it?

No.

I just read that today is World Cancer Day.

Pffftttt.

Cancer doesn't deserve a special day. You know why? Because cancer is a sonofabitch. 

And because it gets every single stinkin' day of the year, that's why.

Whether you're living with it or dying with it, it's there... it's right there...

It's needles and scans and just one more vial of blood. 

It's scars on the surface. 

It's a port just under the surface.

It's fatigue and nausea and side effects. 

It's goddamned poison in your veins. 

It's fear and anger and desperation.

It's small victories, if you're lucky, and tremendous losses, even when you're lucky.

It's remissions and relapses and it's spreading fast.

It's a taker of security and peace and time and dreams.

It's a giver of confusion and hurt and what the fuck did I ever do to deserve this?

It's holding your breath.

It's pain.

It's grief.
It's deep and profound and unrelenting grief.

And it's every single stinkin' day.

So, no. Just... no.

Cancer doesn't deserve its own day. Cancer deserves a kick in the teeth.

We're All In the Same Boat...

Cancer is a great leveler, I've discovered.

I mean, I knew it, I guess. We all know it, don't we? We know that cancer doesn't discriminate. It attacks young and old, black and white, Republican and Democrat, rich and poor, Christian and Atheist.

Cancer doesn't give a shit.

But you know who does give a shit?

The people cancer affects... the people whose cells it infects... the people it hits like a ton of bricks, knocking them off their feet, winded and stunned, daring them to get up and fight.

And the people who love those people.

And the people who help all of those people get through it.

Yesterday I was at the cancer center, waiting for them to call me for my appointment. A tall, elegantly dressed woman walked in. She was wearing an expensive cashmere coat and beautiful powder blue leather gloves, and she carried a bag that I'm pretty sure cost more than my first car. She was, as my friend Mel would say, a fancy lady. And I could tell right away she was a newbie. She had that shell-shocked look of one who doesn't quite believe she has to be there and who doesn't yet know the protocol.

I wore that look for quite a while.

And she was all alone. I know many people have trouble with that, with even the idea of someone being alone in the cancer center, but I also know that I went to (and wanted to go to... and still go to) most of my appointments by myself.

Some things are hard to share, man.

After she checked in and got her bracelet, she sat down across from me in the waiting area. I smiled at her and she nodded. Her expression made me swallow hard and blink back tears. It was so... pained.

I remembered my first few visits to the cancer center. I couldn't even make eye contact with anyone. I couldn't speak. I fought back tears from the moment I walked through the door until the moment I left.

I hated it.

I still hate it.

But it's gotten easier.

You can get used to just about anything, can't you?

Anyway, she sat there, still, waiting, looking straight ahead, tears welling.

My heart hurt for her. Part of me wanted to offer up some words or a gesture of encouragement, but I didn't. I didn't move. I didn't say or do anything. I'm not sure why. Maybe because I would have been uncomfortable had a stranger talked to me during my first few visits... I would have burst into tears and I would have hated that.

That's what I told myself anyway.

Then, the woman sitting to my left got up. She was about the same age as the new lady - older than me by about a decade, I'd say. She was bald under her knitted cap (not a strange sight in that environment, certainly) and she stooped when she shuffled across the floor. She was wearing an old sweatshirt, tattered at the cuffs, stained sweatpants, and ratty sneakers, and when she smiled at me, I could see gaps where teeth had once been.

She was not a fancy lady.

But she sat right down next to the lady with the cashmere coat and the expensive bag, she took her beautifully manicured right hand into both of her own gnarled, work-worn ones, and she said softly (but with great surety), "It's OK, honey. You ain't alone here."

And the fancy lady looked at her for a long moment, and then, as tears streamed down her face, she hugged that not-fancy lady hard.

And I had to clear my throat and look away.

Those ladies taught me a couple of lessons yesterday.

I learned that sometimes it's not enough to give a shit. 

I learned that sometimes you have to show it. 

And I learned that cancer really and truly is a great leveler.

Blooming Hope

Today was a good day.

It was a really good day.

I went to the cancer center for a follow-up visit, as I had a CT scan and blood work done on Tuesday. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a tiny bit worried about the results. It was an irrational worry, really, as I've been feeling pretty good for a few weeks and all the once-visible tumors have shrunk.

But still.

The worry.

It's hard to keep at bay when the word 'cancer' is in play.

Turns out? The worry was unnecessary. My scan looked great! All the nasty tumors have shrunk and every single one of one of my lymph nodes is now within normal size range! Squeee! My doctor even used the word remission. Remission, people! She was quick to remind me that it's not a full one, as this lymphoma will never go away. The cancer is still there (everywhere) - you can see it on the scan - but it's teeny-tiny now. It should take some time to grow up again. So yeah, we'll call it remission and I'll take it!

And my blood work? Well, it looked amazing! My doctor couldn't believe that my thyroid function, which was an unbelievable mess a few months ago, is now down to 'borderline normal.'

Not shocking, really. I've always been 'borderline normal' (and a bit more borderline than normal, to tell the truth).

She asked if I'd been taking a new medication for it - one that maybe my GP prescribed, as she recalled how sick I got with the one she gave me (and how sick the one before that made me, too). "Nope," said I. "It's the whole food diet!" I think she was a little skeptical at first, but she knows it's the only change I've made. Chemo is the only medication I've taken (besides anti-nauseas) and it doesn't affect thyroid function.

Part of the reason I started the Whole30 was to attempt to right my hormone levels, including my thyroid, which was jacking me up big-time. The people who swear by the plan tout it as the Second Coming and while I doubted it would affect me to that degree, I had hope that it would make me feel a bit better.

Turns out? That hope was well-placed. To go from skyrocket-high to borderline-normal is pretty fabulous. And I? Am happy! My doc? Was impressed.

Anyway, I felt pretty great when I left the exam room. I marched straight to the reception desk to tell the sweet girl who checks me in what the doctor said. I repeated the 'R' word quietly, though, as there were a lot of people in the waiting area, some of whom will never hear that word, and I didn't want to make anyone feel bad. But when I turned around, everyone within earshot was grinning ear to ear - at me and for me. It felt good. Cancer is a club, you know. It's not one anyone in his right mind wants to belong to and the dues are sky-high, but it's a club nonetheless. And no matter how rotten one member feels, a victory (no matter how big or small) for another is a victory for all. Victory brings hope to a place where hope can be frighteningly scarce.

And today? On this very good day? The hope I'm feeling is the opposite of scarce. It's positively blooming! I don't know how long I'll get before I have to go through this ugliness again, but I do know I'm going to make the most of whatever time I can eek out. I know I'm going to work hard to get as healthy as possible before the next course of treatment. I know I'm going to do as many of the things on my bucket list as I can manage.

And I know I'm going to get on with this business of living!

Acadian Rhythm

Last week, while we were on the road to Acadia National Park in Maine, I mentioned to Ryan and her friend Piper that I'd read how, if a person has trouble sleeping, she simply needs to go camping for a week. It's supposed to re-set our internal clocks naturally. Ryan said, "Yeah, it's all about the Acadian Rhythm." Then she laughed and corrected herself, "I mean Circadian Rhythm!"

But you know what? I think she was right the first time.

We went to Acadia and Bar Harbor back in 2008 and we loved it. Returning was always on our to-do list but I planned for us to go next summer, when Ryan could help with the 16-hour drive (12 hours according to Google Maps. Google Maps is on crack). Then friends of ours said they'd like to go this summer, so we changed plans... but plans have a way of falling through and our friends weren't able to go. I asked Ryan if she still wanted to make the trip. She did, but she asked if she could bring a friend along. I was reluctant at first, as I like our vacations together, just the two of us, but I decided it would be a good idea this year. I'm still feeling the effects of chemo and since vacations with Ryan are go-go-go, I knew I'd never get to sit-sit-sit (what I really needed). So Piper came along. It was a good decision.

The drive up was exhausting, as 16-hour drives are wont to be, and we arrived at 9:30 pm, just before the campground office closed. We put our tents up quickly, in the dark, blew up the air mattresses, and crashed. Hard. I slept like the dead, for the first time in I can't remember how long. It was kind of wonderful, let me tell you.

During the week, we split our time between doing things as a trio (like wandering around Bar Harbor and going on a whale watching tour), and the girls going off on their own, leaving me to do whatever I wanted to do.

Whatever I wanted to do! I was nearly giddy with the possibilities!

I was also sleeping -- and I'm talking good, solid, whole-nights full of sleep. We were heading to bed around 9:00 and getting up at 7:00. My Acadian Rhythm was definitely righting itself.

During my days alone, I traveled the carriage roads (built by John D. Rockefeller, Jr.) on foot. I did seven miles in one day, which was quite a hike for me, given my limited physical activity for the past year or so. It was extremely tiring but I also felt incredibly accomplished after, and stronger than I've felt in a long time. I also explored the 'other side' of the island, which we never ventured toward the last time we were there. On my way to the Coast Guard-manned lighthouse at the southern tip of the island, I came unexpectedly upon the 'sea wall,' which was quite spectacular (though pictures simply don't do it justice).

I made a second visit there, later in the week. This time I arrived earlier in the day, when the tide was out, and I sat for a long time, just breathing in the salty air... that wonderful smell -- there's really nothing quite like it; it gets into your lungs and your pores and your head and your heart and it just... fortifies you.

At the sea wall, I wandered around on the rocks, taking photos of all the little tide pools and life left behind by the waves. I built two little cairns, which was much harder than you'd think. After, I was writing in my journal and I realized what a metaphor for Life those little stone towers are...

There were stones everywhere on the beach -- endless possibilities. I kept choosing different ones, trying them out, trying to make them balance. They didn't all have to be flat or a particular shape (in fact, when I chose all flat stones - the ones that balanced perfectly on the first try - the cairn was quite dull and boring-looking) - they just had to fit. I had to try out several to find the right ones. Finding the balance was terribly difficult but when I did it, those cairns just... worked.

Just like Life. Find the balance and it just... works.

Pretty cool.

On our last night, we signed up to do a sunset sea kayaking tour with Aquaterra Adventures (look them up if you're in Bar Harbor! They're great!) - the three of us (the girls in a tandem kayak and me in a solo). I was pretty nervous. First, I knew it would be physically taxing. Second, it was a new experience for me and I'm not a fan of looking foolish when I try something new. But I had put it on my Post-Chemo Bucket List, so I decided to put my big-girl life vest on and just do it.

And I'm so glad I did!

It was hard. It was really hard. I was all alone in a very long kayak, trying to keep up with a group of eight teenagers, who were doubled-up and paddling in concert. I was, clearly, the most out-of-shape person in the group, as well as the oldest, and I struggled. Had I been able to paddle a bit and then rest, it would have been OK, but I was so slow that by the time I caught up to everyone, all of whom got to rest while waiting for me, they took off and I had to go again! Gah! I felt like one of the slow swimmers, who takes so long to get to the wall that everyone's gone when she gets there and she has to do another 50 immediately. For the record, I will be kinder to those kids when I coach next summer.

But I did it! Our instructor/guide, Travis, was wonderful and never made me feel like a slowpoke. When I paddled in to the dock and was able to extricate myself from the tiny cockpit (with help), I was on top of the world. I did it! I paddled two miles! Around an island! In ocean waves! And I didn't fall out, roll over, need to be towed in, or die! It was BRILLIANT!

This past year has been hard. It took me to my knees, both physically and emotionally. But it also made me realize how much I want to live. It gave me things to think about and work toward. I've realized that I don't want to just survive... I want to thrive. So, to go from being sick as a dog just a few weeks ago to feeling strong and healthy, able to do physical things I didn't think would be possible for a long time to come? Well, I can't really even describe how that made me feel... how that makes me feel.

Wait.

Yes I can.

It's my Acadian Rhythm.

I found my Acadian Rhythm.

And I never want to lose it.

You Are What You Eat

For the past three weeks, I've been doing the Whole30 'food plan' (I hate to use the word 'diet' because I don't see this as one). If you've never heard of it, you eat nothing but whole foods for 30 days, eliminating processed foods, sugar, grains, dairy, legumes... basically everything except vegetables, fruit, lean meats, and good fats. After 30 days, you can slowly reintroduce the healthiest of the previously eliminated items. The plan is designed to help you figure out what foods might be making you feel bad.

When I first heard about it a year ago, when my friend Kati was doing it, I thought, No. Way. In. Hell. I love me some, well, all of the stuff that has to be eliminated. I mean, I've given up ONE thing for a little while (and suffered) but ALL those things at once? Gah! And 30 days sounded like an eternity!

But that was a year ago. That was before I knew how rotten I could feel. That was before all the medicines designed to make me better made me sick. And I've been 100% certain that the crap I eat has NOT been helping me either. So, with my doctor's approval, I decided I was ready to give it a go. I already knew sugar and grains were an issue for me, but the idea of really clean eating for a month appealed to me. And when I decide I'm ready, I don't have to worry about falling off the wagon. It's so weird. I always think I have no willpower... but that's not true at all. I have craploads of willpower. It's motivation I often lack.

But not this time.

It's been a piece of cake. Well, OK, it's been a bowl of fruit salad. Other than the never-ending planning, shopping, cutting, chopping, cooking all the good food, and washing up ridiculous numbers of pots, pans, and dishes, it's been easy.

OK, so the EATING part has been easy. I haven't really craved anything (unless I'm actually in the grocery store and walking past the donuts... so I just walk faster). I've been loading up on veg from the farmer's market - homegrown and organic. My wallet has taken a hit from the better quality of meat I'm buying, but I feel a million times better about it (for a lot of reasons). I'm drinking unheard of (for me) amounts of water (which keeps me in the bathroom for the better of the day and night), a little bit of tea (I make it), and a V8 in the mornings. That's it. No wine. All summer. NO wine, people. All summer. Also? I haven't been out to eat in three weeks. And that? Is something, people.

I wasn't supposed to get on the scale until the month was up, but I was curious. Two weeks out and I'd lost 8lbs. Not bad. I go back to the doctor on Thursday, so I'm looking forward to seeing what the scale says then, even though I swear I did NOT do this as a diet.

The testimonials on the Whole30 website tout this plan as pretty much the Second Coming. It hasn't had that effect on me. Yet. I can't say that I feel a million times better. Yet. But I'm optimistic. I still have chemo running through my system. I've been in a bit of a dark place this summer, and that will take its toll on both body and soul, and coming back from that sort of place can take some time. So I'm going to give it longer than 30 days. I figure I've spent a very long time stuffing my gob with not-so-good stuff, that I owe myself to fill it with very-good stuff for a bit longer than a month.

And though I can't say I'm feeling loads better (I'm still tired and achy-all-over), I've noticed something significant...

I'm back to walking the whole park trail these days (instead of just dragging myself to a bench to wait while Sunny sniffs around and finally poops). And though I'm worn out by Sunday night, I've spent the last two weekends doing all sorts of work around the house and running a million errands. A few weeks ago? That definitely wasn't what my weekends looked like.

So it seems that maybe I'm on the mend. I see this as a long-haul-sort-of thing -- this clean eating. I don't think for a second I'm never going to have chocolate or wine or ice cream again, but to get to where I want to be? I've finally accepted what I've known for a long, long time -- that eating like a 6-year-old at a birthday party just doesn't work for me.

Who'd a thunk it?

Floating...

There have been (many) times in my life when I've wanted the earth to stop spinning for a bit. Well, OK, maybe not stop spinning, as that would cause us all to fly off into space. But sometimes, I just want to stop. That's all. Take a break. From everything. From every responsibility that has my name written all over it in capital letters. I'm not even talking about a vacation (though that sounds appealing), but a total Life-break. Total.

Wait. A total Life-break sounds like death. OK, I totally don't want that. Damn it. You guys know what I mean, right? A break. From everything.

You know what I'd really like to do? I'd like to spend my days (about 30 of them) floating in a pool - still and quiet... and my nights floating on an unimaginably comfy bed in a cool room.

I want to float.

That's it.

I want to float my way through a break.

From everything.

But no one gets that lucky, do they? There are few people in the world who can just walk away from everything they have to do and do nothing but float. I certainly can't.

These past few months have been hard. They've been harder than I expected them to be. And I am so tired, I can't even see straight most days. Every inch of me hurts. I missed lots of work with chemo treatments so I'm working hard now, trying to make up a bit. I'm coaching every night. I'm parenting every day. I can't take a break.

But still, I realized that I needed to step back a bit. I needed to regroup... to get my head on straight... to spend a little time with just MY thoughts. So I decided to limit my social media time and took my Facebook page down for a while. I love the connections I have with people but I was really feeling the need to be alone - or as alone as it's possible to be when I'm surrounded by people all day.

I don't know if it's really helping. I come home so tired that I'm not spending a lot of time thinking about anything important.

And maybe that's OK. Maybe I don't really need to be thinking about anything important. If I can't float, maybe I just need to breathe. Maybe that's enough.

Quite frankly, it's going to have to be.

For now, anyway.

Chemo-cal Reaction

I finished up my second round of chemo this past Thursday and Friday.

I meant to post between the first and the second rounds... but I didn't.

I meant to have things to say other than how this is affecting me... but I don't.

It has been a part of my every waking thought for the past four weeks... well, longer, really (since I found out it was going to happen).

And today might not be the best day to write about the whole mess, because I really don't feel well. And I'm tired of not feeling well. And I want to cry. And that makes me feel like a big baby and I hate feeling like a big baby. But I'm writing about it anyway. I need to. I don't want to forget how rotten I feel right now... because when this is all over (for now) I want to be able to look back on it and, when I'm whining about something else that's going wrong in my life, remind myself that as long as I am still here, I need to get off my ass and just get on with it.

I was so proud of myself last month for getting through the first round, mostly unscathed. Yes, I felt pretty bad after the port surgery, but the chemo seemed to go OK. I wrote about it when I was feeling OK.

Then I stopped feeling OK. Saturday - the day right after - was not too bad. Woozy and shaky were the worst feelings. I could eat. I was tired, but I could move. But Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday? Not so good. Not so good at all. The nausea (you know, the nausea that *most* people don't seem to get with this type of chemo) was awful. The flu-like symptoms that came on later were less-than-pleasant. The fatigue was crap. In fact, it was pretty much all crap.

Last month went like this:

Chemo Days: Fine
The Day After: Not too bad
The 1st Week: Complete and utter shite
The 2nd Week: Moderately shite
The 3rd Week: Almost human
The 4th Week: Pretty good

Now, let's start all over again, shall we?

I really and truly thought it was going to go OK.

I'm really and truly an idiot.

What I've discovered is that no matter what they tell you, this is different for *everyone.* No matter what anyone else has experienced, your experience will not be the same as theirs. It just won't.

And no matter what? This sucks. It really and truly does.

For the past two days, I have felt bizarrely awful. The stronger anti-nausea meds they pumped through my IV are helping, so that's something. But they do *other* things. I feel as though the physical part of me that's *me* - that dwells inside my skin and looks out at the world and makes me move and roll over in bed and change the channel on the TV and think clearly - has been shrunk down to 1/3 its size, then wrapped in gauze, and set to 'vibrate.' I don't know any other way to explain it. I don't feel in control of myself. I feel dizzy and sweaty, and even though the threat of throwing up isn't on the front-burner, it's sitting there on the counter, just waiting to be put in the pot. And my heart and lungs feel as though they're being gripped and squeezed regularly, but in a frustrating non-rhythm, so that catching my breath is something I have to *think* about and do when I can.

It's alarming. It's scary. And it sucks.

It really and truly does.

And I don't want to sound like a baby. I don't want to whine or complain. I want to be brave and just plow through and get on with all the other things I have to do and want to do, like work and swim coaching and mowing my lawn and cleaning my house and hanging out with Ryan and taking Sunny to the park.

But right now? All I want to do is curl up in a little ball and cry.

And I hate that.

I hate this.

I really and truly do.

The Post Wherein I Tell You About Myrtle Getting Bitch-slapped...

Two years ago, when I was diagnosed with cancer, my doctor told me I was likely going to have it forever; even if it goes into remission, it'll be back. Meh. So I decided that if I was going to have to live with her, I was going to give her a name. Myrtle won out. It's not a pretty name (my apologies to anyone out there named Myrtle) and when I say it, I wrinkle my nose (befitting, don't you think?). So 'Myrtle' she has been for two years... always present... always sitting on my shoulder, whispering her menacing little  "just waits" in my ear. And I've spent two years slapping her back or doing my best to ignore her.

No more.

A few weeks ago, my doctor decided it was time for treatment. Myrtle's "just waits" turned into rude and annoying "told yas!" She was showing her ass... and slowing my ass (which is saying something, given the general slowness at which I operate normally)... so we made plans. 

Bear in mind, I am someone who has, my whole life, avoided doctors, doctor's offices, hospitals, etc. I don't do medical. It stems from my fear of a scary pediatrician -- a fear I developed as a kindergartner, of which I've never been able to let go. So plans that include doctors, doctor's offices, and hospitals wig me out. Wig. Me. Out. Big.

But in some things in Life, we have little choice, eh? 

So, onward and through it, my peeps!

This week has been a big one for me. First, I had to have a surgical procedure done to implant a port in my chest -- the thing by which the poison that is designed to bitch-slap Myrtle is transported through my body to all the places she reaches. They recommend this to everyone but it was really a necessity for me because, although I do appear to actually have veins, finding them and keeping them open is a trick with which most medical personnel struggle. It's not their fault. I don't do medical. 

So, port. Yuck.

I have to tell you, I was a wee bit scared. Up until this week, I'd only ever seen an operating room on television. And in-person, it was not pleasant (even if my surgeon was rather attractive). It was big and bright and cold and full of people milling around and I felt small (and that's saying something!) and completely and totally out-of-control. Blech! I was quite happy to be put to sleep while they cut me open and put this bizarre foreign object into my body. And all in all, it went well. I came out of the anesthesia just fine (no ranting or swearing or visions of Heffalumps and Woozles) and other than the fact that the site looked utterly disgusting and felt really sore, it was OK. The next day, however, sucked monkey balls, as the pain meds made me sick to my stomach, but a reprieve from my boss and few extra hours in bed sorted that out.

So, first big scary step: Done

Next up: Chemotherapy

Chemo is a terrifying word -- a terrifying concept. Horror stories abound. And though there are a lot of people who believe it's worse than the disease it's treating (understandable!), it is the primary treatment. Period. So two days after the port surgery, I trekked back to the cancer center (with my trusty Court Jester in tow)... 

And wigged out. Just a bit.

It was silly, really. A friend told me about this numbing cream that would be very helpful to put on the port site before they stick the IV needle in. It sounded like a great idea, since I hate being stuck and since the port site is still very sore. I'd called about a prescription and had been assured it was sent to my pharmacy. But when I got there? No cream. Gack! I now believe the mix-up was a result of my stupid hyphenated last name (I don't use the last part, which belonged to my ex-husband, but since it's legally me, I think the nurse at the hospital called in the prescription under that name. When I used my not-legal but real name to ask for the prescription, they said they didn't have it). Anyway, I figured I could get it at the cancer center but when I got here, they told me they don't keep it in stock. GACK! Tears welled and the nurse, bless her heart, bent over backwards to get it for me. Turned out, it didn't really work and I didn't really need it, but it was a peace of mind thing (which, thankfully, she totally understood). 

After the wig-out, I settled in for Myrtle's bitch-slapping. They pumped crap into my port for a couple of hours. I entertained myself by posting every 60 seconds on Facebook and working hard to annoy my Court Jester, who worked just as hard to annoy me back. Overall, it was fine. After the needle was in, it wasn't so scary (unless I really thought about how the nurses have to put special gloves on to handle the TOXIC stuff they put into my body). I went home and got through the night with little discomfort (just a few stomach cramps that made me wonder if this whole cancer thing might have actually been an immaculate conception and I was having a baby instead). 

So I'm back today for the 2nd round of treatment. This is the long, yucky day, with the greatest chance of allergic reaction and side effects. I'm focused on every little thing I'm feeling and wondering if it's normal or something happening... that twinge in my stomach -- is it a reaction or just gas? That twinge of headache -- is it a reaction or am I just hungry or is it... a BRAIN TUMOR?! (Update: I actually did have a minor allergic reaction just now, but it's all under control.)

Gah!

In any case, it'll all be over in a few hours. For now. I'll be back in a few weeks to do it all over again. And again... and again. The course runs 2 days every 3-4 weeks, for 4-6 months, depending on my numbers. And we're hoping that'll give me another year or two (or longer!) before treatment will be necessary again. 

It's been an adventure, this bitch-slapping. I can't say that I've enjoyed it... but it's been interesting. As you know, I don't believe in God or a divine plan or that everything happens for a reason. And this situation has done much to reinforce my non-belief (and, in fact, my utter disbelief). But I do believe there is always something positive to be found in crappy situations (sometimes you just have to look really hard). And there has been good... 

I am learning to take care of myself -- not just of my health (though I'm getting better at that, out of necessity. There is nothing like feeling like utter shit to make you appreciate feeling good and to make you want to feel good again). But I'm learning that it's OK -- that it's necessary -- to do what I need to feel better; it's OK to stand up and say, "This is about me, not you," or "I don't want you here," or "I need help, please." That is big for me. 

I've learned that although my dealings with the medical community have not always been positive, this place is full of wonderful people whose objectives are not just about making you well, but about making you feel good, too. They have taken such good care of me, with smiles and patience. I feel as though I'm in very good hands. And that is really big for me.

I've learned how much I am loved. My peeps have circled the wagons, protecting me as best they can and taking such good care of me. I will never be able to thank them for what have done -- for what they do. I am so very lucky.

And I've learned that even though my kid is so together and acts like nothing fazes her, she gets scared, too. And I've learned that although I am good at acting like this is no big deal to protect her, it is a big deal... and it's OK to let her know that I'm scared and that I know she's scared and that being scared is OK and normal... and that we're going to be just fine. 

Because we are going to be just fine.

And that, my friends, is the story of how Myrtle got bitch-slapped this week. 

This I Know

This morning, I sat in a training meeting, only half paying attention to what I was hearing. I was leaning on the table, my head resting on my hand, and my fingers wandered, as they often do, to the knot on the right side of my neck. I can actually feel my cancer... or a small part of it, anyway. It's an odd thing, really, to touch a part of you and know it's just... wrong.

So much about me feels wrong lately.

The past few weeks have taken their toll. Last night, I sat here, feeling completely empty, deflated, flat... like a balloon that had lost all its air. Today, my boss asked me no fewer than 6 times what was wrong or if I was feeling better yet. All I could say, each time, was "I'm fine." I heard her tell someone else that I don't lie well (it's hard to lie believably about how you feel when you wear your heart on your sleeve). A little bit ago, while watching something funny on YouTube, a laugh turned inexplicably into The Ugly Cry. I wasn't prepared for it at all. Neither was my poor dog, who flew off the sofa and rushed to my side, to kiss my tears away.

I've been working on not avoiding painful feelings as they arise. I've always been good at rushing to find something to distract me when some unpleasantness comes to mind or heart. But I know, all too well, how that simply prolongs the pain.

So my job right now is to simply face it; to let it wash over me and through me; to sit with it until it subsides.

It's hard.

It's exhausting.

And I'm worn out.

I decided to take this weekend to breathe... to regroup and gain some perspective and balance. I'm going to go to bed early and, hopefully, sleep (I've been dealing with a bit of insomnia and a few nightmares of late). And tomorrow, when the weather is supposed to be nice, I'm going to spend an extra long time at the park with my fuzzy boy. Then I'm going to go to the gym and I'm going to sweat. And then I'll clean out my disgusting car and my messy bedroom, as the disorder in my surroundings isn't helping the disorder in my head.

On Sunday, I'm going to set some goals. I need a plan... direction... a target.

I'll be OK.

This I know.

You know how I know?

This morning? In that training meeting? When I took my hand away from my neck?

This is what I saw...

... and still I rise.

I rise. It's what I do.

Yeah. I'll be OK.

This I know.

Be Brave, Little Girl

When Ryan was little, she was fearless. Fearless. Nothing at all fazed her. I was amazed at her bravery... until I realized that she didn't know she had reason to fear. She was safe and loved and protected... she knew that if she ventured farther than her comfort zone, she always had my arms to come back to, and that made everything OK.

But things changed during our first visit to Disney. She was four... and she was so excited to go. For weeks, she spoke of nothing but the teacup ride in the Magic Kingdom. But while we were standing in line, she spotted Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee at the ride's exit...

And her first real fear was realized.

She wigged. Completely. She would have nothing to do with the teacup ride... or with any other ride or part of the park at which there were big costumed characters present. And if you've ever been to Disney, you know they are everywhere.

The Magic Kingdom? Yeah. Not so magical.

I couldn't understand it. I explained they were just people in costumes. I told her they wouldn't come near her if she didn't want them to. I promised to punch anyone who touched her (I was getting desperate).

Nope. Not good enough. For the first time since she was born, I could not make a bad situation better.

I could not assuage the fear.

And I didn't know how to handle that. And it made me... mad.

Looking back on that trip, I feel terrible that I lost my patience with her. I didn't know how to handle a fear I knew she simply needed to face to get over. And I didn't know how to handle the fact that I could not make it better. I felt helpless.

...

Today, I had my regular appointment with my oncologist at the cancer center.

And I realized that the hospital is my (not so) Magic(al) Kingdom.

My oncologist? The cancer center?

My Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee.

I know they're there to help me. I do.

But I can't assuage the fear. And I don't know how to handle that. And it makes me mad.

And the thing is? I face it... because I have to. But facing this fear isn't making it better.

Yet.

I have to hope that it will... in time.

I won't be four-years-old forever, after all.

Lessons Before Dying

Yesterday, on December 28, a beautiful man died.

I didn't know him personally. He was the friend of a friend. He was actually, from what I can gather, the friend of an entire city -- a well-loved television news personality in San Diego, CA.

His name was Loren Nancarrow.

And he was beautiful -- physically, and in his heart and soul. And even though I did not know him personally, I know this for sure.

Less than a year ago, he was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. He decided to share this experience with the people who knew and loved him -- and with those who would come to wish they knew him and loved him from afar -- via his blog, The Nancarrow Project, and his Facebook page. Through is postings, and those of his lovely wife and children, he shared the experience of living with -- and dying from -- this terrible, cruel cancer.

He was, through it all, beautiful... and brave and funny and matter-of-fact and real.

His words -- every post -- affected me. Full of honesty and humor and compassion, they made me smile or cry or resolve to do more and better... and always, wish I knew personally the man who wrote them.

I read a lovely tribute to this beautiful, very real man this morning (you can read it in its entirety here). In it, the author listed five lessons Loren Nancarrow imparted to the people he touched:

1. Find reasons to rejoice.
2. Anticipate "the possibilities of tomorrow."
3. Remain in awe of sunsets.
4. "Wherever they are, whatever they may be, seek out your passions and cultivate them” while also being mindful "that it is far better to do good for others, than to do good for oneself."
5. Be curious.

Beautiful.

My heart aches for a life cut short... for his family, who clearly adored him and will miss him beyond comprehension... for his friends, whose lives he enriched beyond measure.

I will miss his words -- his insight, his courage, his humor. And I will take his lessons to heart, because they are damned good ones.

And I'll be thinking of the lessons I hope to leave behind one day.

What lessons would you like to leave?

Fat Karma

I can remember, many, many years ago, saying these words to my best friend, while observing a rather, shall we say, 'portly' (or, if you please, 'rotund'... 'corpulent'... 'well-padded') woman in a public setting:

"Good God. Please don't ever let me get that fat!"

Was it a nice thing to say? No. No, it certainly was not. But (and I know it doesn't matter, or make it any nicer) I didn't say it within earshot. She had no idea I thought she looked awful or that I was making my friend swear not to allow me to become like her. I was young. And, at times, insensitive. And there was no such thing as 'fat-shaming' back then. Honestly? There weren't as many fat people back then.

Still, it was not nice.

But you know what?

Karma

Karma, that's what.

Also?

My friend let me down. Way down. Way, way, way down.

See, I got on the scale this morning. For the first time in a while.

And I was afraid Ryan was going to have to call the rescue squad.

I'm guessing I now weigh the equivalent of a third-grader MORE than that fat woman from years ago. I am afraid I am the person skinny college girls look at and say to their best friends, "Good God. Please don't ever let me get that fat!"

Like I said, Karma, baby.

But seriously, how did this happen?

I could give you all sorts of excuses. It's been a rough year. I haven't been feeling well for a long time. I mean, hello! I have cancer!

...

Did it work for you?

Yeah. Even I didn't buy it.

The truth is, even though I haven't been feeling well for a while, it hasn't stopped me from shoveling all the wrong kinds of food into my mouth (which I've been doing since long before the cancer diagnosis). It hasn't stopped me from making excuses for skipping the gym (which I've been doing since long before the cancer diagnosis). It hasn't stopped me from stepping on the scale every so often to see what's going on, so that I don't have a cardiac episode when I eventually do step on.

In short, I have allowed this to happen.

And yes, I know all about how I need to love myself for who I am, no matter my flaws. I know I am more than the size of my ass (though, truly? I don't think I could be much more than that). I know my personality and my intelligence and my worth as a person have nothing to do with the size of my jeans (which is coming dangerously close to matching my age, for crying out loud).

I do! I know all that. I promise!

But the fact remains, if I gain one more pound, I'm going to be bedridden! And I don't want to get winded tying my shoes! And I would prefer it if my butt does not require its own zip code!

So I marched (where 'marched' equals 'walked slowly, so as not to hurt myself') my ample backside into the gym today and I scheduled several sessions with the personal trainer.

And to give you an idea about how serious I am? I didn't even check to see if I got the cute one.

I will get this in hand. I will. I'll eat better (real, whole foods)... I'll keep those appointments with the trainer (and I'll even do what he says)... I'll do all the right things. I know what they are... I know how and when and where to do them... and, most importantly, I know why I need to do them. My goal, beyond simply feeling (and looking) better, is to be as healthy as I can be; to avoid chemo for as long as possible; to keep my lymph nodes as small as I can for as long as I can. Now, is there any guarantee that living healthier will keep my cancer at bay? No. But I  believe, wholeheartedly, that it will help... and if it doesn't, it certainly won't hurt.

And I will put a gag and a straight-jacket on the self-deprecating part of my psyche who seems to want to see me fall on my face. I'll unlock the door she's been guarding -- the one that houses the part of me who says kind things to myself, is encouraging, and who doesn't think I'm an enormous failure.

Although the enormous part is not inaccurate. Just sayin'.

OK, that was the last one. I promise. Really. Honest. The very last.

Truly.

Yesterday I posted that my Word of the Year is light. So, here's to a lighter me in 2014... in every way.

Stuck...

My fear of doctors was ingrained early. The first pediatrician I remember, Dr. Cook, was a morbidly obese, gruff-voiced gargantuan, with a penchant for chewing on toothpicks and pen caps. My mother adored him. My brothers liked him. I was terrified of him. He set the tone for my interactions with doctors for the rest of my life, which is:

I go when I feel like I’m dying.

And that’s the truth. I can count on one hand the number of antibiotics I’ve taken in my adult life. I can count on the other hand the number of check-ups I’ve had.

I don’t like doctors. Well, OK, that’s not true. Doctors are fine (some of them are downright lovely). What I don’t like is going to doctors. I dread it, in fact. It makes me feel sick. Ha! I’ve always said I’ll die of something that could have been easily prevented, diagnosed, or treated, if I’d just been willing to get a check-up.

Then I got cancer. How you like them apples?

When the cancer was diagnosed, it was because I thought I was dying. Not from cancer, mind you, but from a nasty infection in my gut… brought on by one of those damned antibiotics… taken for a kidney infection… which made me feel like I was dying.

The diagnosis threw me for a loop. It didn’t help that it was blurted out with little to no care or concern by a callous ER doctor, when he really didn’t know for sure what was wrong.

Turned out?  He was right.

After I gave it a little time to sink in, I did what I always do… I looked for the bright side. And there was one. This cancer – a slow-growing lymphoma – isn’t going to kill me. Well, it isn’t likely to kill me. It could, certainly, but it’s not likely to do so. It will never go away or go into remission, true, but it’s not likely to kill me. That’s a good thing! If you’re going to get cancer, this is the sort to get. So, YAY, ME!

Right?

So I went along, as I do, focusing on the bright side, ignoring the other stuff. Pushing it down and away… not dealing with it.

As I do.

Except… except for when I have to go to the cancer center for tests.

Walking through those doors? Just about does me in. Before I go and after I’m there, I can talk about it. I can joke about it. I’m bright and positive and fine. I am just fine.

I'm. Fine.

Except… except for when I have to go to the cancer center for tests.

And then I’m not so fine.

Walking through those doors brings it all to the front. Every little piece of fear and worry and anger and frustration… all right there… right in front of my face and crowding my brain and my heart.

And it all makes me cry.

And feel weak.

And I don’t like to feel weak.

For the past couple of weeks, I haven’t been feeling great. I don’t know if what I’ve been feeling is normal, since I don’t know what normal even is anymore, but it doesn’t feel good. This I know for sure. So I called the cancer center and had my November appointment moved up to this week. I went in for blood work this morning, so the doctor can review it all before Friday afternoon, when I’m scheduled see her. And let me tell you, I dreaded the appointment today, as getting blood from me is damn-near impossible. I have bad veins. I usually wind up getting stuck multiple times before they can get enough blood to test. But I was dreading this visit more than seemed logical. It was just lab work. Right? No big deal, for goodness sake. Right?

So when I walked through the doors of the cancer center at 8:30AM, and the now-familiar dread-weight settled on my psyche, I wasn’t surprised. My usual even-keeled, reasonably cheerful demeanor disappeared. I couldn’t look anyone, staff or other patients, in the eye. There was no smile, not for a single soul.

I was not myself.

I made it through, though. I got stuck three times – once for each vial of necessary blood. And then I trudged back out to my car, to head on into work. Instead of feeling the weight lift, however, as normal, I burst into tears. Everything I’d been holding back came gushing out.

That? Surprised me.

It hit me that this is something I am going to live with for the rest of my life. It hit me – hard – that I will be walking through the doors of the cancer center every few months for the rest of my life.

The. Rest. Of. My. Life.

And it dawned on me that I will never be able to enter into a relationship without having to say, at some point, “Oh, by the way, I have cancer. And I’m going to have it forever. It probably won’t kill me, but it could, and if you want to be with me, you will likely wind up having to spend time in a hospital. Also? Don’t get too attached to my hair, ‘cause it’ll probably go away from time to time.”

And suddenly?

I felt…

Broken.

Defective.

Less than.

And I realized that I’ve been feeling all these things every time I walk through the doors of the cancer center. That’s why the appointments make me cry. I just wasn’t acknowledging them.

As I do.

But now I have. And now I have to figure out what to do with these feelings.

But that? I don’t quite know how to do that.

Oh Sugar, Sugar... Oh Honey, Honey

I claim to be an 'everything in moderation' girl.

But I'm not.

I'm an 'all or nothing' girl.

In pretty much everything.

I give (or take) 100%, or I don't do it at all.

Yeah. I know. I'm working on it, OK? Quit nagging me about it! Sheesh.

Anyway, last year, I decided I needed to give up Diet Pepsi (and all artificial sweeteners, in fact). And if you know me at all, you know that was big. Really big. Diet Pepsi was all I drank. And it was all I drank for years. I mean years. Well, that's a lie actually. I drank Diet Coke, too (but only out of the fountain. Because it doesn't taste good in bottles or cans, that's why). I drank gallons of the stuff every day. And though I know I'm prone to hyperbole, I'm not exaggerating about this (seriously... I figure I have so many chemicals and preservatives in my system, I'll never die).

So I went cold turkey.

'All or nothing,' remember?

It wasn't too bad. At first. But it got harder. And then it got easier. And now? I don't really even like the taste of soda anymore. I quit in November and I switched over to unsweetened iced tea and/or water. I don't really like water all that much (unless I'm crazy-thirsty), but I know I need to drink more of it. So I'm trying. But all in all, I consider my 'all or nothing' effort a rousing success!

Yay me!

But now? My 'all or nothing' thing is sugar.

Sugar is really not good for you. I know this. And what I've been told by numerous sources who work and specialize in nutrition and in the actual 'healthcare' industry (as opposed to the 'sickcare' industry most medical people work in), is that cancer feeds on sugar. This makes sense to me, really, as when they gave me the radioactive crap to light up my cancer for the PET scan, I was told it contained high amounts of sugar, which goes straight to the cancer.

Hmmmm...

So, since it's not really good for you in general and it might be really bad for you if you have cancer, it seems a logical move to cut it out. Right?

Right.

OK. I can do this. I mean, I don't eat a lot of actual sugar. Like, out of the sugar bowl, I mean. I don't put it in stuff or on stuff. So I'm good there. But I'm told there's sugar in... (gulp)... chocolate.

Say it ain't so, my peeps! Say it ain't so!

OK, I'm not a moron. I know it is so. There is sugar in chocolate. There is. It's there. It's not fair. But that's Life. There. Is. Sugar. In. Chocolate. And that means... there is sugar in... in... in...

Nutella.

Oh, lawd!

I don't know what I'm gonna do. Is there a Nutella rehab clinic? Does anyone know? Hey, maybe I'll start one! I know it can't just be me. Can it? No, there are others. I know there are. It could be a good career move, really.

But I digress (that's also called avoidance. I'm quite good at that, let me tell you).

OK. I can do this. I can. I will pull myself together and I will go...

Cold turkey.

On Monday.

No sugar. No chocolate. No...

Nutella.

Sigh. Sniff. Sob. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

I'll check back in with you when the shakes have stopped and I can write again.

Wish me well, my friends. Wish me well.

At least I can rest easy knowing there's no sugar in red wine. Whew! Dodged that bullet.

Wait.

What?

WHAT?!

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!

Formal Introductions...

About 15 minutes before the end of the Friday workday, I got a call from my doc with the results of my recent PET scan. There is that moment, when she identifies herself on the phone, where my heart drops into my shoes and I'm about 70% scared to hear what she has to say and 30% desperate to hear it. But hear it I must. And I did. And it was not bad news. Not bad at all.

The scan was done to get a baseline, to see if there are any "hot spots" that might indicate treatment is necessary immediately, and to find out exactly where the cancer is located. They knew, of course, that the lymph nodes in my neck were invaded, as that's where I had a biopsy done. They were hoping the nodes in my abdomen might have looked messy on the last scan because of the nasty infection that landed me in the hospital... but no go; the cancer is there, too. And they needed to find out if the nodes between my neck and gut are also affected. They are. So it's everywhere. Blech.

However...

The nodes in my neck and abdomen don't look worse than they did a couple of months ago. There have been no changes. And the ones in between aren't "alarming" in any way. That means the cancer's not growing... or it's growing so slowly that it's not too concerning yet.

Yay me!

So, since I feel perfectly fine and everything looks OK, the plan is to wait 3 months... then I go back in for blood work, an exam, and possibly another scan.

Also? No treatment.

Yet.

The doc was quick to let me know that if anything changes in the way I feel, I need to get back in there. And although this type of cancer typically moves very slowly and can lie dormant for years, it can become aggressive.

And that? Means I can never rest completely easy. It will always be with me. Always. It will never go away. It will likely never go into remission and, on the off chance it does, it will come back. Treatment will simply set the disease back in time but it will never eradicate it.

On one hand, that sucks. Knowing you have this ugly little poison in your body for the rest of your life doesn't do much to make you feel all warm and fuzzy, you know? On the other, it provides for a certain level of comfort. Well, OK, comfort might not be the right word. But it provides for consistency... and beyond waiting to find out if the growth speed has increased, it means I won't be sitting here wondering if it's going to go away/come back/kill me tomorrow. And honestly? That's a wee bit comfortable.

So this cancer has officially become my new best "friend." If it has to be with me all the time, if I have to get used to living with it, then I figure I'd better make some peace with it. Or at least learn to co-exist. I've been calling it "Rat Bastard," and while that might be fitting, it seems rather... aggressive. So I'm going to give it a new name.

I'm thinking of "Myrtle."

What do you think?

I envision friends asking, "So, how is Myrtle these days?" And I can reply, "You know, she's been quiet," or "Well, she's being a bit pissy right now," or "Man, I want to bitch-slap that wench!"

I like it.

Myrtle it is.

So, everyone, this is Myrtle. Myrtle, this is everyone. Play nice.

Threw Me For a Loop...

Helloooo out there... are you still around? Anyone? I'm hanging my head, as I've been a sucky bloggy-friend... gone, gone, gone from Bloggyland... and missing this place and you all. As I do.

Life has taken a few interesting turns of late. It's been busy, as usual... a new job (which I might have told you about)... then another new job (which I just started, and I'm finally not under-employed!)... swim season (this was my 6th summer with my little sinkers, who are growing up to be pretty big sinkers!)... a trip to NYC with my daughter (who is about to enter -- get ready for it -- high school!!! Can you believe it?!)... a trip to the hospital (and a near-aneurysm when I got the bill)... and a cancer diagnosis.

Yeah. That last bit sucked. Sucked big. It's not as terrible as it could be, though. It appears to be ("appears" being the operative word) a "slow-moving" cancer -- a lymphoma (Non-Hodgkin's Follicular Lymphoma, to be specific). I had a PET scan today, so they could get a baseline, identify any "hot spots," and determine when treatment might be necessary (hopefully not for a while!).

It threw me for a loop, let me tell you. I was in the hospital for an infection that resulted from an antibiotic I got for a kidney infection (please note that I'm starting a petition to make hospitals pay your bills if they give you medicine that makes you sick! Because, damn, that's just not fair, that's why!). While I was there, a few tests made them want to poke around some more (quite literally)... and a biopsy later, VOILA! Cancer.

Cancer is stupid, by the way.

Oh, and getting cancer when you don't have health insurance? Makes it even stupider. Er... more stupid. Er.

Note that my new job has great benefits. Between the health insurance (which should kick in before Christmas) and the whole 'Oh-no-you-don't-say-you-won't-cover-preexisting-conditions' clause in the ACA (which should kick in after the New Year), I should be OK for the future. I just have to sit down before I open the hospital bills 'til then. Oh, hell, who am I kidding? I'll have to sit down after, too. Our healthcare system? Nothing short of criminal. And one of my doctors actually said that out loud.

Anyhoo, as I say, the whole diagnosis thing threw me for a loop. Made me look at where I am... where I want to be... how I'm going to get there.

Yeah. I got nothin'.

Heh.

That's not true. I've got a list. And on that list is WRITE MORE! Right at the top. And this is where I write. Right here. In Bloggy-land (which tells you how much I've been writing lately).

So... I'm gonna try. I really am. I know you've heard that before. I know, I lie. I don't mean to. They're accidental lies. There is too such a thing. Shut up. Just read, 'k? If you read, I'll write. I will. Honest.

Pinky swear...