A clear conscious is just the sign of a bad memory.

Thank you, JayBee, for the sweet reminder to update.

I've been a bit thoughtful today and lately, thinking of work and if I want to keep the job I have, thinking about being blessed and about mere survival and about the past. And I have been thinking of the words of a very dear friend of mine (who is also a cancer survivor) that once said that melanoma is a scary thing but that we can find hope where dreams remain and where cancer cannot go.

And that's kinda what these last few weeks have been about- about looking around and seeing myself again, that inner resolve that I thought I'd never lose that just went into hiding for a bit, I guess. And the part of me that loved and allowed love in. I guess I thought I'd lost it, that the bitterness had completely replaced it. But it too just needed dusting off. About being open and vulnerable even in the midst of being scared to death that your vulnerability will come back to bite you. About the people that were there when I was so distant, knowing even then that all they wanted to do was help.

I've been reminded this week of who I really am and how I had lost some of myself with every diagnosis and treatment, and in the year of recovery after. Before that diagnosis in May of 2005, I would've said that there was nothing that could make me forget or compromise who I was. But knowing what I know now, I would say that illness can deplete you so that it is nearly impossible to not lose that. Would it be different if I had a recurrence now? God, I hope so. I hope that I have learned enough to know what to hold onto now and what the important things are. Even if not, I have learned the beauty of stillness and what it means to me. That I don't have to be afraid of it or be afraid to NOT be busy. I have learned what the pieces of myself are that will never change- my love for my dad and how I feel about my friends, how kids keep me grounded and that I love the way words can be strung together in a manner so amazing they can change the way a person feels. With all these realizations and all the questions, I can finally say that I have definitely found myself again, waiting in a place I never would've thought to look before. While I was busy trying to survive, I had wandered away. Everything was changing, and I couldn't figure out if I was even the same.

And while I was waiting to be found again, I was given a gift. It was the gift of support from people who helped carry me along, people who had once been where I now found myself. And I promised myself that if I made it through, that I would do the same for someone else- that I would do even more for them than was done for me, which was a lot. Believe it or not, the time has come, and I feel very graced by the opportunity. Because when you've been through it, you never want another person to do it alone for one tiny second.

And thus is life. I crave that time of year when I worry about nothing and instead roll thoughts and ideas around, but those days are still a few weeks away. For now, I have to make the best of what is chaotic and hectic- plans that were supposed to come through for the new warehouse are dragging along and I have been working harder than a sniffer dog in Amsterdam. Not to mention the buzz of regular life. I'm looking forward to vacation. Reading a book for Pete's sake. Taking a walk. Sleeping late and having a long lunch. I miss it. But I am also finding a really good feeling about all this limbo I've been in and just kind of enjoying these weird in-between stages. After all, when they're gone, they're gone, and then I'll be looking back saying, "I wish I just would've relaxed and enjoyed that time for what it was."

-MM

Slow down to speed up

I really want this to be an uplifting, positive post. I really do. I've been reading another cancer survivor's blog and I have been so apsolutely amazed by the support she is receiving from the circle of friends that surround her. She writes about what a blessing they are to her, and I can feel the love beaming from the page. I feel loved just reading it, having experienced that kind of love from my friends. I bask in that feeling, because it is so amazing to have the opportunity to see what the people who love you will do for you. It makes me so grateful for the friends I have and have had and the people that have supported me through my malignant melanoma journey.

And I'm sure that I'm like most people. I'm sure everyone wishes that they could go back to the way some things were before they had cancer. I get caught up in the pity. Because, even though I've made it through so much and I've made amazing friends along the way, I still get lonely when I think about old friends. I miss being able to talk to people that knew me from way back, and wouldn't be shocked by anything I did. And I could see so much of myself in them, listening to where they were in their discovery of themselves. I learned a lot about myself and about life just by really hearing their words. I miss being there for someone else. I miss my young friends, who I could always turn to when I just needed to be free for a while from all the ugly things in my life. Free to think about nothing but fun for one whole evening. But I'm so happy I'm starting to see that ME that was here before melanoma. I really liked that girl. She's finally coming back.

I started looking back through old posts, and found several drafts that I never published. This one was of particular interest and kindof hit on this topic. I think I finally have the guts to put it up here. Plus, it's got a positive message, so it's win-win. One less thing.

Enjoy. :)
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In the beginning, I was surrounded by people who'd say, "We're gonna beat this thing!" and we'd rest assured knowing that I was tough and I'd never let cancer take me. And I think that's how it works: you actually believe in your heart of hearts for a while that your own strength and determination is all you need to survive cancer. And then you come to a point where you just pretend that it is. And then, as time went on, I think we all saw that it was not a fight to survive; rather, it was a war. Ongoing battles, one after the other, all deteriorating morale and forcing us to question our ability to go on.

When treatment began, slowly, those people who were so gung-ho to fight this with you were reduced to bystanders while you lay in the hospital bed waiting out treatment or the side effects. And then you begin to understand that no matter how much they want to fight this with you and be there for you, YOU will be the one who has to do it. You and only you. You will have the i.v. in your arm, you will feel the all the aches and pains, you will be reduced to something you never imagined, and you will be the one sitting in the lead room waiting for the next test. And when the realization of how things really are comes to you, it will be you who will sit in that MRI for next two hours with just your thoughts.
And then they begin to realize it, too. And that's when the first big change takes place, and the ones who can't stand the helplessness that they feel begin to fade like the fog does at dawn: quickly, but in a way that no one notices at first, with it all suddenly becoming clear.
I look back at those times now, when I first began to feel lonely, when I was so confused and hurt by what was happening, and I wish the Me now could've been there to explain. Because now, with some time out from under the cancer cloud, now I feel so sad for them, to be faced with such a scary thing, and to feel so much terror that they didn't know what to do except pretend that it wasn't there. I don't blame them for pretending it wasn't there.
Then I think of the ones who didn't run, and how sticking it out beside me was rewarded by the anxiety of abnormal results of labs, regularly scheduled scans, more scares of recurrences, more tests and surgeries and terrible statistics. It's like melanoma was determined to punish them for sticking it out. And I know I didn't make it any easier, with my own depression and mood swings and inability to cope.
And then finally, when there was only those last few left standing, they had to live through the threat of moving to a stage IV, and they had to hear those words that meant "if certain things come about here, there will be no more choices." That was the finally agony, watching their faces go through that, and feeling the final, flat pull of distance. Like saying good-bye.
And now. Now, if I really wanted to, if I dedicated myself to it, I could actually pretend that none of this ever happened. I could actually go on with life and act like I never had to survive cancer, and that things like that could happen to other people, but could never happen to me. Some days I wish I could really do that, or at least, as a dear friend says, I wish I could "pretend to pretend."
However, once again, out from under that dark cloud of recurrence and the depression that comes from an incessant "what if," now I see everything so clearly, and most days I don't even wish that I had never heard the words "you have cancer." And that's when you know that you've truly made it through. Do you know what it feels like to finally say that and mean it? Boulders, mountains, continents off my shoulders.
I can't believe how much clarity I've achieved just over the last couple of months. It's amazing how much a little alone time has allowed me to heal and to really come to terms with big ol' melanoma. I won't say that things haven't been tough. But I will say that I am blessed to be alive today, blessed to have lived and blessed now to "have arrived." Blessed for the lessons. Blessed to have the knowledge that so many don't have. Blessed to be able to be there for so many people. Blessed to have seen every friend who was there and every one that wasn't. Blessed for my experiences.

I've made peace with my new life. And I've made peace with what my body has put my loved ones through. I never would have chosen it, but I'm glad it was chosen for me. What a blessing.

-MM

This t-shirt says it all

Besides science fair, and starting to teach Saturday school, and the new science program we're starting, and the petition that is now up to 262 signatures (that's right, fools!) and trying to keep up with the new influx of emails, not much has been going on. This is the part of the school year we like to call "Boot Camp." That's meant not only for the kids, but actually mostly for the teachers. From now till April, it's all about getting ready for TAKS, and that means I've been working at least 12 hour days since we got back from Christmas break. It's hell, but I'm trying to keep a positive attitude and say, hey, it's only 3 more months. And by "positive" I mean "lots of beer" and by "attitude" I mean "in the fridge."
The really crazy thing about all this is that after I wrote my last post about all the pain I've been in and the sorry state of my body, I did some serious impulse shopping from Amazon (like 4 books in 5 minutes) and what I've found out has really helped. I can't believe I put off admitting for so long the kind of pain I was experiencing. Looking back, if I just would've admitted it, I guess I could've moved forward with it a lot sooner. But nonetheless I'm excited because it seems like for the first time since I finished Interferon (which is I guess a year and a half ago) I've seen some improvement in how I feel. It's pretty astounding that changing a few simple things can make that kind of difference. I'm thrilled, though- like really thrilled- to be feeling better. The pain was making me crazy. Nick Nolte crazy. Brittney Spears crazy. Okay, not Brittney Spears crazy. Leave Brittney alone!

-MM

Oh come, All ye Support Group

6 months. 6 months since I had seen my support group members. That was when Faith moved to McKinney and when our little group sort of stopped making it on Thursdays to Gilda's Club. The post-treatment group that we joined was so different from what we'd had when we were all in the active treatment group, and so slowly, we all dropped off.

Lucky for us, we have a tradition of "Celebrate Us" dinners. Sounds cheesy, I know, and it probably is, but it's good to see these people who listened to me whine every Thursday the entire time I was doing Interferon. It's good to be able to see friends that are different from any kind of friends I've ever had. It's good to know that when no one else understands what I say about cancer, these girls do. And they KNOW. When I say I won't do treatment again, they don't try to talk me out of it. They are friends- the ones who called me when Oscar died. They were there at his house every time I went to see him. They called and came to see me and brought food when I was in the hospital last June for surgery. These girls know. They've been here through it all.

And it's not weird to see them and say, "How was your last scan?" It's not weird to them to have a cold and think you've got a recurrence. And they know SO much more than my gp. Is that bizarre? Yes, that part is bizarre, but true. And it's so good to have them to ask things to. And hearing them talk about how cancer still affects them every friggin' day, even so long after treatment- well, it's just reassuring to know you're not the only one. When I listen to them, and hear their words, and feel their pain, I also see that I've grown a little, too. I really empathize with what they're feeling, when, in the beginning I was so wrapped up with my own drama, I couldn't even get past my own fears to listen to someone else's. At the time I beat myself up for it alot. Now I look back and am see just how messed up I was from everything that was happening to me. Now I am actually being a really friend to them. And it's good that now I can make it through a conversation without crying.

See the thing is, these girls (and 1 guy) and I, we have so little in common. Sure, there are things within all of them that I can relate to, but in general these would not be a typical group of my friends. And I guess that is the beauty of this group, is that even though we are so different, these people are so important to me. And more than that, their presence means that I can take peace from the fact none of us are alone in this. I've been dealing with a lot of melanoma stuff lately that I'm still not quite ready to talk about, but I will tell you that my Gilda's family has made me able to face it. Facing it is not quite talking about it or writing about it yet, but it is a step in towards having some faith in myself and my capabilities in handling the tough stuff in life. I dont' know if any of you have felt that lately, but it is truly a gift to have people bring that feeling to you, or out of you, or whatever. I hope that I can do the same for them someday, because that was a just about the most wonderful gift I could've gotten this Christmas.

Sending that same gift to all of you,
-MM

Our Blessed Lady of Surgery: The Patron Saint of No More Friggin' Melanoma

So surgery has been officially set, and I get a little time off from school before hand, so I'm fairly happy with that. Yes, it sucks that this is what my vacation fund is going to, and it sucks that this is what I'm doing the first part of this summer, but such is life, I suppose. And considering what's going on with all the people around me, I really feel like I should be counting my blessings.

Just in the last week or so have I come to the realization of just how scary this surgery is to me. Maybe I knew all along and just didn't want to think about it, but one night Bobby and I were sitting, watching tv, and it just hit me that I knew why it makes me so nervous that it's so quickly approaching. When I started to talk about it, I got butterflies and that adrenally feeling like I do just before they roll me into the operating room. In reality, I know that things will be a lot better than my last surgery, and that I'll be in the hospital where meds will be available and I'll be able to recover well. My last surgery was the removal of all my lymph nodes in my right groin. The incision started about half way down my thigh, crossed over just above my hip, and stopped about 3 inches above the hip bone. They also removed my little pinky toe and a small part of my foot at the same time. It was, how do you say?, intensely painful, especially since I didn't have insurance at the time and had to do a "day surgery," which basically meant that after I came to, I had to get the hee-haw outta there. That meant getting out of the bed and into a wheelchair, out of the wheelchair and into a car, out of the car and walking into the house. Ouch. Yes, there were pain meds, but nothing really prepares you for walking (or should I say attempting to walk? more like dragging myself on crutches) just hours after they staple (87 staples, by the way) you shut. A full 10 on the one-to-ten pain scale. I didn't even know that pain like that could exist. Forget childbirth, if that's what it's like.

So there's something to be thankful for right there, kids- I won't be doing THAT this time around. I plan to use that to my full advantage, too, and to bask in the gratitude. But yes, I am a bummed about having to do this again. I'm also pretty bummed about the fact that I was just starting a half-marathon training program, and am running 3 miles fairly effortlessly these days, and now that's going to be shot all to hell. I really wanted this summer to be an opportunity to get back in the habit of working out 5 days a week, and I know what this surgery means for all that. My doc is hopeful that maybe I can pick up bike riding a few weeks after (I need to contact Holly about this, by the way), so that I can be up and moving and squashing the chance of a blood clot, and I'm all for that, too. But running has always been a real passion of mine and I'm sad that it's not going to be around for a while. I'm really sad, actually. And let's just say it, I'm pissed, too. I'm pissed even though I know things could be so much worse for me, and yes, I'm struggling with that, too. But since I'm being real, I'll just break it down for you.

I'm only out from Interferon 8 months, which has been about enough time for me to get things back together, to get to a place where I feel physically and emotionally like I'm finally back on track. And it's taken me all this time just to get my body used to running again, even though I do struggle with lymphadema and such, it is so much better than it was, and with the right tools, I've found it's even manageable. Now, now that I'm here, guess what? It's back.

That's just so wrong. I just want to scream (at who, I'm not really sure- or what?- my body???) "Leave me alone! I just want to live my normal life!" And yes, this is the reality of life after cancer- a constant maintaining of one's self, a constant "on guard" status. In reality, there is no life after cancer, there is only life after diagnosis, which means you do scans and you check yourself and you see docs regulary and you just accept that it could one day manifest itself again. That becomes a reality of daily life, that cancer could be back any day. But until it recurrs, I guess you just fool yourself into thinking that you did your time and you can get on with your life again. And if it happens, you'll face whatever comes when you get to it. Which is what I did. But I don't want this. I want to be able to work out and have a summer vacation and spend time away from work without having to live my life around cancer. I don't want to spend 6 weeks recovering from surgery, and then another who knows how many weeks trying to build up some sort of physical endurance again. For that year on Interferon of forced coach-potatoe-hood, I just packed on the pounds, even though everyone around kept saying, "You barely eat anything. I don't understand how you're gaining weight." Alas, I am a medical marvel. Part of that was how my body reacted to Interferon, and part of that was an infamously low metabolism that picks up dramatically when I commit myself to working out regularly. Interferon pushing me into pre-menopausal world didn't help with that issue, either. And now, I am scared of weight gain happening again. I know that sounds silly in the big scope of things, but this is part of my health, too, and I am tired of having so little choice in what is going on with my body. I don't even want to think about having to start all over, trying to get back to a normal physical state. And this isn't even normal. This is the starting over. After surgery, that will be the starting over from the last starting over.

More trivial things to complain about, you say? Sure, I've got them! I don't want to give up my favorite hobby and learn another sport. I don't want all of this damn money I've worked so hard for to go to something I care so little about. Life is too damn short. I want to live each day to the fullest without being confined to a hospital room or a bed! I want life without staples, without surgery, without 6 weeks recovery time.

And yet, most of that life is gone. I still grieve for that life sometimes, though most days I've accepted this new life, and can see the benefits of it, too. Would I trade all I've learned if I had a chance at getting my old life back? Today, yes. Yet, once again I must acknowledge how lucky I am indeed, to have all that I have, to be dealing with one tiny lymph node instead of other things, to be where I am today, to have the support that surrounds me. And I've committed to living life fully, no matter my circumstances. I'll do everything I can to live as normally as possible while I'm recovering, and I'm pretty sure that won't be as bad as I'm making it out to be tonight.

That's all for now, kids. Tune in next week, same Bat-time, same Bat-channel.

And please don't forget to keep Sarah and Shannon in your thoughts and prayers.

-L

To See things as they really are

At the beginning of life after treatment, I began to wonder what I would talk about on my blog. I thought that cancer and treatment were over, and that I would be at a loss of how to continue my weekly musings on life.

What I realized later that I am more in need of this blog than ever before. The last few months have been a turning point for me, and my coping with cancer has just begun. Even better than that, though, I've found my way back to a point in my life when I saw things neither optimistically or pestimistically, but simply as they are, a beautiful dedication to embracing "what is." I feel I've begun walking a path where I can honestly and willfully see things in that truthful light and learn to not only accept it but actually embrace it for the reality that it is. It's a crazy thing, but it's liberating and nice to be comfortable enough to face truth and be able to deal with it.

A few weeks ago I was faced, for the first time, with what I can only guess would be the makings of a junior panic attack. Racing thoughts, inability to sleep, chest pains, that sort of thing. My doctor asked if I should increase my anti-depressant, and I thought of crawling into a hole. I was so disappointed that I wasn't able to handle this.
And then I thought of this very ancient, wise saying, "If you begin to understand what you are without trying to change it, then what you are undergoes a transformation."

I hope that this is true, because I realize what I am right now is a continuing fluxuation between grounded and then in the next moment hopelessly vulnerable. And I am working towards being okay with that. In doing that, I realize that there is no hope in trying to control all the delicacies of life, that every day new stresses, new tasks, new dilemmas are introduced that we will never be able to manage. Some are even in our control, and still will be unmanageable.

This is a relief to me, that I don't have to try to do that anymore. That I can go about my life, realizing the incessant ebb and flow of stress and eustress, and just take it as it comes.

-L

Wake me up when February ends

I am glad February 2007 is gone, and I'm glad it's not coming back.

In February we lost Lia and Mary, and Oscar went in to ICU. Bobby and I went to see him last night, and he did look better. He said that they have finally gotten his pain to a manageable state, with a Morphine drip and regular injections of Dilaudid (?) as needed. It was good to see him with some color and able to chat for an hour or so without being in pain.

As for the future, we are all a little unsure. The tumor may continue growing now that they have taken him off of his chemo. Not sure how any of this is going to go. I'm scared, quite honestly, but trying to be real about my feelings and am hoping that as time goes on I will be able to deal with what is happening. For now, I'm going on instinct and what I know is the right thing to do.

-MM

When Good Germs go Bad

Well, it's cold season, and guess who's got one. Could be a lot worse, but I'm definately down for a few days. Called in sick 2 days in a row to work, so I know it's more serious that usual. Pretty normal, I suppose, though, for the first year back as a teacher. In fact, Friday, every 5th grade teacher was out sick except for 2. We have finally succumbed to the carrier monkeys that brought the germs upon us.

It's been a long time since I've been sick like this and it wasn't from chemo. I'm thinking it was when I had pneumonia in San Diego, actually, the last time. And that was much worse than this. Though the Robitussin gives me a nice flying :) feeling, I'm hoping today I can lay off of it so I can maybe get some work done. The good news is today is the first day I've woken up and my chest doesn't hurt. That's a good sign, I think, and I'm armed and dangerous with Puff's Plus this weekend.

I've missed the last couple of Gilda's club meetings due to feeling ill and just being so darned busy. I'm really hoping I can make next Thursday's group. I haven't really decided on this post-treatment support group, yet. I can't decide if I really want to stick with it or not, but since I've only given it one try, I'm definately gonna hit it a couple of more times to see how it goes. It's become pretty obvious that I need to do something, that I need to be in touch with all that's going on with me and my fears about cancer recurrence. I think this will be good outlet.

I'm sure, if you're like me, everytime you get sick after the CA diagnosis, you go into panic mode. I immediately began to worry that the cold would move into my chest, and my immune system wouldn't be able to fight it. This, friends, is called paranoia. Kinda like every time I get a headache that little voice goes, "OMG! Brain mets!"

This, I suppose, is the adjustment period to that "new normal" everyone talks about. I wish I could just get to that "new normal" and get it over with! Move on! Geezy Creezy! Build a bridge and get over it!

Anyway, that's today's rant. I'll fill you in later on my new derma. Now THAT's a good story.

-MM