Photo Sunday

Life is crazy right now. I'm working really more than doing anything else, but the TAKS is in two weeks, so by May I'll be back to a normal life.

I'm good, though. Besides work, I can say that I'm 100% happy right now. If you know anything about what's been going on, you've probably already figured out that my two cancer support homies are doing good. One has been called "cured," a word which none of us have ever even heard from a doctor before. She was so positive and upbeat through the whole treatment, it was really amazing. And now she's home, like a trooper, healing and doing well. So could be possibly ask for more?

And my other friend is home again and thanks to her crazy strength and tenacity, the treatment she finally finished brought about great news in her last scan. She is now eligible for a transplant and we are excited about this big news. It seems we have all been very blessed, and I am so thankful. Not to downplay what these ladies have been through, but it seems there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

I could go into all the things I've been dwelling over, like how every time something huge like this comes up, I revert right back to hopelessness. That's actually not entirely true, though. If I give myself some credit and am honest, I think that, little by little, I'm doing better every time. I know what I need to do, and that is sincerely and earnestly begin working on myself, coming to peace with the way things are and learning how to live in the moment instead of always wondering about if things will be okay. Admitting that is the first step, I guess, so I need to go about researching and planning a way to do that.

That being said, I thought I'd post some photos, including some things I am thankful for, and then get back to work. May is melanoma awareness month, and I've got some big plans! Can't wait to show you what I'm up to.

And now the photos:

1. This is me at the boxing gym I go to. These boys you see in the photo have become family to me, and they are a regular part of my week. Boxing has been a blessing to me, a way to relieve stress and just another thing that I have in my life that constantly teaches me that I am always in progress, and, simultaneously, always complete.

2. Pink hair is one of the simple pleasures in life.

3. Joy and me. What a blessing having a friend like this is. Our friendship sort of solidified over night, when I was in the midst of a horrible time in my life last year (see this post). She practically carried me through this time, and she's still around every time I need to hear that the TAKS test is not the end of life.

4. The Dude action figure that I have in the kitchen, right beside the Poptarts. Need I say more?

5. Me skating. Now, I'm not going too front and say I do this all the time, because this photo was taken the one and only time I've ever been on a half pipe. But eventually, I know I'll do this again. Maybe even twice.

6. This photo is from last weekend at the Deep Ellum Arts festival, a street fair type gig. And way too much fun for one day. Don't we look fabulous? I'm so happy I'm glowing.

7. These are my girls, and another example of the amazing things that can come into your life when you're down. I can always rely on when I need shop, go out to a club, have a few cocktails, worship handbags, talk about Edward Cullen, or dance. I'm so thankful for them.

8. and 9. Bear is the happiest dog alive. Bobby always threatens to write a book on how to live life like Bear, because this girl does it right.



That's it for now. I'll be back in 2 weeks.

Take care till then.

-MM

Like seriously.

So here's a new thing I'm doing. I downloaded this awesome bomb countdown thingy (that I also use in my classroom- the kids dig it hardcore), and I make myself write. I make myself write and I can not stop writing until the bomb explodes and the alarm sounds.

Sounds not so bad, right? Especially since I only set it for 15 or 20 minutes at a time. (?) But, here's the thing which I did not realize until I heard Jon Kabat-Zinn (thanks Candi, for the heads up on those podcasts, btw) say it the other day, and that is that writing - or rather stringing words together in a manner that is meaningful to other people and yourself- is a sincere form of meditation. And since this is the form I've been practicing for some 20 years now, this is a good way for me to force myself to bring my thoughts to the surface.

I have a quote on my wall that says "In my world, nothing ever goes wrong." I have that quote there not because I understand it or because it defines the way I look at things, but because I strive daily to think that way. I strive to believe that every day up until this one was perfect in that it brought me to this very moment, which is exactly where I need to be. That everything that has come into my life has had something really important and really wonderful to teach me, and that, therefore, there have been no mistakes.

That's so hard. Like seriously hard. No mistakes? Like none at all? What about that Beatles haircut I had that one time. Or those skinny jeans. That night in Tijuana. Or the bad boy boyfriend. Actually, all 9 of the bad boy boyfriends.

On one hand, yes, I can see that's it true- there are no mistakes. Because if I hadn't done all those goofy things I did, then I may not be here, where I am today. And it feels pretty obvious to me that this IS where I'm supposed to be, even though it's not permanent. But then I think about all these great people around me that I've just now figured out that I keep at arm's length because... because.... because why? Because I don't want to see new friends hurt the way old friends did when we thought I was going to die? Because I lost so many friends during this whole journey through cancer and I don't think I could take that again? Because of those people that couldn't accept me for who or where I was?

And what does that mean anyway, "when we all thought I was going to die." I mean, hello, I'm still going to die. And I hate to tell you this, dollface, but you are, too. Relatively speaking, we're all going to do it (no, not that, I mean we're all going to die) pretty soon. You know, like within the next hundred years. So why, after we get the all clear/no melanoma news do we pretend that death was never really there?

I remember after my brief stint in the hospital last year that as I was coming to terms with everything I was really weepy. And I wonder if I'm just allowing myself to just heal a bit here. Maybe that's why I've been so emotional- because I'm letting another layer dissipate. Because I'm opening up a little more. It has to be. Or hopefully, because here's something scary- I cried today during Project Runway. Project Runway people. Is that even possible? Like seriously.

The good news is I do see myself recently being much more real about how I feel and allowing myself to move through these things. Being honest about my emotions instead thinking I always have to be so tough or deal with them privately. That was more about me not wanting others to feel uncomfortable than about just being honest. And so now I feel like I'm moving forward. Moving through the pain of the past, moving through the pain of my "mistakes." Moving through the fear. Moving through the impermanence.
But in a really good way. In a way that cancer patients seem to understand. In a way that we all should and can understand, but maybe just lie to ourselves about because the thought of not being in control of it all is so harrowing.

Lori Hope, who I simply love, had an excerpt on her blog from Kairol Rosenthal's upcoming book, "Everything Changes: Living with Cancer in Your 20s and 30s” that I was just so blown away by. I am going to run out and snag up this book the moment it hits the shelves. Here's an abridged version of some of what she had to say: "In the midst of my cancer, I found myself surrounded by peers who had the luxury of not facing illness and death each morning when they looked in the mirror. Some have placed my proximity to death on a pedestal, as though I am a beacon who, at a young age, is bestowed the honor of looking the scary beast of death straight in the face. I want people who live free of cancer to know that everyone has the choice to become deeply familiar with their own mortality. Most young adults can’t imagine death as clearly or as vividly when they are healthy. . . It is your responsibility none the less... Young adults living with cancer are not, and never chose to be, the death and dying ambassadors from our generation... We are all dying. Once you face this sharp and weighty reality, you will be able to sit beside your young friends who have cancer with less fear... less nervousness... erase the boundary that divides us and them, the sick and the well... From this place, you can provide the very simple comfort of compassion that people living with cancer desperately want.”
Amazingly written. Have you been to that place where you look death in the face and realize for the first time that you are so much bigger than it, that you are so much more expansive and beautiful than it? So much so that none of us should ever really consider that, death, an ending? From that place you not only look your poor friend in the eye and supply some support, but you can provide your own comfort, too. You can do as Lao Tzu, that smart bastard, said- you can know at the center of your being all that you are.

And so I pray I'm there. Or at least one step closer to being in that place than I was yesterday. Even if it's a tiny little step, it's something I'm thrilled to be millimeters closer to.

And if I am, I'm going to actually open up and allow myself these new friendships.
That's right, I said it. I'm allowing new, genuine, deep, frightening close, painful, beautiful friendships with the good people that surround me. Good people that don't want me to be anything except myself. And whether it hurts or not, I am forcing myself to relish the moments within those friendships for as long as I'm granted them.

Thanks to each of you who read this and allow me to be your friend.

Aww. Hold me.

-MM

The Coolest Thing

So I get an email last week from a melanoma survivor named Paige Wood. The very lovely and talented Paige is a musician and is touring with the Vans Warped Tour and is working with FM World Charities towards awareness of the dangers of sun exposure (you gots to check her out on YouTube, yo). And in case you don't remember, Paige was interviewed in the Current.com "Scared of Skin Cancer" vid I posted on June 11th.
So Paige invited Katherine and I to come see her show and to check out the free skin cancer screenings they were doing. And as you know, I am ALL about the promoting of the awareness and any live music show. So this was a big treat for me.
Kat Von Bates (who did the awesome Paula's Choice Interview below), always representing Too Faced and all their good efforts to help promote all things melanoma-research related, and I both agreed that this was one of the most inspirational things we've seen in a long time as far as skin cancer awareness goes. I've got to send out big ups to not only the Vans Tour and Paige, but FM World Charities and the Mole Mate Screening Technology being used at the booths.
Let me give you a little glimpse of what was going on.
First of all, if you don't know what a huge deal this is, let me just say that Vans Warped Tour has about 30,000 people visit the event every day. Think Lollapalooza (as a wise man once said). So a skin screening booth here is maximum exposure. KVB and I spoke for a while with Eric Gast (who had a very Rick Rubin vibe to him), the founder and board chairman of FM World Charities, and he had awesome things to say about using positive media to reach people instead of scary and negative images. I had no idea about this charity, but upon closer investigation, I found that this not-for-profit organization is devoted to promoting public health in a lot of ways. What I really loved about their skin cancer screenings was that FM World Charities had the idea to help screen for common illnesses, like melanoma, during concerts and other public events so that people become aware of the danger before it becomes life threatening. According to their website, "This will be useful in two ways. It will not only increase the number of individuals being screened for these conditions but, given the age of the people usually attending these events, introduce the idea of preventative health care to a young audience. For example, the incidence of skin cancers is increasing rapidly throughout the world. A small lesion that develops when a person is 20 years of age will often be ignored for years before it becomes symptomatic and life threatening. Early diagnosis and treatment is the key to avoiding these problems."
Is anyone else in love?
I just had a moment.
Plus, think about it: Melanoma has become the most common cancer in women between the ages of 25 and 29, so exposing young people to the idea of skin screenings is vitally important!
Also, I gotta say that his whole idea with using Mole Mate was to draw people in with curiosity toward the technology and process instead of fear. That's the "positive media" thing he's talking about. And the amazing part is it really works! If you don't believe me, just check out the pics taken there. These are not necessarily your typical "I'll get this mole checked out at my regular dermatologist appointment" peeps. These are everyday people, music fans and skater kids, dropping by the tent to see what's up. And that rocked my world.
So just to give you a taste of what Mole Mate technology does, here is some more info. The registration process was quick and easy with only 4 or 5 questions to get you started, as illustrated by the pic of me with my new pink hair and sweat spot on my back (it was 95 degrees out, throw me a bone here.) And the next step is just as easy- See that wand thingy pointing the guy is pointing on Kat's face? That is essentially the whole process of Mole Mate: it "is a non-invasive, rapid, and painless melanoma screening device that has been specifically designed with and for General Practitioners and skin specialists. By assisting and accelerating the diagnostic process, Mole Mate™ enables the medical professional to quickly scan and make a decision to refer a patient, excise a lesion or immediately assure them that their lesion is not suspicious." Right on the spot! How, you say, is this possible? Well, allow me to fill you in. That little wand thing takes not only an external photo of a suspicious mole, but gives a magnified dermatoscopic view of it, like so:which the doc can then look at and determine it's danger level. How friggin cool is that.

Speaking of rocking my world, Paige put on a hell of a show. Avril's got nothing on this chic. (Sorry Avril, I've seen you live. It's true.) I mean seriously. Plus she's got her heart in the game and is all about promoting the cause. Not only is she a survivor, but she lost her best friend to melanoma a few years ago, and it runs in her family, so she knows what's up. While we were chatting her up on the nice cool tour bus (where, gratefully, she let us chill for a while), one of the volunteers outside, Katie, a friend of Paige's, brought in a 16 year old that had recently been diagnosed at stage I. She had gone to get checked out after her dad had a lesion removed and sure enough, they found a suspicious mole. Paige took the time to talk with this girl and get to know her, and I was hella impressed. This is what it's all about people, putting the word out there and letting others know they're not alone and to keep up the good fight. Geez, I'm getting misty.

So big ups to everyone I contacted that pitched in for free products to everyone stopping by the free skin cancer screenings (including Neutrogena, Too Faced, Paula's Choice, Imerman Angels, I2y.org, Spot a spot and Paul Mitchell Salons and of course the amazing Skincancer.org and the amazing Melanoma International Foundation), and huge props to Katherine, Paige, FM World Charities, Vans, Mole Mate, Eric Gast, and all the volunteers who pitched in to help make this initiative possible. Party on, Wayne. Party on Garth.

-MM

Nine Ways to Find Peace of Mind

1. Start a blog and meet the most amazing people on earth.
2. Try to listen to what they say and internalize it.

The other 7 are hopefully coming soon.

My Ego is My Amigo

What's the difference between God and a Doctor?
God doesn't think he's a Doctor.

That joke has nothing to do with this post but it's always good to get a jab in from Jump Street. It's February, one of those 4 months of the year when I'm constantly considering finding another job. I check the classifieds, I ask friends, I daydream of a job working with cancer survivors. I love the kids, but all the other stuff seems to get in the way of teaching this time of year and I'm hella ready for summer. Today I left work at 3:30 for a physical therapist appointment and by God if I wasn't amazed to see what it was like to drive around in the daylight. Crazy.

Work's been getting in the way of all the stuff I find so important- I've hardly had a chance to check in on my peeps and I haven't kept up with my message board. It's so difficult sometimes to make it balance. I feel like I've done well this school year up until now, so I guess it's true it gets a little easier every year. I'm just ready to win the lottery so that I can start working on advocacy full time. Ready to be living the dream.

So to everyone out there that I keep in touch with, all my friends that are enduring treatment right now or recovering from it, just know that you are in my heart and in my thoughts.

And to you, dream job offer, I am waiting patiently. But if you don't hurry up, I could potentially be working with a nametag and visor and a much more serious case of acne.

And you should never trust a woman in a visor.

Peace.

-MM

Tardy doesn't even begin to describe it

Okay, I suck. I told Baldylocks I'd post 5 random facts about myself like a month ago, and I'm just now getting them here. But alas, my friends, here they are, in no particular order.

1. I love photographs. Even when I'm fat, (which is, by the way, right now). I'm not sure if it's that I love to pretend I'm famous or that I love to have particular moments captured or if it's that I'm a closet sentimentalist, but no matter, I'm obsessed with having pictures of me and the people I love. And, evidently, my cleavage, too.

2. I want at least 2 more tattoos. I've been stalling on this, but I'll have a koi tattoo before 2008 is over.


3. I think I might be the reincarnate of Eazy-E. I'm just sayin.

4. I miss my friends. Mandy, Kelly, Amanda. We've lost touch since I was diagnosed with cancer. Not sure why this happened, but I wish it wouldn't have.

5. I almost messed up the best thing in my life. That is, I almost missed my first date with Bobby. I was like an hour late, and he was on the brink of leaving, when I finally showed up. Lucky for me he was patient and sort-of forgiving. But he did stick around and we ended up having an amazing first date, which has led to me realizing I've met the man of my dreams. Aww.

That's it for me, folks. I'm here till Thursday. Try the veal.

-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

A horse walks into a bar...

sits down, and sighs. The bartender walks down to where he is sitting, throws him a napkin and says, "Hey buddy, why the long face?"


Well, no long faces here. Everything in my world has been unbelievably good. It's actually kind of a strange thing to find yourself in the middle of an awesome life. It's been a while since I"ve felt that way, but it's exactly what's been going on. If you can believe it, I've even been having a little antsy, just kindof feeling like things areTOO good. Too good you say? I know, nuts. Like maybe I should tone down the happiness a little just in case cancer comes back. Isn't that crazy? It's an absurd thought, but it's true. I'm just so damn happy. Somebody slap me.


Which I guess is why I haven't been able to write much. I still check all my usual blogs regularly, still read up on my peeps out there in cyberland that are keeping me grounded and inspired. But when it comes to offering something to them, I'm sort of at a loss. A couple of them are really battling right now, really pushing through some rough times. Fighting like hell to keep melanoma out of the picture, but it's just not working. I know that the struggle takes so much life out of you that you can barely get out of bed in the morning. That kind of struggle fills your every thought. Every minute of the day is zapped by that kind of struggle. They could use the support that a survivor can offer. Yet, when I write to them I feel like I have nothing of worth to say. No real words of wisdom, no advice that will help them carry on. It's like I'm somehow lost at providing any kind of uplifting words.

I know that the truth is that part of it comes from the guilt that everyone who survives while others don't carries. It's an illogical guilt, but forget logic. It's what's there no matter how illogical it is.

And speaking of illogical, then there is that seemingly built-in instinct to prepare yourself, that distance you feel you have to put between yourself and those who are in the midst of their fight with cancer. It used to anger me back when I was first diagnosed, the fear that people get in their eyes when they know you're in the midst of fighting cancer. But b/c we blind ourselves daily with dissilussions that we're all invincible, reaching out to those with cancer has to, in the beginning at least (until you train yourself to do it instinctively), be a conscious act. I still do that every week, b/c I know I won't be able to live with myself if I don't pay forward what so many did for me.

Nonetheless, the thought of cancer of cancer- what it's doing to friends, what it did (and could still do to me) and others, sends chills down my spine. Even now, it's difficult for me to write that I'm NED and a cancer survivor. I guess b/c I know that I could've been like my friends- Leah, Sarah, Shannon, Oscar, Dad- whose cancer spread faster than they could fight it and their lives were cut short. It seems silly to think that I can say I "battled death." It's silly b/c it was hardly a battle; it was not valiant at all- and more like dumb luck that I came out alright. In reality, though, if you've been following me for a while, you were there when the PET scan lit up, when I came home to write and say, "I really hope it's nothing. It's probably nothing." And when they told me they were almost certain that it had moved to my illiac node, you know that it was a battle just to get through that. The surgery and rehab after was nothing compared to the mental fight I had just to keep my spirits up. It feels like Death is always there, just waiting for you to drop your guard. And you start to question the point of doing anything.

Which is why I decided to stick close by all those friends I mentioned before, the ones I didn't want to say good-bye to, but had to. And I assume my hesitation in doing so now stems from them memory of the pain that I felt in hearing that they'd died. And that they were gone forever.

Maybe that's what it is. Or maybe it was just realizing it for the first time, how possible it all is. Either way, I'm glad for all of this, believe it or not. Every pain and every joy I've received from this journey of mine, and every chance I've had to get to know someone else going through the same thing, even though it hurts so bad sometimes to see what they have to bare. At least we're all alive to see it.

I'm sending out good vibes to all of you in the midst of your own battle right now, and to everyone who's ever had to battle anything. And giving thanks for you, too.

-MM

How to eat fried schoolchildren

Sorry it's been so long since my last update. As you know now, the school year can be a bit hectic.

Having said that, I need to make sure that I make this clear too: your 2nd year teaching out weighs your first by about a million percent. I know, I know, mathematically that's not possible. But I'm telling you, I'm not exaggerating. I sleep at night, my room is organized, the kids actually get to enjoy the class because it's not so strained and new to me. So far, too, the goals I set for myself in the classroom have been attainable, and that's making the class better, too.

Not that there aren't "challenges" (the teacher word for problems) this year. I have a good group of really sweet kids, most of which still think members of the opposite sex are yucky, which I personally love. So cute to see them so young, and it makes my job SO much easier if we don't have love affairs going on. But never fear, by spring these guys will be jumping through their skin to see what it's like to kiss behind the gym after school. Ah, young love.



I've also had an opportunity to get to know my fellow teachers this year and- believe it or not- make FRIENDS. Remember those? The ones back before the chemo days, the ones you got to know at work and just vented to and were there to be vented to? Yes, those. Good God, what a difference it makes to be able feel comfortable enough in your own skin to just laugh and talk to someone like you used to. And to be able to hear other people in your same situation feeling the same way as you. These girls I've gotten to know have made my life a lot easier this year. Not to mention happy hour.



My one goal this year that I've failed miserably at is working out 3 days a week. I've pretty consistently worked out 2, and I always do it once, but this is it truly not good enough. Let's face it, people, I officially hate my body. And I'm an equal opportunity hater. I hate my legs, I hate my butt, I hate my back, but most of all I hate my front. I can't remember the last time I was so disgusted with myself. While I was on chemo, I always told myself that it was a temporary situation, and that I had no control over what was happening. But now, good Lord, it's been 2 years and I'm still struggling to get back into shape. Can I really blame this on chemo still? Me thinks not.

That's it for me. Tune in next week for the full on breakdown of every inch of my cottage cheesy bottom.

Shannon

Again, I've procrastinated doing the hard things, but it's time to anty up. I'm in San Diego now, but started this post before I left, and have come back to it several times in my thoughts. It's a slow day today, recovering from some debauchery and resting for more to come soon, and I think it's time to come to terms with this topic. I keep asking myself, how can I do her service with one silly post? I pray that this honors her the way she deserves.

Shannon.

The first time I read her blog, I was amazed by her spunk and literally laughed out loud. She had not only that special gift for writing but also a flare for finding in everything -literally, even the bad stuff- something funny. I just spent 45 minutes going back through old posts of hers, and what a blessing it is to all of us to have access to this woman's journey. In spite of myself, I could not stop laughing. To be able to go through so much, and yet never lose that sunny sense of humor, to be blatantly honest and vulnerable and yet so unflinchingly strong, to be in need of friends and support and yet supply that support through her words to so many- only Shannon could pull it off.

And she did. Yet she did it with the greatest humility and the most intense humanity. She said she always had trouble relating to people, calling herself "basically socially inept" and a loner, but I never understood it, because every post was like she was reading my mind. And she had such a sense of love written in every word- she loved animals and was always posting pics of them, she loved being a mom and wanted to be the world's greatest, she brought smiles to so many cancer patients and she never seemed to strike out in anger against all that mounted against her. I took a montage of pics from her blog and posted them here, laughing and smiling at her insane sense of humor.

Case in point? Waiting rooms to her were always "purgatory." She never just wrote, "my house is a mess." Instead, she'd write, "By midmorning, it looked like Christmas had thrown up all over our living room." or "You would think I would be utilizing my time once the kids are in school wisely...but noooo. Into the zone I go. Just sapped; literally wiped OUT. Actually wrote "clean me now" in the dust on my bedroom dresser while a dust bunny the size of a tumble weed rolled by and came to a rest by my feet." I can't help but giggle. I wish I could've heard her say those things, I'm sure she had the timing of an expert comedian.

One of my favorite posts was when she had to get a full body skin check by a new doc.
"The doc also, predictably enough, had to examine the virtual galaxy of moles to be found on just about every skin surface covering my body, then asked if any of my moles were changing. This, after being to countless dermatologist visits, is pretty run of the mill in the life of a melanoma patient. The semi-naked chicken dance without the dancing... Shortly thereafter, the doc instructs me to roll onto my side because he has to check my "backside" as he put it. I have no clue. I am thinking about that mole on my left @$$ cheek and how hard it will be for him to see it if I am lying on my left side. Was I DEAD WRONG. I hear the word hemoccult, digital and rectal called out to the nurse and with a very sharp intake of breath, a gasp that I am sure people heard two rooms down, and eyes literally popping out of their sockets, I stiffened up like rigor mortis set in prematurely."

And yet you knew, even in her humor, how it felt to be down, in your lowest moments. She wrote one time, "I don't think I spent a collective 10 minutes this morning not crying and wallowing in that annoying self pitying state that makes most people wanna nail you upside the head with a 2X4."

I'm going to miss Shannon so much, I can't imagine what her family must be going through. This all seems so senseless, but, as I've been told, people like Shannon are a gift, and we must appreciate every moment we've had to know them. I know that she left me with great words of wisdom that I try to remember every day.

"I wish like hell I never had to imagine the scenario of leaving this amazing life behind, because, simply put, it makes me feel as though someone punched a whole in my chest and ripped out my heart....laid me bare....
But no matter what....Live only in the moment. For good or for bad, that is all any of us is really guarranteed, melanoma or not.
And the beat goes on..."

Thank YOU

Before I do anything else today, I need to thank some very special people who have been providing some much needed support these last few months:
To Peter, Melissa, Holly, Shannon, Gregg, (and any other MPIPers that I've forgotten to mention)- thank you for your constant supply of strength and knowledge. It has truly been a blessing finding you.
To Andrea, Jacki Doss and Jacki Donaldson, Stephanie, and my friends and family that read and comment regularly, as well as all you lurkers who are showing your support just by being here.

To my co-workers who have been checking in and picking up my slack.
And especially to:
Mandy, Carver, Kim, and of course, to Faith, Linda, and Katherine- my sisters, where would I be without you? You have been my rock, my means for finding something positive in all of this, even when I didn't want to. Thank you for giving your free time and energy and wisdom and hope. If I worked from now till forever, I don't see how I could possibly repay you all.
And Bobby- what can I say to you? My God, there are no words to express it. The only thing that even comes close is to say that you have no idea how wonderful you are and that you've made every moment of my life exponentially more amazing.

Okay, wow! That was all very deep and very cheesy, but very necessary. I sincerely thank you all.

-L

Sarah T.

There is little to say today except the obvious: Derek has posted an update and we are losing Sarah. I pray for a peaceful passing for her, free of pain and anxiety and all the unfair things she's had to go through of late. I wish I would've had a hundred more years of getting to know her, but I didn't, so I'm thankful for what I had.

Bobby and I talked at lunch after we read the post, and told each other what we mean to each other. I can only try to think that maybe she would be happy about that, that all of us are taking a little love from the journey.

I wish I had more words, better words, but I don't.

-L

Sarah's Blog

I know it's a little early for Christmas, butt......

the picture just makes me giggle!

A quick update, then I'll have to post more later. First, if you have tried to post a comment, you'll see that I'm now regulating them. Don't let that stop you from posting comments, though, because I need those words of advice and solice, and they get me through some tough times! Hold me!

It's just that, for one, I've gotten some spammy type comments this week in addition to some OTHER type comments that I'll address on another post. But trust me, they're interesting, and Jerry Springer-style scandalous. You'll want to check back in on these.

As far as the latest on the doc home front, the surgeon is now officially recommending surgery, and there is even some hope that this node isn't even melanoma! Which makes me, for one, EXTREMELY happy, even though at first I wouldn't let myself believe it for fear that it's too good to be true. Now, I'm jumping whole-heartily into the hopes that this is a reactive node, and not a melanoma node! Feel free to pray for that, too. So we're planning on taking the sucker out in June. This week, however, I have been talking to MDA and to another local dr's office (who comes highly recommended in the melanoma field) and we're getting some info as to what other experts suggest. With all this in mind, I am happy to report that I am feeling very, very positive. Very positive that I am getting opinions of experts and therefore will have the highest level of care. That's a big jab at Parkland, but nonetheless, just let me tell you, I feel good. And as soon as I hear anything else, you'll be the first to know!

In other news, I'm working with about 34 fifth graders who are antsy for summer and there's not a brain to share between them all!

-MM

It's probably nothing

I guess I'll get right to the point.

The good news is I met the new oncology doctor on Friday, and he's great. Great. The man is a genius, and he's very open to my opinion and the way I think things should be done, and what I want and need as a patient.

Bad news is he thinks he's found a lump in my stomach, a lymph node that he believes may be the size of a small egg. We're both pretty sure that it's scar tissue from earlier surgery, but just to be safe, I'm getting a PET scan and a CT scheduled.

So, not sure what's to say. I am scared, even though I know that I probably shouldn't be. I should be just resting in the fact that this lump is very, very near my surgery site and that the news will come back at as nothing. Nevertheless, it is nerve wracking. I guess because this is my first scare, it's to be expected. I'm mad at myself for not taking more comfort in the fact that the probability is in my favor.

Ugh. All these emotions, all over again. And anger. Anger that this is my life. Anger that I have to do the dr. appts every three months. Mad that I still break out in hives when I have to go there. Mad that everytime I go, something like this could happen. It's like at any point it could all go downhill. And then mad at myself for all those feelings, mad at myself for feeling sorry for myself when so many others have it so much worse. Mad that my friends are dying and I'm complaining about a lump.

My oncologist and I talked for a long time about this- like 45 minutes about melanoma and what having it means. It's an aggressive cancer. And, unlike some cancers, it almost always returns. Sure, the chance of it lowers after about 15 years of no recurrence, but the fact is, it's not one of those cancers you can be pretty sure is gone. So, there's that. Then there's the fact that the only treatment once interferon is over is IL-2, and that's definately not a sure thing, either. It's a help if you're a healthy person, like I am. If you're healthy, it's about a 1 in 5 chance. But if you can't handle the whole treatment, which, let's face it, is tough, then it's only about a 6% chance. Not to mention the potential damage it can do to your heart, liver, etc. I'm not sure I'd do IL-2 if the melanoma returned. In fact, I'm pretty sure I would not. So, as my oncologist said, "when it returns," he says to me, "we can take measures to delay death, but not significant measures. Once it's back, life expectancy is 9 months. A delay of a few months or a year is possible, but there's really nothing we can do to stop it." That's a real slap in the face even on a good day. But a day when you've just found a lump, it's enough to make you crazy. And, by the way, you can just call me Crazy from here on out. I'm going crazy with all this to think about.

I'm checking into a vaccine that has had great success overseas, but is not available here in the U.S. Not available to humans, that is, but to dogs. From what I hear, the shot is about $60g's and pretty effective (1 in 4). So it's not like my options totally suck. I mean, I guess, at least there's hope.

That's about it. I'm obviously a bit down. But I know I can count on good news soon. And, this is good for me anyhow, to deal with these things. Good for me, but not easy.

-L

The ultimate teacher

This blog will be a little scattered- a bit here and there- a tad all over the place. I'm just really letting my thoughts romp about. Think James Joyce and stream of consciousness.
______________________________________________________
There are two parts of me today. The first is the side that knows that Oscar is finally at peace.

Then there's the other side.
My therapist asked me on Saturday, "How do you feel now that it's over?" My first instinct is less than happy, bordering on what I can only reasonably describe as rage, but I just stuff it and I say the truth: I feel a sense of relief that he is finally out of pain. And now it is a matter of getting past the missing him. A matter of dealing with the fact that a good person that I genuinely cared about is gone. I think of my dad and how that dent will always be there. Getting past the missing them is the worst part. And that is what I can only assume takes a lifetime.

I guess I don't need to say that I wasn't as close to Oscar as many people in my group were. I keep feeling the need to justify why it hurt so bad to see him go. It's ridiculous, really- I think all of us from the group are asking ourselves why it hurt so bad. Of course, it is sad that such a wonderful person is gone, but we all seemed so emotionally tied to his death, when, really, we've all been surrounded by death before. But this one hit home. We're all exploring these emotions in us, thinking of Oscar, wondering what has been stirred in us.

It brings me to a quote I read this week: "Conflict comes when you seek consolation, forgetfullness, explanations, and illusions."

The other day we were talking about how the first stages of diagnosis always coincide with, "Why me?" And then one day, it just clicks, and the question instead becomes, "Why not me?" There is no consolation in figuring out why. We've done nothing to deserve it any more than any other person on the planet. And so the consolation comes from within, in the understanding that it happens. It happens to good people and to bad people, young and old, strong and weak. It just happens.

And such as it is with death, the ultimate teacher. It happens. The illusion that we here in the West like to live under is that death is some distant and foreign thing that's not going to happen to us. We're too young, too healthy, too (insert other adjective here). But death is a reality, and when we are slapped with it, how can I say this except: it rocks our world. That's where the "new normal" comes in. The new normal is life in the face of death. The elephant in the room that most cancer survivors are willing to acknowledge and everone else chooses to ignore is the reality of death. Once someone comes to grips with their own mortality, a lot of the dillusions about life and about ourselves are lost. There is pain with the prospect of our lack of existance, but at the same time the huge question begins to arise: Why do we pretend death's not going to happen to us?

Which brings me back to my therapist Saturday, who asked: why deal with death now? Why not wait until it is time to deal with it?

When, exactly, I asked him, is it time to deal with it?

When we're dying, he said.

Here's what I don't get: can we not learn to live life in the face of death? Does the prospect of it not give us greater insight into what we really want? And need? I have come to believe, as I have seen the face of death, that an acceptance of death leads to a more vivid life. Whether I can live that more vivid life, I am not sure yet. I am not so sure that I am capable of being that big of a person. But I know, none the less, that it is true.

There has been an outpouring among my Gilda's group since Oscar's passing, a string of emails to each other thanking the others for what they've provided and what is appreciated in each of them. It sort of blows my mind that a group of people can chose to go through something like this with each other, something that I've never really seen or experienced in my short life. And yet the group has pulled through it- has chosen to bond and meld together and be there for another human when all of our first instincts are to protect our own well-being. I, personally, had to fight with myself constantly- forcing myself to do what I really wanted to do when all the instincts were screaming to run in the opposite direction. This has much more to do with me and my history than it does to Oscar or my group- it's just how I've gotten by in rougher times. And I fight it still, even now. I can feel the tension inside me pleading not to get too close to people, not to allow myself to trust and not to get attached and not to put faith in them, that when it all goes down I won't be able to take the pain. But becoming bigger and better person sometimes means ignoring those instincts and learning to put yourself out there and love in spite of fear. It means that risks like this could pay off or not, but either way, a person comes out on the other side richer from the experience and proud of the involvement and wiser from the struggle. Isn't that what death teaches us, anyway?

This group has brought about a sort of renewal in me. I see, in the midst of this pain, such an amazing spirit of friendship that has astounded and overwhelmed me. And I see the individuals, too- people that I wouldn't even know or be friends with typically- I am in awe of their spirit, their strength, their faith, their tenacity, their character. In the last week, even saying the word "friendship" has literally brought tears to my eyes. It makes me cry the way people cry at weddings, who are bewildered by the beauty and stunned by the flow of emotions. And I can only assume it is because I simply cannot believe how I've been so blessed by this. So blessed to fall into this circle. I am at a loss to even describe it, but you just have to trust me how it feels to be so overcome by a sense that I am surrounded by a group of people that get me, people genuinely and deeply feel the same pain I am experiencing, people that would look me in the eye hours before death, people that are simply THERE- there when I just need to hear their voices or their stories, there when I am searching for a familiar face like a child lost among strangers, there to listen and to prod and to urge and to care.

I wanted to end this blog with some sort of conclusion about all this. But tonight I don't have it.
Maybe someday soon. Maybe it will become clear.

For now, though, I know one good thing. And in light of Oscar's death, I think that's a pretty big good thing to see.

-L

Spring Break '07- This Year, No Beach, No Banana Daquiris

I swear to you I've written at least 15 blogs in the last few days, and have erased every one of them. My committment to you, right now, is to publish this blog no matter how ugly or inappropriate or whatever it is.

Spring break this year started with an art memorial service for Lia. There were 8 of us there to honor Lia and to have our own memorial for her since we weren't informed of the formal one till days after it was too late. I wish I had a picture of Lia to post here, but I don't. I wish that you could see her, though. It would add so much to what you read about her. Anyway, there was that on Saturday last, and it sort of "set the tone" for the whole break. I had a pretty emotional reaction to it, especially for someone who doesn't have emotional responses in public. Andrea started the memorial by just telling us that anything was allowed- tears, words, laughter, hugs, silence. I started to cry almost immediately, and cried much of the time I was there. The group talked about Lia, then about the last 2 years, as 5 of our group of 25 have slowly melted away from us. Then we talked about our fears- about making more friends at Gilda's club, only to watch them die, too. Only to force us to face our mortality.

I guess I thought I was handling the whole thing better than I have been, but it became clear that day that I have barely handled it at all. I don't know what I've been doing, but I don't think I've been facing the pain. It has taken me all week to essentially come to grips with what is going on with me and what I am feeling. And what I am feeling is this: fear. Fear is a pretty foreign feeling to me- I've made my life out of stupid risks taken and living off the adrenaline from them. I'm the person that wiser people call wreckless and some call stupid, and am also the one that's pretty calm in most scary situations. A response from childhood or other hood, I guess- instant crisis management.
Up until a few weeks ago, if you asked me what I'm scared of, I would've said, "Disappointing my loved ones. But besides that, very little." Pain doesn't really scare me- physical, at least. I'm not scared of suffering, because I know for the most part that I can handle it. And I've learned much from losing things I loved and putting my life together afterward- to the point of feeling confident from such endeavors.
But things are different now. For one thing, I understand what a fear of death is. For me, it is attached to ego, as I am not so afraid of missing things as I am of the way life goes on without stopping to see that you are no longer a part of it. I assume this is nothing but a fear of essentially being forgotten. Or inconsequential. Of dying, and then, in essence, disappearing.
I also understand, I guess, the fragility of life now somehow, too. How it is here in our grasp, but, at the same time, it is not. It is mostly just beyond our grasp, because it is not something we can hold and protect, but merely something we are allowed to touch intermittenly and love and hopefully grasp and fully appreciate. And, after our time is up, it is gone from our sight.
That's enough to ponder for years, so I'll stop there. That's what's going on with me. I'm trying to use that, to understand what I've been taught from this, to make these days that are only mine a gift to myself. It is not always easy being so mindful, but it is important and a blessing, even when it hurts like it does today.

-Lori

A Moveable Feast

Sometimes I come to this blog and I have no idea what to say. I spin the words around in my head, trying to come up with something clever, trying to think what is important to say and what I can figure out on my own without worrying others.

Ernest Hemingway once wrote that he often had writer's block, and this would worry him. The thought of not being able to write would begin to make him anxious, and that he would "stand and look over the roofs of Paris and think, "Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know." So finally I would write one true sentence, and then go on from there."

My true sentence for today is: I truly do not know what to make of the things we are asked to do in this life.

I attended the memorial service of Mary Davis today. She was only 62, and she was the first person in my support group that has passed away. I didn't know too much about her, but I saw her every time I was there. She once told me I had beautiful eyelashes. I learned about as much as I know of her today during the service. She was an old hippie. She loved to drink and smoke good stuff and surrounded herself with colorful people. She had two lesbian daughters, both with serious life partners, one of whom spoke today. She said that when she went to Mary's house, she was always the most conservative person there. I thought that was funny, and thought of how I wish I could've known Mary in better times. I think we would've gotten on famously. The last time I saw her, she had been taken off all of her pain medication except Advil because she kept having hallucinations, and she'd had brain surgery just a week or so before. It was awful to see her in so much pain. She said she was ready for the pain to end.

I don't know what to say really besides that. I guess it's good that the pain is gone, and that is that. That is about as much as you can say. It's unfair. So unfair that Mary had to go through this; unfair that so many people are losing their fight to this. And a part of me wishes I didn't know about this world, this place where so many people are fighting this disease. A part of me wishes that I could go back to just being oblivious to the struggle so many are having, a struggle of literally life and death.
In the last month, three of my friends have found out that their cancer has metastasized to organs in their body. To be honest, Mary's funeral showed me that I am not ready for this: to watch people I love fight this fight. And yet, I find myself coming to the conclusion that there is no choice here to be made. This is how it's going to be, and I will undoubtedly watch them do it. I will do my best as a human being to be there when they need to know that others can be. Isn't that what a support group is? People who understand the struggle you are having? My friends without cancer, so many have slipped away, unable to cope. And I can't do that to those that have been there and watched as I coped.
I am always amazed how my friend Faith does it. She keeps up with everyone, goes to see them in the hospital, brings food and cards and soup and checks up with all of us on the phone every week. I want to ask her, what is it that keeps you going? Don't you just want to quit sometimes, just disappear? Aren't you tired of watching everyone suffer and die?
After today I guess I understand that the only other choice is pretending it's not happening. So you buck up, you just jump in and do what needs to be done, and you learn to deal with it as you go. No one is born knowing how to look a dieing person in the eyes. But you do it because it's the best thing for you and it's the best thing for them, and what comes after that is really insignificant. Everything else sort of takes care of itself.

So that's it. I know in the next month and year and decade I'll see my friends go through things, some good and some bad. I am fearful of what may come, and I hope for the very best. I am not big on prayer, but, if you're reading this, I ask you to please pray for my friends. Pray that they not suffer the way Mary did.

And pray for all of us, that we be the persons we need to be when we are called to be that support. And for peace, not just on Earth, but everywhere, in every one of us. Lastly, pray that this is not in vain. Because if it is, I just don't see how any of us can look the same at our insignificant little lives.

-MM