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

If you're taking requests

So you know about my support group. You know that there are 6 or so of us, and that we are very close. We're from all walks of life, with ages spanning from fairly young to much older, and our incomes and lifestyles are even more diverse. And you know that they are what got me through the worst times of cancer, that they are the reason I can look at cancer without bitterness and regret. You know that most of what I learned from cancer, I learned with their help

What you don't know is that in the last few months, 2 girls in my group have been diagnosed again. One has had a recurrence of non-hodgkins lymphoma, and is trying another chemo regimen in order to be considered for a stem-cell transplant. Another has been diagnosed with a new cancer, if you can believe that.

And, of course, it's hard. It's way hard. I'm sure it's not actually so, but it might even be harder to be the one on the sidelines, having been through my own experience. Though these girls make it look easy. They accept their emotions, whatever they are, without shame and without trying to hide them. They express their emotions, even anger and fear, with grace and with peace. They amaze me. They make me pray for the kind of wisdom and acceptance that I see in them.

Please keep my friends in your thoughts and prayers. When you have a second during the day, send them some positive thoughts. I believe in that sort of thing, I believe that it makes a difference in the journey, if not the outcome. But please, God, make the outcome good.

Thanks,

MM

Life is life

In college, I wrote a short story one time about a road trip I took by myself. On the Road had always been a favorite, and when plans fell through with everyone else for a trip we'd planned, I decided to just go solo. I ended my travel story (of course) with a bit of cliched enlightenment:

"... after a few states and many miles, here's what you come to figure out: people are just people. Some live close to the freeways in dustier and smaller houses, and some live in big, lonely ones that can only be found while exasperatedly lost in the suburbs. But there's a vein that runs through all of us, whether we dare to admit it or not, and the blood that's pumping in it is our commonality. We're more alike than we are different. For a lot of us, that's scarier than the thought of being isolated. Because to admit that we're all just people is to dive into a place where others understand and have felt our own vulnerability, and where we can share little delights (like traveling to a new place) and make those damn emotional investments that our paranoia tells us are the next heartbreaks. We can't view all of life as simply as we see the houses from the freeway, but we can step back and take solace in the fact that no matter our differences, people are still just people."

It's true, isn't it? How often have you met someone famous and walked away thinking about how surprisingly normal they were? I have to remind myself of that all the time, because somehow just because a person is legendary or well-known doesn't mean they don't struggle with all the things the rest of us struggle with. No matter who you are, life is good, and life is hard.

If you life here locally, you probably saw on the news about Erika Clouet dieing in a car wreck on Labor Day. Erika was a teacher at my school. She was a newly-wed July bride, and she was 24 years old. I didn't know her well at all, and in the 2 years I knew her we probably talked a couple dozen times. But I will say that she was one of those people that you think about being a genuinely nice person. The wedding picture they keep posting in the news is one she never saw; her wedding pictures arrived the day after she and her husband were hit and killed by a drunk driver. This was the driver's fifth DUI. I don't really know if her death is any more or less tragic than the other young people I've known whose lives were taken by cancer, but it's really not the point. I just know this: Life is hard.

You've probably seen that Leroy Sievers died, too. It's a terrible loss. It's all so terrible I can hardly stand it sometimes. I try not to think it's unfair or it shouldn't be this way, but over the couple of years that I read his blog, I felt I had come to really know him, and his dieing left a surprisingly sharp pain. He made a conscious effort to be very open and honest about his feelings on his blog I guess it's no surprise that so many people have expressed feeling this way. Through his journalism he had covered 14 different wars, including Afghanistan and Iraq, but he said that his blog was the most important work that he'd ever done. He opened up a small piece of society by starting a converstaion about sickness and death, and he united thousands of survivors and caregivers under the guise of his daily posts. When someone asked him what he got out of his sometimes heart-wrenching blog, he wrote, "A daily reminder that none of us walks this road alone. What could be better than that?"

In the last 6 months, as he neared the end, it was more and more difficult to force myself to read his posts. When he sold his Jeep, that was when I knew he had come to terms with the end, and I stopped reading all together. I'm sure that some of this stemmed from my similar experience with my dad, who did a pretty good job of keeping hidden how ill he was until close to the end. The little clues would slip out, like red flags, telling me it was time to see things for myself. Regrettably, I didn't pick up on these fast enough. Fathers always seem so invincible, I guess. And like Leroy, to think of them as just as vulnerable as the rest of us will nearly break your heart.

The last few years, sometimes the loss has seemed like too much to bare. Losing Leroy, this person I never talked to, never looked in the face, never once met was not as sad to me as the other people I've had to say good-bye to, but I think served as a reminder that these things never stop happening. The end of life is an essential part of it, and though some of us are able to live in a world where reality is far enough out of eye-sight to ignore it, it still continues on. Life is tough.

Strangely enough, during this weird time, I've recently seen that I've taken a step onto a new emotional plain in my personal life. It has been a long time coming but I've progressed to a level of openness and vulnerability that I haven't found myself on in a very long while (think high school). That sounds much more dramatic than it is, really, because if it weren't for my seemingly unexplained feelings of fear then I probably wouldn't have even realized that I was in a new place that I didn't allow myself before. When these things happen it is always both shocking to find one's self here and simulateously frightening how long I denied being elsewhere. And that I denied that I could actually allow myself to love more than I did before. As many times as I've written here that there is little other choice than to live this way, it is definitely easier said than done.

Believe it or not, I think this is the "life is good" part; this is the silver lining. Like Doc Paskowitz said, "It's easier to die when you have lived than it is to die when you have not. So I say to all young people: go make beautiful memories. And when the time comes for you to go, you will not be alone." It's so difficult to get to the edge and take the leap, but it's also what life is about. So I'm trying to follow my own advise and to live in spite of the fear, in spite of the pain, and in spite of the sadness.

With the death of those around me, I want to soak up the grief and live with it, because fearing it and stuffing it down will only kill a tiny part of me. But I also want to know, at the end of my life, that I didn't allow that sadness and fear to stop me from feeling the love that I feel today. Yes, it's the scariest thing I've ever felt, because it means if I'm hurt, it will nearly devour me. But I guess you can't only make good memories. So in order to make any memories at all we have to embrace it all, even the darkness. And look for and feel the connectness between us all. That is what keeps us sane. That is what living is.

Today I'm living.

Life is good.

-MM

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. :)
--------------------------------------------------
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

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

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

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

Thank God it's Doomsday

Thank God for my job. I say that because lately it's been the only time I don't obsess about whether we'll do radiation or surgery. Not that it matters, really. Why am I so concerned about this? In a way it feels silly. I mean, it's not like I'm sitting around waiting to find out if I have cancer or not. The truth is, I know it's there. And I feel like we'll do whatever it takes right now to get rid of this, and then continue to be vigilant and fight it whenever (did I say whenever, I meant IF ever) it comes back. When I say it like that, it seems like no big deal. And yet it's eating up my thoughts, always there in the back of my mind, nagging me. Like a big, "What IF?" The crazy thing is I've never felt like the what-ifs in life were worth pondering. Why waste that energy? Now, it feels like it's all I do. What if..... That's different for me, as a person who has lived her life fairly fearlessly up until now. I've never been much for limiting any activity due to fear, including things that I probably should've been more afraid of. Maybe I've been in denial this whole time, acting like I'm immortal, acting like nothing can hurt me, diving into the moment despite the little fear that was there. It's worked, though! I've always felt very alive, and now, here I am, realizing just how human and fragile I can be. And it's overwhelming, of course. I try to just be myself and at the same time grasp these new feelings. Sometimes I'm a basketcase. I cry at the drop of a hat. I cry in the bathroom at work. I've had the same headache for 3, 4 weeks now- the type of headache I have to take Vicodin to get relief from. But, it's a process. I'm working through it. I'm a healer, I'm healing. I'm a freakin' machine. A healing machine.
Bobby and I had an argument yesterday- ok, more like a disagreement- about vacationing this summer, and I swear I thought I was losing my mind. We had essentially decided that plans we've been making all year are not going to happen. I felt like we don't even know what we'll be doing in the next 5 years, how many times we'll be fighting cancer, when I'll have to be in the hospital, when we'll have another chance to just go and do. I threw a fit. Do you know how long it's been since I pulled a "I'm locking myself in my room" fit? High school at least, maybe even jr. high. Good God. I really did come near to a break down. And I finally just let myself cry and lose it and feel sorry for myself, and after about an hour of that, I felt better. Like way better. I don't know why I fight being so human like that, but it's ridiculous. If I would just accept my feelings for what they are, it'd be a whole lot easier to move on from there. Just a bit of advice for the rest of you Wonder women out there.
Thank God for Gilda's Club. I come full out on Thursday and say I'm happy my cancer is back- o.k., not happy, but you know, relieved- and almost everyone in the room said they knew how I felt! Where else can you get that? I don't think I could even pay a room of people to be that convincing.
Thank God for all of you. I really don't know what I would've done if I hadn't had so many of you writing me, calling me, posting comments. Emails full of advice. Emails that brought tears to my eyes. Emails from complete strangers that offered their home to me and old me their own stories that are so similar to mine. Beautiful stories of hope. I sincerely can not thank all of you enough. I can't list all 109 of you right now, but just know that you're loved.

More scans have been ordered. I'll let you know what they say. Thank you again for all that y'all do.

-MM

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

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

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