Holiday post: Epic in Nature

I think about the waiting. That, I think, is cancer's toughest treatment: the constant battle to accept that there is no certainty in the future. Even when you know you're going to live through it, you are a sitting duck. You can't make any plans, because no one can tell you what's ahead of you. They don't tell you because they don't know. So you don't want to make any decisions because of the tremendous chance that something will come up and you'll have to drop out of that school you applied to, the job you interviewed for, that trip you planned. And doing that- starting something you worked so hard for, having it within your reach, only to have to quit when you are so close to it- or once you've had a taste of it- that is heart wrenching.

Then you are hit with a barely tolerable second bit of reality, and that is that you have become completely dependent on other people. You can't move forward in your life until the doctor tells you what to do next. So you wait for the next scan results- 2 weeks. Those are a little unclear. Call and schedule a PET. Another 2 weeks. Then an additional week for the results. Let's confer with a surgeon and see what she thinks. The appointment is a month away. Should I be concerned about not getting in before then? No, your oncologist says, it's fine. So you wait a month. And then the surgeon wants to talk to another surgeon and also to a radiologist. 2 weeks again. Wait for surgery. Wait for radiation. Wait and see if the chemo worked. Wait, wait, wait.

Suddenly, you look around and a year of your life has gone by. When am I gonna have an answer? you think. But there is no answer. That's what none of us got the first time we went through treatment. There are no answers. If the doctor had one, he would give it to you. But he is making an educated guess and gathering all the info he can to do the best possible job at that. And let's face it, you just really want to know if you're going to live. And for how long. That is all it boils down to. And there is no one who can tell you that.

So you eat lunch. You watch some t.v. You try to fill your time with whatever you can until the next appointment. But are you living? I didn't. I don't think I lived a single day in between my diagnosis and my official declaration of being N.E.D. I survived. I relied on everyone else for what was going to happen to me, and as the treatment began to take a toll on my body, I began to rely on others to take care of that, too. I fought it for as long as I could, but then it felt inevitable. Can you wash my hair? Help me get upstairs? Pull me up out of bed? Change my clothes? Help me clean myself up? I threw up again, will you bring me a towel? Do you see my pain meds? How am I going to get to the hospital on Thursday? Do we have any soup? I can only imagine what the weight of caring for me must have felt like. It must have been smothering. And me- I was fading into a ghost, having lost everything that I considered a normal life. I hated myself for trying to fight it. I hated how stubborn I was. I hated my body. I hated myself for having succumbed. I hated myself for not being stronger. I hated myself for hating myself. My body was so torn up physically, there was no hope for me to maintain my emotional health. My mental outlook had completely deteriorated with my ability to take care of myself.

So this holiday season, I look back at all of it with an honesty and empathy that has taken me literally years to muster. Did my life stop the day I was diagnosed? No, but it did not begin, either. I guess I say this because if you open your heart and love cancer (how bizarre does that sound?) for what it is, it will, in time I think, allow you to find the things that matter most. And that truly is a gift. But that is not an easy journey. Or it wasn't for me, at least. I am so much smarter now. I know that now, I would be a much more active patient- doing my own research and making my own decisions. But even if all that was taken away, even if one day I was rendered completely helpless, I would still be smarter. Because I'd know the truth, and the truth is this: it doesn't matter. It is what it is. Life is life, and you better just take it for what it is. Even when we're "healthy," we can try and fool ourselves into thinking our future is a sure thing, but it never is. It never was, and it never will be. Today is what we get. And that's it. You better make it all it can be and accept it for what it is, 'cause it's all you get.

A while back I wrote about how low I've been. I guess it's time to come clean and just be open about everything. In a way, I look back on this blog and it seems it didn't exist before October 11th of this year. It seems my whole life kinda started the day I really realized how depressed I was. It became about moving forward and getting healthier mentally. Which is good. But to be honest with you, it's sometimes exhausting, too. Maybe I don't have to tell you because you've faced the process before, but if you haven't, let me just break it down for you: it is so overwhelming to look forward into your life and see that the process you are going to have to go through is painful and arduous, but most of all that it could take years before it does not feel like a daily, forced chore.

That being said, irregardless of how bad coming to grips with everything and facing my demons sucked, being healthy and happy has become my number one priority, and so I have learned to love it like a 12-step recovery junkie loves their meetings. It is painful but somehow wonderful. I have begun my journey. I guess that I think part of that journey is telling everyone about it (to keep myself on track), and that include you. See, the deal is, when all of this went down with cancer and I became so dependent on everyone else for my physical care, I somehow got things mixed up and allowed my emotional well-being to be their responsibility, too. I made my happiness dependent on them. Because my happiness was completely in their hands, I had to become really controlling of everyone and everything. I wanted to be happy so I tried to make sure they made me happy. It sounds crazy and it's kinda hard to explain, but that, in a nut-shell, is what has been dragging me down: the exhausting, white- knuckled approach to life. You are probably thinking, as a good friend said to me, "Honey, cancer didn't teach you that trying to control life doesn't work?" Well, no, I guess not.

So that's me and where I am. Tomorrow starts a new year and it seems appropriate as I've already begun the transformation of a new and better me. I think the best part about all of this is the humility it has brought me. Nothing in my life has been as freeing as it has been to allow everyone to see how flawed I am. It is truly amazing to be as transparent as I can be and still be accepted and loved. I never want to be the other way again.

So, after that 8 minute rant, I was really leading to this: I learned it's okay. If I am or you are depressed, it's okay. If I can't or you can't seem to pull yourself out of a funk, it's okay. We don't have to hide it or be ashamed of it. A few weeks ago (the day after my birthday) I said I'd finally come close to forgiving myself for my dichotomy. Now I'm like, forgive? For what, being human? Where in the world did I get that stupid idea.

Anyway, that's the dirt. Now you know. Someone call National Enquirer! :)

-MM

And now, on a completely unrelated note, this totally uplifting and amazing story! 2 exclamation points in a row!

Cancer Made Me a Shallower Person

I was reading on "My Crazy Sexy Life" just yesterday and found an entry by a woman discussing her cancer journey. She said that she had noticed an emotional cycle that she follows, where she is good with her diagnosis/NED status for a while, then she's anxious, then mad again, then depressed, then feels good for a while again, etc. It's good to read other stories like this, because I know for even the most seasoned survivor, the thought of all there is to deal with continually, while trying to lead a "normal life" can be so daunting. The scans and the waiting for results, for me, are especially killer.
But then I was listening to Elizabeth Lesser on the radio yesterday, and she made an interesting point. She said that we have to think about life as if it is a river, and we can fight it the whole way, trying to get upstream against the current, insisting that things go our way, living in a constant state of struggle. Or we can succumb to the river, let go, float, enjoy the ride, and accept where we are being taken. It is all a choice.
It's so easy to say that- so easy to say let go, let go of all the plans you made and all the dreams you had about what your life would be.
But when the time comes to fight, to do the awful treatment and have the surgery and spend so much time in recovery- when it comes time to make the choice to continue living no matter the cost- it isn't the picture we had created of our life that we are fighting for. What we are fighting for more days here, regardless of our plans, regardless of whether they are days spent floating somewhere we never planned on going or struggling against the current. And that's the thing that those cancer patients you talk to( -you know, the ones with that light behind their eyes-) seem to have gotten during their journey. That any day here is worth the fight.
It's noble and beautiful to come out of the situation with that new view. That every breath is worth a prayer of a thousand thanks.

But how did they get there? To the point where they are really the person that is okay with letting the river take them wherever it is going? Well, according to Elizabeth Lesser, it's really not so hard to be that person, whether we have had a cancer experience or not. And this is what she said that really blew me away: she said that in order to love your life no matter what, that every single day, you have to sit still. And in sitting still, we will be faced with all kinds of things: our disappointments, and anger, or fear, sadness, guilt, or even physical pain. As all these emotions and feelings arise, she said, you take note of them objectively and without any judgment.
That's it.
That's the key to unconditional happiness.

Because, just like sneaky Mr. Miyagi using chores and car washes to teach Ralph Macchio the art of perseverance, sitting in the midst of our reality and our pain little by little teaches us that we can survive anything and still be happy in the midst of it. When we allow what is to be, then, like you are in the river, you will float along and move through it.
Crazy.
Why is it when we admit our pain that we move through it so much faster? Because reality pushes on with or without us, whether we live in denial or not? Because struggling against the current is exhausting? Because acceptance saves us thousands of minutes of grief? Because time itself is the thief?

I guess the real answer is who cares why? It just does. The river will take us exactly where we need to go. There are no accidents.
Even if we fight it, we are still being pushed to the exact place we are supposed to be the whole time.

And if it's as easy as Mrs. Lesser is telling us, if I can love my life no matter how badly it can hurt, well, I'm sitting still every day.
And I'm making it a point to float on my back from here on out.

-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.

Afraid to Love

I'm going to stop posting, and now the writing comes so simple. Or rather the coming here seems easier, the emotion behind it simpler. Anyway.
Listening to a lot of Ben Folds and Elliot Smith these days, which I can't figure out is good or bad. But the afraid to love theme is always coming up nonetheless.

Writer's block. Or Rider's block. Whatever.

Here is your bi-weekly harassment post.

1. I am in contact with the Too Faced people to get the winner's free sample. It's a Love Lisa Beauty Box and it's worth $32.5o. Quite a cute kit, I've been using one and I LOVE it! Very glamorous colors and it's the softest powder I've ever felt. So as soon as I know hear from Too Faced, I'll put all the names in a hat and have the Boob draw one out. Fair and square! If you want in you still have time. Just email me or post a comment about it and you're in the hat!

2. I may be taking a short leave of absence, like 2 or 3 weeks, from the blog. I must say that when I come here to write lately I have found that I am at a loss for words. I think I'm dealing with something, but can't really go into it here. Let's just say that something is there. And when I say dealing, I don't even mean I'm sad, I'm just really wrapped up in this other thing, so my head isn't here. I figure if my head isn't here, my body doesn't have to hang out and look at the screen. So there's that.
3. Did you hear about the guy with the stage IV melanoma that was cured, using his own cells? Pretty cool- check it.

Dat about do it. I appreciate all of you who have been emailing me and commenting to check on me. It means a lot.

Love ya.

-MM

It sounds like a sexy hamburger

My mind is saying, "Just write," even though I don't quite know how to say what I want to say. I thought I'd start this post like most bloggers this time of year, writing about my resolutions and everything that happened in the last year that I learned. But what is really on my mind is faith. Faith not exactly in the religious sense, but more of in the confidence or trust sense. Like the way that I have faith that the sun will come up tomorrow. It's not something I question, and it has nothing to do with spirituality. I know it through and through without any doubt that the sun will be there when I wake up.

The question I suppose that you're asking yourself is why is faith on my mind today. Or, maybe that's just my question to myself. To be honest, I'm not sure. Even if I am thinking about it, I generally a.) am not religious or outwardly spiritual and b.) not open enough about it to post it on my blog. Yet lately, I can't get it out of my head. I've been thinking alot about what I know for sure and what I don't know. About the old me. About what I used to feel like I knew and what has changed. About how facing the possibility of death changed all that. About purpose and hope and about faith. I guess, also, I've been thinking about faith because of pain/health issues lately, and the way I feel like I am being tested by them. I know that sounds a little cheesy and confusing, but let me explain. If I was pre-cancer me, I would say that everything that has happened to me, everything good or bad that I have experienced up until this moment, had happened for a reason. Like fate. They were all experiences I needed to have in order to learn the lessons I learned to be the person that I am today. No regret or grief, just acceptance. And pre-cancer me would say that this very moment I am experiencing right now is the only moment I truly have. Even in this moment, anything could happen to me, but I can control how I react to whatever happens, and that is all I need to be concerned with for now. From this moment, I can go anywhere I need to go in life. And if my life were to end 2 minutes from now, well, then, at least I appreciated living in this moment up until my last breath.

I look back now and miss that peace that pre-cancer me had. I realize now that (perhaps stupidly) I feared so little then and I had so much faith in what I believed. I knew each moment was precious, and I tried to really soak it up and appreciate it for what it was. I remember a particularly good time in my life when I had a big window in my bedroom. I used to wake up in the morning and feel so lucky to be looking out of that window, to have the opportunity to appreciate the sun on the grass or the rain falling or whatever happened to be going on right then. I remember I used to say a silent little prayer of thanks for that opportunity before I even got out of bed and started my day. I felt happy just to be aware of what was going on outside that window.

That was pre-cancer me. I was a pretty content person back then, and I think a lot about my old thought patterns. See, the thing is, I've realized recently that there was nothing I had before cancer that I don't have now. All the possessions, all of the love, all of the friends, everything-- I have as much now (or, in actuality, more) than I did back then. I think about that and I know I need to get back to thinking that way. That was the only difference for me- the way I used to think about things. For that reason, I've been thinking about pain and illness in a new way, like, "what am I supposed to be taking from this? Is this supposed to be a lesson I'm learning?"

A funny thing happened a few weeks ago. I was telling a new friend about my cancer experience, and when I had finished telling her, she said to me that since I am still here today, I must be here for a purpose.


Now, to believe privately and personally that each of us is here for a reason is completely different from hearing it from someone you barely know. For one thing, it's frightening to hear it. It sets up an expectation that you have to achieve something grand, and yet you have no idea what that thing is. And, for another, to have the kind of courage to openly state such an intimate detail of one's personal beliefs without any reservation or fear, quite honestly took me aback. Even if I did know how I felt about it, I don't know if I would've had the nerve to have the conversation with her.

So later, alone, I thought about it. Do I believe that, too? Are we all here for some divine purpose? And pre-cancer me answered, "yes." To which present day me said, "Oh, well that's friggin' great. Sorry, it's not my day to care."

I'm not sure what any of that has to do with my current health issues. I've been keeping a chart lately of my pain level just to see what it's really like. The chart has the hours listed throughout the day for each month, and when I'm in pain, I go to the chart and type it the level from 1-10. I think I have put this off for quite some time because I was hoping sort of foolishly and naively that maybe it would all just kinda disappear and I wouldn't have to deal with it anymore. But the results are in, the votes have been tallied, and I'm sad to say that the reality is I am in a good deal of pain and/or malaise on a regular basis. Bobby probably could've told you this months (or maybe even a year) ago, but hard-headed me has insisted on keeping up the pretense that "I'm fine" and/or "Everything is fine." That being said, I feel like now that I can admit that I'm experiencing this pain, maybe I can move forward with it. Maybe now I can deal with the reality and gain what I'm supposed to gain from it, which is, hopefully, the ability to live fully in spite of it.

I saw an endocrinologist on New Year's Eve (before the partying began, luckily) and although I am hopeful that all of my issues have been because of one little gland, in all actuality I think that I need to prepare myself if that is not be the case. I could be wrong, but she was very candid in telling me that Interferon has a way of causing "a syndrome of chronic fatigue for periods of time that are indeterminable." So, in other words, this may be an endocrine issue and I guess it may not be. And, if it's not, it may get labeled as depression (every doctors' favorite "I have no idea" answer) or chronic fatigue. I'm already being treated for depression, and although I know that chronic fatigue is finally being accepted as a real condition by doctors, I also know that treating it is still an art form that takes a lot of trial and error.

I guess what I'm trying to say though, is that either way, I'd like to be okay with this. I'd like to be able to say that I am mentally and emotionally going to be able to live my life fully, no matter the condition, even if I am not able to physically live fully. I want to be that way. I am hoping that my new goal to view things as more of an opportunity than a burden will help me get there.
Because in all honesty I'm not that cancer survivor that says they have learned so much from their experience and diagnosis. I still get mad in traffic, I still dread Mondays, I'm less "enlightened" now that I was before.
But I really WANT to be that happy cancer survivor. I've had my time to grieve and I'm ready now to be the person I want to be, to live each moment fully again. And I think that if I can do that, then maybe I'll remember what it was like to know that I had a purpose here. I want to feel that way again, to feel optimistic about my life and everything that has happened. To be OBSESSED with living. And to not only fulfill my purpose, but to appreciate all the moments in the quest to find it. And to wake up in the morning and say a silent prayer of thanks every day.

I'm just hoping that if I want it this badly, then maybe I can make it so. That's what the old me would've said, at least. So, for now, that's all I'm going to let myself believe.

-MM

Conversation Inside My Head

Uggh. I hate this.

Hate what?

This. This being "sick" all the time. This swelling in my leg everytime I work out. This pain in my muscles for no reason. This having to plan weeks ahead if I want to do something fun, so I can take it easy and then be sure I can go. And then not even being able to go sometimes. This fatigue and weakness and joint pain, a year and a half after Interferon.

Seriously? This is what you're whining about.

I know, I know. I'm actually really lucky.

Yes, you ARE very lucky. People have died. And you whine about this?

I know. I'm sorry. But this is not how I live life. I'm a totally different person b/c of all this stuff that's still wrong with me. I have a right to be sad about still being affected by cancer every day.

I can't believe you're still whining about this. You're alive, for God's sake! You're lucky to be alive!

I know I'm lucky to be alive, but can't I just grieve this? I feel like I have a right to grieve this.

It's time to move on. Let go of the sadness and be that person you used to be, that could see the good side of life. Think of how blessed you still are.

Oh, good grief. What do you know? Get off my jock already.

Hmp. The nerve of some people.









(wow, what an appropriate comic!)







"We're here to face another day. Good day or bad, easy or hard, that's a victory in and of itself. I don't think I need to say any more."

-- Leroy Sievers

A little perspective

Okay, yes, it's been a month since I posted. My bad and all that. But hey, it's summer. And although I'll try and make sure it's not another month till my next post, I think we should all just keep in mind that THIS is what I love about summer: living life is getting in the way of everything else!

I can't tell you what it's like to have this time to recoup- to get some real rest, to get my filthy room clean, to have the time to learn the very beginning steps of playing guitar, and to find out what other things I like to do when I've been threatened with my life not to run. But it's been fun having free time and de-stressing, and I can honestly say I'm enjoying everyday. It's going by fast, and I've been busy, but in the way that one likes to be busy. Just busy enough to stay sane. But wait, there's more- the good stuff just keeps on coming- I leave for San Diego on the 18th, and I'll be gone at LEAST 2 weeks. A full blown hiatus. I'm warning you now, I may not come back.

It's been pretty great since the surgery. I look at some of the pics from the hospital, and I realize that most of that stay I don't even remember. Who loves good drugs? But ugh- look how puffy and pale my face was! Talk about needing a makeover. Thanks, by the way, once again, to all of you who sent cards, flowers, prayers, and positive thoughts my way while I was there.

Once I was home, the first week went GREAT. I recovered way faster than I was thinking I would. Then, the next week, the lymphadema in my abdomen set in. It really hasn't been too bad since then, it was just that week getting used to all that fluid in a pretty condensed spot. It felt like a can of Coke under my skin, a pouch on my right side between my old scar and my new one, and the pressure and skin stretching to adjust was pretty uncomfortable. After that week, though, of having to take it easy and stay off my feet, I've had very little pain. Just some after I work out (in small doses) and minor discomfort at most the rest of the time. I am having to wear a compression hose around my abdomen, but I can't really complain. I mean, first of all, I don't have melanoma, and second, I look really fabulous in granny panties.

These summer days have obviously also given me reflection time, and I feel like I've started to recover from the emotional toll of the last 2 years. It's all kinda getting sorted through. It took a while for Bobby and I to really accept the good news without looking for an "except," but it seems now that, (at least I think) we really do understand that the pathology report is a reality. The illiac node was just "reactionary," inflamed from a staph infection I got almost 2 years ago. Negative for melanoma. And that means that, in a way, I've been given what essentially feels like a second shot at life. Not that the first one was ever really gone, but it just seemed to be living under a dark cloud. I can look back now and see that, and see that I put that cloud there and it was me that kept it there. I don't really know what to say about it except that, and to say that if I was in the same situation again, I would hope I could fend off the depression. In the midst of it, though, it's tough. And I'd never fault someone for feeling that way in the midst of so much uncertainty.

I've told this story probably 193 times since I've been out of the hospital, but I went in to the operating room knowing what my chances were of coming out of it with no melanoma. These last 2 years, I've gotten pretty used to the idea that bad news can be the reality. After hearing the prospects of surgery, I was really just hoping for the melanoma to be in the node, and not metastasized elsewhere; because the reality was, at least according to all the opinions I got, there was a fair chance of both. Having it elsewhere, well, that would've put me at stage IV, which is certainly no death sentence, but it is a progression of disease, and, just so you know, that's not what we're going for. Now, knowing it wasn't even melanoma to begin with, it's like looking at life through totally different eyes. Should I have had this kind of hope the whole time? Oh, yeah, definitely. But I didn't, and even when I tried, I couldn't. This NED, it's a gift. It's pretty incredible.

It took me forever to send out thank you cards (and post a blog, now that I think of it), and I couldn't figure out why I was dreading it so much, but when I finally sat down to do them I was filled with what I can only assume was anxiety. Why? I'm not sure, but I think it was just facing what could have been. I would like to say that I have learned through all this to face my own mortality with grace, but the truth is I'm not sure I wouldn't begrudge every moment of it if it came down to it. And yet, I don't see myself with the will to fight like Sarah did, either. She was incredible, the way she never gave up and kept looking for ways to fight the disease. Strange to see me as somewhere in between. It's out of my face now, giving me some breathing room, and yet I still feel like I need to see it there, in the distance. This is what so many cancer survivors call the gift of cancer- the awakening of our impermanence and therefore the overwhelming realization that moments are so precious, and we should do all we can to savor them fully. With all that in mind, I've made up my mind about a lot of things in my future, and I feel so much more confident and secure just being in my own skin. It's been a good month, people.

I'll spare you the sappy poem someone sent me, just know you should all be grateful. And, can I just say one more time, thankyouthankyouthankyou to every single soul that ever took the time to read this blog and think a positive thought for me. I am really so blessed.

-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

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

To See things as they really are

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

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

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

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

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

-L

Let it be

I feel for some reason the need to post an update on Oscar. I'm not sure why- most of you don't even know him. Maybe this is for me, instead of you. Gah. You're so self centered.

Oscar is home, getting lots of meds to regulate his pain, symptoms, etc. He looks better than I've seen him in a while- more relaxed, more himself, more comfortable. And yet I'm sad. I'm sad that he's going. I should have taken more efforts to get to know him. I should not have been held back my shyness or embarassment. I should not have spent so much time at work when I could've been cultivating a friendship.
We all know this, I guess, that time is precious. That we never know what could happen to anyone at any point, and to cherish every moment. But it seems so clear to me tonight.

And so, I attempt not to hold back, and try to tell you what is keeping facing forward these days: The world is beautiful, and we can only be truly happy when we learn to accept and learn to love not only the joy in it, but the heartache.

And though I am so unsure of how to do that, I know that I simply must somehow learn.

-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

I also think you're more than just fat

When I was 22 years old, I was "hospitalized" for 2 weeks for severe depression. "Hospitalized" as in I was institutionalized for major severe depression. I don't mind telling people that; in fact, it's been 10 years now, and I can't even remember ever having shame about that- even though, at some point, I'm sure I did. But I know that it's a part of me and my past, and because I still suffer from depression sometimes, it helps to remember that time. In fact, I learned so much there that I use in everyday life. When I tell people that and they seem shocked or embarrassed for me, I makes me so sad for that person. It must be so hard for them when they have to admit how human we all are.

That experience, believe it or not, was the beginning of my "real life," the one I've been living for quite some time now. It led me to what I do, what I am, how I believe.

My hope is that I will walk away from cancer with this sort of attitude. I guess because I had a sort of life changing experience so early in life, I haven't exactly had the same view of cancer as a lot of people I know. I still get mad in traffic, I still haven't found my greater cause for having gone through this. Is that negative? I'm not sure. The Boob and I both believe that a lot of good has come out of this, and it's not like it hasn't changed my life. But I guess I'm just not over it.

I hate it. I hate cancer. I that I had it, I hate that it's changed who I am. I hate that I don't know how to be who I was. And I'm pissed.

Where am I going with all of this? Well, I'll tell ya. All these thoughts have led to a lot of reflection, and I finally broke down and just decided to get some good ol' fashion therapy.

So I found a therapist. A great therapist, actually, and even though I've only chatted with him once, it made a tremendous difference. He even has some experience counseling cancer patients, too. I'm really hoping this will help out this whole process. I mean, hey, it can't hurt, right? So, yeah, I'm stoked. I'm in therapy. Let the mother f**king healing begin.

Oh, but that's not all. There are changes abound going on up in this mug. I also started a running log online, and you gotta check it out. I'm on a roll. Seriously. I'm the next big thing in fat girl running.

Bobby and I also had some excellent advice the other day when we were both bitching about the state of things in these United States. Some good friends of ours are planning on moving to Costa Rica, and it just might be the spot for us, too. Did you know they did away with their military and put, literally, all of the money they were spending on education instead? So, as poor as this country is, it's got a 100% literacy rate. Is that awesome? How can you not love this country?

Also, it's one of the most biologically diverse and ecologically friendly countries in the world. And, this is the kicker- it's warm all year round. Consider me a Tica, hooches.

Amazing, isn't it?
How something so awesome can fall in your lap? I'm personally excited.

I've also started the quest for a new tattoo. I'll keep you posted on that, but the prospects are almost as exciting as my new life in Costa Rica.

That's it for now... peace and porkchop grease-

-MM