And now, Little Miss Sunshine

If I sit here long enough, I know that everything is going to be okay. It always is. And when I'm still enough to listen to the part of me that knows that, I can kinda glimpse me in the future, already through all of this, already okay.

Just seems like this week, all those things I use to help me get to that little place: boxing, dancing, playing guitar, drawing, sleeping, reading- I was either too busy to get to do them, or by the time I got to them it was just too late. Or maybe it wasn't too late, but things kept getting in the way. Conversation. Thoughts that didn't need to be there. Seems like even in those activities that get me away from every thing for a while, my restless mind won't let me be free. Not even for 45 minutes. That's not true, actually. I mean, I get away, I find the quiet spot. But it is just so much harder to get there, and even harder to stay there.
So I'm daydreaming now of vacation. Someplace warm and sunny. I turn off my phone, not read my email, not be constantly reminded of work and the TAKS test and stress and everything else. I go someplace where no one knows me and no one will try to make me talk about it. I'm somewhere alone where I can just sit in silence for 14 days. That would be heaven.
Even if this daydream is only 5 minutes, it, plus LOL cats and a delicious Hostess cupcake are getting me through today.

And probably tomorrow.

-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

Do you know Clare Oliver?

No tan is worth dying for. Clare Oliver's very personal and powerful message:

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.

Silence is golden. And duct tape is silver.

My life in movies:

I sit down to write, and the truth is- it's difficult to.
I think to myself, why is this so difficult? You love to write. You write all the time.
Except, my voice says, you really don't. You only REALLY write when you feel connected.

And the big ball drops in my stomach.
And the guilt wells up in my chest.

Haven't we been over this already? We figured this out already. It's already ready already.

It's like all those movies we love: Jerry McGuire and Pretty Woman and Bridget Jones, but in all those movies it's a traditional 3 parts: the set up, the conflict, the nice and neat wrap up. Nice and neat with no strings left dangling, 2 hours and everything is resolved.
And I don't have to say that life isn't really like that, because we all know that already.

I heard someone say today that the love we hold back in this life is the only pain that follows you when it's over and you pass to the other side. It's tough to think that- that in those moments when I think, "just say it," and I'm fighting the instinct to be vulnerable- that all those moments are the ones that will follow me after death.

Allow me to just state the obvious here: life is messy and just like my day today, never wrapped up nice and neat. And the truth is, as much as I hate to admit it, I face my fears every time I sit down to write this blog, because to write it is to revisit what I thought I was already over.

I'm not over it.

I revisit cancer fears, and fears of morality, and the hatred I have that my body is so vulnerable, and the pain that I feel whenever I think about how my leg will never be the same. I refuse to work out most days because it's so hard for me to mentally deal with the physical pain that I fear will be there for the rest of my life. The limits that I don't want to be there.

And then, like American Beauty, I tell myself to just breathe. And to stop fighting. And to just realize how awesome this one little tiny moment right now is.

And right now is a good moment.

I have so few free moments these days- but there are 11 school days left so there is hope that I'll get back to posting regularly.

But instead of getting all wrapped up in that, let me just throw out the old adage that every moment is the most important moment of our lives, so as I write you and bid you goodnight, I send out gratitude that there are those of you still hanging in there and reading this blog and that I can share that gratitude with you.

For now, goodnight.

-MM

"One good thing to remember is that giving thanks- expressing gratitude- generates growth. And one way to ensure that your growth is easy, effortless, touched by grace, is to be grateful for the difficult circumstances and situations in your life. The harder it gets, the more grateful you should become. The more painful you believe it is, the more grateful you can become. And one way is to simply affirm in the midst of your difficulty and darkness I can hardly wait to see the good that will come forth from this experience, and for the strength to endure to the end, I am so grateful." - Iyanla Vanzant

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

GREAT NEWS!

Ok, we are stunned, speechless, literally.
Not only did the oncologist just come in to check on Lori, he also brought the path report.

NO MELANOMA!!!!!

When the oncologist did the PET scan, he was 99% sure it was melanoma. 1% baby, crazy odds, but we'll take 'em!

We don't know what to say or think. We didn't expect any news until Friday. We can't thank everyone enough for all of your prayers, thoughts and well wishes.

Stunned. Completely Stunned.
More to come...
Bobby

A small view into the life of melanoma

Guest post, Bobby here.

Holy Crap!!! I have a little story for any of you cancer survivors out there, heck even those of you that are loved ones, friends, family, pizza delivery guy, whatever.

I have a little story for you and it goes something like this. It may wander, but it has a point, trust me.

When I was but a little lad my dad took me on a fishing trip. On said fishing trip, I, being the manly type (not really) took my shirt off for the day. If you don't know me, I'm a freckly type kid, now freckly type adult. Yes, I got a sunburn, a BAD one on that fishing trip. My shoulders and back were especially toasted. I got home and my mom freaked. She was screaming about skin cancer and how you don't want that. I thought, eh, no big deal.

Flash forward to a couple of months ago when Lori and I were checking each other for moles, let's keep it clean people. Anyway, she said there was a couple I should have checked. So, I made an appointment with her dermatologist, the aforementioned Dr. Beautiful in a previous post.

I rescheduled a handful of times and I know why. I was scared. "What if's" were running through my head. So, I finally made an appointment and kept it. I told Dr. B. the story and he said take off my shirt, unlike Dr. Gomez who can have your pants off in under 2 seconds...I digress.

He takes a look and says "Oh yeah, we've got a couple of winners here. They need to come off." Now, if we compared pain tolerances, mine would be in the wimpy section while Lori's is in the tough as nails section. Anyway, I didn't know he was going to do it right then and there. But he did. He froze one off that's a rather large area on my shoulder, said it was fine and it will fall off. Still hasn't, but I think it's getting there.

But the other one on my lower back was suspect and he wanted to cut it off and send it out for diagnosis.

Now, this is where this blog will tie together. They said in about a week I would know the results and I'll be honest, I tried not to think about it. So, a week later I get a phone call from a number I don't recognize which I don't answer, standard procedure. But as it's going to voicemail I get this nervous sensation and I thought it was the Dr.'s office calling. It was.

Here's what the nurse said on my voicemail: "Hello Mr. Frrrriiissskkeee, this is the nurse from Dr. Beautiful's office. I need to talk to you about your results from the mole we sent off for testing."

AAAAGGGHH!!! My anxiety went through the roof. The last time I had to wait for results like that, I of course didn't answer and on my voicemail they said everything was fine.

This was crazy anxiety. I don't think I've experienced it before like this. So, I quickly call back and the nurse is at lunch. So, now I have to wait until she gets back.

Heart pounding, check.
Nervous sweats, check.
Freaking out...priceless

When she calls I'm practically shaking. She tells me it's mild dysplastic nevus (spelling?) and everything was fine, but to keep an eye on it. whew.

What I'm trying to get across to people who don't have cancer is, I cannot believe the amount of anxiety something like this produces. It was enough to make me a nervous wreck for one tiny mole. And you people here that are fighting cancer, waiting for diagnosis, updates, pet scans, MRI's, doctors reports or even just waiting after treatment... Well, it takes a special person to take all of this in stride and us people need to realize how much of a toll it can take on our loved ones fighting this crappy disease.

Lori's getting ready to go in for surgery and I'm still dumbfounded by how she can take this in stride. I would be a nervous wreck, instead I'm in denial, that's supposed to be funny, but true.

I have (another) whole new take on how things are.
I hope that makes sense.

A quick Lori update... She'll probably be in 3-5 days depending on how things go. The wonderful Mandy, best friend of Lori's and all around good person is coming in from Cali to help out.

After Lori recovers she's heading to Cali with Mandy and hopefully we're all going to meet up in Vegas sometime before school starts back up.

Lori sends her love. To all of the people out there who cancer has affected, I say this,

F CANCER!

Peace,Bobby

Great Quote

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.
Nelson Mandela

You don't have to call me darlin', Darlin.

Allow me to go full-on hippy on you today.
The truth is, despite the malignant melanoma, I know what I'm supposed to know. I know that if I don't take the time to enjoy every moment, a whole lifetime can suddenly sneak by. I know that ultimately, death is nothing more than another experience in a long line of experiences. I know that being aware of every emotion I feel and being true to those are what keep me happy and make me feel sane. I know that seeing things exactly as they are is the means to daily peace. I know those things.

And yet somehow ugly malignant melanoma poopie head still has a knack for taking control of my thoughts, of my actual BEING, to the point where I feel that I don't even know who I am. Literally I think to myself sometimes, who am I? Because when it boils down to it, I'm not who I thought I was. I thought I was a fighter. I thought I was the type of person that could come out of this shining, with renewed vigor for life and a stronger conviction for... I don't know, something. I look back at those thoughts now and I just think about how naive they are. Yes, I am a fighter. But would I "fight"- risk my quality of life for a year for a 6% increase in chance of survival? No. Never. Am I coming out of this experience shining? Yes and no. No, I'm not the spokesperson for unprecedented optimism. And yet I don't think that's a bad thing. I think I actually see this for what it is, and acknowledge how painful it is not only to be diagnosed, but to see friends and family and people you love go through horrible experiences. Not even horrible like death (although a painful death is a given). But just horrible experiences like dealing with the fact that treatment hasn't worked or that the recurrence has spread through their body. Yet I do see that life is different for me and changed and, I admit, in some ways better. Not better like I thought it would be, but still, better. There isn't a time I talk on the phone or hug someone goodbye or even just talk to them that I don't think, "This could be the last time I do this." Even with cancer-free people I think this. Some may call this morbid, but I believe this is the reality of this life. We just never know what could happen, and I know this from experience. Lia. She was there one day, and it seemed the next she had moved in with her parents, then just like that she was gone. Like that. Two weeks. A whole life whisked away from me. A bright star I never got to see again. Who knows what could happen to me or anyone else just like that? In Tibet, there are stories of monks who pour the water out beside their bed before they go to sleep because they know the moment of death could come at any moment. Why plan on being thirsty when we have no idea when this life ends? It's an amusing thought and yet at the same time I think that's how we should all be living. Why not embrace this impermanence? Isn't that what living is about?
I think a while back I told you that I had dreamt of my dad. This had to be a year or so ago. But when I woke from that dream I had the most insanely peaceful and warm feeling. Bobby was laying beside me and I was trying to explain the feeling- a warmth I could not express, a peacefulness and an ease that would not allow for any anxiety or regret. Slowly, as I lay there, the feeling crept away, and the normal feelings of isolation and futility which we often don't even realize we have took over. I didn't think much of it. In the last few weeks I had the same experience again, but this time it wasn't with my dad, it was just some sort of shadow person. And the feeling was the same again- warmth, peace, calmness, comfort. The feeling that everything was truly going to be alright. The feeling that all the worrying I do and the guilt I feel are such complete wastes of precious time. When I tried to explain it to Bobby, what I finally said was, "It was like love. Like realizing for the first time what love feels like and what it feels like to be unconditionally loved." Warm and glowy and wonderful, like nothing can do you any harm. I even said to him, "that's why people that have near death experiences aren't afraid- because they have felt that feeling." This is part of what I know. I know that this type of feeling is available to me- that I can find this peace in myself if I embrace what I know. I know that if I don't take the time to enjoy every moment, a whole lifetime can suddenly sneak by. I know that ultimately, death is nothing more than another experience in a long line of experiences. I know that being aware of every emotion I feel and being true to those are what keep me happy and make me feel sane. I know that seeing things exactly as they are is the means to daily peace. And knowing all of this brings me closer to that feeling of ultimate love.

-L

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

Wake me up when February ends

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

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

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

-MM

Hindsight is 5 p.m.

I saw this last night, a remnant of the "old" website, before the revamp. It was written just 2 months after the diagnosis, and I think it's pretty interesting. See what you think.

-------------------------------

Hi, my name is Lori, aka Miss Melanoma. As you might have guessed I have Melanoma. That's just a fact, not a death sentence. I started this site for a couple of reasons. First, once I found out I had Melanoma I searched the internet and couldn’t find one local place for people dealing with melanoma and didn’t have much luck. Second, I wanted a place where people with Melanoma could come, share stories, read about my progress as I go through treatment and share along in my blog area. I feel like this has been an awesome experience, and I've grown from it and learned so much from it. I couldn't imagine not sharing the whole thing, the good and the ugly, so that it wouldn't be lost just on me.
So I had this mole. :) Just your run-of-the-mill mole, nothing super special about it- a little mole on my baby toe. And yeah, the mole started to grow, and then a year (or three) later, it started to peel, and bleed, and I happened to be working for a doctor (or- let’s just be honest here- I probably never would’ve even had it looked at even then) who took a look at it and sent me to a

dermatologist friend of his across the street to have it removed. So the dermatologist shoots the mole up with lidocaine, slices it off with a razor, puts a band-aid on the toe, and that was it. I never once, not even for a second, thought about the mole after that. Never wondered what the path report would be, never thought of asking my doctor the results, never called to check up on it, never considered that I could have cancer. I’m not really sure why, but now I do know a lot more about this sort of thing. Now I know that skin cancer typically strikes women in their thirties (even though I obviously had it before then), and is a leading cause of death among women in that age group. Now I know that cancer hits all kinds of people at all ages in life all the time. Good people, young people, healthy people included. Now I know that cancer, like so many other things that you can come across in your lifetime, can be a blessing disguised as a bump in the road.

______________________________________

I look back, just two months into this thing, and know that I was a typical patient. Like so many people I lived under that little cliché you hear people say all the time: I was so caught up in my little life, just doing my day-to-day thing and worrying myself over the intricacies of what I had to get done that I just never thought cancer would “happen” to me. The doctors would later ask, Why didn’t you have it looked at sooner? And there would be no answer, because the answer is in the million daily doings that cover the not-doings.

A week or so later my doctor calls me into his office. This doctor, who is also a very good friend of mine, has this horrible sad look on his face and he says to me, Please sit down, Lori, and he pauses what seems like forever, and, rubbing his eyebrows and holding his breath he finally says that he’s so sorry to be the one to tell me that I have cancer.

I first think: it’s not really cancer, not the kind of cancer other people get. I’m 30. I can’t have that kind of cancer. Not the kind of cancer that kills people, which meant, basically, I am invincible.

Then, after I guess a few milli-seconds, I starting with all the other racing thoughts. I guess it takes a second to really realize that there is this extraordinary chance that the disease no one wants to get has already taken over part of your body and you really may die.

Then- and I'll never forget this- then I thought about my friends. How I was gonna tell them? How could I tell them? And over and over and over I just kept saying, I can’t put them through this. What was I going to do?

__________________________________________

That's just a snip-it, but an interesting look, I think, of life after dx and before treatment. How crazy things are?

-L