Obama is the man. And this is the business.

Congrats to Planet Cancer for reppin' us well. Here's an email I got from them today.

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June 24, 2009

Dear Friends,
We wanted to let you know about an exciting thing happening for us today!
Tonight, Wednesday, June 24th 2009 at 10pmET on ABC, there will be a Special Edition of "Primetime" to Air from the White House, "Questions for the President: Prescription for America." And guess whose there... PLANET CANCER!
Heidi, Courtney and 2 other PC members will be 4 of the 100 people to be there with President Obama tonight to get the chance to ask questions concerning "the Future of the Nation's Healthcare System." Woo hoo! Check out more info here.

WE'RE SO EXCITED! WE HOPE YOU ARE TOO! TUNE IN AND WATCH ABC AT 10pmET !!

Sincerely,
Planetcancer.org

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

Valentines and More

First the good news- I am officially a rocker. That's right, kids. You have always suspected that I rock, and now I have fantastic news for you: I have learned an entire rock song. I can play "I love Rock n Roll" like I am Joan Jett's personal backup guitarist. Ok, not really, but it's not the point. I rock. No, seriously.

So, yes, technically, it is the only song I can play. But if you could only play one song, wouldn't it be THAT one? That's what I thought.
And to go with all this grooviness, my amazing boyfriend presented me with a rockin' valentines gift that you see to the left. Amazing.
I cried real friggin' tears. Never in my life have I cried over a gift before. I laugh now, but it was insane at the time how overwhelmed I was by such an amazing, touching, rockin gift. Complete with rockin card, in Sharpie. Oh, yeah. This is a rockin household.

Also, I need to give you the low down on what the good people at Land's End are doing. I got a message last week that they have a new line of clothing that is SPF 30 or above. And I quote, "The new Sun.Life collection is a full line of adjustable, breathable, and comfortable clothes for the entire family with an Ultraviolet Protection Factor rating of 30 or 50, which protects 96.7 to 97.5 percent of the sun's harmful rays." Cool, huh?

They were even nice enough to send me a jacket to check out. It's very cozy and warm, but it seems like something I might be able to wear in the warmer weather, too, so that's a bonus, especially in Texas. :) I recommend it on a comfort level and for the UV protection.

So, I know what you're thinking, and no, it does not exactly go with the rocker image that I projected just one paragraph earlier. But what can I say? A girl has to be versatile, and what better reason than preventing melanoma?
You also get the promotional code that offers free shipping and is available to you, my lovely reader, from February 8 to February 21. All you have to do is enter the code SUNLIFE and the pin 6365 when you check out. How cool is that? You can check out the Youtube video at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fcVfvZsaxLE&feature=channel_page

So, besides that, I'm super busy with school. It is high-stakes testing season, after all. And in addition, so many of my people are going through treatment right now. Please keep One Tough Chic in your thoughts, she posts her prayer requests very frequently and I can't tell you what a friend this woman has been to me when I needed it. She is very close to my heart and has always felt more like family to me than a friend. It's so hard to see and hear of my friends going through so much as they fight this disease. I try to make peace with it, but, as you know, it is nearly impossible sometimes.

If you check out my cancer links, you'll read that also Linda is posting regularly and she needs your positive vibes as she has been in and out of a significant amount of pain. Please keep Rich in your thoughts, as he just recently, tragically, lost his wife Rachel to melanoma, as did Tara Swanson's family and friends. And there is JohnnyDeep awaiting upcoming scans, Bert who is in treatment, Becky who is recovering from kidney stones and heading up to NIH soon for scans, Tina who is in between treatments, JayBee who is somewhat concerned over recent scan results, Lance in Florida who is going through radiation, and Dave who is still recovering from treatment. I'm sure I've missed someone, and if I did I apologize. Just know that all of my people out there going through this need your positive thoughts. Treatment and recovery can be such an isolating, saddening experience, but with the right support, your friends can make a hell of a difference. It helps so much just to know that people are thinking of you and that you are not alone.

So for everyone struggling right now: you are not alone.

My thoughts are with you all and the way you sustain consistently inspires me. Thanks for being incredible examples of strength. YOU are the rockers! Joan Jett would be proud.

hugs,
MM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-MM

Slow down to speed up

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

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

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

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

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

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

-MM

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

My Story

In May 2005, months before I had turned 31 years old, I was working as a medical assistant in a not-for- profit clinic. I had moved to Dallas from San Diego the previous December to be with my dad who had terminal renal cell carcinoma. He past away in January and I decided to stay in Texas, near my family, for a while. I took the job at the clinic because I really loved the doctors that worked there- they really viewed their position as doctors as a means to serve society- and needed work, but mostly because I felt they were doing good things and I needed to be out of the house, keeping myself busy, not wallowing in grief.
The job did not offer insurance, but I did not plan on staying there long-term, so I wasn't worried about it. The doctors really took care of their nurses, though, and one day, while showing a nurse friend my pedicure, I asked a doc to take a look at a mole on my toe. The mole had been there my whole life, and had within the last year started to bleed. It sat square near the top of my smallest toe, but I was a runner, and ran about 25 miles a week, so I always assumed it was just irritated from that. Dr. Daya told me to go across the street to a dermatologist friend of his to have it removed. The derma took a look at it and said it was probably nothing to worry about, but needed to come off. It was perfectly symmetrical, had clear borders and normal color. I asked how much the lab fees would be because I was paying cash and not making great money. I also asked if it could be sent diagnostic lab I was familiar with, simply because I knew their prices. He said we would work it out but insisted on using a laboratory which specialized in derma cases. They gave me the number to an automated system and said the lab results would be ready in a week. I didn't think much of it.
A week later the doctor I was working for, Dr. Daya, called me into an exam room. I was a little freaked because the only reason I could conceive of him wanting to talk to me one-on-one was because I had done something wrong and was going to be in trouble. He was looking at the floor and very solemn, and told me he was sorry to be the one to tell me, but that I had cancer. "Nodular malignant melanoma," he said, "a very aggressive form of skin cancer." He said I needed to get immediate care or that I was in danger of dieing.

A month after the diagnosis, I finally found someone to who would see me even if I didn't have insurance. It took weeks of begging and searching and networking, but we finally found Dr. Beitch and Dr. Venkatessan. So, here's the short version:
May 2005- Diagnosed at Stage II.
June 2005- I went to an outpatient hospital and had the skin and some of the flesh around my toe removed, a skin graft taken from my thigh, and 3 lymph nodes from my groin to determine if the cancer had spread. Two weeks later the results came in that the borders around the skin left on my foot were positive for melanoma as well as 1 of the 3 lymph nodes. Now considered Stage IIIc.
July 2005- I had my smallest toe, part of my foot, and all 16 lymph nodes from my groin removed in outpatient surgery.
Outpatient surgery is no fun, especially if there is abdominal surgery involved. The incision started about half way down my thigh, crossed over just above my hip, and stopped about 3 inches above the hip bone. They also removed my little pinky toe and a small part of my foot at the same time. It was, how do you say?, intensely painful, especially since I didn't have insurance at the time and had to do a "day surgery," which basically meant that after I came to, I had to get the hee-haw outta there. That meant getting out of the bed and into a wheelchair, out of the wheelchair and into a car, out of the car and walking into the house. Ouch. Yes, there were pain meds, but nothing really prepares you for walking (or should I say attempting to walk? more like dragging myself on crutches) just hours after they staple (87 staples, by the way) you shut. A full 10 on the one-to-ten pain scale. I didn't even know that pain like that could exist. Forget childbirth, if that's what it's like.
August 2005- I began high dose Interferon in a hospital. Interferon is a biological therapy/ immunotherapy for high risk patients. The treatment is a little dangerous and has pretty serious side effects so it required 5 day hospital stays for 4 weeks.
September 2005- The treatment lowers your ability to fight infection, and in early Sept I discovered that my leg was red and tender, and I had 102 fever. I had contracted a staph infection and had to stay another 3 weeks in the hospital fighting that.
October 2005- I was sent home and Rxed low dose Interferon to be self administed by injection for the next 11 months. I would be very sick and unable to work. Off and on through the year I was sick, jaudiced, and had heart palpitations and trouble remaining ambulatory. Spent some of the time in a wheel chair.
October 2006- Finished the treatments, but the treatment had caused a condition similiar to chronic fatigue syndrome. Spent a full year and a half combating those symptoms.
June 2007- Routine PET scan showed an inflamed inguinal node which doctors were concerned was melanoma. Node was removed but no evidence of disease found.
Present- The majority of the symptoms from Interferon have subsided. Currently NED (no evidence of disease.)

There is no remission for melanoma, because there is no cure, and, essentially, it's going to come back. There isn't even really a treatment for it. Even Interferon, which I took for a year, is rarely Rxed anymore because the results are so iffy (only a 6%-20% chance of staving off disease) and the side effects are so horrendous. Interleukin 2 (or IL-2) is also a treatment option, but has about the same results and even worse on the side effect side. I prefer quality of life to doing a treatment like that again. According to the American Cancer Society and most of the doctors I've seen over the last 3 years (and there have been a lot!) my chance of living to 2010 ranges from around 27% to around 52% and my chance of living to 2015 ranges from around 22% to around 37%. But, to quote Fight Club, "On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero." In a way, I'm lucky because at least I'm not going to work some shit job that I hate in the hopes of one day, after retirement or something, enjoying life. I enjoy it now. I live as fully as I can. And it's a good life.
There are some very hopeful treatments for melanoma in clinical trials now, such as vaccines. But until some kind of effective treatment comes out, I am not getting regular scans. My oncologist kinda said, "What's the point? There's no treatment anyway." and I agree. If I get scans every 6 months, I'll be a nervous wreck until the next one. So, I'm taking it as it is.
I'm hopeful about the future. But more importantly, I love the present. It's all we have, anyway.

2 years, 1 month and 141 posts

That's right, it's our "looking back" episode, kids. Cue the music montage.

The very first post on this blog was June 14, 2005, when I'd only known my diagnosis for about 3 weeks. In honor of everything besides melanoma, I've decided to post a top 10 list of some of the most important things the last 2 years have taught me.

So here they are, in no particular order.

1. Normal is something we've all aspired to at some point in our lives (remember those teenage years?). But melanoma has taught me, at least, that normal is just a setting on the dryer. It's a silly term, a crazy concept, and, let's face it, a thing of the past. I spent the whole first year trying to appear normal after the diagnosis, trying not to make anyone feel uncomfortable. Then I spent the last year recovering from Interferon, just trying to get "back to normal." Slowly, I've come to realize that there is no normal anymore. Or, rather, there's a "new normal." Subtle differences and changes that I had to make have made a world of difference since my diagnosis, but, over time, I've learned not to fight it. The way I work, the way I play, the way I eat, the way I think, who I choose to be and who I choose to be around- everything has been touched and changed, and yet, there is no anger in the lack of normal. It's just a new life, sometimes more difficult, but always much more human and mortal and real.

2. Activism is real and powerful. I've been involved in it most of my life, but only after I became Ms. Melanoma did I realize what a difference it can make. I'm touched by so many people I've come in contact with that work hard to bring melanoma awareness to light, and they give unselfishly and lovingly to that greater cause. My advice to you: pass out some fliers, walk a 5k, answer some questions, change a life. You'll inadvertently change your own, too.

3. Friends can make a world of difference. This can go either direction- as in, people you barely know, people you've never met, and people who don't even know your real name can "show up" when it's necessary and make the tough times bearable. On the flip side, friends you thought were family may not be able to hang in there. This is the ebb and flow. Which leads me to #4.

4. Take the good with the bad. Nothing is all positive or all negative, believe it or not, and what we take from experiences defines who we are.

5. Asking for help is not being weak. Or maybe it is. But it doesn't matter. Either way, there will be a time you need to do it. Yes, it's humbling, and yes, it's sometimes demoralizing; I mean, no one wants to ask for help wiping their own hiney. But, in another way, it's a gift. It allows you to see what happens when you are vulnerable, and who will help you to rise above it. I've been lucky, or blessed, or both, but the people that have surrounded me through the toughest times make asking for help a safe and comforting experience. Which brings me to #6.

6. I have the greatest boyfriend on Earth.

7. On a grander scale, cancer has given me the ability to accept that my death is imminent. I've written about this a lot in this blog, because it is such a huge perception change. This last path report gives everyone, first and foremost me, but also my oncologist and doctors, lots of hope that this won't be happening anytime soon. Nonetheless, having this disease has been an eye opener as to the way we deal with our own mortality in this culture, (which, essentially, is by not dealing with it). Why don't we face the truth? We are frail and temporary beings. And it (as in cancer, accidents, disease) COULD happen to us. I'm not planning on checking out, but just knowing how close it can be, I think I live my life more fully.

8. I am more than my diagnosis. Even so, living with disease is harder than you think.

9. We all have an innate strength within us. I can't tell you how many times I've been told by people "You're so brave" or "you have such a great attitude." The truth is neither of those, though. People I know with cancer, friends who have lived with it or are living with it now, they outdo me in courage and attitude tenfold any day of the week. But the fact is, if it came down to it, we'd all be able to get through it, even if it wasn't with the grace and dignity that my friends exhibit. The Duke said it best when he said, "Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway."

10. Control, 99% of the time, is just an illusion. The only thing any of us can control is the way we react to a situation. That, perhaps, has been the most significant of all the lessons I've learned.

Thanks to all of you who have traveled this journey with me, and for all you've said and done. Oddly enough, it's been a good 2 years in many ways.

-LL

P.s. Please keep Shannon in your prayers

So many things to say

Well, my 5 day stay at the hospital has come to an end, and the news that seems so unlikely and too good to be true turns out to be real afterall. Free and clear. No melanoma.

It feels- amazing. Amazingly like it used to before I knew what a cancer diagnosis was like. Like I went and had my first mole removed and the path report was negative, and now I can go on with my life without the worry of all the stuff that coulda been. Like life never got scary. Amazing. I still tear up when I talk about it.

Now, I know that I'm still a survivor, and I still must be vigilant, and I know all that comes with that. I'm sure that in a few weeks or months when it's time for scans again, that I'll be scared until the results come back, and that I'll still panic over new moles or strange pigments or funny aches and pains. But I feel, today, like I've won the lottery and I've no limit to what I can do with the gift I've been given of "no evidence of disease." Free and clear.

And, yet, of course, I am hurt, too, by the fact that we have all lost Sarah. I simply can't believe she's gone.

Since February of this year, I have lost four people to cancer. I can't say how it hurts to write that.
Cancer is almost always a whirlwind of a mixture of the strangest feelings- joy at the good results, pain with the bad. Grieving the loss of all you had in your life (or at least you thought you had) before the diagnosis, and rejoicing in all you've learned and figured out about life since then- like the precious gift of a single moment. There's the joy of meeting the most amazing people on Earth, making friends across the country, drawing strength from their journeys- and- the flip side of that- is hearing that this stupid disease beat their spirit once and for all.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about Oscar, and I said that my first instinct when I thought about his death was a sense of relief that he was finally out of pain, out of the battle. At ease. And, after that feeling, it was simply a matter of getting past the missing him. I know that everyone that knew Sarah is probably feeling this same thing right now. But I can't tell you how much strength I drew from her advice. And I'm angry in the selfish way that she deserved so much more. I read her blog again and it's like I'm reading the story of a superhero, who put her private self out there so other people could learn. Amazing how she never gave up and she fought her way through the system to make sure she'd find a doctor who would treat her to fight melanoma till her last breath. And now that she's gone, it's stranger than ever.

So, again today, is the whirlwind. And I am just soaking it all up- the ache for Sarah and Derek and the joy of the gift that I know I have been given. It never makes sense, but I think to seek reasoning or consolation or an explanation is only inviting a conflict that I can't resolve.

Once again, no tidy wrap-up, but a quick petition to the higher power that is (or is not) ruling all this: thank you for my time knowing Sarah, thank you for lending Sarah to the world for a while, and thank you for the grace I've been offered, too.

-L

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

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