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

Could you come back in a few beers?

Well, I guess it's time for an update. Not sure if I'll get through everything I have to say, but here's a start nonetheless. I have an appointment with the surgeon on the 26th. The surgeon will be able to tell me whether this lymph node can be removed by surgery (hence the word surgeon) or if this will have to be handled with radiation. I've had a lot of people telling me that I need to get a 2nd opinion, and so I'm making an appointment at MDA. MDA, as in, you know, like the best cancer treatment center in the south. THE MDA. The problem, though, is this: how will I get treated at MDA? It's not like I'm going to be able to afford the out of network co-pays/deductibles/etc. Plus, how will stay there for 6 weeks when that's what type of radiation we're looking at? It's an outpatient treatment, I don't know anyone in Houston, and I don't make enough money to pay for that kind of hotel bill. It's a lot to think about. I guess I could work the corner. Some guys are really into scars.
For now, I guess we'll just take it one step at a time, and that means I'm only thinking of the appointment next week for now.

Bobby and I are both handling the news pretty well. Amazingly well, actually. We both keep saying, "Is it wierd what a relief it is to be fighting cancer again?" It's something only a cancer survivor can understand, I think. You just don't know until you've been there. It's the new abnormal, people. Sitting around waiting for it to return when every doc you see tells you it's most likely coming back will drive you up the walls. Knowing that it's here and it's really just one lymph node and that we can treat it, that's a relief. I know. I can't explain it.

Still loving the new oncologist. I called and left a message yesterday that I had a few questions, and I'll be darned if the buger didn't call me back today. I went through the whole list of what I've been wondering: am I a stage 4 now? is the cancer in my blood? how long would radiation take? what would surgery look like if we're able to do it? do fish have eyelids? what's your favorite Olive Garden entree? We weren't on the phone long, but he was very willing to answer all my questions and even told me to call him back tonight or tomorrow if I thought of more. This is just a whole new ballgame for me. The Parkland Oncologists talked to you with one hand on the doorknob and one foot out the door. It just feels like such a totally new level of care and I can't imagine getting anything better elsewhere, as false as I know that to be.

Anyway, that's about it. I'll go ahead and plug my TNT fundraiser that I'm doing for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society in case anyone is interested in that. It's a great cause!
http://www.active.com/donate/tntntx/tntntxLLee

As for now, I feel pretty okay, surprisingly. I've been thinking a lot lately, especially since Mary's death, that we don't just don't know much about this little life. Does it begin at birth and end at death? Or are we just assuming that because we tend to think of ourselves as all-knowing? Just something that's been rolling around in my head.

Okay, well, I'm all over the place tonight. But I'll be back as soon as I know something.

-L

Here he is, Miss America

Monday I went to meet my new dermatologist, Dr. Crawford, who was referred to me from my new PCP, Dr. Gomez, also known as Dr. Sensitive Ponytail Man.

Now keep in mind that for the last couple of years, the majority of the medical care I've received has been from Parkland Hospital, a local county hospital for those who do not have insurance or can not afford care ("indigents," like me, they are lovingly called). I was all too appreciative to be treated at Parkland, especially considering the number of times I was turned away for treatment. But the truth is, it was sort of a sock in the stomach everytime I went there. For one thing, all the walls are grey. I'm not sure if it's paint or if it's just the color of wear, but it's a sad, dull grey. And the lighting is pretty nill. The place is dirty, overcrowded and always chaotic. In fact, whenever all the Hurricane Katrina stuff went down and they were showing clips of people packed in hospitals and stuff, I was always reminded of Parkland.

For a county hospital, it gets a lot of press. Lots of research is done there, lots of innovations. I'm sure it's like most county hospitals, though- and patients don't get to see this side of Parkland. What we see is the sadness and craziness. Think ER without all the beautiful doctors and caring nurses. At Parkland, everywhere you look, there are sick people lined up in chairs and against the walls. Kids are crying, people are bleeding, and it's just a really sad place. Like a last resort for people to go to, a place of very little hope.

Now, think of the opposite- walking into a big, clean, beautiful waiting room. That's what Dr. Crawford's office was like. These people not only treat medical conditions, they do a lot of things like dermabrasion and medical grade peels, that sort of thing. You know, medical procedures for the rest of the world. Things that don't exactly get done at Parkland.

So keep that in mind when I tell you that the first thing I noticed when I walked into the waiting room were the chairs: huge, tall, clean cushy gold chairs. It's funny now, but at the time, honest to God, that's what I thought. Look how nice these chairs are; these are like movie theater chairs! Look how clean this place is. The next thing that I noticed was how friendly the staff was. It was like a different world. Then we were ushered back to a room, where I was promptly instructed to put on a lovely paper gown, and Dr. Crawford came in.

Dr. Crawford, who Bobby just refers to as Dr. Beautiful, is an older, slightly less attractive version of Brad Pitt in a Ted Nugent shirt. And he uses the word "man" at least once in every sentence. As in, "Lori, looks like God's been good to you, man." or "Okay, man, looks like you recovered pretty well."

And not only that, but we saw the picture of his family. I think they all had their teeth whitened just before the photo was taken. They're ALL beautiful. Like ridiculously beautiful. I kept telling Bobby, "People have to go to school with his teenage kids! Can you imagine? You can't compete with that kind of person!" I can't really describe how freakishly beautiful these people were. In fact, I put a picture together, which is the closest I can really come to giving you an image. It's more accurate than you can imagine.

So we're standing in line to pay, and I turn to Bobby and say, "I think I'm in love with Dr. Beautiful's son." And he admitted to the same. This isn't normal beautiful. This is freakishly beautiful. I bet even his wife wonders if she belongs amongst these people.

The boring details are that I have a follow up on Monday to have a few biopsies. But don't focus on that. Focus on this picture and the fact that I have to face these freakishly beautiful people again with my Target clothing and 80 pounds overweight body in a paper gown.

-MM