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

And now, for something completely different

Your thoughts and comments and well wishes have brought me to tears more than once this week. Thank you so much, all of you, for your support. It has made all the difference while I waited for the results. I have been so touched and moved by your comments, and given such hope and strength by your words.

And now, for something completely different.

No, this is not my PET scan. But yes, I had a lymph node light up on my scan that my doc said he's "99.9% sure is melanoma." A little unsure as of today if they can do surgery, because the lymph node that he was originally concerned about was just scar tissue, and the lymph node that lit up is actually "very deep in the pelvis." So, if they can't do surgery, they'll do radiation. Good news is that he feels very confident that radiation will eradicate it. Did I spell that right? Oh, well.

If anyone has any experience with this, please write me. I'm a little confused as to whether this melanoma is spreading or if they just missed a node. I should've asked all this to the doc, but you know how this is when you first hear the news.

Thanks again to all of you. And thank you Carver for all your help and all the information that you provide so regularly.

-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

The ultimate teacher

This blog will be a little scattered- a bit here and there- a tad all over the place. I'm just really letting my thoughts romp about. Think James Joyce and stream of consciousness.
______________________________________________________
There are two parts of me today. The first is the side that knows that Oscar is finally at peace.

Then there's the other side.
My therapist asked me on Saturday, "How do you feel now that it's over?" My first instinct is less than happy, bordering on what I can only reasonably describe as rage, but I just stuff it and I say the truth: I feel a sense of relief that he is finally out of pain. And now it is a matter of getting past the missing him. A matter of dealing with the fact that a good person that I genuinely cared about is gone. I think of my dad and how that dent will always be there. Getting past the missing them is the worst part. And that is what I can only assume takes a lifetime.

I guess I don't need to say that I wasn't as close to Oscar as many people in my group were. I keep feeling the need to justify why it hurt so bad to see him go. It's ridiculous, really- I think all of us from the group are asking ourselves why it hurt so bad. Of course, it is sad that such a wonderful person is gone, but we all seemed so emotionally tied to his death, when, really, we've all been surrounded by death before. But this one hit home. We're all exploring these emotions in us, thinking of Oscar, wondering what has been stirred in us.

It brings me to a quote I read this week: "Conflict comes when you seek consolation, forgetfullness, explanations, and illusions."

The other day we were talking about how the first stages of diagnosis always coincide with, "Why me?" And then one day, it just clicks, and the question instead becomes, "Why not me?" There is no consolation in figuring out why. We've done nothing to deserve it any more than any other person on the planet. And so the consolation comes from within, in the understanding that it happens. It happens to good people and to bad people, young and old, strong and weak. It just happens.

And such as it is with death, the ultimate teacher. It happens. The illusion that we here in the West like to live under is that death is some distant and foreign thing that's not going to happen to us. We're too young, too healthy, too (insert other adjective here). But death is a reality, and when we are slapped with it, how can I say this except: it rocks our world. That's where the "new normal" comes in. The new normal is life in the face of death. The elephant in the room that most cancer survivors are willing to acknowledge and everone else chooses to ignore is the reality of death. Once someone comes to grips with their own mortality, a lot of the dillusions about life and about ourselves are lost. There is pain with the prospect of our lack of existance, but at the same time the huge question begins to arise: Why do we pretend death's not going to happen to us?

Which brings me back to my therapist Saturday, who asked: why deal with death now? Why not wait until it is time to deal with it?

When, exactly, I asked him, is it time to deal with it?

When we're dying, he said.

Here's what I don't get: can we not learn to live life in the face of death? Does the prospect of it not give us greater insight into what we really want? And need? I have come to believe, as I have seen the face of death, that an acceptance of death leads to a more vivid life. Whether I can live that more vivid life, I am not sure yet. I am not so sure that I am capable of being that big of a person. But I know, none the less, that it is true.

There has been an outpouring among my Gilda's group since Oscar's passing, a string of emails to each other thanking the others for what they've provided and what is appreciated in each of them. It sort of blows my mind that a group of people can chose to go through something like this with each other, something that I've never really seen or experienced in my short life. And yet the group has pulled through it- has chosen to bond and meld together and be there for another human when all of our first instincts are to protect our own well-being. I, personally, had to fight with myself constantly- forcing myself to do what I really wanted to do when all the instincts were screaming to run in the opposite direction. This has much more to do with me and my history than it does to Oscar or my group- it's just how I've gotten by in rougher times. And I fight it still, even now. I can feel the tension inside me pleading not to get too close to people, not to allow myself to trust and not to get attached and not to put faith in them, that when it all goes down I won't be able to take the pain. But becoming bigger and better person sometimes means ignoring those instincts and learning to put yourself out there and love in spite of fear. It means that risks like this could pay off or not, but either way, a person comes out on the other side richer from the experience and proud of the involvement and wiser from the struggle. Isn't that what death teaches us, anyway?

This group has brought about a sort of renewal in me. I see, in the midst of this pain, such an amazing spirit of friendship that has astounded and overwhelmed me. And I see the individuals, too- people that I wouldn't even know or be friends with typically- I am in awe of their spirit, their strength, their faith, their tenacity, their character. In the last week, even saying the word "friendship" has literally brought tears to my eyes. It makes me cry the way people cry at weddings, who are bewildered by the beauty and stunned by the flow of emotions. And I can only assume it is because I simply cannot believe how I've been so blessed by this. So blessed to fall into this circle. I am at a loss to even describe it, but you just have to trust me how it feels to be so overcome by a sense that I am surrounded by a group of people that get me, people genuinely and deeply feel the same pain I am experiencing, people that would look me in the eye hours before death, people that are simply THERE- there when I just need to hear their voices or their stories, there when I am searching for a familiar face like a child lost among strangers, there to listen and to prod and to urge and to care.

I wanted to end this blog with some sort of conclusion about all this. But tonight I don't have it.
Maybe someday soon. Maybe it will become clear.

For now, though, I know one good thing. And in light of Oscar's death, I think that's a pretty big good thing to see.

-L

To See things as they really are

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

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

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

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

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

-L

Let it be

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

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

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

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

-L

Spring Break '07- This Year, No Beach, No Banana Daquiris

I swear to you I've written at least 15 blogs in the last few days, and have erased every one of them. My committment to you, right now, is to publish this blog no matter how ugly or inappropriate or whatever it is.

Spring break this year started with an art memorial service for Lia. There were 8 of us there to honor Lia and to have our own memorial for her since we weren't informed of the formal one till days after it was too late. I wish I had a picture of Lia to post here, but I don't. I wish that you could see her, though. It would add so much to what you read about her. Anyway, there was that on Saturday last, and it sort of "set the tone" for the whole break. I had a pretty emotional reaction to it, especially for someone who doesn't have emotional responses in public. Andrea started the memorial by just telling us that anything was allowed- tears, words, laughter, hugs, silence. I started to cry almost immediately, and cried much of the time I was there. The group talked about Lia, then about the last 2 years, as 5 of our group of 25 have slowly melted away from us. Then we talked about our fears- about making more friends at Gilda's club, only to watch them die, too. Only to force us to face our mortality.

I guess I thought I was handling the whole thing better than I have been, but it became clear that day that I have barely handled it at all. I don't know what I've been doing, but I don't think I've been facing the pain. It has taken me all week to essentially come to grips with what is going on with me and what I am feeling. And what I am feeling is this: fear. Fear is a pretty foreign feeling to me- I've made my life out of stupid risks taken and living off the adrenaline from them. I'm the person that wiser people call wreckless and some call stupid, and am also the one that's pretty calm in most scary situations. A response from childhood or other hood, I guess- instant crisis management.
Up until a few weeks ago, if you asked me what I'm scared of, I would've said, "Disappointing my loved ones. But besides that, very little." Pain doesn't really scare me- physical, at least. I'm not scared of suffering, because I know for the most part that I can handle it. And I've learned much from losing things I loved and putting my life together afterward- to the point of feeling confident from such endeavors.
But things are different now. For one thing, I understand what a fear of death is. For me, it is attached to ego, as I am not so afraid of missing things as I am of the way life goes on without stopping to see that you are no longer a part of it. I assume this is nothing but a fear of essentially being forgotten. Or inconsequential. Of dying, and then, in essence, disappearing.
I also understand, I guess, the fragility of life now somehow, too. How it is here in our grasp, but, at the same time, it is not. It is mostly just beyond our grasp, because it is not something we can hold and protect, but merely something we are allowed to touch intermittenly and love and hopefully grasp and fully appreciate. And, after our time is up, it is gone from our sight.
That's enough to ponder for years, so I'll stop there. That's what's going on with me. I'm trying to use that, to understand what I've been taught from this, to make these days that are only mine a gift to myself. It is not always easy being so mindful, but it is important and a blessing, even when it hurts like it does today.

-Lori

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

A Moveable Feast

Sometimes I come to this blog and I have no idea what to say. I spin the words around in my head, trying to come up with something clever, trying to think what is important to say and what I can figure out on my own without worrying others.

Ernest Hemingway once wrote that he often had writer's block, and this would worry him. The thought of not being able to write would begin to make him anxious, and that he would "stand and look over the roofs of Paris and think, "Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know." So finally I would write one true sentence, and then go on from there."

My true sentence for today is: I truly do not know what to make of the things we are asked to do in this life.

I attended the memorial service of Mary Davis today. She was only 62, and she was the first person in my support group that has passed away. I didn't know too much about her, but I saw her every time I was there. She once told me I had beautiful eyelashes. I learned about as much as I know of her today during the service. She was an old hippie. She loved to drink and smoke good stuff and surrounded herself with colorful people. She had two lesbian daughters, both with serious life partners, one of whom spoke today. She said that when she went to Mary's house, she was always the most conservative person there. I thought that was funny, and thought of how I wish I could've known Mary in better times. I think we would've gotten on famously. The last time I saw her, she had been taken off all of her pain medication except Advil because she kept having hallucinations, and she'd had brain surgery just a week or so before. It was awful to see her in so much pain. She said she was ready for the pain to end.

I don't know what to say really besides that. I guess it's good that the pain is gone, and that is that. That is about as much as you can say. It's unfair. So unfair that Mary had to go through this; unfair that so many people are losing their fight to this. And a part of me wishes I didn't know about this world, this place where so many people are fighting this disease. A part of me wishes that I could go back to just being oblivious to the struggle so many are having, a struggle of literally life and death.
In the last month, three of my friends have found out that their cancer has metastasized to organs in their body. To be honest, Mary's funeral showed me that I am not ready for this: to watch people I love fight this fight. And yet, I find myself coming to the conclusion that there is no choice here to be made. This is how it's going to be, and I will undoubtedly watch them do it. I will do my best as a human being to be there when they need to know that others can be. Isn't that what a support group is? People who understand the struggle you are having? My friends without cancer, so many have slipped away, unable to cope. And I can't do that to those that have been there and watched as I coped.
I am always amazed how my friend Faith does it. She keeps up with everyone, goes to see them in the hospital, brings food and cards and soup and checks up with all of us on the phone every week. I want to ask her, what is it that keeps you going? Don't you just want to quit sometimes, just disappear? Aren't you tired of watching everyone suffer and die?
After today I guess I understand that the only other choice is pretending it's not happening. So you buck up, you just jump in and do what needs to be done, and you learn to deal with it as you go. No one is born knowing how to look a dieing person in the eyes. But you do it because it's the best thing for you and it's the best thing for them, and what comes after that is really insignificant. Everything else sort of takes care of itself.

So that's it. I know in the next month and year and decade I'll see my friends go through things, some good and some bad. I am fearful of what may come, and I hope for the very best. I am not big on prayer, but, if you're reading this, I ask you to please pray for my friends. Pray that they not suffer the way Mary did.

And pray for all of us, that we be the persons we need to be when we are called to be that support. And for peace, not just on Earth, but everywhere, in every one of us. Lastly, pray that this is not in vain. Because if it is, I just don't see how any of us can look the same at our insignificant little lives.

-MM

Ceri Elizabeth Smith 1986 - 2007

I didn't know Ceri Smith. I didn't even know about her until a couple of days ago, when I saw a link to the video you are about to see now. I am passing on what has been passed on to me from Sarah, and I'm hoping you'll pass it on, too.

Ceri Smith, like so many others, has succumbed to melanoma. It is so difficult to believe that even at the young age of 21, she lost her fight.

I don't have the words to say what needs to be said about someone so young dieing like this. But this is her story, and I think we all know why it's so important to me that you watch it.

Thanks,

Lori

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

When Good Germs go Bad

Well, it's cold season, and guess who's got one. Could be a lot worse, but I'm definately down for a few days. Called in sick 2 days in a row to work, so I know it's more serious that usual. Pretty normal, I suppose, though, for the first year back as a teacher. In fact, Friday, every 5th grade teacher was out sick except for 2. We have finally succumbed to the carrier monkeys that brought the germs upon us.

It's been a long time since I've been sick like this and it wasn't from chemo. I'm thinking it was when I had pneumonia in San Diego, actually, the last time. And that was much worse than this. Though the Robitussin gives me a nice flying :) feeling, I'm hoping today I can lay off of it so I can maybe get some work done. The good news is today is the first day I've woken up and my chest doesn't hurt. That's a good sign, I think, and I'm armed and dangerous with Puff's Plus this weekend.

I've missed the last couple of Gilda's club meetings due to feeling ill and just being so darned busy. I'm really hoping I can make next Thursday's group. I haven't really decided on this post-treatment support group, yet. I can't decide if I really want to stick with it or not, but since I've only given it one try, I'm definately gonna hit it a couple of more times to see how it goes. It's become pretty obvious that I need to do something, that I need to be in touch with all that's going on with me and my fears about cancer recurrence. I think this will be good outlet.

I'm sure, if you're like me, everytime you get sick after the CA diagnosis, you go into panic mode. I immediately began to worry that the cold would move into my chest, and my immune system wouldn't be able to fight it. This, friends, is called paranoia. Kinda like every time I get a headache that little voice goes, "OMG! Brain mets!"

This, I suppose, is the adjustment period to that "new normal" everyone talks about. I wish I could just get to that "new normal" and get it over with! Move on! Geezy Creezy! Build a bridge and get over it!

Anyway, that's today's rant. I'll fill you in later on my new derma. Now THAT's a good story.

-MM

I also think you're more than just fat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-MM

Free, Free falling

Uggh. I suck. Every weekend I try to force myself to post a blog, and every weekend I come up with some reason I can't. Well, I'm not standing for it, I tell ya. I'm demanding a post.

Not sure why I've had an aversion to post lately. It's not really work, which has been good. And I've started running again (I'm a MACHINE, I tell ya), slowly, slowly but surely dropping my time and trying to get back up to the 3 mile mark. And, I went back to Gilda's Club for the first time in forever, seeing all those faces that supported me while I was on Interferon. It's been good, and busy, and nice to return to all of these things.

But I'm thinking the truth may be (can you handle the truth?) that I've taken time off from the blog the same reason I've taken time off from Gilda's- which is, of course (are you ready for this?) DENIAL, baby. That's right, good ol' fashion denial, as in, nope, I don't have cancer, didn't have cancer, won't get it again even though I never had it. And, even though the sane part of me knows that's ridiculous, there's that part of me, too, that wants to pretend that I'm immortal again, that these things can't happen to me and won't happen to my friends.

For instance, there's a girl in my support group- she's around my age, she's funny, she's great- and, her breast cancer has spread to her brain. Now what? you may be asking yourself. Well, doc says she can get 1 of 2 treatments, and the choice is hers: treatment 1 will extend the length of her life, but she'll likely lose most of her normal functioning; treatment 2 is likely to extend the length of her life but will almost definately cost her the ability to see. Or she can do neither, and have a very short life expectancy, I suppose.

Unfair. Unjust. And, just as we all know it, unbiased. Cancer is so cruel sometimes. I wish I could unlearn all I know about it today, and just be back in that place where I didn't know that people I have grown to love have such hard choices to make and such short lives ahead of them.

Ah, well. Such is life. I'm just trying to find ways to deal with it.

See, now you're not going to be so gung-ho on my posting again, are ya?

TTFN

-MM

Santa Claus is a Sustainable Corporation with a focus on Equal Rights and Progressive Team-Centered Leadership

On the ride home from work yesterday, I had an almost overwhelming feeling of... gratitude. Or maybe it was luck I felt. Or blessedness. Who knows what it was, but I kept thinking how lucky I have been over the last year, how I'm alive and healthy and in love, how I have wonderful friends, a nice place to go home to, a great job to get up to, and how I'm not homeless or hungry or sick or alone. I was feeling it all over, happy and giddy all wrapped up in the holiday cheer. I wasn't even listening to carols about immaculate conception, but it was one of those cheesy-happy cliched holiday moments.

Yesterday was (speaking of blessed events) that beautiful day just before winter break at public schools when you get to watch movies, decorate the tree, and eat all day. Verily, verily, I say unto thee, I was glad the winter break had finally arrived. I can't tell you how many teachers greeted me in the hall with a big, "You did it! The year is halfway over!" (I think it's tradition to congratulate all the rookies like that). I have to admit it felt good, and thinking back, those 7 nervous breakdowns I had the first 12 weeks may have been worth it.

It was a great day yesterday, though. To fifth graders, the last day of the year at school means eating way too much- what with all the pizza and hot cheetos and enchiladas and tamales and flautas and cupcakes and soda and flan, and then complaining all afternoon to Ms. Lee that, "I don't feel so good." We topped off the day with some Wallace & Grommit, karaoke and rainy day soccer.

The best part, I think, was seeing my kids taken care of by the community. A local high school raised money and had a toy drive to make sure everybody had a good Christmas this year. It made a big difference to those who didn't know what they were going to get to have a new bike, an iPod, a camera, and a laptop show up at the last minute. I swear I was almost brought to tears. Thank God I don't have kids.
And then there' my gift, of having some time off. I know it will fly by, but I'm so excited about not having to be up at 5 a.m. for the next 2 weeks. I don't even think it's hit me yet that I have a full 9 days off. Have mercy.

Here on the homefront, it's Christmas as usual. The halls are decked, the tree is trimmed. The chestnuts... well, you get the drift. We're having some very wintery weather, which is a little odd, and we're planning on getting the flock out of town for a few days, heading to Austin to catch some shows and relax amongst strangers. The only way to do it, in my opinion.

I'm thinking of all my friends all over the U.S. and beyond a lot this year, and of the Christmases I've spent with them in the past. I miss them all, but am hoping that everyone is feeling as lucky and blessed as I am. I swear I'll get Christmas cards out soon. Until then, I love you all and am wishing you the best holiday ever.

Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da

Wierd, these last few weeks. Wierd, because, I guess, cancer has been at the back of my mind and not at the forefront of everything. Wierd because someone said to me, "You're a cancer survivor?!? I had no idea," and I thought, how strange that they didn't know that. "Cancer survivor" seemed like my whole existence- everything was wrapped around that- for the last year.

Ah, well, I guess the Beatles said it best, as usual. Life goes on.

I've somehow lost part of that me that I found during cancer treatment, that girl that didn't scream at people in traffic. The Me that wondered how so many precious little minutes slipped by without being appreciated.
Funny, isn't it? We move on, we forget the realizations, we become normal people again.

On the other hand, I'm to the point again where I walk out the door in the morning and see the barely rising sun or the moon still up and I think, "Ah, another day that I'm so happy I can really do something with." It's been since A&M that I can remember saying that in the mornings.

It's so nice to be wrapped up in somebody else besides myself for a change. Students. Work. Traffic. So nice to worry about the everyday things instead of life and death.

Bobby and I only had a few months together before full-blown chemo started. It was tough dating through chemo, not really knowing each other as well as I'd liked before he had to start helping me off of the toilet. Through it all, though, we laughed. I can say that honestly. We really tried to make the best of it. And our favorite thing to say was "if we're having this much fun now, just wait until after Interferon."

It's after Interferon now, though I still feel the effects every day. I had hoped I'd bounce completely back, and, where I'm at now is a walk in the park compared to where I was on the "big I". Every day, every time I go to the doctor, things are a little better. I'm getting closer and closer to where I wanna be. And this has been an adjustment for Bobby and I, as sad as that is.
We've had to relearn the roles of whatever we are (boyfriend and girlfriend? sounds so high school). I wouldn't say it's been tough, but it's been an adjustment. It's been up and it's been down, and I'm finally to the point where I'd say we're past the adjustment, and we're just Bobby and Lori again.

For my birthday, Bobby got us tickets to the Dixie Chicks Concert at the American Airlines center. It was the last show of their tour, and even if you don't do "country" music or you don't like the Chicks for political reasons, I'm telling you that you're missing out if you don't give these girls a chance simply for their amazing musical talent. It was a great show, and having seen their documentary, even though I've never been a die-hard fan, made the show even better.

I really relate to the lead singer. She's stubborn, opinionated, and sticks her foot in her mouth. It's not hard for her to say she's sorry but it's hard for her to forgive when she's been hurt. It's even harder for her to open up to someone and let them try to take care of her.

And she wants to be strong. You can really see this in her music, and a lot of times I hear myself in her lyrics. When my dad died, "Fly" was always in my head, telling me that I couldn't hold on to keeping him here with me when he was in so much pain and needed to be let go. And now, her song "Easy Silence" is saying everything I feel about Bobby.

He's been that person that I've let myself rely on totally for the last year. Doctor appointments, medicine, financial and physical and emotional support. He was the one that took care of all of that. I was cleaning in the bedroom and found a beenie under my side of the bed, probably one that he put on me in the midst of a crazy fever in the middle of the night, bundling me up while I was shaking. I hated it - hated it that I needed someone there to cover me up when I felt like I couldn't move. Hated it that I couldn't get down the stairs on my own. And yet he made it so easy to rely on him.

We moved out of that phase and into another where I was supposed to still be okay relying on him and him relying on me now, and yet, with all the changes we were making, it just felt like something was uneasy. We were both making mistakes and trying to fix them at the same time, and I had made up my mind that I was going to end up getting hurt all over again. I kept thinking back to a time when being with him was the only time I felt safe, like nothing bad could happen to me, and wondered what had happened to that.

It occurred to me one night when we were talking that he was in the same position I was, though. He had been bitten in the ass by a relationship one too many times, too, and now that I was up and running, he was pulling away. He, in essence, was doing what I do all the time, and I was feeling it from the other side.

At the Chick's concert, Natalie sang the words that I had thought so many times with Bobby-
"Anger plays on every station/Answers only make more questions/ I need something to believe in/ Breathe in sanctuary in the easy silence you create for me/ It's okay if there's nothing more to say to me./ And the peaceful quiet that you make for me/ And the way you keep the world at bay for me."
It occurred to me there, in the stadium with thousands of other people, us leaning up against each other, that we were both in that place where we felt like we loved each other way too much, like we were both feeling that insane feeling when you are allowing yourself to feel some way about a person that could, if things went wrong, essentially rip your soul out. It's a scary, scary thing, and, I guess, one of those risks that you take in order to experience the good things in life.

I've felt this way a few times in my life: with Mandy, with my Dad, with my stepmom, with Tamara, with Bobby. Sometimes I get burned, but mostly I don't. Mostly I suck the marrow out of the experience and am glad that I let myself experience this insane chance we take on each other in everyday life.

Whatever happens between me and Bobby, I'll be glad for the chances we took on each other. But, taking another chance right now, I'd like to put myself on the line and say this: Bobby and I are going to be okay. We've found something in each other that some people goes their whole lives looking for.

And I'm finding myself, again, very lucky.

-MM

Dyslexics of the World Untie!

Have I mentioned I'm a workaholic? Actually, work has been going really good lately. I've even been able to come home on a regular basis before 6 o'clock (most days). The Thanksgiving break really gave me a chance to get caught up on a few things and Christmas is only a week and a half away!

Had an epiphany this week regarding school and other things.

Let's start out with a brief work history:
In high school, my evening job was working an afterschool program till 6 and the nursery (as in babies, not plants) until 9.

Then I went to A&M, where I started working at a recreation center my junior year of college- a job that totally changed my life.

I graduated, moved to San Diego and ran a school program at an inner-city elementary school for about 5 years.

In between that job and my becoming an elementary school teacher there was a brief stint as a pediatric nurse.

The whole point of this rant is that over the last 16 years, about 12 of those I've been working with kids. And out of those 12, 8 were working with the poorest of the poor kids.

But, in essence, kids are kids. You either can relate to them or you can't, and, generally, and my immature sense of humor seems to help. I've been thinking about it this week, and I think I've figured something out. Working with kids has made me train myself to see something good in every personality. I even find myself saying to people, you'll love this person. Then, to my surprise, my friends (as in long-time ones) end up hating him/her. I couldn't figure it out until I started realizing how much I work at finding something in every kid that I can relate to or just plain enjoy.

I guess that's a lot easier to do when you don't have your own kids. I've known for a while that having kids may not be the best idea for me. Even in college, I loved my job, and, like I said, it changed my life, but I often appreciated the fact that when I left that job, the kids stayed there and I didn't. I figured that later on in life, this would pass. That I'd get to a point where I was willing to put myself second to another little life that depended on me.

But as I've gotten older, that still hasn't changed. Putting myself second has become some kind of joke to me. Are you kidding me? Me- Second?

Work is one thing, and having a job I can throw 12 hours of my day into makes me happier than most things in life. But one of the things I love most about giving all of myself at that job is that I can walk away from it at the end of the day and really concentrate on that other parts of my life, which, in an essence, are myself and my needs as an individual.

In other relationships, I've always floundered to the thoughts of my significant other and believed as they did, that making a family would be the next step in making a marriage complete. What was I thinking? I guess because I truly love kids, in a lot of ways it made sense to me that I should be a mom. For a while, I even got off of birth control so that when we decided it was time to conceive, my body would be ready.

Now it has become clear to me that being a mom is not only not in the cards, it's not a good idea.

Let's face it: I'm a selfish person. I don't mind saying that when I really want or need something and I don't get it, it bothers me. A lot. Especially if I've worked hard to get it and I deserve it.

With kids, though, everything that you want and need comes second to them. And that's how it should be. But I'm just at the point where I can finally say without any shame- I don't want to be a parent.
There's guilt in saying that, even now, even at 32, when I know there shouldn't be.
And I even that out in my head by saying, I give a lot to kids right now. I dedicate myself to giving them not only an education but the ability to deal with life in better ways. And that, I'm not sure if I could do as a parent. Not consistently, anyway.

My dad was a wonderful man. He gave his whole life up to be a good father, and my needs were always first before his. I can't think of one mistake that man made, ever, as a father.
On the flip side, there's my mom, who never could seem to grasp that motherhood was a full-time job. She was pissed about that. A lot.
It's funny to me now that she was pissed everytime she had to take me to school or fix me dinner. As a child that hurt, and I blamed myself for her being unhappy so much. Now I have a great relationship with my mom, and I think a big part of that is because I'd be pissed, too. It's so clear to me now why she felt the way she did. Because she gave in against her own better judgment.

Wow, I don't know where all of this came from. It was supposed to be a funny blog about how I like people that no one else likes simply because I've trained myself to see something good in all kids. That ability is something I've now learned to carry over to big people, too. But geez, this blog was like some kind of purging. Who feels better?
Oh well, I guess it needed to be out there, and now it is.







Peace. And I mean that, man.

-MM

It's been a while....

... and it'll be a while.

Okay, okay- so I haven't been so great about keeping you all posted. And, of course, there's lots to catch you up on.

For now, though, just know that I'm thinking of you all and I'll have more info for you soon on the ever-so-fascinating life of Miss M.

I'm ready for my close up

Let me first say that I'd love to post these funny pics I've found for y'all, but Blogger is having some trouble getting those to upload. Ah, well.

So in case you haven't heard, Miss M has been on the news. That's right, kids, my first taste of fame. It was a good piece, though, and I think it really pushed the melanoma/insurance awareness thing.

In case you haven't seen it, here's the link. There's an article and a video (yeah, those are my hands) and, in case you haven't heard- we're not engaged. Not sure where they got that.

As for little ol' me, I'm good. I'm dealing with the "living in limbo" thing, and I have to admit, most days I do feel lucky and happy to be who I am and where I am.

Also, especially after seeing the video of the news cast last night, I am appreicative of those around me- Bobby and my MPIP folks and my friends- who have made all of this bearable and, even in the craziest times, made the time fly.

I love you guys.

Ah, geez. Somebody get me a tissue.

-MM

Let me just warn you now...

.... this is not a happy post. And a long one, at that.

I've recently thought of what to do with this blog, and considered allowing it to morph along with me, become more of a "here's me and my new life after cancer" sort of thing. Something about that felt very wrong, though, and I think I've finally come to the reason why in my long rant, which begins, uh, right about now.

I started this blog tonight as a way to vent. I hate venting in a lot of ways, because I'm not a big complainer unless I believe it will lead to a new means to a better end. In many ways, however, ranting here feels very appropriate here because for a long, long time, (which, in reality, was only a year or so,) I came to this blog to talk about the things that rolled around in my brain on those never-ending days that I lay on the couch hating chemo. Back then, I used this blog as a way to reach people that I loved that were not near me, a way to ask friends that had disappeared to read and understand and help, a way to assure the ones I love that everything is fine and I'm keeping my chin up.

I can't seem to let go of that, yet. Perhaps it's because, oddly enough, I can't seem to let go of melanoma- and that means, I guess, that I'm holding on to that tumultuous relationship I've had with melanoma these last couple of years. We have been so on-again-off-again. I feel maybe this is a point in our relationship when we should explore other options. You know, spend some time apart and decide what it is we really want. Get to know ourselves again. Spend more time with our friends. Takes some time off.
It's me, of course, not melanoma. And I know that we'll always be friends.

It appears in the midst of the last few months of life as a cancer survivor that I have exited onto that ramp in cancerland when I am supposed to be moving on with my life. I am in the stage where active treatment has ended, and I crave a way to be progressively battling the beast, as it is so affectionately called. Many people during this time become depressed. And then you move on.

I, however, am stuck. I'm having trouble moving on. Perhaps this is because for the first time in a long time, I'm allowing myself to really process the last year or so. I think of the surgeries, the tubes, the weeks in the hospital, the nurses, the minor procedures, the looks I saw on people's faces, the weeks in the hospital. And, of course, the Interferon. Talk about a rocky relationship.

I can't get it out of my head. I think about how I felt on the chemo all the time. Let me start with the basic fact that it's difficult to describe chemo to someone else. It's not just that you begin to like vomitting because it sends a wave of relief. And it's not what you think it is before you go through it. It's not just the nausea and sickness. It's not yuckiness. It's a level of illness and exhaustion that you cannot describe. It's being so sick and so tired that you can't even watch television. That's not an exaggeration. I'm not talking trying to pass the MCAT, people. I'm saying you're too tired to concentrate on a sitcom for 7 minutes. Even Family Guy. Who's too tired for Family Guy?

At the time, I couldn't really have explained it, but, looking back, now it is vivid and way more easy to detail. I craved Vicodin all the time because it gave me a brief hour or so of not feeling that overwhelming achiness and fatigue just before I fell asleep. An hour. That was what I got out of it- an hour of feeling normal. And it was always on my mind, "Maybe if I could take a Vicodin, I'd be able to walk out to the car without feeling this way and we could leave the house...."

Food was just a chore, a complete burden, because you eat simply to have the mildest change in energy level, and yet it was like constantly being forced to eat clay. Everything was awful- the texture, the flavor, the incessant need to swallow and then mentally force yourself to think of other things- anything: the shape of a spoon, the ceiling tiles, the cold feel of the table- in order to keep it down. More mentally challenging than anything I've ever had to do before. The GRE has nothing on this.

It's been a few months since then. I've immersed (or is it emmersed?) myself in a new job, gotten lots of hair back, begun to lose a teeny tiny bit of that chemo weight, and am learning all about life after cancer.

I've begun to read MPIP everyday again, because it has become obvious that there is no life after cancer, there is only life with cancer, and life waiting for more cancer. How negative is this to say? Tremendously, tremendously negative. And apsolutely true. The thought of it is always there- when is my next recurrence? How long will I live when it comes back?

A lot of times I think this is an overreaction on my part. Maybe I'll be okay. Maybe it will never come back. Lots of people live 20, 30 years without a recurrence.
But then there's the reminders all over my body: the new bumps around my surgery site. The constantly changing moles around my primary. The spots I find on every inch of me. The new reason to go to the dermatologist every flippin' month. The constant tests and the constant waiting and the constant weight of bad news.

Augh. This is so negative, I can barely stand to write the words. And yet, I feel like maybe this is what has been inside of me all along. This is what I've wanted to say, but I haven't said in order to spare the feelings of those I love.

When I say these things out loud, it's always the same. The people I love want me to believe that everything will turn out okay. And, in a lot of ways, I have so much to be thankful for. In ALL ways, I have a lot to be thankful for. I'm NED. I'm alive. I don't have bone mets or kidney mets or brain mets or liver mets or constant tumors appearing that I can feel through my skin.

And yet I sulk. I cry in the shower. I hate that I'm waiting around for bad news. I hate scheduling the doctor appointments and that look on their faces when they talk about "when this comes back." When? What happened to if? I hate how fixated and wrapped up in my own life I have become. Work is such a relief- an amazing chance to think and worry about someone else for a while.

Someone posted on the MPIP bulletin board a few weeks ago, and it was so right on the money for how I feel, I had to save a copy of it. Here's a pasty job for you, so you can read what I've been thinking, written by a man named Jimmie, who's obviously been channeling through me.

Posted by Jimmie on October 24, 2006 at 13:37:57:

It's been a crazy few years- off and on Interferon and Interl-2. Finally, after several years of fighting this, my doctor said my NED. I went back to work to carry on with my life.

Only been back a few weeks, and work's good, but the cancer is always there in the back of my head, telling me not to have too much faith.l. I don't know, I'm not sure what to do. Moving on doesn't seem as easier as I thought it would be. I guess this is the "new normal" everyone talks about.

Some days I wish the scans would just come back positive so I'd know what to expect. Ain't that the craziest thing you ever heard?

But, I'm still so tired, even after finishing treatment 6 months ago.

My wife is a little unsure of how to take me these days- I guess she thinks I should be happy.
Come to think of it, I think I should be, too. What the heck is wrong with me?

You all sure seem like good folks. I'd sure appreciate any help you could offer.

-Jimmie

I appreciate Jimmie for what he said, for his honesty, and for making all of this easier for me to say. It was a relief to read it, and to say to Bobby, "Hey, read this" so that he and I both could see that maybe I'm not as crazy as I sound. And it added an air of distance, because if someone else posted it, and Bobby said, "What a freak...", then we could've just moved on without talking about those being my feelings, too.

Maybe if Jimmy hadn't said it first, then I (cowardly) never would have posted this blog. Lots of people offered Jimmie advice, and a big part of it was, "You're depressed, dude." It's an eye-opener for me. Maybe I need to do more about these feelings.

But, for now, they're here, and that helps.

And I think, today, this is all I can do.


Let's be safe out there, people.

-LL

I'm Miss Melanoma.... and my prices are INSANE!!!

Snobby Bobby, the amazing counterpart to Miss Melanoma, has posted a blog of late, and I feel a response is in order. He says teachers are insane.

Okay, yes. Yes, teachers are insane. They work insane hours, cry over their job, think about the kids 24/7, seemingly never have a day off, miss out on fun events and sleep and going out and seeing friends because they're trying to figure out ways to reach the kids and fill that notorious achievement gap between the classroom and the test. And by the test I mean THE TEST (as in TAKS).

My job takes a lot out of me, and it takes a lot of me. By that I mean that when I'm working, it's all I'm doing, and I do it 100%. I may not be the best teacher in the world (yet), but you can't say I don't put every bit of me into it.

That being said, keep in mind that work has always been my way of dealing with things. When life is stressful outside of work, I go to work to have something to occupy my hands and my mind so I can think through life with a more positive outlook. I guess it's like working out, but instead of just physical exercise, work requires both the mind and the body. It's always been this way, and I like it this way. There are negatives to it, of course, and one of them was very obvious after my diagnosis: sometimes you just CAN'T work, and when that happens, what do you have to fall back on as a means of dealing with stress?

Or, like I experienced earlier this year: what do you do when your job IS the stress? How do you use work as a stress relief when your work is the cause of it?

I tell people that having melanoma is just a part of who I am.

And being a teacher is part of who I am, too.

The other parts of me are less obvious, but they're still there- like being an animal lover, a big fan of music of all types, a runner (who hasn't run in over a year), a semi-artist, a partner, an activist, a writer, a dreamer, and a daughter.

Teaching, just like being a cancer survivor, is not the way I'd like to define myself, but it is a big part of me. What we have overcome often becomes, in the process, a clearer picture of who we are.
And it has been a challenge balancing work with a real relationship, which, at 31, I'm experiencing for the first time in my life. I love what I do, but, more importantly, I love this life that I've been given, and I don't want to waste another Saturday afternoon doing lesson plans when I could be enjoying the sunshine (with UV protection, of course). And I don't ever want to be in a hospital bed again, thinking of "all of those little lost moments we don't even realize are passing us by."

It's a tough balance, but worth it, and good to think about, I think.

So, for now, I'm heading home for some quality time with the fam.

Have a great weekend.

-MM

Good Vibes

This post is to send good vibes out to the people today who can really use it:

To Mandy, I'm sending out the best possible vibes to get through this hump your trying to get over.

To Peter, I'm hoping that, through this terrible loss, there is some value we cannot yet see.

To Carver, I'm sending you all the support and love that you offer all of your friends.

To Helen, I'm melting those brain mets every day with my positive thoughts.

To Sarah, I'm wishing that euphoria would last forever for you.

And to the friends and family of Kim, I'm sending peace.

-L

In Memory

This will just be a short post.

When someone dies, it's so cliche, but someone always says, They were such a bright light. They never complained. They were so strong. Or, even worse, They will live on forever.

For some reason, this always irritated me. Now, after experiencing the death of family and friends firsthand, I understand. When you know someone is dieing, suddenly it becomes so clear how much of them you've missed over the time you've known them.

I didn't know Kim well.

We emailed each other from time to time, and she always had positive things to say. She gave me good advice whenever I was in the midst of the worst part of my treatment, and she sent me jokes when I didn't think I could possible laugh.

And then I read how upbeat and happy she was after coming home from the hospital, all laughs and smiles days before her death.

I can't explain how hurt I am that cancer wipes out such amazing souls.

But, the truth is: she is out of pain. She was a wonderful soul, a bright light, a woman who was a model of strength who never complained.

And, she'll live on forever.

-L
http://kimfromiowa.blogspot.com/

10 Things I hate about... well, everything

At first glance it might seem like a negative title, but in reality, let's face it, shit happens. I try not to use too much profanity on this site, but I think today calls for it.

I've been busy. Busy, actually, is an understatement, and I know that a lot of that business comes from me just having something else to think about besides cancer for a change. The whole time I was doing chemo I asked myself how much it really sucked and how other people went through the same treatment so much more gracefully. Was I faking it? The answer, now, looking back, was no, I wasn't faking it. I was just on a lot of drugs and under a lot of influences and didn't feel like myself.

Now I wonder why I'm so lucky. I have all these wonderful people around me that have gone through the same thing, and now they're not okay. Now they're dealing with more stuff, and getting more treatment, and having more tumors removed.

And it's just not fair.

And I guess, of course, no one ever said it would be... but I'm having a tough time thinking this is okay, when it's really not. I'm really pretty pissed that this could be happening to my friends- to people who have been positive and wonderful for me, and who deserve so much better.

That's really all I know how to say right now...

I don't even think retail therapy is going to help this one.

-MM