Odds are...

Mom and Dad

I wake up every morning hearing my parents talking to each other. What a beautiful thing to hear. True love that has lasted their lifetime. They've lived all over the world, lasted through incredibly challenging times, had 2 children, and still made it until today with love in their hearts. My dad enlisted during the Vietnam war and was stationed in Korea. He met my mom at the local chapel where she was making cookies and challah for the Jewish GIs. My father fell in love with my mother at first sight. A Korean Jew. He asked her to marry him on their first date, she agreed on their second. They were married after three months. Forty eight years later, here they are. Still in love, still flirting, still happy. It's what we all dream of. It's so rare, so incredibly awe worthy. And I'm truly happy for them. I look at them with pride that I'm lucky enough to have them as parents. What are the odds that I would end up with a family as incredible? With a brother that makes me laugh when I want to cry? With parents who will never give up. I wish they didn't have to see this, to experience this insane disease. I'll fight as hard as I can. I'll do everything in my power to defeat this. Because I never want to break their hearts. They are everything to me.

My brother Avi and me

I always bring treats to chemo to share. Since it was my birthday, I decided on birthday cake. Then it really hit me that I would be continuing celebrating at chemotherapy. Not a concert, not a festival, not drinking  tequila with my friends, but in an infusion center getting my biweekly life saving poison. And with a new cocktail. One that would change my physical appearance indefinitely. My doctor at MD Anderson looked at me and said, "You'll be balder than me. " That is very bald. It took a few days to digest. I finally understood what that meant. I will no longer be able to hide my condition. I know people  will look at me. That way that people get looked at when they are pitied, which is a look that I despise.  I'm not afraid of being bald. Being a hairdresser, I’ve shaved my own head before and been every length and color possible. I'm mad that it isn't my choice and unsettled about the looks I'll get. There will no longer be any moments of normalcy. I will be able to feel my bald head and see myself in a mirror and won't ever be able to forget for even a moment that I have cancer. So when it hit me, I couldn't control the emotion. I was standing there one minute and the next I couldn't hold back the tears. It was in that moment that weakness overcame me and I just gave in. In the middle of the Publix baked goods section, ordering a birthday cake.

A couple days later I started wondering when and how my hair loss would occur.  I sat at a table with my mother at breakfast chatting about it all. As I talked, my mother rushed at me with tissues before my nosebleed fell into my cereal. Nothing new here.  It's been happening for months now. This is just one of many side effects I've endured.  At that moment , I was reminded of what I’ve been experiencing and realized I would be ok.  But I needed to be armed with what to expect, then I would be prepared and my mind would relax. Because if I'm destined for it, why waste any more time feeling sorry for myself?  Let go and find a way to handle it.  So I pulled myself up by the boot straps and went searching for answers. What I found was really interesting.  I found every possible scenario. I read everything from, "I lost my hair after the first infusion" to "I never lost any hair at all."  There were stories upon stories about patches of hair loss, thinning, baldness, and no hair loss at all with this new chemo.  I'm one infusion in and haven't had half the side effects so far.  So I'll count my blessings at this point.  However, I lost half my hair with my previous chemo cocktail after a few months.  So who knows?  I'm hoping for the best and stocking up on hats in the meantime.

This new chemo cocktail was tough. It’s called folfiri. I was broken from it and didn't know if I could come back. I felt like nothing would be the same after this one. And I am to be on this chemo indefinitely. Can I do it? Would this be the thing that would finish me? It felt like it. I couldn't read, I couldn't concentrate on anything. Writing has always been a way to process and handle things. Now I was having trouble. It's like my brain went on hiatus. This was supposed to be easier. I hadn't felt this sick in months. The exhaustion and nausea was overwhelming. All I knew how to do was sleep. The constant nausea sparks an intense emotional response. I only tear up and cry when it hits really hard. It serves to remind me of unending vomit, ambulances, and hospital stays. The day after my first infusion with the new drug, my body swelled to discomfort.  My face, my eyes, my torso, my feet. But my hands were the worst. I wear two of my grandmother's rings. We were very close. They give me strength. But now, with the swelling, they felt like my fingers were going to pop off. It took about three days for the swelling to go down, but then the skin on my hands started cracking and peeling.  A week later it still hasn't stopped, but at least the nausea and fatigue have become manageable.

I went in to see Dr. El Reyes. I've been seeing him since the beginning. He's the head of colorectal oncology at Emory. He told me ages ago to see him primarily when the protocol changed. And it has finally changed.  With the new chemo comes the possibility of a clinical trial. In my constant search for information, I found this one that seemed would fit my situation. They've just opened up the trial to colorectal cancer. It's had a very successful run with pancreatic cancer.  A woman was just cured from late stage pancreatic cancer with this drug. Amazing. It was completely eradicated from her body. The thought of being cured, of having this thing that has completely taken over my life, gone, is overwhelming. I can only imagine how she must feel. No more nausea, no more pain, no more fatigue, no more wondering. No more infusions, no more going in for fluids because of dehydration from chemo. No more chemo brain, no more tears. I feel only happiness for her. And hope for me. But there's a catch. Isn't there always? In order for me to qualify for this trial, I have to fail at this chemo. That means my body has to take this new chemo four times and I have to still see growth. If I respond well, if it causes my cancer to recede, then I'll be on this indefinitely. If I don't, then I get put on this experimental drug that may or may not work on me. So what do I hope for here? How do I process this information? The answer is, I don't. I just wait and try not to think about it. I want so badly to get into this trial, but at what cost? My cancer is aggressive. It may grow. But that is so scary. Dr. El Reyes seems to think I'll respond well to this chemo. But that thought is difficult too. These drugs are debilitating. So it's best to not hope for anything at this point. I'm one chemo in. Three to go until I find out. I must carry on, put on my armor, and trudge forward.

 It seems that I'm always thinking about the odds. The statistics. The survival rates. The age of diagnosis. The drug combinations, the side effects. How long will it last? Will this be the thing that kills me? I'm not the kind of person to just trust that someone else knows what's best for me, so I try to consume as much information as I can. That means Google. A lot. One of the most difficult things I've had to digest is that the statistics for my diagnosis are just plain bad.  From what I’ve read, I'll be lucky to make it five years. It's gone round and round in my head. At first I was shocked. Then scared. Then mad. Then defiant. Now I'm at peace. Not that I accept it, I'm fighting beyond the statistics. But there's a peace that I've found past the stress. Past the fear, sorrow, nausea, and pain. It resides in my happiness, in my laughter, and my faith that I can beat the odds. What I've learned is that all this information isn't exclusive. I'm not tethered to it. Every case is different.  All this information is what could happen. Not what will happen. It's an important distinction. This information is in the past, not the future. So if I'm  going to play the odds, I've got to look at my life and my family. Our lives have already beaten the odds. Because if my dad could enlist during Vietnam, get sent to Korea instead, meet the only Jewish Korean girl out there, get married almost instantly, have it last for 48 years full of love, and overcome all the odds out there, then I have to believe that I am destined to beat the odds myself. And believing is everything.

The Big Lebowski chemo

“Always listen to the experts. They’ll tell you what can’t be done, and why. Then do it.” ~Robert A. Heinlen, Time Enough For Love

Enough

I've never been the type to think that life would just be handed to me. That things should just be easy. I've worked hard for the things I've wanted. And to be truthful, there are things that have been easier for me than some. Harder than others. I've had my heart broken into a million pieces. More than once. I've had to build it back into a whole. Bleeding torrents. Every single time. I've had disappointments. Things that didn't go my way. I've lost my home, my job, my savings, but I kept trying. And little by little I've clawed my way back. But nothing compares to this. The complete and utter loss of everything that I define as myself. My independence. My freedom. My ability to be the person I know I've been. To offer to others my caring and love. To have the energy to stand alone. To work hard. To know that it'll all work out in the end no matter how difficult it was at the time. Somehow it would all be ok before all of this. I wonder if I'll ever be able to find my way back to that place. I'm slowly losing my mind. Bit by bit. My memories are disappearing and I have no recollection of them.  Not even a fading partial thought of these things I was present for but couldn't even begin to tell you about them. Just another side effect of chemo. As I have lost my ability of short term memory, I feel I should try to record it. But with more of me. My art, my vision, my perspective. These things give me occasional freedom from my experience. I know that I am forever different and strangely I am perceived that way. Putting myself out there and being so transparent has put me in a glass box.  One which I've never experienced before. People say beautiful things to me. I get hugs all of the time. I'm not a touchy person, but I like it. I'm closer to more people than I've ever been. And bizarrely distant simultaneously. 

What am I supposed to say now? Eight months later while still hoping for and believing there will be a cure for me. My body tingles when I'm in bed waiting for sleep. At times I'm shaking so much inside that I'm sure whatever comes out of my mouth will be a stutter. But it isn't. My feet and fingers are mostly numb. Or they hurt.  I wonder what the permanent side effects will be from so much intensive chemotherapy. I tremble from chemicals and curiosity constantly. I often wonder if anyone can see it, but it's invisible to everyone else. I alone can feel it and sense it. But I put on the brave face for every reason I can't even begin to name. Because it's the best thing I know how to do. The pain in my abdomen is getting more present. It's nothing compared to when I was diagnosed, but it concerns me. I'm doing my best to be positive. But sometimes I just exist in a state if neutrality. I can't get too excited in either direction. I have to exist in calm.  Because what good would it do to be falsely one way or the other? So I choose to appreciate.  I love my family and friends. I look at the sky constantly in a state of awe. It is unending and gorgeous and appears to smile at me. I marvel at the wonder that is life as we know it.  I look at people and bask in the feeling that we are capable of so much. I believe that somehow, someday we will find a way. So I refuse to stop believing in us. It scares me and pains me to see such discordance within our race, but for some reason I believe we will rise above. I know how much bravery we are capable of. And how much love and fear. And hope.

Life has a way, doesn't it? Of really hitting you hard to make you feel it, then backing off for a bit. The older I get, the more solicitous I am. I don't know how I went through life when I was younger without feeling so much. I just did things that were interesting and if it didn't work out, then I tried something else. There wasn't much emotion about it. But now I feel so much more. Everything has meaning or purpose or a lesson.  At times the activity of ingesting my life experiences is overwhelming. I reel from it all. I understand a lot of aspects of things before or as they happen. My learning curve is vast.  I guess it has accelerated with each life lesson or experience. I've been writing very raw because I want you to understand what it's really like.  I wanted to hide.  But I wouldn't.  And now I'm so tired that I can't. My life is difficult now. When it seemed so sweet before. But I share with you so you understand that it can change in a minute. None of us are guaranteed a long, easy life. But we are given choices. Choices to appreciate what we have. Choices to live in the moment. Choices to be open to love and experience. We don't know if we'll be gone tomorrow or be able to win the fight of our lives. But our choices define us. This is what we are. This is what makes us beautiful, individual, strong, and vulnerable. This is what makes us human.

So I choose to fight. I choose to persist. One of my most important choices is to go to MD Anderson. It's in my artillery. And it's immensely arduous. I think the hardest thing for me when I go to there is seeing the children. Bald, walking with face masks, tubes coming out of their noses. Warm tears flowed silently down my face when I saw them that day. But they laugh. They actually giggle. I can't imagine how they deal with what cancer patients go through. It's one thing to be an adult and go through it. We understand what's happening. We are warned of the side effects. We understand that if we don't endure the treatment, that we die. But a child just suffers. They haven't got the capacity to realize everything that needs to happen or the why. Maybe that's a blessing. So they persevere. They smile, they find the true, pure, happy moments. They are capable of dismissing the difficulties that go with every day cancer life when they have good days. And as much as I feel sorrow for them, they inspire me. They remind me to be happy. To not be bogged down with the weight of this illness. It is every emotion to really embrace the actuality of childhood cancer. Or any cancer to be honest. As I walk these hallways, I experience an overload of emotional  stimulus. But within these walls there are answers, cures, and hope. I watched a woman in a wheelchair wearing a neon pink wig. Her fight is just as hopeful. There is inspiration everywhere I look. If I choose to let it in. And I do. I drink it like a woman completely dehydrated. It makes me think about being strong and being light. I think of the things that I need to move forward to also be content. And what would be enough for me to just be. So it's inspiration. And love. Strength and observation. Patience. Happiness and being effective. And the giggles.  

  

Wednesday was difficult.  The second day at MD Anderson is always so hard. It's emotionally draining, mentally challenging, and physically tiring. It was the day that I got my answers from Dr. Fogelman about the tests that were done the day before. I was bracing myself as I always do, but today was different. It was the day I found out about what the cancer in my body was doing after a two month break from my harshest and most effective chemo drug. They found a few new lesions on my liver. Each about a half a centimeter in size. The cancer roller coaster is a very real thing and I was really riding it this day. I felt like the entire room got ten times smaller and my head got very light. I was having trouble concentrating for a moment. I pulled myself out of the vortex of disappointment and started to ask questions. Apparently it wasn't horrible, but it's definitely time to change my chemo drugs. We'll be changing to a regimen called folfiri. Another combination of drugs to fight this thing that has decided to make its home in my body without my consent. I knew this day would come, that the chemo would stop working, but there's nothing that prepares you for it. It just sucks. This new combination will make me lose my hair. He told me that I will be bald for a long time. This drug combination would be a good one to be on for a while. There were no specifics. Fighting cancer is not ever a clear cut plan. Especially with a stage 4 diagnosis. We just throw everything at it and hope for the best. So that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to hope.

The last appointment I had that day was with my pain management doctor. He explained a lot about the pain drugs I could take, couldn't take, and why. It was a very interesting conversation. I began to tell him about the pain in my mouth. This is another side effect from chemotherapy. It occurs in a lot of patients. My doctor was no stranger to it. After a long consultation, he finally told me about a remedy he had only used on 40 people and that it worked on all of them to some degree. He also informed me that it was really a dye used in the body for other things, but he discovered that it also worked to address mouth pain. He warned me was that it was a very strong dye. It would ruin clothes and stain anything it touches. I was to hold it in my mouth moving it around for 5 minutes. Let me tell you that after the stress of the day, this was the most ridiculous ending for it. Looking into a mirror afterwards was shocking! Of course I didn't look until I had gotten into the car. I spent at least 30 minutes walking around the hospital smiling at people and talking to the pharmacist before I saw what I looked like. My mouth was insanely blue! And at that moment, the seriousness of the trip left me. I began to laugh at myself and joke around with my dad as we drove to the airport. Then I continued to walk around the airport and smile at people. All the way home.

Living a life with this much seriousness makes me wonder about the future. What is my legacy? I guess the thing I'd like to leave behind is that there is always hope. Always laughter. Even in the bad times. This is a beautiful  life.  Regardless of the trials. I have so much love.  I feel so much.  We seem to concentrate on the hard stuff and forget about the good.  There is so much good.  So pay it forward. Laugh out loud.  Forgive and ask forgiveness. And be content. Allow people in. Have conversations with strangers.  Drink in this incredible life and really see what's out there.  Do something you've never done.  Just because. Be inspired and trust yourself  And be proud of who you are, because that way you can show the way. Show compassion, humility, and be stubborn, stand your ground, because no one will do it for you. But be humble. We are all human. We are all flawed.  But we all have the ability to be amazing. I am just one woman.  And I'm only here for a short while.  No one is here forever. I can't help but think about how much bigger this world is than just me.  I'm but a tiny fleck in this expanse of a universe. There's more than I can possibly comprehend, but what I do understand is that we can be so beautiful. We can make a difference, even if only a little one.  And maybe I can make a difference in just one life. And that would be enough.

“Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you

 Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you

 But in your dreams whatever they be

 Dream a little dream of me”

~Gus Kahn – Dream a Little Dream of Me

Balance

It seems to me that life has a way of showing you balance. Balance by opposing circumstances. Strangely enough these divergent happenings or existences are the very things that make us understand greater and feel more. They present themselves sometimes subtly, sometimes with raging acquiescence, sometimes with calm surrender. I find that you can give in or fight it, but either way, you must address it. So I've learned the way to understand the circumstances at hand.  I try to understand it. To know why, completely, and I must weigh in upon these things presented to me before I make choices. Then decide on my acceptance or denial. 

I had an appointment with my oncologist's PA. In our short time together she explained to me that I should understand that I will have chemo every 2 weeks for the rest of my life. I could possibly go to chemo pills eventually. Take a break on occasion. But this is it. She told me I've got to find a away to live my life like this. I'm now at a point that they are gong to go to a maintenance program. And when she stopped speaking, as sweet as she was trying to sound, I wanted to scream at her with my entire being. It's not enough. I won't settle for that. I'll fight harder, do more research, find the new drugs, sign up for clinical trials. I'm not giving up, I'm not going to say ok if you say so. I'm going to keep searching because I refuse to believe that this is all you can do to help me. I will build my body back up. I will fight as hard as I can to defy the statistics and whatever odds are against me. Just because this news is condemning me to this way of life doesn't mean I'm settling for it. I've got a lot more life left in me and I'll be damned if I stop fighting now. Screw this news. I won't believe it. I refuse your pity, I refuse your condemnation, I refuse to settle, and I refuse to believe that my life is this ridiculous, insipid imprisonment of being. When I left that appointment, I had tears of frustration and anger flowing from my eyes. But more importantly, I felt the word, "no" throughout all of me. She had awoken an anger I hadn't seen in myself before and curiously, it was just what I needed to get through this part of my cancer journey.

I later spoke to my oncologist's nurse who I explained that I hadn't heard this from her or my doctor. I asked if this was their opinion and if so why hadn't I been told this already. She's explained that this was not their opinion and yes, eventually we would have to move to a maintenance plan, but it was not the end game to be in the infusion center every 2 weeks. That I was making very good progress. I said that I didn't feel she knew enough about my case to treat me and refused to be treated by her again. To which she agreed to implement for me. 

Though I'm finally feeling the exhaustion.  My sense of humor is dwindling. My optimism is endangered. I just want a break. I thought about writing only about the good thoughts. The moments of joy, of enlightenment, of happiness, but that wouldn't be honest.  The truth of it is that it's beginning to wear on me and I don't know how to process it. I can't use exercise to remove my stress, I can't have a drink because it makes me feel bad since my liver is infested with cancer. I lose energy like water through a sieve and the frustration confines me. So what now? I keep going. There is no other choice. There's no way to give in. Some days are just better than others. This too shall pass. So I cling to the days that are coming. The ones that show me the good stuff, the other side. The ones that show me that the tough side of things will not break me. I may have to endure them, but they will never define me.  Because tomorrow is another day.  Another chance to feel good and to try again. And should I fail the next day, or the one after that, there will be a good day coming. I am certain of that. I keep hearing how strong I am from others. I don't feel physically strong at all.  I am merely surviving. I keep trying to understand why it's strong to survive when all I feel is weak. There are moments that all I feel is broken. Like damaged goods. That sometimes the only way to get through is dream. I dream that none of this is real. That I'll somehow wake up and it would all have been just a moment in the back of my mind. But every time I wake up, this is still my life.

Absolutely Fabulous chemo ~ Patsy and Eddie

So here's the deal. I have every right to be sad, mad, scared, etc. And at times I do feel that way. But it won't defeat me.  I'm not going to let it.  I'm going to be the the one to beat the odds. No matter how scary they sound.  My diagnosis, metastatic or stage IV colon cancer has an 11% survival rate for 5 years.  This is based on people who have had it for at least 5 years based on their diagnosis at the time. But over 5 years ago, they didn't have the treatments they have now. From 5 years ago until today, they've discovered new and incredible treatment options. And I'll be damned if someone puts me into a category and tells me this is going to happen. I say no.  I said it before and I'll continue to say it. I will beat the odds. I won't let them pull me into a quagmire of negativity. I won't let it defeat me. I have a lot of fight left in me. Cancer doesn't know who it's messing with because I'll never give up.  And if there comes a time that I am sick beyond repair, I will still be fighting. But that is going to be a long time from now. There's still a lot of me left to live. And love. So don't give up on me yet.  I still love to hear from you. I live for your outpouring of support. If you find yourself looking at me and others enduring  cancer with pity, please stop. That doesn't help anyone.  I love bigger than I ever thought I could. It's bigger than my body, my mind, or my emotion. It is me and all of you. And I feel it.  It is so beautiful. With all of that around me, there no way I can lose. And for those who are close to me I challenge you. Come with me. Come to the infusion center. Come in costume. Talk to the amazing people who fight with me. Give them something as a token of your encouragement. And see the light you can create. And those who are too far to come with me, go somewhere close to you. Yes, you're going to feel ridiculous at first. But the love and laughter you feel will be soul piercing. Help defy the odds. There is a way to coexist with emotion, statistics, facts, and cancer. I don't have to put myself or let anyone else put me in a category. That would mean that it's all already decided for me.  That would be a tragedy. That would mean I've already given up. I will never give up. 

This has always been me. The strong emotion. The faith I have in people. The love for having fun. The beauty I see in the world. The strength I rely upon. My core hasn't changed. But how I express myself has. I'm still the same person, but quieter, louder, softer and harder. I appreciate more and I love bigger, cry harder, feel more deeply. And I am perceived so much stranger than I ever have been. It's bizarre to see how people look at me now. It's with a softness. It's beautiful. I can look at someone and feel love and support. I can see that they are all these same things in different incarnations.  We as people are beautiful and caring. Strong and filled with love and life. And so ready to share it with those that will have it.  I am incredibly fortunate to have those in my life that are so incredible. I'm alive with wonder and humility that I have the honor of gazing upon this in people who unselfishly share this part of themselves with me. There's a deep unspoken connection with these people. You all know who you are. Those of you reading. Those of you who take the time to say hello, to give a hug, to wish me well. You fill my heart every day. I feel the incredible energy you put out there for me. You heal me. You have my unending gratitude and love. 

Part of my way of coping is to try to do things I would do if I wasn't ill, if my energy level allows it. To occasionally live my life as I had known it to be. So I had a night out. I danced. I felt normal. For the first time in months. I can't explain how incredible it felt to just let go of cancer for a few hours. To spend time with friends. To listen to music. To feel really good. To feel truly happy.  To smile without thought. To embrace real life. These moments make me embrace the true knowledge of what I'm really fighting for. They remind me of my carefree existence before the trials. They show me how much love is really out there. And I am so grateful. There is so much magic in this world. So much to be thankful for. The bad days are awful, but the good days. How amazing. They fill me up with all that I need to get through. Even when it's so difficult that I don't know if this is really going to break me in a way that I can't recover from. If the recovery is impossible, there's a way to integrate it all and turn this intro something better. I can transform that energy into something more than it's parent form. The sum of its parts can be intrinsically energizing. It can drive me forward and give me what I need. For even when it feels like death's door isn't so far away, I rejoice in the fact that it's not opening for me. And I demand it's locks stay in place. For I have the power to steer my destiny. And I will continue, on and on. 

"The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision." ~ Helen Keller

Resolve

I'm tired. Tired of this existence. Tired of being sick. Tired of being a prisoner inside this illness. Tired of not owning anything in my life. Tired of not being trusted to know what's good for me. Tired of being alone in a sea of people. Tired of the frustration. Tired of not knowing. Tired of my chemotherapy induced short term memory loss. Tired of this marathon of a sickness. I'm tired. And I'm terrified that this will never end. 

One of the things that defines us as individuals is the ability to make decisions for ourselves. Our autonomy.  I no longer have that. I try to grab bits and pieces of it, and occasionally touch it, but it slips through my fingers like water. I love my family. I don't know what I'd do without them. They've been there for me through everything. But it's a weight on all of our shoulders as I try to navigate my way through this. I know my parents' love is incredibly immense. I know if the rules were reversed, I would do everything I could to help them, but they're not. And this is something they should never have to see. There's nothing I can do to shield them from this stress. This constant worry and concern about how I'm doing. How do I do this? How can I possibly remove this trauma from our lives? How do I stop the psychological torment that follows us around like a whimpering puppy? 

I wish I could say that through this I've been graceful and perfectly poised, but I'm not sure how that could be possible for anyone with cancer or going through intensive chemotherapy. I'm not even close to being the person I want to be. It gets to me too. I get grumpy and sad. I get exasperated and worn out. Though I try to keep myself together, this thing has made me lose my composure more than once. My family's constant worry about how I am crushes me at times. They shouldn't have to worry about anything but their next trip, or Mom's garden, or Dad's impending photo book. But here I am. The elephant in the room. Difficult to maneuver, even more difficult to coexist with. I become the thing to fuss about, to be concerned with, to become obsessed with. So I do my best to spread myself thin. I spend time with friends, I travel. I retreat whenever I can. When I have good days. 

It's hard to be the girl with cancer. There's a responsibility to fill in anyone who I talk to about my health status, to reassure them that I'm doing ok. But what is ok anymore? I'm surviving. What I wouldn't give to not make it the forefront of everything. It feels like cancer is my full time job. I'm not even sure how to talk about anything other than what I'm going through anymore. To not worry about this ridiculous situation I find myself in. To be silly again without a purpose behind it. Just for the sake of being fun. I wish I could turn off my brain. The constant voice inside my head that goes a million miles per hour in every possible direction. I would give anything for the simplicity of thought that good health allows. I've been trying to make plans for the day that I get the word to return to life as I knew it. But life as I knew it doesn't exist anymore. It would be impossible to go back there. The only way to move forward is to find a new life. And how do I do that? How do I find a way to survive after this? I loved my life before this all started. I'll be starting from scratch. With nothing but my ideas and hope. But that is the seed we all started with long ago. I had gotten so comfortable in my world that I forgot that's all that any of us have in the beginning. It's what we come from. It's the base of our strength. The foundation of who we become. And as difficult as it is to go back there, it will be my salvation. My inspiration, and my light. 

I often talk to other patients when I go in for my treatment. Dressing in costume with Jennifer has been a spark of humor for everyone in there. The patients, the nurses, the doctors and the receptionists. Somehow this ridiculous behavior has become normal for people in my infusion center to see. The other patients take pictures of us and remember to laugh. Maybe we make this a little easier for them, even for a moment. I'd like to think that it creates a unity within our suffering, that our combined energies embolden each other. Every day is a struggle for cancer patients. Every day we fight to regain normalcy. In our lives, in our family's lives, and our friend's lives. It's a constant thought. Our conversation, our acknowledgement of each other, and our smiles speak of a profound understanding of what we go through together. It's like a secret handshake when our eyes meet. That we know just by being together. That we can converse without any apology or sorrow and encourage our recovery with a simple look.

I've seen beauty within this pain. There are times in the infusion center that inspire me to look and be warmed from head to toe. There is an older couple. She's lost her hair and she suffers through her treatment. She sleeps a lot. Her husband is always by her side. I watched him feed her her lunch at my last chemo session.  An example of an undying devotion and a timeless love. As difficult as it is, they love each other with respect and open eyed faith in each other. I've seen parents stand by their child's side, wide eyed with concern and a subtle, almost hidden current of worry while watching the difficult process they wish they could take away. I've watched patients stand their ground with pride and strength during this process, even if all alone. I've watched pain and suffering fill a room, but the love of life rise above it. I've seen the kind of bravery that would break you at first glance, but inspire you if you gaze long enough. It's almost more than I can take at times, but makes me embrace my pride of being human and what we are capable of. 

Then all of a sudden I realized that it's ok. 

Ok to cry and be upset.  

Ok to question everything. 

Ok to be joyful. 

Ok to dream of a cure. 

Ok to think that this might not be a happy ending. 

I'm going to feel and think and do all of it. I now know that I can without it crippling me. I've been confined by my thoughts. Restricted by worry of how I should be. I feel a bit more free allowing myself to think openly. Though it's not the ending that I'm concerned with. It's the now. The ending isn't going to be easy. No matter when. It's the beginning and the middle that makes it all worth it. The part that makes your eyes prickle with tears. That makes your heart swell. That makes your blood rush and the giggles rise. The part that makes your palms sweat in anticipation. It's about the shivers up your spine right before the goose bumps. And the warmth of happiness spread throughout your body. And don't forget the butterflies in your stomach. I love the butterflies. That's what it's all about. 

"Do a loony-goony dance 'cross the kitchen floor,

Put something silly in the world that ain't been there before."

~Shel Silverstein

A New Year

I'm at a strange place in my life. I have moments of true clarity. Of all the possibilities. It's beautiful and horrifying at the same time. I feel like I'm just around the corner from having my life back, then I have an episode and I have to rest. I'm feeling pain in my abdomen again. I don't know whether to be worried or just chalk it up to my condition. It's all part of the process I guess. A harsh reminder of what my true situation is. I dream of the day when I don't have to be careful or worry about how much time I have before I need to take a break. When I can play like I used to. When I can exercise for more than 10 minutes before I get winded. When I can have a cocktail with a friend and laugh about some ridiculous thing that happened to me or them. Because it always happens! And when I can look in the mirror and see a fit body instead of the skinny girl looking back at me. Though I can't help but think that I should get everything in order. I know what to do to get my life back together after it all fell apart, but if it stays apart, I know that there are things I must do to make sure that all is as easy as it can be. It's difficult to talk about, and I have the kind of fighting spirit that will last as long as I will. But sometimes I think about the what if. 

There was a woman in my life years ago. She made a lasting impression on me. We spoke about life and her fight. We would talk about her disease. She had lung cancer. She would come to me and we would talk and she found comfort in getting her hair done. She had the most beautiful spirit. There were many times that she was sick and asked if I would fit her in to cut her hair or sometimes just style it for her. She would come to me after her stays in the hospital. She told me that she would give anything to not have to deal with what she was going through. I was with her for a long time on her journey. Sometimes I would just sit with her and talk. I would purposely set aside extra time for her just for that. One day she asked if I would come to the house to give her a haircut. When I arrived she was in bed. She was surrounded by her family.  Her eyes fluttered open, she gazed in my direction, and she smiled. I'll never forget what she said to me. "Isn't this a sad state of affairs?" The next hour we talked as I cut and styled her hair. She smiled at me when I was done. She hugged me tight and kissed my cheek. Then turned and walked away. We both knew it would be the last time we saw each other. She died 2 days later. Her funeral was one of the most difficult things I've ever done. I think of Stephanie often these days. She never really left my thoughts over the last 10 years she's been gone. She was a fighter. And she was beautiful. I can remember her as clearly as if I had just seen her yesterday. Now I know more about her fight than I ever wanted to know. And I feel her spirit when I am weak. 

It's difficult at times to remember to be optimistic. The constant scans, the regular infestation of life saving drugs, the persistent feeling of illness. Sometimes I have to fight to remember what it was like to be the woman I was before this. I was happy with my life. Thankful for everything. Life wasn't perfect, but it was still incredible. I loved it.  Now all I wish for is to be back there. I have dreams of what my life was. I dream of what it will be again. If I only stay strong enough to get through this. But I falter. I'm going on seven months of this and I am weak. I miss the life I built for myself. This break from the harshest drug in my regimen only stands to remind me of what is out of reach right now. I am feeling better, only to get strong enough to take another set of rounds of new medication with more difficult side effects. I have another six weeks to enjoy this break. I feel like doing something ridiculous. Something that will make me feel like my life is normal. It's funny how I find that doing something unconventional will make me happy. But that is how I enjoy my life. Challenge myself to find the next set of gut busting laughter. It fuels me through everything. It combats the bad with an equal but opposite extreme of emotion. It somehow gets me through. 

Going to the beach to celebrate with friends for the week of New Year's Eve was a great decision. I didn't realize until then how difficult this whole thing has been on me emotionally. How bad I had felt. It's funny what you can get used to. As I looked towards the ocean, I felt the salt air surround me and start to work it's magic. I breathed in slowly and felt my soul relax. The gentle sound of waves lapping against the sand seemed to instantly calm my being. My eyes drank in the blue sky and bluer water, and a slow smile spread across my face. I felt like I'd come home. This was my first time in Melbourne Beach, but there was a pull there. I feel it every time I go anywhere near the water. The atmosphere was intoxicating. Being with some of my dearest friends to celebrate the new year was cleansing. It was a much needed break from my constant chemotherapy. We went out every day. And every day they made sure I was ok. I slept on the beach. If I wasn't well, we went back to the house so I could rest. When I ran out of energy, the plans changed so I could recharge. Though they made sure I never felt like I was a burden. I'm a lucky woman to have friends like this. I don't even know how to show my immense gratitude. This meant more to me than I can ever convey. And my heart is full. 

Candis, Marti, Lucy, Angel, & me.

There's something about losing yourself in laughter that's magical. We laughed for days. We sat by the fire and talked about normal things and were happy. We went to the beach all day and lit fireworks on New Year's Eve. We watched as they lit up the length of the beach as far as the eye could see by people celebrating life. We reminisced about the good times that were had and good times to come. And we didn't talk about cancer. It was everything I needed. 

Where would we be without our friends? The ones who are there for you, that believe when you don't always have the strength to. The ones who remind you to laugh when all you want to do is cry, the ones that time or distance has no effect on your relationship, the ones who are your chosen family. The ones you share your strength with, that you love so much it permeates your soul. The ones you don't ever want to think could ever leave each others side.  

As I look back on the past year I can't help but feel sorrow and loss. As I look forward I feel hope and triumph. Everything I've experienced has invoked awe. The definition of awe is "a feeling of reverential respect mixed with fear or wonder." This is exactly a true representation of my emotional existence from the day of my diagnosis to present. I have a reverential respect for the mystical actuality that is my life as I know it. There is fear that I won't actually succeed in conquering the hostile illness inside my body. There is an encompassing wonder that I actually survived the last 7 months with what my body and mind has been through. I have experienced something that I wouldn't wish on anyone. It has been torture, but also an enlightening of my spirit. Somehow, through all of the pain, fear, sorrow, and despair, I found beauty. I found my hope. I found my strength. I learned that no matter how dark things seem, there is always something to believe in. And even if the result isn't what you wanted or expected or hoped for, there is purpose. I've learned to slow down. To appreciate the simple moments. I will most likely never find a reason why this happened, but I know that I've found a new way to appreciate life. I found patience. If you wait, sometimes dreams do come true. Even if you didn't know that was what your dream was. If you observe, you'll see the incredible spirit that resides in the love of your family and friends. And sometimes in the smile of a stranger. I've embodied humility and love from the humanity that lives within the people surrounding me and I've grown to find my strength within it. I have found so much gratitude in that. It's a new year, a new time for new ideas and new action. A new era for a year of new life. And I am going to live it. No matter how long my life is beyond this, I am full. Full with hope, full of love, full of life. An eternity's supply.

Rich, Marti, Lucy, Angel, Candis, & me on NYE.


 "Life is mostly froth and bubble, but two things stand like stone: friendship in another's trials and courage in your own." ~ Princess Diana

Cognition

It finally hit me today that it's really working. After 6 long months. All of the pain, the nausea, the struggle, and the heartache is finally paying off. I understand that as a realist, I wouldn't allow myself to think any further than where I was at the moment. I couldn't speculate on the possibility of actually succeeding because if I allowed myself that and it wasn't true, than I would be a failure. I couldn't take that thought. It would completely destroy me. All I could do was keep trudging through my own private hell. And put on the brave face. And laugh. Because laughter has saved me. When I wanted to give up, I just found something to laugh at and someone to laugh with. I shared it with whoever would join me. I found something to believe in. And that was the people that were enduring their own version of hell at the infusion center with me. If I could make them laugh, or even smile for a moment, then my struggle wasn't so bad. I believed in them and they gave me strength. And then I felt like this life of mine had some purpose. That maybe there really was a way to make this pile of manure into a bed of roses.

My last chemo was beautiful. It was fun and happy. Going into chemo is tough. My body knows. Each time I go in my heart rate goes up so high that I have to take blood pressure medication. Every other day my blood pressure is normal to low. I can't psyche my body out, but I can make my attitude positive and I can make it through. I gave small presents to the other patients. There was laughter and lots of smiles.  People kept coming up to me and thanking me for bringing joy to everyone. And my heart swelled. My smile was huge that day. Knowing we could share this experience and know it's horrible but could still enjoy ourselves. I can't help but think that what I'm going through is helping me find something greater. That this agony will somehow show me it has a purpose. I'm 6 months in. I knew it would be 9-12 months of chemo before I could have some semblance of a normal life again. I'm halfway through. And I see a glimmer of light at the end of this dark and treacherous tunnel. I'm so much stronger than I was. So much more hopeful. And so adamant that this is just a phase in my life. It's really strange to lose that amount of time. But I'm curious to learn what I'll find after it. 

I recognize that my approach is a bit nontraditional. But reality is really tough.  Focusing on the pain or the medical, sterile truth all the time is incredibly stressful. So I choose to focus on the fun parts of life. The parts that matter.  Like being silly and dowsing people in joy. Living in positive energy and encouraging happiness. Because there's nothing happy about a stage 4 diagnosis, or constant pain and nausea, or the thought that this fight isn't just about not feeling good, but really about not losing your life. I know more than I ever wanted to know about what it takes to survive. Now that I have that information, I'm going to use it. I'm going to share it and I'm going to live bigger than I ever thought I could and more grand than I ever thought to dream. Because if I can go into chemo wearing a costume and make people laugh and abandon their misery for one moment while battling the hardest fight of their life, I can do anything I set my mind to. Our minds are boundless. We can conjur our success or our failure. And for the first time in this cancer ridden body, I believe wholeheartedly that I will beat this thing. 

I've been so cautious to think it. So careful so that if I got bad news that I would hold it together. I've just gotten so used to the bad news. Now I'm getting news about the next step. Now we're looking at what happens when my lungs are clear. It hit me when I asked my doctor's nurse if it would be ok to take a break from my chemo for New Year's eve. The look on my nurses face was one of certainty that it wouldn't hurt anything to have this time for myself. After enduring 12 rounds of this torture, she said it would be ok. It wouldn't set me back. It wouldn't automatically come back and flare up. She said if my next scan was good, if my lungs were clear and if my tumor markers were at the right place, we would need me off of chemo to prep me for radialablasion. Oh the importance of the ifs. Dr. Franco had already mentioned this procedure, but it's best for me to focus on what's at hand instead what could happen. He had told me that this would "blast it out of the liver". I smiled and thanked her. As I walked out of the infusion center, I felt the tears well up and begin to stream down my face. And for the first time, they were happy tears. Tears of incredulity that I had come this far and realization that this was really happening, that I could possibly have this heinous cancer receded out of my spine, lungs, AND liver. This next scan was so crucial. The next 5 days until then felt like a year away. But I was patient. I'd come this far and wasn't going to lose my faith. So I waited on bated breath until then. 

As I walked into MD Anderson again, I had to fight to control the tears that filled my eyes and threatened to spill over. I took deep breaths and clenched my fists. I walked deliberately and concentrated on each step I took and tried not to think about the fact that I was there to understand and treat a cancer that stopped my life in its tracks like a bad car accident. Somehow flying to Houston made it feel so much bigger and more serious. I focused on the escalator, on the sterile decor, on the signs that were scattered along the walls, anything but the people that were here with me doing the same thing I was. But I couldn't help but glance at them. The familiar looks of intrepidation and uncertainty on people that were new to this, along with the grizzled expressions of determination on those who had been battling this for a while. Then there was me. I was somewhere in the middle. Still cautious and vulnerable, but stoic and assiduous in my purpose. I've gotten used to the medical aspect of this. The scans, the IVs, the drawing of my blood, drink this, don't eat for that, take this, avoid that, "this might hurt a bit", etc, etc, etc. That's the part I can get used to. It's the people I see. Their suffering and fear I understand completely. The sheer numbers of people that are going through this is staggering. And I feel for them. It can be overwhelming to be conscious of my emotion along with theirs. And strangely, as much as it's enormously difficult, it's comforting. The gambit of emotions that I go through on these visits to Houston are unyielding and I have a hard time processing them. Though I'm thankful for having the opportunity to go to MD Anderson. I feel a confusing amount of craziness while I'm there, but an odd sense of peace when I leave. 

I finally got to the examination room and waited. Dr. Fogelman entered and gave me a hug. He was warm and smiled. He has a great sense of humor. He gave me comfort. I haven't felt that before with any other doctor in my abundant history with doctors. It gave  me a sense of family. He showed me my scans and told me of the good news that everything was still shrinking. I asked about the radialablasion. He said it's still too widespread since it was still in my lungs and there are too many spots on my liver to attempt it. I felt my hopes crash to the cold, hard floor. This was why I hadn't let my thoughts get too ahead of myself before. All of my excitement of my last visit in Atlanta was gone in that moment. I picked up the mess of what was once my dream of clear lungs and liver and placed it carefully into the back of my mind for later. There will come a time where it will eventually come in handy.

He went into the good information that I chose to focus on. My CEA results, otherwise known as my tumor markers, is a blood test that shows my progress. My results at my diagnosis in June was up in the middle 400s. That day, it had gone down to 9.5. The actual tumor in my colon had gone from 5.5 cm to 1.6 cm. The multiple spots in my lungs had shrunk about 30% from my previous scan. Though it wasn't the clear lung result I was hoping for, it was incredible progress and still great news. He also told me that it would be bad to take a break at this juncture. It could set me back. I had the resolution of my ifs. I would not get my break. I took that news seriously and steeled myself to continue. 

The skin on my fingertips and toes is peeling off. I have sores in my mouth, my nose, and sinuses. Half of my hair has fallen out. At some point I could lose it all.  I'm getting nosebleeds. Half of my hands, feet, and face are numb and painful. My eyes, teeth, and gums hurt. The headaches are irritating and the fatigue is constant. This is the part that gets really hard. I want so badly to say that I don't have a problem with doing more of this, but I wish I could take a break. This chemo is tearing my body apart and me along with it. I often wonder how much more I can endure. I completely lose my focus on being strong when my body is breaking down. Strangely, all I want is to be held when it gets bad, and I'm slowly realizing that it's going to get worse before it gets better. Yes, I have good days. I've got the "good face forward" thing down pat. A smile is better to share than anything I could possibly be feeling or going through. My bad days are really, really brutal. It's no longer just the sick feeling. It's plain painful. We're stopping oxaliplatin, the drug that's causing these side effects for 4 rounds. Then back to it. It's like a fine ballet. The dance of cancer. Break you down, build you up, break you down again and again. Just when you think it's the worst it's going to be, you get to experience it even more heinous. If I looked the way I feel, I'd  look like Gollum. 

We forget that feeling normal is good. It's not until you feel bad 90% of the time that you realize how good normal is. How wonderfully magical it feels to just be treated like nothing is wrong. To not have to think every second about having cancer. I can't wait until the day that it's not the first/only topic of conversation. That this is just a memory and normal is back in my life. Don't get me wrong, I'm perfectly fine talking about it, I think it's important that I do, because 1 in 2 men and 1 in 3 women will get cancer in a lifetime. Nearly half of the people in the U.S. We need to know how to be. I think it's good to be open so we all know how to better deal with it. You will know someone with cancer. Someone you care about. They're going to need you and maybe my openness about sharing this information can somehow strengthen you for this journey. It's not easy, it rages across the lives of everyone it touches, but there is a bizarre beauty in it. A learning curve about the things you really appreciate in life. A clarity of vision for the things that truly matter. A peculiar balance to this tragedy. I now see the honesty of the broad spectrum of humanity and what good we're capable of. This is my anchor. These are my wings.

There's a moment as I'm waking, when I'm not asleep and I'm not awake. A moment of simple existence that has no complex thought. It's where nothing is real, but it feels more authentic than anything when I'm awake.This is the most beautiful moment in my life now. It's then that I am in a situation where everything is wonderfully in place. This is when my dreams feel like they're real. I am free of worry, Free of pain and nausea, and I am independent. There's no knowledge of chemotherapy and it's ill effects. There is no illness. I'm living in my home on my own and my life is mine. It's as if I'm waking to a normal day. It's only a split second before I'm fully cognizant of what my life really is and my heart gets heavy again. But in that moment I have enough to get me through another day. Because one day I'll have that again. And one day that moment will last longer than the fleeting twilight of my rising morning.

"You gain strength, courage,and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing which you think you cannot do."  ~Eleanor Roosevelt

Hope

"Hope." It was written on the window of the bathroom from the steam of the shower when I first came home months ago. It has faded, but I attend to it and rewrite it when it almost disappears. It's a physical reminder to lean on that word. It has so much power. But like real hope, it can fade when it's not given reinforcement. Everything we need, we have to nourish. Even when it's hard. Even when we feel like giving up. Sometimes it feels like I'm suffocating under all of the strength that I feel I'm lacking. Sometimes I can break through it, knowing I'll be ok. But we don't really know. Cancer is an unpredictable adversary. Maybe the drugs will work. Maybe my body won't react properly. Maybe I'll get torn apart before I can be healed. Maybe is the hardest word to swallow. Most likely I'll fight this indefinitely. And I'm so tired. It's only been 6 months, but these 6 months have felt like an eternity. Yet still I hope. I persevere. And I keep going. 

Then she saved me. She took me out of my persistently difficult existence and showed me a new kind of hope. I was kidnapped by my beautiful friend Jennifer to the happiest place on earth to celebrate her birthday. We were to explore all of the Disneyworld parks for 4 days. She treated me to a reprieve from my chemotherapy, my biweekly poisonous saviour. Disney even gave me a disability pass so we didn't have to  wait in line. It was truly amazingly happy. Everyone there had a smile on their face. Laughter echoed all around us. It was an energy that couldn't be denied and we fit right in. It was so much different than I remember as a kid, but still so much the same. We laughed continuously and for the time we were there, all of the bad didn't matter so much. It was all about happiness. Even when I was tired and needed to rest before we went on, stopping for a moment and taking it all in was irrevocably magical. It was a simple and wondrous time. I never had a moment that was less than amazing. And I am truly thankful to have her in my life. Not just because of Disney, and not just because she has joined me in all my costumes for chemo, though I love her for these things, but mainly because she hasn't stopped making me laugh since my diagnosis. Even in my most difficult moments, our laughter pushes through my misery. 

Then, in the middle of all this elation, my world collapsed. Before I left Atlanta, my dog Jude had been acting strangely. My parents told me they would take her to the vet. I left thinking she would get some medication and she'd be fine. I had been calling every day to check on Jude. Each time I called, I was assured that she'd be ok. She was just going for another doctor's visit for more testing. Then finally my father reluctantly told me they had discovered a mass in her spleen and she needed surgery to remove it. She had a 50/50 chance of making it through the surgery and they had already begun to operate. She's 11 years old and her age was against her. As I broke down in front of Hollywood Studios, I couldn't help but finally ask why. Why does life hand out so much of the unfair all at once? How could I ever face myself that she's going through so much and I'm not even there to be with her? I had the strength to fight for myself, but to think of  her suffering like this, broke me. I could no longer put on the brave face. I just couldn't imagine my life at this point without her. The ruthlessness of this situation was relentless. I went numb to everything but this sorrow and painful comprehension of this moment. Jennifer was doing what she could to console me, but nothing could. She finally got me back to the condo and calmed me down. I waited by the phone to hear about the surgery. Several hours later I finally got my answers. She was going to be alright. She made it through and was resting comfortably. I felt myself breathe again.  

My loving parents went ahead with the surgery knowing the odds were against her. They told me not to come home, though I tried, and said we couldn't see her until I came back anyway. They downplayed the situation so I would stay where I was. They wanted me to enjoy myself. I learned later that they had to decide to put her down or do the surgery at that moment. Even if she made it through the surgery, the mass might be cancerous. If it was, she had no more than six months to live. Cancer for both of us at the same time? There was nothing right about this. I didn't know the severity of it until I came home. Had I realized it, I couldn't have stayed. We picked her up the day I got home and I slept on the floor next to her for the first few days. It took over a week to find out the mass was benign. She fought her way through and my sweet girl was going to be ok.

She made me stronger through her fight. It was as if she looked me in the eye and gave me courage. If she could defy death, then so could I. If she could be strong, then I could. But it's exhausting being strong all the time. Sometimes all I want is to be held. The pain, the sick feeling, the experience of knowing that your body is breaking down. Then a reprieve just long enough to feel like you can get through it. Your body starts to rebuild itself, then another onslaught that breaks you down. Chemo is like drowning, then coming back to life, then drowning again. With no mercy. It's torture. Human touch helps me feel like I don't have to be strong for just a moment. To be held by a strong set of arms, I would feel safe enough to just let go for a while. A hug from a kind soul gives me strength. An arm around my shoulder gives me encouragement. Laughter distracts me enough to make it through. But then there are the times that I have to face everything and nothing helps. I am trapped inside the prism of this disease. It's a dark place my body goes to. It's difficult. And I suffer. The neuropathy is getting worse. Cold is painful in my feet, legs, hands, lips and mouth. Those areas are also partially numb. I'm scheduled to stop the drug oxaliplatin that creates this side effect or it could become permanent. Recently I was told that there's too much protein in my body. If it continues to escalate, we may need to stop another one of my chemo drugs that's causing it or it'll damage my kidneys. This is disconcerting because I don't know what they're going to replace these drugs with and I wonder if it will work. But I hold onto the moments that make me a fighter. I am tenacious. I do whatever I can to believe that this existence is only temporary, for nothing in this world is forever. 

How beautifully fragile are we. And so indubitably strong. We live our lives as full as we can and when confronted with mortality, we live even fuller. We know how incredible this fleeting life is in theory. Then the time comes when we are faced with the certainty of the inevitable. And we find a way to persist. We find a way to remember, we find a way to celebrate the life we live. We give of ourselves so that the people we care about don't suffer too greatly. We share smiles and memories, we remind each other why and how we live so greatly. We reassure each other that there is aspiration and love. And we thrive with that knowledge. I have lived in the moments of great family and friendship and I am humbled by everything I've been able to witness and be a part of. I am broken by my experience and glued back together by hope. Picking up the pieces as I go and repairing every bit along the way. Though the future is unknown, I will live like every day is a gift. For one day, the gifts will eventually run dry. And we will reminisce about the days gone by and the ethereal existence we had. So today we laugh, and today we embrace the possibility of everything. Because today is all we truly have. We should remind ourselves of this. Then we can see our purpose. We can look honesty in the face and not fear it, but embrace it. And we can know we live life well.

"Where there's hope, there's life. It fills us with fresh courage and makes us strong again." ~Anne Frank