Roller Coaster

When I was young, the biggest thrill was riding a roller coaster. I remember the anticipation. The exhilaration. There was a thrill about it that came with no other ride. And I always ran to get to the biggest, craziest, newest one at the amusement park. Over and over again. After waiting in line for what felt like forever, I would finally climb into my seat. Then I would get strapped in. The excitement was thick and squeals of joy could be heard all around me. As the cars slowly climbed the first hill, all I could think about was the slow click, click, click as we climbed into the sky. The tension would build with each passing moment. There were always a few moments of, "oh shit!"  The higher we climbed, the farther away the sounds of the park would get until at last we reached the top. It was peacefully magnificent up there. It would pause for just a moment and the view was always incredible. Then suddenly, in antithesis of the previous slow build, we would drop out of the sky with screams of delight and terror. A combination of fear, adrenaline, and unfiltered happiness. With each dip, turn, and flip my elation was woven into my memory and I never wanted more than what I felt in these few seconds of thrill. And just as quickly as it started, it was over. I would then run back to the end of the line and the waiting game began again. These days the physical roller coaster would most likely make me sick. It’s the sickness that now makes the roller coaster.

I have watched people ring the bell. The one we all want to ring.  The symbol of completion. The goal of every cancer survivor. We fight every day, every minute of our lives. For one more moment, one more day, one more week, to keep our loved ones from suffering at our cost. The other day, as I watched another patient ring the bell, I felt my eyes fill with tears.  All of the nurses and volunteers were there to applaud him, shake his hand, and give him hugs. This relief I felt for him was beautiful. He had fought his way to remission. And I basked in the glow of his happiness. When he left, I was moved by the story I was overhearing in the next pod. They had found cancer in his brain. It had metastasized from his tonsils. The confusion, the fear, the anger, the sorrow. All playing out right next to me. I only wish I could take it away from them.  If only this wouldn't happen over and over again. It’s a reminder that even though it could be over, there's a possibility that it really isn't. If you get it once, maybe it's not really gone. Even in remission, the scans continue. Cancer is a curse that remains through a lifetime. It's not lost on me that these are my possible outcomes as well. 

I had been thinking about the impending surgery. A lot. A few days after the visit with Dr, Sarmiento, the liver surgeon, I met with Dr. Sullivan, the colon surgeon. He didn't seem nearly as excited about the procedure. I was told by Dr. Sarmiento that I was going to have surgery. It just depended on whether Dr. Sullivan wanted to do the colon resection at the same time or separately. When I got into his office, he didn't have the same enthusiasm. He was very concerned about the metastases in my lungs, the spot on my spine, and what that would mean if we went through with the entire procedure. He said he would talk to my oncologist along with Dr. Sarmiento and present it to the tumor board again for discussion. I left the office and felt my body stiffen. All the while hearing my mother saying she wanted to celebrate before the surgery. All I could hear in my head was that I wish she would stop saying that. I kept telling her that we couldn't celebrate yet. That we didn't know what was going to happen. Every time I thought about going under the knife, I got this feeling of dread. Another “oh shit” moment. But I was determined to go through with it if it could save me. It's such a big procedure. Cutting out significant sections of two important organs in my body at the same time was intimidating. Not to mention the two other times I'd have to go under to finish everything. I kept thinking about the pain and the recovery. If this was the way, then so be it. I'll do it. But that feeling in the back of my mind wouldn't go away.

 I left immediately after my appointment to drive to Florida and visit friends.

Virginia, me, Bruce, & Rachel

The drive did me good. Being on the road kept my mind from over thinking everything. It took me away from all of the weight of thought that burdened my being. The next few days were light and fun. Exactly what I needed. On the third day I got a call. "Hello Dr. Sullivan...". He began to talk. He told me that after discussing my case, the tumor board determined that it was not in my best interest to go through with the surgery. I have too many metastases outside the liver and colon. My disease is systemic. If we did the procedure, there was a risk that the cancer would grow without chemo to fight it while I was recovering. "I understand. Thank you." And I hung up. I felt like the floor was dropping out beneath me. There would be no life saving surgery. Nothing at this point to end this hideous disease. I went numb.  Cancer was a squatter in my body and we couldn't evict it. I went into my room, sunk into bed, and let tears fall silently down my cheeks. I was upset and relieved simultaneously. It was such an intense moment that I needed to be quiet and sit with the news for a while. I've learned that giving myself time to process things is necessary. It seems that there's always something new to understand and accept. News like this is always difficult. I often don't know how to absorb and react to it. Eventually time sends answers on how to cope and find strength to move on.


Not having surgery means that chemo will continue. Indefinitely. Chemo has been saving my life for over a year now, but it riddles my body with side effects. The double edged sword. I sometimes wonder if it will be the cancer or the chemo that will eventually kill me. I felt the need to make a "bucket list". My dear friend Rachel sat with me while I spoke and wrote it all down.  It's funny to think about the things you don't want to miss in your lifetime. Trips, experiences, feelings. The strange thing is, I felt more peace as I made this list because I realized that there were so many things that I've done that have fulfilled me. There are always things that we'll miss in our lives, but the important thing to understand is that we'll always have the things that we haven't missed. And that list is long. Longer and more significant than any bucket list that could be written.

Holding a marmoset

Cuddling a fennec fox

I’ve always loved animals. Being near and interacting with them is something that I often wish I could do. One morning, my friends took me to an animal sanctuary called Single Vision. I got to get close to some gorgeous animals. Timber wolf pups, tigers, lions, cougars, porcupines, bears, fennec foxes, marmosets, and much more. I even got to pet and hold a select few. What a beautiful and healing experience! There's something really amazing about being in the presence of some of nature's most exquisite beings. When we left, we went to lunch. Then I finished off the day with a walk on the beach. After the tough news I had received, it was a wonderful way to reset.

The day after that visit, Bruce and I were sitting chatting over our morning brews. I began to question him about how he shaved his head. After a few moments, he offered to teach me. I jumped at it with a smile and great appreciation. Using clippers worked to a point, but I felt that I needed to eliminate the fuzz. The sparse hair that I had showed so much of my scalp, that it would be better to just get rid of it. Since I'd never done it before, it was quite the education. He explained everything to me in detail and I listened with wide eyed curiosity. It was incredibly funny because I was terrible at it! And even funnier since Rachel was filming it and she and Virginia were laughing at us and the ridiculous faces we were making. There were several times that he had to correct me and fix the spots I had missed, but in the end, I got it down. I can now say that I'm truly bald. Even if it looks like I have a white scalp and a tan face.

Bruce showing me the finer points of shaving

The day after I got back to Atlanta, my parents and I went in to see Dr. Sullivan then Dr. El Rayes for follow up visits. First up was Dr. Sullivan. He went over my MRI with us. He pointed out all of the grey spots on the computer screen that were cancer. There were a lot. Seventeen metastases in my liver and about the same amount in my lungs. I didn't realize there were so many in my lungs. They were smaller than the ones in my liver, but they were still there.  My dad asked if surgery was possible in the future. He told us that it might be, that we would continue to monitor my progress. Dr. Sullivan then asked if we were looking for a cure. He began to ask if anyone had spoken to me about... I cut him off. I knew what he was going to ask. I told him that I had been told from the beginning that there was no cure for me. He nodded and continued to talk but it just sounded like buzzing in my ears. Until he said that the spot on my spine was gone. It was no longer there. I looked away from my scans, into his eyes, and said, "It's gone?" With his confirmation I felt that this was the small victory I needed. The cancer had disappeared from my bones. After being on this weary journey for so long, we had finally gotten the infected areas down one. There is still a long way to go, but now there's fresh hope. Dr. El Rayes confirmed everything we'd just heard and told us that I would be continuing with this chemo for another 4-6 months or until it stopped working. At that point I may qualify for another trial and I would move on to another chemo drug. Back to the beginning. Strapped in and hearing the slow click, click, click.  

This seems to be the pattern of my cancer journey. The familiar roller coaster. The ups, the downs, the fears, and triumphs. As challenging as it all is, there are incredible moments. The realizations, the moments of love, the bonding with friends and family. It’s the peaks and valleys that make us feel everything with fervor and be appreciative. The happiness as the small triumphs reveal themselves. The anxiety of the wait. The steeled resolve born of the constant war within my body. As much as there is fear, there is accomplishment. The important things are the times I spend with my loved ones and the good times we share. Because as difficult and scary as this roller coaster is, I’ll keep going back for more. The strain I feel on my being is worth every moment of feeling truly alive.

"There are places I remember

All my life though some have changed

Some forever not for better

Some have gone and some remain

All these places have their moments

With lovers and friends I still can recall

Some are dead and some are living

In my life I've loved them all"

“In My Life” ~ The Beatles

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365

June 15, 2017. It's been a year to the day. An entire year. 365 days since the day the pain was so great that I drove myself to the emergency room and was told I have cancer. That fateful day that has changed my life forever. For better or worse, this happened.  And continues to happen. It has destroyed me, deconstructed me, and rebuilt me into a person that I never could have foreseen. My survival has made me live with more appreciation for every little thing than I have ever thought possible. I've found patience that I've never been able to find before. I pause and regale quietly at the miracles that exist like I never have. I love the people in my life with more fervor and outward expression than I thought I could. I am humbled to a raw version of myself and brought to my knees at the outpouring of support that I receive on a daily basis. And mostly I am thankful. For every moment.  For every adventure.  For every person that I encounter.  Because this is my life.  And as difficult and scary as this has been so far, I know that this life I have is a gift. Every moment is a moment that is mine. Every hug, every smile, everything that my senses take in is in heightened Technicolor. And I can't help but be happy that I am living it. Even as I long for the independence that is just a tiny blip in my memory. Every life has its trials. I can't help but think that though I've gone through more than I thought I could, everything I've endured has prepared me to fight this battle. I see my body degrading every day. The person I was is sloughing away. My hair was falling out everywhere, so I chose to go bald. I'm getting freckles all over my face. My nails break off at the quick. I have lost the body I had built from rock climbing and cycling. The healthiness I see in old pictures is only a memory. And though I'm so much better than I was when I was first diagnosed, I don't know the physical body I see when I look in the mirror. Though my spirit is strong, my body is a mystery. So I choose to concentrate on my spirit. That is something that only gets stronger with time. And no matter what comes in this new year, I am better than I have ever been in my spiritual, emotional, and mental being. I'm going to get my body to catch up. Hopefully sooner than later.

They told me it would take 9 months to a year of chemotherapy to get me to a point that I could live my life again. I never stopped living, but my life isn't what I ever saw it being. This cancer that has consumed my life as I knew it. It hasn't relented, it has been beaten back a bit, but we are at a stalemate.  The chemo I'm currently on is holding it steady. The cancer is what they call "stable". And the powers that be consider it "good". So here I am. One year later with no end in sight.  I asked Dr. El Reyes if there was any way I could work again. Even for a day a week. He said no. He said that with the way I was handling my current chemo, that I couldn't. My profession was too taxing and he thinks it's too much on my body. The side effects from this cocktail range from constant nausea to a loss of normal equilibrium to feral mouth ulcers so bad that I have a difficult time talking or eating. Dr. El Reyes has made it a little less strong at my request and it has helped to slightly lessen all of these side effects, but it makes me wonder if the cancer will grow because of it. There are so many things to worry and stress about that I no longer choose to entertain the extracurricular noise in my head. I have slowly evolved into taking one step at a time. One day at a time, one moment at a time. I have silenced the constant questions, fears, and concerns so I can process the right things properly. I still process the thoughts I need to, but this gives my mind the space it needs to appreciate the good things. To live my life with fervor and love each person that graces my presence with open honesty. To be able to take advantage of the time I feel good and put it to its best use. This is a marathon of undetermined length and difficulty. And I intend to cross that finish line with my hands in the air and a ribbon that breaks away at my waist.

My hair had gotten too thin, and grown in straight. My scalp was very apparent. I couldn't make it look good anymore, so I asked my stylist friends to set me straight. Was it time to let it go? The most difficult part of losing my hair was the decision to shave my head. Being a hairdresser, I was used to being the one to help others in this situation. To tell them it needed to be done, that it would grow back, that it would be ok - it was only hair. I had lost my perspective and couldn't tell myself. I was too close. This thought was so foreign to me that I cried in frustration. Why had I lost my ability to decide? Thank goodness for amazing friends. A moment in the presence of a skilled and reliable stylist can be life altering. And even I felt it that night. Two of my friends confirmed that it was time and only then did I feel myself relax. This was an important step to regaining my identity. The next day I went to my photographer friend's studio to shave my head and document it.  We would video and take pictures. I felt that it was important for people to see this part of it.  Maybe it would help someone somehow. The relief I felt as I was doing it and once it was finished was incredible. It was as if I found my strength again. 

I had an MRI on the Wednesday before I left for Bonnaroo  and had to wait until I came back to hear whether I would be getting surgery, so going was the perfect distraction. It was imperative that I attend this year. It was a goal, a milestone. Going meant that I had lived an unfathomably difficult year and survived. It's a place full of happiness, music, and friends. It's a theater of the ridiculous and a place to let go and find yourself again by getting lost in a free and easy environment. One year ago I spent 4 days in excruciating pain, leaving early on the last day after suffering through my body screaming for reprieve. Three days after that I was admitted into the hospital and told I had cancer. I honestly didn't know how bad it was or what that meant. All I knew was that I was more scared than I've ever been. There were many moments that I thought I wasn't going to make it to now. This past year taught me courage, patience, love, and hope. I discovered a strength that I didn't know I possessed. And I found myself opening my heart up to those who loved me in a way I never knew I could. And sharing it with those who were accepting.

I met with a surgical oncologist that specializes in the liver the day after I got back. He told me then that I would be getting surgery. The MRI came back showing no growth or recession and that means it's the best possible plan to conquer this beast. He actually looked and sounded excited to do this procedure. One year ago it was an absolute no possibility. But now it’s going to happen. They will be removing most of my liver that contains 17 metastases.  Miraculously, the part of my liver that isn't infested is in the middle left section of my liver. The left lobe regenerates, while the right lobe doesn't. Eventually the liver will grow to fill the space left by the removal of the cancer ridden parts. I call the left lobe of the liver "our lizard tail".  After my liver is resected, a colon surgeon will take over and remove the tumor in my colon while I'm still out, possibly in another surgery depending on my next appointment and what he says. Then they are going to embolize the blood flow to the right side of the liver to starve the cancer in the right and redirect it to the left, so it gets what it needs to regenerate. All of this can possibly be done laparoscopically. There are a few ifs along the way to determine success and direction of these procedures. This is going to be a series of surgeries. It’s not often that they do this, but I have faith that it will all happen the way it's supposed to. As I sat in the office letting it all sink in, I felt so much that my emotions canceled each other out. It was as if I couldn’t feel anything. This is going to be the thing that saves me. I was so paralyzed with the good news that I was petrified to believe it. I went completely silent. I couldn’t rejoice, I couldn’t be scared, I didn’t know how to react. It took the rest of the day and into the next morning to really let sink in what was happening. Though this will be incredibly taxing, this is what I’ve been waiting for. I will be recovering for five days in the hospital and four to six weeks at home. This means the chemo I just finished would be the last for at least three months because of surgery prep and recovery. Even though there will be more treatments, scans, and medication after this, I was beginning to see a faint light at the end of this tunnel.

Olympic Chemo on Ice

I began to think about what it all means. As I lost myself in the things going through my head, I came to the realization that I am not my cancer.  Cancer is what I'm dealing with right now, not who I am.  I am my family, my friends. I am the love I feel and the happiness that I embrace. I am the adventures I experience.  I am the simple moments of beauty that carve their way into my soul. I am every appreciative moment that I recognize. I am the goosebumps that prickle over my skin and the tears that roll down my cheeks.  I am every warm hug I encounter. I am the comfort I have in knowing and the peace I feel with it. I am my thoughts, my poetry, my art. My expressions, my laughter.  I am every song that ever touched my heart and rocked my mind. And so much more than this cancer that pervades my life at this point. The cancer will fade into nothing one day and what will be left is all of me. And I’m good with that.

"I ain't happy, I'm feeling glad

I got sunshine in a bag

I'm useless, but not for long

The future is coming on"

~ " Clint Eastwood" Gorillaz

The Desert

We used to get up on Sunday mornings and laugh like crazy. My dad would put on his records and teach me how to dance. I would stand on his feet as he did all of the dances he knew from when he was younger. He's a child of the 50s and 60s. He grew up going to sock hops and dances when people actually danced together, in each others arms.  What an amazing thing to have been a part of. I can't help but think about what we (who didn't have these experiences) missed out on. There was an elegance about flirtation and a pride about being on someone's arm. There was simplicity about happiness that doesn't really exist today. And I still see all of it in my father's eyes, in his actions, and how he treats my mother. It's as if I miss the things that I was never able to experience.

My friend contacted me about an gift she had gotten for me. I was to have an hour long private dance lesson for 2 from Julianne and Derek Hough with tickets to their show afterwards at the Fox theater. Two incredibly talented and beautiful people from Dancing With the Stars. My love for dancing and music started with my dad. So there was no other choice than to have my father join me in this. We were going dancing. When we got to the Fox, we were escorted to a rehearsal space. Within minutes they walked in.  They had smiles on their faces and were warm and welcoming.  After speaking for a few moments, Derek held his hand out to me, smiled, and said, "come with me." For some reason he made me feel like a giggling teenager. He began teaching me a salsa routine. I hadn't had this kind of fun in ages! Over the next 40 minutes we danced and I learned. We then took video of my father with Julianne then Derek with me. As soon as Derek and I finished dancing, I lost my breath and collapsed into a chair. My body was failing me.  It was as if it wanted to remind me of what I had forgotten in the last 40 minutes - I was still sick. I then reluctantly explained to Derek that I've been going through chemotherapy and that's why I was acting this way. I was hoping silently that this wouldn't happen, but I wasn't surprised that it did. He and Julianne were incredibly gracious. They never, for even a moment, acted as if they felt sorry for me. Which I was so grateful for.  They spoke to me with respect, they asked questions and it didn't take long for my father to whip out the chemo costume pictures. To which they laughed and encouraged me. They were amazing. After our hour was up,  they took us to sound check showed us the set, and we said our goodbyes. We went back later to watch their show.  It was really incredible. Dad had the time of his life!

I was enjoying the break from everything I've been going through. It was nice to know that I could go for four weeks without chemo. I vowed to enjoy every moment that was afforded me. And my next stop was the desert.

Joshua Tree

The Desert is a harsh environment. It’s hot, dry, dusty and drains your energy. Temperatures soar during the day and can drop 30 degrees or more at night. It's filled with cacti and harsh plants, incredible animals like road runners, snakes, lizards, and hummingbirds.  Its one thing to hear or read about it, it's a completely different thing to experience it. Andy had brought me out for his birthday to his property in the Yucca Valley, just 40 minutes outside of Palm Springs. I had never been anywhere like it. Andy had taken this wild place and turned it into his own magic landscape. The next 4 days were filled with fun and wonderful people. Old friends and new. All of them kind and considerate. Wild and creative. It was the first time I would see my friend Sarah since her breast cancer diagnosis. As the time got closer that she would arrive, I got more and more anxious. Though we had been talking to each other as we endured our fate, seeing each other was so very different. When we finally did, it was happy. I thought I would have to hold back tears, but it was the exact opposite. It was the best hug ever. I didn't realize how much I needed to see her, to talk with her, and just feel truly understood. We did that for each other and it was so incredible to feel that sort of comfort. Finally. After the party was over, and the place got quiet, I had a couple days to myself. The first day I sat by the pool and talked with whoever was around. The next day I went by myself to Joshua Tree. It was

incredibly alien and beautiful. I lost myself in an unknown, unspoiled terrain to appreciate the gifts that our earth gave us. But it felt like this gift was only for me that day. And I was truly grateful.

I left the next day. So full of love from everyone and everything I'd experienced. I thanked Andy and Chris for taking such care of me. Having amazing friends are indubitably the happiness that fills our hearts. And I am overflowing.

Horseshoe Bend

I flew into Phoenix to visit my brother and nieces. My older niece, Sonya, was graduating high school. I can't explain the pride I have in both these girls. Having never had children of my own, they are the closest thing I've got to it. And I love them dearly. As I sat at Sonya' s graduation with my brother and other niece Vika, I couldn't help but think that this landmark day for her was so significant. Most importantly for her, but to know that I had made it this far to be able to see this happen for her. That I was still alive. I cried with pride for her, love for my family, and happiness for the life I was still living.

The next day my brother and I left for 3 days that he had planned for us. We went to the most beautiful places. Sedona, the Grand Canyon North rim, Horseshoe Bend, White Pocket, Vermilion Cliffs, and a few other spots on the way. It was beautiful. The kind of places that make you feel your mortality. Appreciate the breathtaking earth. And know that all of this was here before you and will be there long after we're gone. It was spectacular. These places made me realize that I am just a visitor here. My life, though important to me, is insignificant to the big picture. There is more in this world to appreciate and admire. The insane uniqueness of this incredible planet has its rhythms, and if you look for it, it will find you as you find it. It all fits into this world, then our world, and finally my world. As small as it is. Perspective teaches us to think broadly. The more I see, experience, and appreciate, the more I know that everything is going to be alright. This time I spend with my family makes me realize how hard it is to lose the life I've known.  So I have fortified my resolve to survive and somehow find a new life after this.

Grand Canyon

When I got home, it was straight back to chemo. It is just as hard as I remember it. But I felt fortified when I got back. Filled full of life and memories.  And strength of spirit to face it all again. The day after, I went in to see Dr. El Reyes and he gave me some possible news. He had met with the tumor board about my case. The tumor board is the place where the brilliant minds that treat cancer at Winship discuss certain cases. After some discussion, they came up with a 70% yes on surgery to remove part of my infested liver along with gamma knife (a type of radiation) to treat the remaining liver. It's also a possibility that they will remove the tumor in my colon at the same time. The remaining lesions in my lungs and spine would be treated with a maintenance chemo. He assured me that my liver was the biggest issue at this point, the treatment after surgery would be easier, and I could take breaks more often. They just need to see an MRI to make a final decision. I only need to wait a few more days to find out. It's so jarring to hear this. On one hand, I'm excited at the prospect of my treatment getting easier after surgery. On the other hand, this is major surgery. Six weeks without chemo to prep my body, then surgery, about five days in hospital recovery, then 4-6 weeks recovery at home. The scars, the drains, the pain. It will be two months of building myself up again. I'm nervous and hopeful at the same time. But I can handle it. I'll do it if it's at all a possibility.

CHEMO. 911!

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 so 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, and help me experience living. You fill my heart every day. I feel the incredible energy you put out there for me. You heal me. You have my gratitude and love. For even in the harshest conditions, there is life and beauty. Just like the desert.

“It’s not about the cards you’re dealt, but how you play the hand”  ~ Randy Pausch, The Last Lecture

Epiphany

My father called me and told me to come home. Jude, my greyhound, wasn't doing well. I knew in an instant what that meant. And I wasn't ready. My heart started breaking in that very moment. I was in the city for a CT scan and got the call when I was done. I immediately left to be by her side. Preparing myself to be brave enough to be who she needed me to be. The entire ride back felt like an eternity.  And all I could think was that it couldn't really be her time. That maybe there was some way that it could be something other than what it was. When I walked in the house, I knew better.  My mother was crying, sitting with her and trying to massage her legs thinking she could help her stand again. Jude was laying there panting. I could tell she was in a lot of pain. She had lost the ability to stand on her own. So I laid on the floor next to her, started to pet her and spoke gently into her ear. "I'm here. I love you. It's ok..."  Over and over. She began to calm her breathing and relax slightly. My father had made an appointment at the vet. I stayed on the floor with her, talking to her until we had to leave. We put her in the car and I laid by her side. When we got to the vet, she examined her. She did x-rays and an ultrasound.  She told us that there was a bleeding carcinoma in her liver. She was bleeding internally. Her body was breaking down. It was doing its best to work by using all its energy to fight the chaos inside her which is why her legs stopped working. There was nothing they could do. They made her as comfortable as they could and put us in a non sterile, cozy room to share our last moments. She looked at me when I walked in. We both knew. I laid on the floor with her, wrapped my arms around her, placed my forehead to hers, kissed her, and began to whisper. "I love you so much. Thank you for every amazing moment. I'm here for you..." After a few moments she was gone. I felt her go. When I lifted my head up, the horror of the reality of it all overcame me. And though I had been crying since I got home, the sheer pain of losing her hit me like I had been crushed by a ton of bricks. I laid there and held her and sobbed while my heart shattered into a million tiny pieces. When I finally got up, I took one last look at her. She looked like she was sleeping. But her ears were up. My voice was the last thing she heard.  She was listening to what I was saying as she took her last breath.

The day after her death I was broken and numb. Paralyzed with sadness and loss of hope. But I forced myself to go through the motions. I needed to go to my oncologist appointment. Even getting out of bed was difficult. It was physically and mentally exhausting. But one step at a time, I did it. My parents and I made our way down to Emory to see Dr. El Reyes. This appointment was very important. I would find out if I had made the clinical trial. And as much as I had been sitting on pins and needles about it for the last 2 months, I was struggling to care about it.

I got the results of my scan and it had shown that my cancer was stable. It had not grown or receded. It was, for the most part, good news. But the clinical trial I wanted so badly was now out of reach. If there had been growth, however small it may have been, it would have guaranteed my spot in that trial. I was now to be on this chemo indefinitely. This one that exhausts me, that gives me mouth ulcers, that makes me feel my body breaking down, will now be my constant companion for I don't know how long. My parents were startled by the news. Like me, they were hoping for the acceptance into this trial. So we started asking questions. Why? What now? Will there be more trials? Can I take a break? After getting all the answers needed, I decided that the next step is to start going to Winship Cancer Center at Emory for my treatments. Hoping that at some point, he will find another drug that can help me go into at least partial remission. I have about 8 drugs for chemo that will help me stay stable before I run out of options. I'm on number 2 now. Each drug will eventually stop working. So at some point, a clinical trial may be the thing that could save me. I asked about doing a procedure called gamma knife, a type of radiation, along with a few other procedures. He's showing my case to the radiation department to see if I'm eligible for any of them. We'll find out soon if I qualify.  I needed time to get my head on straight. It was all too much. So I decided to give myself some. I couldn’t get my thoughts together in time to plan a costume, so my first chemo at Emory will be without one. The first since the beginning.  And I decided to take one chemo off, so May will be a month to recharge and get my strength back. So I can face it all again. I just have to continue to have faith that it will all fall in line.

I left the office feeling nothing. No hope, no happiness, no sorrow. I could no longer care about anything at that point. So I went home and packed a bag. I had planned a trip to see some friends about a month ago at the beach. I had to leave. The heaviness of it all kept me from processing any of it. When I got there, I felt it all start to unravel. I wept more than I’ve ever remembered. It was cleansing. I was able to lose myself in friends and experiences. And began to feel thankful.  Thankful  for friends, thankful for family, thankful for being able to have a beautiful soul like Jude in my life for 8 incredible years. And I thought about the unfairness of it all. My gorgeous, sweet girl died of cancer. The very thing that has plagued me for the last 10 months. I went into a deep depression for several days. I even felt like giving up. I had lost the sweetest, most pure soul I have ever known. She stayed by my side when I wasn't well even though she was suffering in silence. She taught me by example to be strong, to cherish the good moments, to be loving. She never gave up, her body just couldn't do it anymore. Her death made me realize how afraid I've been of dying. That it has paralyzed me. Even as she died, she taught me to not be scared. I'm no longer afraid. We all face death. I've been focusing too much energy on that. None of us will escape it. It's not how we die that matters. It’s how we live. It only takes a moment to die. It takes years to be alive. And I'm going to survive. I'm going to get stronger. I'm going to find a way to live my life my way again. And love again. Because that's what truly living is all about. Life has a way of teaching lessons. Sometimes painful, sometimes wonderful. And if you're lucky enough, you come out the other side with appreciation for it all.

“Smile, though your heart is aching

Smile, even though it’s breaking

When there are clouds in the sky

you’ll get by

If you smile through your fear and sorrow

Smile and maybe tomorrow

You’ll see the sun come shining through

for you

Light up your face with gladness

Hide every trace of sadness

Although a tear may be ever so near

That’s the time you must keep on trying

Smile, what’s the use of crying

You’ll find that life is still worthwhile

If you’ll just

Smile”

~ "Smile" by Charles Chaplin, John Turner, and Geoffrey Parsons

Affected

I woke up in a pool of sweat. My body's feeble attempt to expel the chemo.  A fight that doesn't know where it's going. My physical desperation to know what's right. My neuropathy is excruciating. It’s in my hands and has made its way up most of my legs past my knees. And for the first time I have insomnia. At least before, I could pass out and escape the experience. The ick was inescapable now. All I knew how to do was exist. To get past the current moment and hope there would be a breaking point. I knew there would be, it was just a matter of when. If I could only make it until then. It’s amazing to me that it always hits me differently. It’s horrendous one week, then the same infusion the next time is brutal in its own way. At least this time the worst of it was over within a few days as opposed to the last one imposing on my life for about a week.

The side effect I was expecting has begun. The first time it happened, I showered and felt my hair through my fingers as I shampooed it. And as I removed my fingers from my hair, it stayed intertwined in them. As a hairdresser, I know there’s a certain amount of hair loss to expect daily. This was a lot more than a normal day. I would say that it was at least 4 times what one should expect. I went to the pool with Marti right after and the hair kept dropping out of my head. We both kept looking down to find my hair on us. I only wonder if it will stop after this infusion or continue to get worse.  I lost about half of it in the middle of my last chemo. I’m probably going to lose at least another half. My hair continues to fall out excessively with every shampoo. But for some reason, my emotion about it has disappeared. At this point, my observations have taken on a strange curiosity. I feel like I’m a body to experiment on. I get to see all the trauma of chemotherapy played out in mine. My eyelashes are almost gone and my eyebrows are slowly falling out and lightening. I recently noticed that my hair is growing in different. There’s a little more than four inches of straight hair at the base of my head. That is equal to the nine months of chemotherapy I’ve been going through. I’ve had curly hair my entire life and this feels bizarre. I am truly intrigued about everything that’s happening to me and the emotion about what I’m going through is beginning to subside, regardless of the pain and sickness. It still exists, but it comes and goes. My interest in what’s happening is taking over. And that in itself is fascinating.

Within a 24 hour period I found out that two of my friends were diagnosed with cancer. One of them found her breast cancer early and will be able to treat it with a lumpectomy, some radiation, and some chemotherapy. Though the next four and a half months will be difficult, no cancer is easy, she should be ok after that. I’m thankful that it will be a complete solution for her and that it is curable.  I also am glad I can help her through this. Even if only by being an ear for her. My other friend was diagnosed with a stage 4 small bowel cancer. The solution won't be this way for him. His chemo regimen will be the same as mine.  And supposedly incurable, as mine is. I feel so much for him. I know what this road means. The difficulties he'll encounter. And all I know is that I wish I could take it all away. But there is no taking it away. I can only be there for him as all of my friends and family are here for me. I went to his oncologist appointment with him when he got his diagnosis. I sat in that small room with him when she walked in. She was very serious and very intense. As she began talking, I felt the room get smaller and his dumbfoundedness take over the space. I knew as he listened and asked questions that it was all too much. I felt as if I was getting my diagnosis all over again. There was this need deep inside me to try and protect him, to make it all ok. If only I could. And the sorrow that I felt for him welled up inside me and threatened to spill out of my eyes. But I couldn't cry. I needed to be strong for him. So I sat there and talked with both of them. He told her I was going through chemo as well. I asked a few questions and spoke a little bit about my experience. She was a truly amazing oncologist. She encouraged him to believe that he could live a good life even with this diagnosis. And I chimed in. Also encouraging him. She said, "Look at her. She doesn't even look sick." And I nodded in numb agreement. He was shaken. Who wouldn't be? She left the room for a moment. I stood up, walked over to him, and asked if he was ok. I knew full well that he wasn't. Looking into his eyes, I saw what he was feeling. The uncertainty, the fear, the inability to process so much information in a short period of time. The instinct to be the strong man he is, conflicting with his present state. In that moment, I knew that I would be there for him. No matter what comes next. And he felt comfortable enough with me to let me.

Over the next few days I answered all the questions I could for him from my perspective. I couldn't help but think it must be hard for him. At least when I was diagnosed I had a ridiculous amount of pain killers being pumped through my system so I couldn't think too far ahead. I didn't have the capacity then to let the what ifs and maybes in. Those came months later for me. Those will drive you crazy. I explained that to him, but it's difficult to shut them out. Anyone would be driven to high stress with the thoughts that cross your mind.

It's an interesting situation to be in. It's strange to be a cancer mentor.  When I got diagnosed I had people reach out to me to offer insight, but I was so overwhelmed with keeping up with friends and family, that I didn't let them in. Looking back, I should've probably spent time with them. To ask questions, to help with getting myself mentally prepared. It makes me think that maybe this is something I can do more of in the future. To pay it forward. I remember the thoughts of complete helplessness and loss of identity. How was I going to live? Could I survive? Would I ever be myself again? How could I hold onto everything that I have worked so hard for? But I was so guarded. So stuck in being strong. I've found that after so much time going through chemo that I've softened. That I let people in. That I'm patient and I touch people more. My hugs are plentiful.  And my appreciation is so much deeper. For everything. For living. For beauty. For our differences and our similarities. Despite all of the ordeals, difficulties, and pain, there is a new peculiar sense of being. I have a purpose now. This existence hasn’t broken me beyond repair. I’ve found my strength. It will get me through the next protocol, and the next, and the next. Until I’m done.

It seems to me that when it comes down to the nitty gritty, what we really have is each other. We have the ability in life hold each other up, to help each other believe, or to walk away. We can have faith in each other or choose to ignore. We can lift our faces in laughter, or obscure ourselves in sorrow. We can inspire and look onward towards greatness or hide and lose ourselves. We can find strength or wallow in weakness. And all of this can be easier when sharing with someone who cares. One who cares about our low moments and cheers us on in our achievements. When we are broken and can't seem to make it one step forward, sometimes all it takes is a hello and a smile from someone who cares. No matter how long it’s been or how new the friendship. Never underestimate the power of a word or a smile. And even a warm hug. These things are full of simple beauty and incredible strength. You can give these things away. You don't have to own them. They will come back to you when you share strength and love. These alluring human expressions contain the essence of who we are, or who we could be. And wouldn't you want to be everything possible? I do.

Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.  ~Kurt Vonnegut

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