Lemonade

“How do you do that?” He asked.

“Do what?” I was confused.

“Make lemonade out of lemons?”

It seemed like such a strange thing to say that it took a minute for me to register it.

It didn't feel like I was making anything into anything else. I know that my entire life has been driven by creativity, and no illness, no matter how dire, would ever take that away from me. I know that being creative always takes me to a sacred place. A place that could never be tainted by pain, sorrow, or hardship. When I create, I am safe. It is a place where all of me stands as I always was. Not broken or weak. Not partial or faded. Not sick. It is the safest place for who I am, because it will always be all of me. No matter how I feel or look or am physically. It is where I am whole. So when I am only a shell of the person I was, I escape to creativity and I find myself there. The pieces that are missing find their way back to me. The broken bits that have fallen off as I fight this horror. I remember the things that exist in this world that chemo and cancer can’t take from me. And that is beauty. The beauty I create and enable. That is untouchable. That is the core of who I am, my happiness, and who will remain. No matter how broken I become.

I was doing well. I hadn't really felt much pain in months. I ended up skipping one chemo to just take a break. Then all hell broke loose. I began to feel pain chronically in my lower abdomen again. Where my tumor is. It wasn't going away. Then another pain made itself known. It was incredible. It was at my stomach. High in my abdomen. It was so intense that I could do nothing but cry and wail in response, curled up in a ball. My father wanted to take me to the emergency room and I fought him. I knew what the ER meant. It meant hours of waiting. It meant tests, it meant exhaustive questions and hours of being a pin cushion. It meant blood draws. And days, maybe weeks of bruises, weird tell tale signs, and evidentiary marks on my body. It could also mean relief. When I finally relented, the pain became much milder. We had actually made it to the ER when the pain subsided. So we went home. I woke the next day to more of the mammoth pain from the night before. I called my oncologist to ask for advice. I was told to go into the infusion center for help. He recommended that I do so before going back to the ER. They took me to a room in the back and accessed my port. They gave me IV pain meds, but when my blood pressure reached 220 over 121 they called the emergency to bring a gurney. I was admitted to hospital after they brought my blood pressure down to some semblance of normal. They wanted to make sure I wasn't having a stroke or stomach ulcers. Which meant a bunch of tests. A CT scan, stomach x-ray, an ultrasound of my abdomen, an upper endoscopy, and a biopsy of my stomach. They found nothing. I stayed that time from Tuesday to Thursday. I was released Thursday night around 9:00 pm. I went into see Dr. El Rayes the next morning. He said since the tests that were performed found nothing, he could only logically assume that it was the cancer causing all the pain.

I had to let that information marinate a bit. That my cancer was causing pain even though there was no sign of cancer in that area. My body was so out of whack that there was pain for no reason. This cancer is a beast. I went back home and within hours of eating, the agony had come back. I went back to the ER where they stabilized me again and were going to release me, but my dad refused. He told them they needed to admit me. Which they did. I was there for another 5 days. So they could control my pain and vomiting. They did more tests and found nothing. But then I got pneumonia. Another setback. I couldn't get chemo until it was gone. So I got sent home with antibiotics. When those were finished, I finally was well enough. I knew getting chemo would help fight the pain. So I got prepared and hoped for the best.

I started my new chemotherapy drug. I had thought about it and realized that a six week break from chemo was not going to be beneficial moving forward. I was right. It was horrible. I'm in constant pain. Though it’s a different one than the one that took me to the ER and into the hospital for days. So I guess it’s good that the stomach pain is gone. I can't eat. When I do, I vomit uncontrollably. I'm persistently nauseous. I don't know how to exist feeling this way. I wonder if this is normal. I wonder if this is killing me. I wonder if I can do this. Be strong. I keep telling myself that. But I don't know if I can. This constant ruination is brutal. It's getting to the point that I can at times compartmentalize my emotion. If I can be objective about the pain and nausea, then I can be more affective in dealing with it. If only I could do that all the time. I keep wanting to forget that this disease wants to destroy me. Maybe if I don't pay attention to that part then it won't be true.

I think about the things I had heard about cancer before I had it. No one ever said that it hurt. You always heard things like 'so and so passed surrounded by family' or 'so and so was brave and fighting'. How come I never heard anyone say how much it hurts? Why isn’t that part spoken about? It’s such a weird thing to realize. What is it? Is it because the picture would be too difficult to see? What are we protecting by downplaying that very important fact? Cancer hurts so bad that it tests the very fiber of your being. It asks how important living is to you that you would endure the worst pain of your life for more time to live. Have you ever thought that about cancer? Not very pretty is it.

I found myself at the ER again about a week after this new chemo. I couldn’t stop vomiting, it had been 4 days of this, and I knew if I couldn’t stop that I would get dehydrated. I was alone at my condo in town at night. So I picked myself up and took myself to the ER. It was all I could do to get myself there. The stress of going was playing out as a full blown panic attack. As I signed in through my tears, I tried desperately to find some control of my emotions. The woman at the desk changed my life. She handed me tissues and said gently, “It’s going to be ok. Stop crying. You’re beautiful. You’re going to get the help you need now. “ They were the kindest words I’d ever heard. After doing a chest x-ray and an EKG, they got me back into a room fairly quickly. Once the ER doctor got to my room he asked me what I thought I needed. I told him fluids and anti nausea meds. He had seen my chart. He said that after being a cancer patient as long as I had, he thought I would probably know what I needed. He gave me what I asked for and discharged me. It was the easiest ER visit I’d ever had. I was so relieved. As I left I realized that this would not be the last ER visit or hospital stay. It was a sobering thought. But now that I’d come to terms with the fact that ER visits and hospital stays would be a way of life for me, it wasn’t so scary. Now it had become a tool to manage my curse.

The hardest part of all of this is not the incredible physical pain or the intense nausea. Or the loss of independence, my career, my life as I know it. It’s not the sleepless nights, the energy I used to have, or watching my body transform into something unknown. It's watching what it's doing to my family. Seeing my mother desperately trying to feed me. Because to her food is the great healer and cooking and gardening is what she does best. Watching my father trying to fix the unfixable. Seeing him organize my bills and talking almost daily to the hospitals and trying to make sure I travel so I can escape my brutal truth. Knowing my brother is trying to be there for me from so far away when there isn't anything more that he can do. My entire family is being torn into emotional shreds over something we have no power to change. We love each other so much and as much as it is our strength, that love is pain. A family's love cannot kill cancer, but neither could cancer ever kill a family's love.

I want my life back. I don't want to do this anymore. But I don't have a choice about that. All I have is what lies before me. And what I do have a choice about is this: I can feel sorry for myself, or I can rise. And there is no shame in the times that I fail to rise. Because when I fail, I still learn. And it hurts. Deeply. But I learn. These lessons teach me about what really matters. And what I’m really made of. And somehow I rise anyway. Then it tells me all sides. The ugly, the beautiful, the difficult, the reality. I get to see it all. And in the strangest way I’m ok with my path. Because I do find a way to make lemonade. I find the sweet to complement the sour. And in the end, if you don't make lemonade, all you've got left is lemons. And who only wants lemons?




"You either get bitter or you get better. It's that simple.You either take what has been dealt to you and allow it to make you a better person, or you allow it to tear you down. The choice does not belong to fate, it belongs to you." ~Josh Shipp

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Mindset

I keep hearing, "everything happens for a reason." I don't believe that. I think it's something that people say to make themselves feel better about "everything". I think some things happen for a reason. That a series of events will lead up to a certain outcome. But if we say that "everything happens for a reason," I feel that it takes the meaning away from it. It takes the power of owning it away from you. If it happens for a reason, then you can assign responsibility. "God made it happen" or "I suffer so others may not."  That doesn’t make sense to me. Sometimes things are just what they are. Maybe that's what those who say that want or believe. That "God has a plan" or what comes from it was what was really "meant to be." I think things happen because they happen. I think we can find a way to turn a bad thing into a good thing and that we can learn from things that happen. Sometimes assigning meaning to an event makes it understandable. I get that. Sometimes, there is no understanding it. I don't understand why I have to suffer. Or why anyone who has cancer has to go through what we have to go through. Or why cancer has to exist at all. I need to spend my energy handling what happens, not wondering the source of why it happens.  All I know is that I have to get through this. That there are more important things than suffering, pain, nausea, and sorrow.

My CEA numbers are getting high again. They're over 100. When I was diagnosed they were 421. At one point they had gotten down to 9. This cancer is active. This war inside my body continues and the ebb and flow of it feels like it's destroying me. Some days I feel like it's all going to be ok. And others, well...

Some days I feel like I need to get my affairs in order. Currently, I think a tsunami of craziness is about to wash over me. I'm being prepped for a clinical trial. I was told that at my last appointment and the upcoming CT scan with MRIs of my pelvis and abdomen are proof of it. Dr. El Rayes has never ordered all of that together before. Maybe my miracle is coming. Maybe we're grasping at straws now. The uncertainty is brutal. If only there were an easy fix. But there's nothing easy about this. I don't think there ever was anything easy in handling this. Every moment, every change, every drug, every doctor's appointment, every choice. It's all so difficult. And so important. I get so tired of it all. I wish I had the carefree days I used to have. When living was simple. When life wasn't so serious. So I inject all the fun I can into it. I engage in my creativity. I find laughter. I share smiles. I find the beauty in it. This is what I lived for before. This is what I have always lived for. It's worth every painful, scary, uncertain moment. Because this is the constant in my life. This is what it's all about.

I went in for my CT and MRIs. I had to change into a hospital gown and remove all jewelry. They started an IV so they could inject contrast. I first went in for the CT which took only a few minutes, Then to the abdomen and pelvic MRIs. They strapped me down to the table after covering my chest with something protective, then a blanket, put ear plugs in my ears, and a button in my hand to get their attention if I needed them. MRIs are loud and I’m stuffed into a small tube. Every couple minutes the tech is telling you to take a breath, hold your breath, then breathe.  This lasted for about an hour and a half. I know I’ve gotten used to all of the testing because I almost fell asleep during my MRI. I guess that tells me that my level of self control is at an all time high.

Iconic Madonna chemo

The next week I went in for chemo and it was fun! The amazing ladies that accompanied me were right there with my craziness. It seems that the more I do this, the more people want to get involved. Then more patients get involved. It's like the people in the infusion center remember that they know how to laugh. I remember in the beginning that even though I was dressing up, there was a nervousness about it. I'm not sure if it was from going to chemo or just the weirdness of dressing up in costume on a normal day. But I guess there's no such thing as normal in a cancer survivor's life. These days it's turned into looking forward to it because of the laughter that surpasses the pain and illness. I don't think I could've ever gotten through the beginning uncertainty so well had Jennifer not been there. She helped me find my courage to be ridiculous. She encouraged my creativity and took part in it with great fervor. She has helped me laugh through it all and continues to be a shining example of true friendship. She helps to show others that those of us plagued with cancer are approachable. Everyone who has joined me at chemo is also doing that. And I'm proud to call the people around me my friends. They are my family. It's a gorgeous example of the love surrounding me. And the love that we share with anyone who witnesses it.

We settled in to wait for my labs to come back after we passed out flowers and treats. After an hour they called me back to inform me that they wouldn't be able to treat me that day. My creatinine levels were too high and my red blood cell count was too low. My kidneys were taking a beating from my high creatinine levels and they were afraid of damaging them. My body needed a break. I would get a blood transfusion instead. This would help strengthen me. I couldn't help but think about what that meant. I asked my nurse if that was bad. She said no, that most people who had been on chemo as long as I have needed to get blood. It drove home the fact that I'm sick. I keep forgetting that part. Even though I know I have cancer, I don't identify myself as a sick person. I realized that recently. I feel like everything I go through on a daily basis having to do with cancer is fleeting and that what really lasts for me is the good stuff. Every time I get news about my illness, it's always a little bit of a shock. I guess that's a good thing. I can really live in the moments that I forget about having this horrible disease.

After my CT and MRIs, I learned that my cancer has grown. Not in number, but in size. Mostly minimally, only a few millimeters. But a few were alarming to me. One lesion in particular had grown 1.5 centimeters. They say it's mostly stable. They weren't too worried about it. But it means it's time to change drugs. My creatinine levels were so high that it excluded me from any clinical trials at this time. This was a disappointment as well as a sigh of relief. A disappointment because I wasn't doing as well as I could be and a relief because a trial is exactly that. A trial. There isn't enough known about it to know what it will do. Or won’t do.

When Dr. El Rayes walked in the room at my next appoinment, he said, "I have good news." This was the first time I had ever heard him say that. I knew not to get too excited. I've become very cautious about getting riled up about anything medical the first time I hear it. He had found that with my genetic testing, there were three areas that had no mutations. This meant that there was a drug that worked well with these findings. That there was a great response to it. He was going to replace the drug that made my creatinine levels skyrocket with this new drug. It looks very promising. But I am resigned to my skepticism. Getting too invested in the thought that it will work is often stressful. I'd rather be surprised than disappointed. And so it goes. I am scheduled to start my new chemo cocktail on Tuesday. With all of the new possible side effects. I felt like I was in a drug commercial when they were explaining all of them to me. "Side effects may include..." blah, blah, blah. The only ones I remember is a red bumpy rash across my face, neck, and chest, skin photosensitivity, and adverse nail reactions. Great. I'd rather have nausea. My body is screaming for reprieve. And I am emboldened in stoicism. I will do this. I have no choice. Going through the kind of pain I experienced in the beginning isn't an option. Though I fear one day I will. And I know what comes after the pain. So I will exhaust every possible option. And hope beyond hope that at some point there will be a miracle.

I don’t let my thoughts get away from me. Every time I have in the past, it spurs an emotional reaction. I then have a problem absorbing information. I’ve learned patience and greater understanding in the past 15 months. Life isn’t what I had pictured it for me. But when is it ever? I dreamed of something different, something lovely. I dreamed of growing old and fighting aging gracefully. I dreamed of living on the beach and drinking piña coladas, rum runners, and dark and stormys whenever I felt like it. I pictured finding the love of my life and going to concerts together. Even when it would’ve been considered that we would be too old for it. Now I just want to get to the point where I don’t have to go to chemo every other week. That might be enough. That is what I concentrate on now. I envision it. I pray for it. I fight for it. If I could tell anyone out there one thing that I could get people to understand, it would be to not take your life for granted. Change your mindset. Appreciate the good stuff. Don’t lose your lust for life. No matter what you go through. It is the lifeblood of determination and accomplishment. It is the most real thing we have and only allowed in our lives if we let it in.



"However mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names. It is not so bad as you are. It looks poorest when you are richest.The fault-finder will find faults even in paradise. Love your life, poor as it is. You may perhaps have some pleasant, thrilling, glorious hours, even in a poorhouse." ~ Henry David Thoreau

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Insight

There are times that I sit in my condo quietly thinking about, pretending, that it's a normal Sunday. That I'm just resting to prep for a long work week ahead. That in a few more weeks I'll be going somewhere crazy like the alps in Europe to go paragliding. Or go hiking in Colorado, or camping in Montana. I dream about the day that I'll be strong enough to actually achieve these dreams. But in the mean time I stave off the intense nausea and just try to make it to the next minute without puking. Or try to ignore the pounding headaches that come intermittently. I go in for IV fluids regularly. This usually makes me feel a lot better. But in the meantime this immense discomfort is my life as I know it. It’s hard not to make this emotional. My physical being often translates into an emotional reaction. I get upset. I cry. Then I try to calm myself. Sometimes the only reprieve is sleep. So I drug myself into dreamless oblivion. But I always wake up. Most of the time right back into the same uncomfortable state I was in before. But at least I get a break. And there are the few times that I feel better when I wake. There's always that.

Just when I think I've got my feelings in check, the fear creeps up on me. Barely there, so I don't know it even has a presence. Then slowly, bit by bit, it rears its ugly head. It takes everything I've got to keep it from going full crazy, but I do it. This time I felt it come on when I was told I needed to go on blood pressure medication,  that I was getting a blood transfusion, and that there are some clinical trials they're keeping in mind for me. It all means that the clock is ticking. My body is wearing down so it needs more help and the options for healing me are now in an experimental phase. Scary and hopeful at the same time. It's what comes next when it's all they can do. The way I see it, I'm on borrowed time anyway. I've had longer than was expected, so I should be thankful. And I am. But it doesn't shut out the want and need for a bit of peace of mind. If only...

I don't need to be told that this is what it means. It’s easy enough to figure out. But I also know that Dr. El Rayes is going to bat for me. He's got my best interests in mind. It's him, his PA, and his nurses that keep their eyes on my well-being by constantly making sure my nausea is in check and that I’m getting plenty of fluids. That the side effects are under control. Even when I’m not complaining about them. They know to check on me because of the staff that look after me. They even did more tests and discovered that my body was starting to make more blood, so the transfusion was unnecessary. He took my case to the tumor board twice to discuss my possible treatment. It is comprised of some of the leading  oncologists and surgeons at Emory. This board meets once a week to discuss 10 cases. He felt mine was important enough to discuss twice. Out of all the people getting treatment in one of the best cancer centers in the country, mine was a case he chose to share with his colleagues. I am humbled and have an incredible respect for these people. And I have tremendous gratitude for it.

I long for the days where the anonymity of good health gave me ease of spirit. Living on the edge of this microcosm of pseudo celebrity due to how public I've been with having cancer has mostly been a blessing. But I wish there was some way to turn off the attention sometimes. I find that people mean well. They only want to be supportive, but I think I speak for most of us dealing with this disease when I say that sometimes a normal conversation is a welcome minutes long vacation from the life we are currently living. I go out every once in a great while when I feel good enough to do so. When I long for social interaction.  

Raising Arizona chemo

I began this blog because it was too much to tell my story to people over and over. I needed a way to tell people one time without telling the story repeatedly. It’s been good for that. It then evolved into helping others understand what people in my position go through. Those of us who are fighting against cancer invading our body and permeating our thoughts. I realized as I continued to write, that people were actually listening, that they wanted to know more about cancer.  About what we go through and how their actions affect those of us dealing with it. I feel at this point that it's my duty to let you know things about cancer that you wouldn't normally know.  Things that all of us have been in the dark about.  Those of us who didn't know enough about how bad that this disease really is and how widespread it is, are open to the knowledge.

I'd like to tell you about cancer language. How it influences us. The things that you say and what they mean. The disease is hard enough, so let me tell you how to speak to me or anyone dealing with this illness and what kind of reaction it invokes. At least within me. Because the things that you say and do affect us.

There are times that I feel burdened with the responsibility of making others feel comfortable that I am sick. Please don't tell me how difficult it is for you. However difficult it is for you, it’s a lot worse for me. When you go on with this type of talk, it can be stressful. This is not something that I am good at. Not for myself anyway.  Maybe for those that I'm comforting.  This can be very taxing to do repeatedly. I appreciate  that you have feelings about the subject, but I’m not sure how I can make this better for you without making it hard on me. If you feel this way, maybe offer me a hug or let me know if I need anything, you’re happy to help.  I have a tough time trying to make you feel better about my illness.

Please don't ask me if I'm OK. We both know I'm not. I have Stage IV colon cancer and have chemo every two weeks. I have good moments. If I look like I’m doing ok, then I am at the moment.  If I’m not, I have the wherewithal to remove myself, or ask for help.  The incessant questioning only makes me feel distanced from the normal life I so long for and only touch upon on occasion. A prolonged "How ARE you?" with an overly concerned stare falls in the same category.

Please don't tell me about every person that you or anyone you know, that has died from cancer. This is not a good topic to engage in with me or anyone else with a cancer diagnosis. I don’t know how to respond to it and it really makes me feel like you look at me like I’m a walking corpse.

Please don't tell me about every treatment that every other person with cancer has gone through. Every cancer is different and is treated as such. It’s based on type of cancer, what stage it’s in, genetic testing, what the individual is capable of handling, and more. I have been going through this since June 15, 2016. I have and am continuing to explore every option. If you think a certain treatment is worth me looking into, feel free to send me a link or article. I’d love to read up on it.

Don't look at me with pity. I can see it in your eyes. It’s one of my biggest pet peeves.  It’s a sure fire way to create distance between you and me.

If I'm out trying to have a good time, don't go into a long diatribe about how I should be handling this. For example - my diet, alternative treatment, the drugs I need. I'm trying to escape it. Even if just for a night. Tell me you'd like to talk about it with me another time. I'll be happy to discuss it with you when I'm not at a party, at a concert, or being social.

Do smile at me. I promise I’ll smile back. I love that.

Joke around – it’s ok. I like to laugh. I’m sarcastic and I love a good sense of humor.

Hug me. Not excessively or dramatically, but like you would anyone else. I remember what it’s like to see my people and say hello or goodbye with a hug. I promise you can’t catch what I’ve got.

It’s ok to give a kind word about it. Just don't go on and on. My cancer is not about you.  I will shut down and be thinking about how to get away from you.

What I’m saying is that I'm still the same person despite having cancer and everything that goes with it. I never expected that it would become what it has with the way that I’ve chosen to cope with this. I choose to be open about the journey to help you and me understand it. Don't get me wrong, I expect some conversations about it. It's often sweet and I am moved by the concern and support. It gives me strength to keep being strong mentally, when I can’t be physically. Everything that I endure puts a strain on me. So for the first time since this has invaded my life, I’m asking for your help to get through this and help others with cancer get through it with a better way of communicating. There's a way to speak to those of us dealing with this. It's with encouragement. Or normalcy. Look at us as the friend we are. The friend you used to see us as. Not the person with cancer. We will respond to you in turn, a better way. Though we suffer, we are not the disease that plagues us.

My hope is that through more dialogue that we can ease the burden that cancer causes in everyone touched by it. Including those of us that have it and those that love someone with it. That when I give the details of the treatment that I go through and the emotion that is triggered with my experiences, that you will have a bird’s eye view of what it is like. That it somehow gives enough insight to stimulate compassion for each other. We humans are capable of some incredible moments of beauty. I see it every day. Sometimes we need encouragement to understand the right way to treat each other. I welcome it, I believe if we give each other the right direction, our worlds will fill with more honesty, ease of mind, and love. I think we could all use more of that.

The most authentic thing about us is our capacity to create, to overcome, to endure, to transform, to love and to be greater than our suffering. ~ Ben Okri

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Gratitude

Emory University Hospital was bustling the day that I went in for chemo. It was the first time I had gotten my infusion there. Each time I go into a new location, I wonder how my craziness will be received. My oncologist didn’t know what I had been up to, so when my father told him about my antics, he told me that he had to see it. So I obliged. My friend Stephen had come in town and joined us for this costume. We went in as Austin Powers, Dr. Evil, and a fembot. At previous chemos, I had gotten used to walking into one place. Going to the university hospital was different. We had to go to the lab on one floor, then to my oncologist’s office on another, then the infusion center on yet another. This was incredibly funny! The exposure to the costumes was bigger than ever before. People had the strangest reactions. Some couldn’t help but laugh but refused to make eye contact, some asked for pictures with us, some immediately started conversations with us. We continued to dance, laugh, crack jokes, and hand out lollipops as we walked around the hospital. And all the while, we had the Austin Powers theme song playing out of a speaker we had with us.

Austin Powers Chemo

I find myself at a bit of a loss these days when I face my treatment. The waiting game leaves me fiddling with my hands like a child nervous about a punishment. There are days that are harder than I think I can handle.  Then some that are surprisingly tenable. I went into this chemo thinking I'd be alright. After my four week break from treatment, I felt strong. I didn't expect the pain and extreme nausea. Waking in the middle of the night to empty my stomach with retching heaves was not the plan. It felt like someone had punched me hard and left a bloody pulp where my stomach was supposed to be. I finally went to my GP after a few days. She gave me a strong antacid and contacted my oncologist. Within an hour Dr. El Rayes' office called me and had me go into the infusion center for IV fluids and meds. I had started to feel better with the IV anti-nausea meds. So we proceeded with the pain meds. Within minutes I began throwing up again. This time it wasn't stopping. They took me to the hospital where they kept me overnight for observation and to stop the vomiting. The level of care I received was incredible, even if I was itching to go home.

Marti and me before the concert

I enter each challenge hoping that there will one day be an end to this. That maybe at some point I can live a normal life again. I think of the monotony of living with chronic illness. All I want is my life back. I wonder if it will come. But until then I turn to distracting myself with good times and music. So I went to visit my friends at the beach. This trip had been planned for months. We went to see Styx and REO Speedwagon. Then a few days later we saw Ratt. I love my eighties music. And though we had both been ill the week before, it was the music that healed us.

There are days that I hardly know that anything is wrong with me... until I catch a glimpse in a mirror or I see someone staring at me. It doesn't bother me, it's just a reminder. I've worn my hair so many different ways that it doesn't really matter. It's the children that are the funniest. Their raw, innocent honestly often leaves me with a smile on my face. I think the best was when I went to the airport and saw a little girl with golden curls staring at me. She couldn't have been more than 5. I smiled at her as I walked by. As soon as our gaze broke, she screamed at the top of her lungs, "Mommy! That lady has no hair!" I burst into laughter and couldn't help but think how mortified her mother must have been. She was just adorable.

Beavis and Butthead chemo

My next chemo was surprisingly doable. I went in, got my treatment without a hitch and finished with hardly any side effects but being a bit tired. This was great, because immediately after that I went to see my high school bestie. Her 5 year old daughter had received a kidney transplant a few months earlier and I felt the need to see the both of them. She had been diagnosed with a rare autoimmune disorder which led to the need for a new kidney mere months before my diagnosis.  I found the parallel of our fights for our lives so strange. Neither of us are out of the woods yet, but we both have defied the odds and survived when there was doubt that either of us would. I needed to spend time with her and to feel the comfort of being with one of my oldest and dearest friends. It was well needed for both me and Dena.

High school besties, friends for life

I've seen countless videos of moments of magic. People who suffer from cancer or other life threatening diseases. Meeting their idols or being swept away by a kind act. It makes me cry every time. I feel it deep in my heart. Throughout my entire being. My happiness for them mixing with the bittersweet knowledge of the daily pain and struggle. The fight for one instant of incredulity that drives the fight forward. It's amazing what one pure moment can do to push us into the next phase. To find the ability to progress when sometimes it feels like it never will. It helps to find the strength to take the next step when every light that guides you seems to have been extinguished. That when there seems to never be a reprieve, there might just be an extra push to not give up.

Cancer is ugly. I've never felt so hideous in my life. Not just physically, but within my being. You may not know by looking at me, but every day I look in the mirror and struggle to recognize myself. And I  realize that my care free days are over. I try to visit those days as often as I can, but they are no longer mine to keep. I know that the thrill of a first date is unreachable. That the loneliness of the lack of a possible future with someone is a constant companion. Because who would want someone so broken with cancer that there is no end to the suffering? I have no choice but to live with this, but who would voluntarily take that on? I have an amazing support system. I feel love all around me. And I am so truly thankful for it, but the intimacy of romantic love eludes me. And I have to come to terms with that. I have to focus on my health.

A good friend of mine recently told me that I'm not alone in this. And although I'm surrounded by loving people and incredible support, he was wrong. I am 100% alone in this. No one is doing this for me. This is my cross to bear. This is my body, my sorrow, my pain, and my fight. Yes, it affects everyone that knows me, everyone that has ever been or is close to me, but it's all mine in the end. It's my loss of independence. My loss of identity. My loss of health and physicality. My loss of everything I've ever built for myself. My loss of life as I knew it. And sometimes in the middle of all the love I get lost in the darkness of sorrow. And I allow myself that. To acknowledge it and then let it go. Holding onto it doesn't do me any good. But ignoring it doesn't either.

I think about how far I've come. Over a year later and I'm still kicking. Hard. Living as much as I can in between chemo sessions. None of it could happen without the graciousness of the caring people who have contributed to my life. Who make sure I have the means to remember that my life isn't just cancer. Then the good times find me and I let them propel me forward. My friends who give me plane tickets. The many that have donated to my bills, medical and otherwise. The ones who care enough to send packages or a sweet message. These things hand me gratitude on a daily basis. When I have my low moments, it's a reminder that there are people who support me. Really and truly. For each moment of magic, no matter what size, is gigantic in my world. The love, the laughter, the care, and charity that I feel directed towards me helps me find my footing in this dangerous dance with cancer. And I am thankful for even the smallest moments. Because even if I can't see the light to guide me out of this, I can feel the warmth that keeps me holding onto the hope that I one day might.

Dena and I

“One life

With each other

Sisters, brothers

One life

But we’re not the same

We get to carry each other

Carry each other

One”

“One” ~ U2

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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