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

Want to find out how you can help me fight this battle?

Click HERE for more information on Crowdfunding the cause to kick the hell out of cancer.