Imagine

Treatment #3 is underway and (so far) going smoothly. No crazy blood-thirsty nurses; no Benadryl overdoses (it's juuust right!); no impulsive "I love you man's" directed at my wonderful caregivers. Just a routine day in the medical oncology treatment room. Ho-hum!

Warren and Bruce just left, they came up to have lunch with me and shoot the breeze a little bit. It does get boring being here for 6 hours, despite the fact that I bring enough stuff with me they think I'm moving in for a week (laptop, work, book, magazines, iPod, blanket, pillow, cell phones, lunch bag, etc.).

I sit here, halfway listening in to the conversations in adjoining cubbies (we are only separated by a curtain). My neigbor and a member of the housekeeping staff started the day with an animated conversation about the election of Barack Obama and the upcoming inauguration. The woman sounds elderly, and she seemed honored to have been able to witness an historical moment (and also pleased as punch that one of her family members will be attending the inauguration). Another conversation involved a nurse explaining the "do's and don'ts" of chemo to a new patient and his wife. As she cautioned against sexual relations in the first 48 hours after treatment, the wife piped up that they didn't need to worry about THAT - her husband wasn't even capable of lifting a spoon, much less lifting...well, you get the picture. The nurse gamely listened, insisted she didn't need to know the details, and tried to move on but the wife was insistent on sharing so that the nurse could be reassured that no sex wasn't going to be a problem. I can only imagine what my neighbors think about my own conversations (especially my Benadryl moments)!

Christmas was bittersweet. I loved watching the kids open their gifts, but I was still fighting the effects of a cold and had not quite the energy I would have liked (in fact, we missed Christmas Eve mass because of my fatigue). I loved having my whole family there, but got a little nauseated from the smell of cigarette smoke (my sister and brother-in-law smoke quite a bit, and although they don't smoke in my house, their clothes and gifts fairly reek of it). And I loved spending the day after Christmas with my in-laws (my brother-in-law Glenn hugged me so tightly on my arrival, not wanting to let go, wanting to make sure I knew how he was feeling without having to say so), but spent a good part of the drive home feeling sad about the prospect of these family get-togethers taking place without me.

It's interesting how hard it is to imagine a world without me in it. I think of family and friends who have died (Vinnie and my mother in particular) and although I miss them terribly and think of them almost daily, I see that the world has gone on. I see that while grief and sadness are inevitable after a loved one dies, so is joy and happiness. It's not just about leaving Taryn and Warren and Emily and Ian and all the changes that implies. What happens on Christmas when I'm gone? Does Bruce come over the house still, or does he spend it at home or in the bar? Does Glenn silently wonder what it would have been like if I were there? What happens during the year? Are vacation plans made? Do birthday parties happen? Are bills paid? On time? There are many things I can imagine, but me not being in the world is not one of them. I know that sounds narcissistic, but I suspect it is a rather universal feeling among those of us facing uncertainty in the future (which, when you get right down to it, is all of us).

So I try to reflect upon the things I have been lucky enough to enjoy these past 14 or so years since cancer took up permanent residence in my life. At various moments I didn't think I'd live long enough for Taryn to remember me (she was only 3 at the time of my first diagnosis), or long enough to meet and marry my best friend, or long enough to see Taryn's 13th birthday, or long enough to see Emily and Ian happy, or long enough to see all three of them graduate high school and go to college. And I continue to try to imagine the world WITH me in - my upcoming 50th birthday (GALAGANZA!); the kids graduating college, getting married, having children; retirement to North Carolina; new shoes on a regular basis. Magical thinking maybe (well, except for the shoes, that WILL happen) - but what is a world without magic anyhow?

Blessings and Love to All.

Crush With Eyeliner

I figure by now you all must be ready to handle the dome, so here it is. Admit it, that's a NICE head (and it's not even airbrushed!).

The time has come to put down the mascara wand and step slowly away from the make-up table. My eyelashes have just about completed their exodus, such that using mascara results in a weird kind of "Clockwork Orange" look (and here I thought "volume building" mascara could make 3 lashes look like 300). The Clinique employees are all crying, they know that without me purchasing mascara there will be no bonuses this year.

In many ways, no eyelashes is worse than no hair (and not just because I can't wear mascara). It's harder to put in my contacts - those of you that wear them, think about how you put them in. There's nothing to protect your eyes from sunlight and dust and gunk - plus, they get all rheumy, especially overnight. And let's not even go into the whole looking like an alien thing. False eyelashes you say? Not for me, I don't have the patience to put them on correctly. So, I pile on the eyeliner and eyeshadow instead (hey, maybe those Clinique employees have some hope after all) and thank God I don't need to bat my eyelashes at anyone!

It's almost New Year's Eve - what is your New Year's resolution going to be?

Doctor, Doctor

Monday's doctor visit was relatively routine (well, as routine as a visit to the oncologist can get!) - discussion about how I'm handling treatment, any side effects, what my mood is like, a cursory physical examination. She remarks that she will do the next treatment on the 30th (next Tuesday) and then 2 weeks after that do the PET Scan and CT Scan to determine how much more (if any) chemo to give. Bells and whistles go off - PET Scan? Last time we spoke it was only going to be the CT of the jaw; now she wants a whole body PET. Further questioning reveals that she is concerned about my tumor markers, which still seemed high after the first treatment. She says she will do blood work next Tuesday and see where I'm at - she'd like to see the markers at least stabilize if not go down.

I leave her office and the thoughts spiral WAY out of control: The chemo isn't working; the PET will show more spots; this is the beginning of "The End". All this stomach-churning, dizzying conjecture despite evidence and knowledge to the contrary - my jaw hasn't hurt in many weeks (she believes chemo is shrinking the tumor); the PET 3 months ago showed nothing other than the jaw tumor (what do I really think has changed?); she has shown no new sense of urgency regarding the findings, in fact delayed the CT Scan (she was originally going to do it this week). There is no reason for my level of agitation to increase like this. And THIS is what drives me crazy sometimes, what challenges my ability to stay positive, what makes me feel so completely and utterly ALONE, this downright mean unraveling of my present and pulverizing of my future.

I drive home from the doctor's office, breathing...breathing...breathing...until I arrive back at "today" and remember that there is nothing I can do that I am not already doing to regain my health and prolong my life and maintain my composure and enjoy the time I have with all those I love and cherish. Peace descends upon my mind. For now.

It is Christmas Eve and I anticipate with pleasure, as I have for 17 years now, Taryn opening her gifts tomorrow morning and squealing with delight. It is as joyful today as it was when she was young and I thank God again for the privilege of being her mother.

Blessings to all on this most holy of nights and may Jesus fill your hearts as Santa fills your stockings!

Girls Talk

One by one we make our way to the restaurant we've chosen to gather in for the evening. We greet each other with hugs, with kisses, with admiration for our outfits/ boots/ hairstyle/ earrings. We order a glass of wine. We exchange gifts - some birthdays have been missed, and some have brought small holiday trinkets for all. We share stories about work (and looking for work); about our children (growing up so fast, how did we become parents of a 17-year-old? A 15-year-old? A 12-year-old? A 10-year-old?); our spouses (love them, love their crazy ways); our holiday plans. We debate the wisdom of the auto industry bailout; we confess our love for "The Amazing Race" and People magazine. We order another glass of wine (after all, we are not driving - this is New York City!). We laugh about how our daughters (and our sons sometimes too) are so label conscious ("She wants Coach and Juicy Couture"), but we are grateful that we can still provide some of what they want, and we are proud that despite our spoiling them they are still compassionate and loving with an awareness of the fact that others are not so fortunate. We talk politics, but refrain from intense debate among this gathering of both liberals and conservatives. We share our favorite authors and recommend books we think each other will enjoy. We talk about the past, we talk about the present, we talk about the future. We eat heartily (fish for everyone else and meat for me!) and we don't skip dessert.

What we also don't do is spend an inordinate amount of time talking about cancer. For three some-odd hours, I am just one participant in the ritual of Girls' Night Out (Holiday Edition), one of six (although it's usually seven - you were missed Patti) and I get to enjoy these amazing women with intriguing life stories, astonishing strength, bold ideas, unique perspectives and wonderful senses of humor. I am by turns melancholy (what will these nights be like when I am no longer there?) and uplifted (how fulfilling to have friendships such as these), looking forward to our next get-together, and hoping there will be many more.

Patty, Mary, Jackie, Elisa and Mary - you rock! Thanks for a GREAT evening.

Oh Christmas Tree

This is a photo of my hot, young, blond, sexy niece "JonnaLee." Ha! Fooled you, it's really me, in my new "cranial prosthesis." (And those of you that were taken in, get some glasses, please!) I admit, I'm still getting used to it, but the reaction so far has been mostly positive. Either that, or it's like on the Sopranos, when Tony thought he was funny, and then realizes that people just laugh at his jokes because he's the boss. You all may just be telling me it looks good so as not to distress me further. If so, let me assure you...you're doing the right thing!

The cumulative effects of chemo are beginning to be apparent. While I feel quite well, I can tell that my energy level is not quite the same as it was at this point last time after chemo. It's subtle, but detectable to me, although maybe not apparent to everyone else. That is probably because, as far as I can tell, my mood has rebounded in about the same time frame as last time, maybe even a little quicker (no post-weekend meltdowns this time...Chris is relieved!), perhaps helped along by the fact that my favorite holiday is approaching (no, not my birthday, you sillies..by the second most celebrated birthday of the year - Jesus's!).

We are having our tree-trimming party today, an annual affair that involves inviting family, friends and neighbors over to hang the gazillion and one ornaments I have on our two trees (one real tree and one artificial tree that we had when we were trapped in the Residence Inn for Christmas). It is one of our family rituals, beginning with the youngest person hanging the first ornament, going on up to the oldest, and finishing with a free-for-all with all the remaining ornaments (I have almost as many ornaments as I have shoes). Did I mention that I take a picture of each person hanging their ornament as well? And a group picture at the end? And that it takes about 2 hours to get it all done? Although, it would probably go quicker if there weren't so many cocktail breaks, which by the way, I am unfortunately excluded from this year, at which revelation I hear my guests shouting, "Yay, more for us!" So, who wants to join us next year? Show of hands please!

Taryn and Ian take off work for this. Emily comes home from college for this. Friends train in and drive in from the city and beyond (sometimes they even fly in). My brother helps me pick out the perfect tree and he and Warren meticulously put the lights on it for beautiful effect. My sister and brother-in-law and uncle and stepdad never fail to participate. This is one of those rituals that will last long after I am gone, I realize. Maybe not in exactly the same way (although I am willing to leave detailed instructions if need be), but it has turned out to be an important, joyful event in all our lives.

And at the end of the day, when everyone has gone home, I turn out the house lights and gaze at the twinkling tree, branches heavy with my many memories, and I am grateful for this day, for these people, for this life.

Shouts outs this week: Glenn and Sharon (I have a nice warm head!); Trish (I'm still laughing at your stories - start a blog, please!); Stephane and Naomi (who was late to her birthday party just so she could make sure I knew she was thinking of me); Jim and Vicky (you should know we've been calling it "Vickyfruit" each time we have some with dinner); Jim S. (thanks for reaching out...and for enjoying the hockey fights with me!); Tim H. (the pecker is UP!); and finally, Chris (there is not enough space to describe all the reasons you deserve a shout out this week - just know that I am thankful you've been in my life these past 26+ years).

Deck the halls and fa la la la la!

Apologize

At one point on Saturday evening, I looked at the clock and sorrowfully moaned to Warren and Chris, "It's only 5:00." The time between when I start feeling badly and when I start feeling better seems interminable, although it is typically less than 48 hours. It is a joyless time, for me and for those around me - I can see how painful it is for my family to see me weak, tearful, hurting, at a loss to stop the depressing thoughts swirling around in my head. I am sure there are secret tears that I don't see and I want to say to them over and over "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry" for bringing this misery down upon them.

It is just wrong that I should be held tightly by my 17-year-old daughter while I weep, she tenderly stroking my back, kissing my cheek, whispering that she loves me and telling me to stop apologizing. It is wrong that my husband and Taryn's dad should stand by helplessly while I pace the living room floor screaming, "This is stupid! It's stupid to go through this a third time! It's better to die!" It is wrong that the fallout from this illness filters out to so many, much like (here's some irony) a tumor spiders out as it grows.

I can see why people get to a point where they say "Enough." It is not because we are not strong, or because we have lost hope, or because there are no options left (although I'm sure that is true sometimes). I think it is because we want to stop the suffering felt by our loved ones; we want them to start healing and stop hurting. And while it is true that I am a long way from "enough," I can understand how it is one arrives there.

Forty-eight hours have come and gone. Depression fades. Amnesia sets in. Smiles begin. But I need to share all of this journey and so I will apologize to you as I have (rightly or wrong) apologized to everyone this weekend - I'm sorry this has to be part of your life too.

The Most Beautiful Girl in the World

You just know it's going to be a fun day when your nurse, inserting the IV in your arm, says "Oops, we got a little bloodbath here."

Currently, I am at my second chemo treatment. The aforementioned nurse, adorable and perky, is actually quite competent and very funny (one of my diva requirements for treatment). After I laughed and noted, "Gee, that's what every patient likes to hear, she went on to say, "Yeah, that and words like 'massacre' and 'we've got a bleeder here'." Not to worry, I clean up nicely and we continued on. I did warn her about my tendency to get mushy about my nurses when the Benadryl kicks in - she called the doctor and got my dosage halved (only sort of kidding there - I had asked for a lower dose when I saw my doctor on Monday. No one needs THAT much of a good time at chemo). All in all, we are progressing and by 4:00 pm or so I should be well on my way to fatigue and depression - yay!

This (see picture) I call "Transition Hair," a sort of way station between my real hair and the wig I now sport. Yeah, I know I look a little scary (Warren kept making me laugh) - but it worked well for a few days (no piles of hair all over the place) until I could pick up my wig yesterday. But that's a "teaser" for the next post, a sort of cliffhanger although instead of "Who Shot J.R.?" or "Will House and Cuddy ever get together?" it's "What does DonnaLee look like in her new 'do?" I will say this: Cost for new wig - $700. Cost to style new wig - $50. Cost for hair products for new wig - $35. Seeing Taryn's glowing smile and hearing her excitedly exclaim, "You're so pretty Mommy!" - priceless. She made me feel like...well, the title says it all.

There was a great My Turn essay in Newsweek this week called "The Picture of Health" by Kim Lute. In it, she describes 13+ years of illnesses and procedures, hospitals and ambulances, transplants and maintenance drugs, all to stay alive with the various and sundry diseases she has been diagnosed with. She argues that although she is conventionally described as "unhealthy," her circumstances really reflect the life of a healthy person and that perhaps health needs to be redefined. While doctors see her "relative to a set of finite radiology or pathology reports," while neighbors see her as "wan" and fragile, she sees herself thus: "I see a body that heals quickly after trauma, one that mercifully forgets the pain of biopsies, surgeries and colonoscopies, one that remembers its strengths." She finishes with a wonderful observation that really spoke to me: "I understand that many will not see me as healthy, that they'll continue to punctuate every inquiry with condolences. I'm not even sure how best to redefine the concept of what is and isn't healthy, but I hope any such definition will underscore that the presence of illness isn't nearly as important as one's ability to overcome it." I couldn't have said it better!

Still fighting the good fight - blessings and love to all.

Kind and Generous

Thanksgiving weekend is coming to a close, and I am blessed with feeling good, feeling full, and feeling ready to take on treatment #2 on Thursday. I had my family over, even did the cooking (well, except for the mashed potatoes, that's my brother Bruce's job), and we all watched the hapless Detroit Lions lose yet another football game. And although Emily and Ian were missing from our table (visiting with their mom and brother), it was a loving and wonderful gathering, making me thankful for all I have.

Update on THE HAIR: I really underestimated the creepiness of losing my long hair. Last time around, it was already very short because of the cranial biopsy, and so it was almost unnoticeable when it started falling out. Saturday it started coming out in handfuls, and although my hair is very thick and the loss wasn't obvious, it freaked me out nonetheless. I was definitely going to need a bigger garbage pail in the bathroom! It so happened that this same day I had an appointment to pick up my wig from the wig salon (it needed just a little TLC to bring it back to its former glory), and to choose a new wig - Taryn does NOT like the old wig and was intent on getting me into a style and color more pleasing to her. Stay tuned - I'm going to look quite different in a few days!

Truth be told...I already look quite different. After dropping Taryn off at home so she could get ready for work, I got in the car and headed over to the salon where I get my nails and hair done. I burst into tears and told Maz (the owner, who also does my nails) that I couldn't handle the way my hair was coming out and could they make time for me to at least get it cut and possibly buzzed. An hour and a half later I was in the chair, Lorraine (my stylist) struggling mightily to fashion a reasonable cut from hair that refused to stay attached, that changed from straight to curly the shorter it got, that went left when she cut it to go right. She worked so hard, and with such compassion, on a client that can't help but be disappointed no matter what the result and who is not going to be using her services for many, many months. I can't say that I am happy with how I look (I believe it's impossible to achieve an attractive outcome under these circumstances), but my heart is once again touched by this immediate responsiveness and amazing generosity of spirit. And as if Maz and Lorraine weren't already my heroes - they wouldn't even let me pay.

I am not looking forward to losing my hair - but I am thankful that I have choices that many women do not have with respect to managing my appearance. I am not looking forward to my next chemo - but I am thankful that treatments exist to manage my disease. I am not happy that I have cancer - but I am thankful that it is me and not my daughter, my husband, my family, my friends.

Shout outs this week: The Stein family (thanks for the yummy meal!); Maz and Lorraine (you guys rock); Julie Sempey; and Taryn (Black Friday shopping, Taco Bell and sharing a prayer for Grandma Ann. This is what I'm fighting for princess).

Sister Golden Hair

So, I'm in Ulta Saturday, picking up hair spray for Taryn because she keeps going in and stealing mine. And I figure - well, she's been using it every day, I really should get another can because I don't want to run out. I pick up the large can of Shaper ("30% More Free!"), turn to leave - and start laughing because...it's the exact same thing I did 4 years ago, a week before I lost all my hair. This time, luckily, I caught myself before I spent the money!

The hair, it's a funny thing. It's "THE HAIR." So much time and energy is spent dealing with something that has little to no bearing on your physical healing, yet everything to do with emotional healing. Will I lose my hair? When will I lose my hair? When will it grow back? Should I get a wig? And even though I've been through this before, and know some of the answers already, it is no less an issue because it's "THE HAIR." See, I had just gotten to a point where my hair was the length and cut that I wanted in order to grow it out a little more - could this cruel twist of fate be any funnier? Now instead of debating whether to go back to my original golden blond color, I'm left with thinking, "Will it grow back curly again?" "Will it come in even darker...or (gasp) gray?" and "Am I still a cute bald chick?!"

THE HAIR is still hanging in there for now, but it doesn't have long. I've got the tingly, "hair feels as though it's floating on top of my scalp instead of being attached to it" feeling. And while I look forward to all the money to be saved on hair care and styling products (savings best used for shoes I would argue!); while I confess that yes, there is something quite nice about running my hands over a smooth pate; and while 15 minutes of extra sleep because I don't have to blow dry and not having to shave my legs are bonuses worth bragging about, I must admit - I am sad to lose it, sad to be confronted with stark evidence of my illness, sad to have to think about starting all over again with growing it out. Not crazy sad (after all, I already know I AM damn good-looking bald), just (sigh) sad.

Start dusting off your bald jokes and nicknames - I'm counting on all of you to keep me laughing once THE HAIR makes its escape!

Sad Sad Sad/Happy

Monday: Feeling crappy during the day, singing in my car at night
Tuesday: Enjoying a "Girls Night Out", completely shot by the time I drive home
Wednesday: Most miserable day ever - after leaving a meeting at the LaGuardia Marriott drove home crying hysterically all the way (thanks for listening, Chris, sorry for melting down on you), in pain physically and emotionally, so exhausted that Warren has to iron my shirts for the next day (yes, he did a great job)
Thursday: Woke up feeling so good I was afraid to even acknowledge it, like "announcer jinx" - you know, when the sports announcer says right before the snap "This quarterback hasn't thrown an interception in the last 15 games", you KNOW what happens next, AND the other team runs it back for a touchdown! And yet, the good feeling has lasted all day long, in fact it has probably been the best day since chemo started.

They warned me there might be "mood changes." I know from experience that I do get the occasional "mood swings." But this is positively bi-polar!

Shout outs this week: my mother-in-law, Carole (everybody pick up stock in Hallmark, she is single-handedly making them profitable this quarter); my yoga instructors Leslie and Sumati (those breathing exercises really work!); Kevin ("you can pick up a Sarah Palin wig cheap"); Patti, Patty and Jackie (Mmmm soy chicken!); Dan the Man (you're a keeper!); and MJ and Lysa (you guys HAD to have been cheerleaders in high school!)

Blessings and Love!

Steal My Sunshine

Well, at least I still have my hair...for now.

This was a rougher weekend than I anticipated. After treatment on Thursday, I was feeling pretty good. Even went to work on Friday. But after going to get my Neulasta shot Friday night, things went slowly downhill. For the uninitiated, Neulasta is a supplemental chemotherapy that boosts my production of white blood cells in the bone marrow. Unfortunately, that beneficial result comes at the expense of some VERY severe bone pain (think growing pains times 100) throughout Saturday and Saturday night. I woke up about every 20 minutes during the night (those of you have had children know what that's like, and how absolutely draining it is the next day). Wait...there's more. Our Emily had come home to work in her law office Saturday, ended up twisting her ankle and having to be taken to the emergency room by Warren. So Warren, Ian and Taryn had to deal with tears and pain multiplied by 2. Needless to say, there were more meltdowns Saturday night than at a Carvel without electricity.

Sunday started in promising fashion - Taryn and I went to church to teach our regular Sunday school class (The lesson: Elisha Heals Naaman. How's that for coincidence? We spent the class talking about hospitals, doctors, and medicine!). It did me good to see the kids, but I confess to being exhausted afterwards. The bone pain finally got bad enough that Warren went to our local pharmacy and secured some Tylenol PM for me, which did, in fact work wonders (I personally would have called my niece, Dr. Laura 24, for advice since she is the BEST PHARMACIST ON THE PLANET, but I guess Warren was at the end of his rope by then and forgot). Yes...I missed the end of the final NASCAR race of the season (my #20 came in 9th), but the blissful, comatose sleep I enjoyed was well worth it.

And today was...OK. Really. I went into work (yay - Thea is back!) despite various and sundry continuing side effects, some I expected (having been through this before) and some I am still getting used to. My dreams are vivid (last night's: Barack and Michelle Obama participating in "The Amazing Race." I knew I shouldn't have watched 60 minutes right before!); my appetite is strong but some things just...taste...funny; and the tingling below my knees and down to my feet is downright disconcerting (and new to me as a side effect) - although it did NOT stop me from wearing high heels today!

The worst side effect though, is how treatment steals my optimism. How it turns my sunny outlook into a tsunami of despair and robs me of the memory of all the positive things my doctors have said. How it negates the tremendous outpouring of love and support I have already experienced in the short time since I was diagnosed. It is the meanest of all the side effects, the one that makes me think it would be better to stop treatment and try to enjoy what little time I might have left.

And then...blessedly...that side effect diminishes too, and I read your amazing e-mails and comments, and I see my daughter's beautiful face, and my husband brings me a perfect ham and swiss sandwich, and I find myself singing out loud to "Devil With A Blue Dress" in my driveway tonight. So "steal my sunshine" if you will, but I will wrestle it right back from you (um, as soon as the Tylenol PM wears off that is!)

As always, thanks for listening. Your love, your prayers, your good wishes - I can FEEL them, wonderful friends. I CAN FEEL THEM.

Sky High

On November 13, 1994 I felt a lump in my breast. On November 13, 2008 I started chemotherapy for the third time. And 13 is my lucky number??!!

Right now, I am hooked up to allow poisonous chemicals to enter my body. These chemicals (Taxol and carboplatin to be exact) "injure cancer cells causing their death" (got that straight from the fact sheet folks). The journey to health has begun.

A few more doctor visits and I now have a treatment plan. The purpose of the chemotherapy right now is to attempt to shrink the tumor as much as possible before surgery. The surgery (a very involved procedure that will include reconstruction and rehabilitation) will most likely take place sometime in January or early February. Then more chemo after that to grab the "leftover" cells. Hey, this is no walk in the park!

Before they administer the chemo, they pre-treat with anti-nausea and anti-allergy medication. They shot me up with (among a few other things) some really amazing Benadryl - these nurses deal nothing but the best, let me tell you. I was flying higher than the space shuttle for awhile. Coming back down a bit now, but not too much that I can't still say "I Love You Man."

Told the kids about the situation. Needless to say, they took it hard, but did seem to understand that as difficult as the process might be, the outcome will be worth it. Taryn even (after crying just a bit), God bless her, made a couple of jokes. She was planning a night out with a girlfriend and 2 guy friends that night. I said to her, "Now don't you go letting this boy get to first base tonight...or any other base for that matter." She replied (with a smile and a mug face), "Don't worry, you killed it with the cancer news." Emily we unfortunately had to tell over the phone since she's away at college, so that was difficult for her to absorb. Warren (who spoke with her) said she was hyperventilating a bit, but when we spoke the next day she understood a little better that this was going to be OK. Ian held it together, but I can tell he was hurting. We focused on the positive - it's a curable event; we are in our own home instead of the hotel (like last time!), they are older now and can understand the circumstances better; and they can drive (away from the situation if needed).

There has been an outpouring of support from everyone and as always I am grateful to be so blessed. Yes, there were a lot of audible gasps, sad puppy dog faces (in words), and (some) teary-sounding replies but for the most part you all seemed to share the same optimism that I feel. Which makes me feel like I was in fact able to convey the positive outcome I believe is headed my way. But heck, just in case you weren't sure, here's a picture of me on my way to chemo this morning. Gotta keep up on those work e-mails!

So far, I feel very good (well, I guess, VERY GOOD until the Benadryl wears off). There are moments I am overwhelmed ("So how many time CAN someone go through chemo before the body can't take it anymore?") and moments when I feel terribly, unbelievably lucky ("Today I woke up breathing, I live in the greatest country in the world, and I have a compassionate and loving group of family, friends and colleagues.") The moods will change, the reality will not, and life will go on.

Thanks for listening. You are all my heroes! Now let me get back to my Benadryl high.

Devil Inside

I call it "The Sad News, The Bad News, and The Good News." The sad news - I have another (2nd) recurrence of my cancer. The bad news - it will involve a more difficult treatment process than last time around. The good news - like the last recurrence, this one too is curable (even though the disease itself is not).

It's in my jaw. Left mandible to be exact. I am in the process of figuring out a treatment process with my doctors, but so far it will involve chemotherapy and surgery at the least. We're talking 3 or so cycles of chemo, surgery, recovery, and then another 3 cycles or so of chemo. The "bad" part is the surgery - it is potentially quite extensive, and I won't really know for sure until Monday, when I see the surgeon again. So...stay tuned. Further updates to come.

I have shared the news with a few people (could your faces be any sadder?), but not with Taryn or Emily or Ian yet. One thing I learned from the last go-round is not to tell them until there is a specific treatment plan. Otherwise, there are too many questions, too many fears. Of course, I could just be engaging in my usual avoidance behavior when it comes to confronting this issue. I can't imagine anything worse than springing this on them again, and it breaks my heart to think that Taryn especially has to hear this news about her mother one more time (and, unfortunately, probably not for the last time either). Not to mention how bad the timing is - she and Ian are both seniors, enjoying their last year of high school, writing their college essays, filling out applications, planning interviews and visits. I wanted so much for all of us (Warren and I included) to enjoy the process as they narrow down their hundreds of choices to a few select universities, and next spring, finally choosing one to attend. How am I going to be able to convince them that this won't effect their lives...when I know it inevitably will? This fact makes me sadder than just about anything else about this whole crazy deal.

There are times in the last couple of weeks when fear has overwhelmed me. There have been equally as many times when I've been calm and at peace with what lies ahead (both short term and long term). I don't want to do this again, but as you all know, I have "Four Reasons" why I must.

Well, I think we can all agree that... this really sucks! I've quite the journey ahead and I appreciate everyone taking the time to follow my story as it develops. I'll try not to be too boring or too graphic (at least not without a disclaimer first!) or too insensitive to the fact that this is hurting all of you as well, my dear friends and family.

Walk This Way

Each morning my commute takes me north along the Cross Island Parkway from the Long Island Expressway to the Throgs Neck Bridge. There is a bike path that runs alongside the eastern side of the parkway; an inlet off Long Island Sound is on the other side of the bike path. I've been traveling this route for over fourteen years and have witnessed countless walkers, joggers, bikers, and roller-bladers in that time. I've even roller-bladed there myself a time or two (yes, many years ago). I've never been more than a casual observer (too busy watching out for the drivers who just can't see my invisible truck), but one day several months ago I began noticing a man and woman walking that path every day in the early morning.

I think I first began to routinely notice their presence because they dressed in matching outfits. Their coordinated attire was simple - usually they had on black sweatpants and tee-shirts of the same color (red, orange, blue - they switched it up each day). But it caught my eye. I began to look for them - companionably strolling at a brisk pace, keeping pace with each other, even venturing out in inclement weather. I couldn't really tell you what they look like except that they are short and Asian - I typically drive by too quickly to get a good look. But I can pick them out among the other runners and ramblers populating the path. I imagine them as a husband and wife, kids grown and out of the house, having worked hard and retired and now enjoying each other's company in a way they haven't been able to previously. I see them and I wonder if I will live long enough to have the luxury of a long stroll with my own husband.

And now, I find myself actually looking for them as I transport myself to my job. I eagerly scan the bike path, looking for those matching shirts (or jackets or pants), one eye on the car in front of me and one eye on the trail. I am unexpectedly tickled when I spy them; indeed, recently I have been offering a greeting (albeit one that is only heard by me) as soon as I spot them - a cheery "Hi Guys!" For reasons I cannot fathom, seeing them makes me look forward to starting my work day.

They don't know it, but they make me smile every day. Their routine has become part of my routine. They help me appreciate today as well as look forward to the good things to come tomorrow. Hopefully, in some way, we all do the same for somebody else unknown to us.

Man! I Feel Like A Woman!

It's Super Tuesday and if I hear one more time Hillary Clinton referred to as "Hillary" while Barack Obama is referred to as "Obama" my head may explode. Trust me, I am not going to get "confused" and think that Bill is running for President so I wish the media would either refer to her as Clinton...or refer to Obama as Barack (I'm not picky, either choice would be more respectful that what is currently offered up).

My stepson, who is 16 and seems particularly interested in this election, perhaps because his older sister can vote this year, asked me who I was going to vote for. Normally, I don't share this with the kids in an effort to make any household political discussions be about issues vs. personalities, and also so I can offer up alternative points of view to stimulate their thought processes (easier to do if they don't know who I voted for or will vote for). But the last time he asked, I said "Clinton." He wanted to know why, so I told him because I am in favor of supporting a woman for President. He became indignant (as only 16 year old boys can do), huffing and puffing that I should only support the BEST candidate for the job, not base my selection on gender. I agreed, but noted that should the candidates be fairly equal in my view (and they are) I would absolutely choose a woman in order to advance the cause of what some call feminism, but which I like to call equalism, or sometimes humanism.

Thus was borne a "teaching moment." I reminded him that for 225+ years Americans deliberately and consciously chose male Presidents and believed that this was how our government ought to be. That even today, many Americans will NOT vote for Clinton and their decision will be based solely on her gender, whether they admit it or not. That while I'm not comfortable with the "it's our turn" rhetoric (that is not a good reason to choose a woman President), I am comfortable noting that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Let's not elect another man for President and expect a sea change in our country. After all, so much of what I read seems to indicate we Americans want some changes - and I don't think we're insane (well, most days I don't think so...but that's a post for a different time).

I'm sure I didn't change his mind - but as long as I get him to think, I am hopeful that I am raising a son who will be a humanist in the long run. He is nothing if not open-minded. Last year, his stepsister (my daughter) was making preparations for a small sweet 16 dinner with family and friends, about 35 of us. It was not lost upon my son that this was going to cost some money, and knowing that boys don't typically have these kinds of parties, confidently asked if he could "have the cash" in lieu of a big birthday bash.

His dad and I laughingly declined, and he challenged us: "Well, what do I get if she gets this big, expensive party?" I told him this: "You have the privilege of earning $1.00 for every $.79 that your sister will earn throughout your lives. I'm sure that will more than make up for that which you believe you lack right now." As a math whiz, he quite quickly calculated the benefit - and conceded the point.

I'm A Believer

On October 11, 2004 I met my girlfriends for dinner, a semi-regular ritual "Girls Night Out" that has become tamer as the years have gone by, but is nevertheless a joyful and eagerly awaited event. On that night we discussed much - husbands and kids (nice to be away from them!); work and health (stress from work the main complaint); politics and religion (yeah, we're pretty brave considering we've got both staunch conservatives and die-hard liberals in our bunch). One friend offered up a thoughtful and emotional toast, celebrating my upcoming 10-year anniversary of breast cancer survivorship.

Three weeks later, on November 5, 2004, I was diagnosed with a recurrence, this time metastatic breast cancer that had spread to the bone in my skull. Celebration over.

I've now been in remission (again) for almost 3 years, a long time considering the diagnosis. The physical, psychological and spiritual fallout has been at times crushing and at times liberating. It's not just losing the feeling of invincibility, the fantasy of immortality that we all embrace most of the time that is so devastating. It's losing it after waiting so long the first time to regain it. It reminds me of when my mother would quit drinking, how excited I would get about spending time with a healthy parent, how thrilled I was that I could call her in the evenings and not end up speaking with an incoherent drunk, how I could (finally) leave my young daughter with her to enjoy her Grandma, how I BELIEVED that she was past alcoholism and I would never again have to distance myself from her lifestyle. How foolish I felt when she started up again. How silly I was to think I was cured. How hard it is not to fall for the lie again.

I used to call myself the "eternal optimist." As with many things in my life, modifications are necessary. I learned how to enjoy my mother with limits on our relationship, and she died knowing that she was loved and cherished by her firstborn. And I am now a "variable intermittent optimist," still anticipating that I'll live a long life, just not as often or in as many situations as I used to - but still a believer.

Behind Blue Eyes

Who knew it would be this hard to create the first post. One minute I want to be profound, the next I want to make people laugh out loud. My aim in this blog, I suppose, is to do both while at the same time creating a mechanism for me to explore my own self and reflect upon my life's journey so far. (Ummm, note to self: you have GOT to be kidding me with that last line!).

Go ahead - Hit "Publish Post" and get on with it.

"No one knows what it's like..."