The last week

I'm sitting here on my couch on a Sunday night, and I can't help but think... I've lived a lifetime in the last seven days.

That's the thing about being in the in-between, time drags. And it flies. And, somehow, seven days can feel like seven months. It's crazy.

On Tuesday, we walked out of Dr. H's office and sat in the waiting room (because I was too weak/tired/overwhelmed with my options to stand), so I could fill Steve in on some of the Homsi history, and he looked at me and said, "Having to delay a few days might not be the worst thing ever. You need some time off chemo."

Uhm, yeah. I did need some time off. ... I'm still tired, and my rib hurts like crazy, and I'm just awake enough to have an awareness of how bad the chemo brain really is (I seriously couldn't think of people's names at church today... scary), but man, it's been great to have another week off. (The week to go to Houston and back hardly even counts. Beyond the travel, I had a cold, and that made me miserable. This week was way better.)

Here's some of the stuff I did this week:

Had a "light" (I say that totally tongue in cheek) lunch with Steve on Monday. Mmmm... Logan's.

Went to the movies (The Peanuts Movie) and DQ with the Wood family.

Ate at Chili's. Twice. (Listen, they have wings now. And that creamy jalapeno sauce is awesome!)

Ran into work for a good 30 min, maybe 45. (And then I brought stuff home. It's not like I'm totally unproductive.)

Discovered that my mouth can tolerate the bubbles in soda again. Viva la Dr. Pepper! (I went to Fiiz with Judy and got not one, but two, 32 oz Diet DP's with coconut and cream. My total favorite!)

Spent three hours with Jo (and approx 20 min with a peanut butter and hot fudge sundae) at DQ, kidless! (That's right, DQ twice, in one week. I am the luckiest girl in the world!)

Ate Panda Express and Taco Bell and Carl's Jr. Goooooood times! (I know. I'm a 41 yr old woman who loves fast food. But seriously, it's SO good!)

The Cheesecake Factory. Chopped salad with blue cheese dressing and lemon raspberry cheesecake. It was a practically perfect day!

Kneader's turkey, bacon and avocado salad. And soup. And raspberry cream pie.

Had Ben & Jerry's for the first time since... I honestly can't remember. (My tummy doesn't love it, but my mouth does.)

I went to church. For the first time since I started chemo. .... In November. (It's funny, how much I don't love to get up and go to church on Sundays until it's a choice that I cannot make. I have missed those people, and the music, and the reason to wear a pretty dress.)

Not everything about this week was awesome. But you know what? Not everything was awful, either. The this-or-that chemo riddle was about the most frustrating thing ever. (For real. As much as I do appreciate Homsi thinking outside the box and tossing another option into the ring, honestly. That about killed me.) But it was seriously so great to spend time with people that I haven't been able to just hang out with in months. It has been fabulous to get out of my house, and go out and feel like a normal person for a few days.

Currently, I'm scheduled to go in for chemo on Friday. Which is noooooot as soon as I'd like to get that started, but what with the holiday weekend, and the fact that the pharmacist had to order the meds, since it's such a new drug and they don't have much occasion to use it, Friday is the tentative date. It's possible that they can get me in sooner, once the insurance approval comes in. But it's not for sure. As much as it makes me nervous that that'll be almost three full weeks off the juice, I mean... let's get real. It's not like what I was on before was doing anything. So, I'll take another five days of feeling semi-human.

I didn't get a whole lot of pics of the good times last week, but here are a few.

This is Jude and me at Fiiz. Please note that this was Wednesday night and I had the patchy bald thing going on. (Honestly, I hadn't ever realized how bad the patches were until I posted a pic to fb that night and then saw it enlarged on the laptop screen. Man alive, that was bad news bears!)

So... I shaved it off Thursday morning, in an effort to make myself look like less of a weirdo.

Just in time to have a conversation with Zarzour that afternoon, which led to me deciding to go with Trabectedin for my next couple rounds. Which, ironically, does not cause hair loss.

So, now I'm shaved bald and am about to start a chemo regimen that wouldn't have made me lose the few wonky hairs that I had left. Oh well, at least now, when it comes back, it'll all be same length. (And I have this sweet, domed, head for a few days. Wahoo!)

At Dairy Queen with Jo's girls Saturday afternoon. (I tried to take a selfie with all of the girls AND Rook, but my arm, frankly, isn't long enough to cram six people into the frame. They were all lousy. So, what I have is this pic that Jo took with her phone and then texted me.)

Last week was hard. But it was also awesome. Emotionally, I was all over the place... and sometimes straight up off the chart. 

But I got to see Gimbel and Amanda for a second when I was at MDA on Tuesday. And I got to talk to my cousin Greg (he helped translate the PET verbiage, since neither oncologist had made that top priority). And I got to see a movie in the theater, and go out to eat a bunch of times. And Charla and Wyndie came over and chatted for hours, and Katie Harris came to visit me. I was able to spend hours this past week with girlfriends, and I haven't been able to just hang out and chat like that in months. Judy and I got to spend an entire day together when I was feeling good. Dad came down to pick Jude up for their anniversary weekend, and we got to hang out for a few hours. I got to see my work friends. I had two real, actual, out-of-my-house dates with Steve. And I stayed up past midnight one day this week, like a normal grownup.

Life is hard. I mean, really... REALLY... hard sometimes. And the last few weeks/months have (okay, the last year has) been pretty special. But I'm grateful for all of the living I was able to cram into the last week while I have been waiting for the next phase to begin.

Life is hard, but it is also awesome. And I'm really glad that I have people in my life who want eat wings and cheesecake and ice cream with me for as long as I can.

Six months

Six months ago, on May 18th, I sat in Dr. H's office and he dropped the 3-6 months bomb on me.

Aaaaaaaaaand, turns out his timeline was pretty right on, as far as me not being able to live more than six months without major medical intervention.

I was in Houston last week for tests, and... this bad boy is growing like a weed. The hot spot in my back has roughly doubled in the two months between scans, and I have another spot in the front that is showed hot on last week's pet. We're not sure if that's a new tumor growing among my bowels, or if that's an indicator that the previously well-differentiated mass in/around my bowels is now progressing to de-differentiated. (As much as we all know that I do love buying myself a fancy purse for every tumor, my fingers are crossed that this isn't a new little dude. I'm hopeful that it's the mass progressing to de-diff, because that means chemo may be able to impact what is generally referred to as "the amorphous mass" on my medical reports.)

Anyhoo, the long and short of it is... It appears that my body is out to kill me again. So, I'm going back on chemo next week. (Yes, it's crappy to start chemo the week of Thanksgiving, but listen. If it'll save my life, I'll give up a pecan pie and some potatoes and gravy.)

Dr. Z gave me some options. I'll show them to you, for the medical people out there.

I'll do another post on another day that goes into more detail on the treatment plan I chose to go with (#1), but the long and short of it is that it'll be outpatient this time. Different drugs, with a different treatment plan = a different way to deliver the meds. Instead of living on the cancer floor at the hospital for a week out of every month, I'll be hooked up to an IV pole in the infusion center for about 3 hours twice a month. Just as before, the plan is two rounds of chemo then a scan to make sure it's working, then two more rounds and a scan, ad nauseum, until it stops working and then we'll go to a different chemo blend.

I've had a lot of people reach out this week, wondering what's going on and how I'm doing, because I haven't been posting as often. Well... this is what's going on. And I'm alright.

I am tired, but I'm alright. In many ways, I'm grateful for the timeline that was handed me six very short months ago, because it helped me realize, on a deeper level, how important it is to truly LIVE every day. I have had bad days, for sure, but there have been so many more good than bad. I've been able to go back to work (only part time, but it's been such a blessing to have something I can do with my time that yields measurable results), I've been able to travel and spend time with friends and family. I can't eat all of the delicious foods in the world, but I have loved the crap out being able to eat like a semi-normal human again.

I have been living and loving. Every day. For six months. I may not have written much about it, but that's because being out there, doing all of the things, took so much energy that I didn't have anything left to write with.  Maybe next week, when I'm tied to a recliner in the infusion center, I'll start going through the pics in my phone and I'll catch ya'll back up. (Big. Fat. Maybe.)

In the meantime, let the record show that I made it six months. And I'm so very glad that I did.

Five months

October 19th was my five month mark. I spent the day doing this:

(Not pictured is the 8 hours I spent in the car with Jo. Good thing we like each other so much, because GPS thought that was going to be a 4.5 hour drive. Clearly, GPS under (or maybe over?) estimates how often two 40 yr old women need to stop for bathroom breaks. And snacks.)

And considering that I'd spent the weekend in Vegas doing this

And the weekend before in California, doing this

I say that I'm still winning.

I'm tired and I'm glad to be home in my own bed, and I'm really looking forward to staying here for all of the nights until I go back to Houston  (11/7), but I am ofiicially over five months into the anticipated 3-6. I am tired, but I am happy. 

Oh, and winning. 

The last 36

Initially, I was going to title this The Last 48, but then I realized that would imply that Monday night was rough, and that just isn't (wasn't) the case.  Monday night, I had Target popcorn for dinner. Monday night was awesome. That said...

The last couple days have been rough.

It started with my port flush yesterday. Combine a (foolish) nurse (who had, clearly, never had the pleasure of dealing with yours truly) who felt the need to warn me that that the hospital changed needle providers and this stick was gonna be worse than usual with a crippling anxiety disorder that automatically turns any mention of needle-induced pain into a high speed come apart... and all sorts of ugliness ensued. 

She was right. It did hurt more than usual. Not that she was the nurse who ended up sticking me. She sent in a replacement, real quick, after I asked her "Who would say that?!", followed by, "I'm going to have to ask you to stop talking and just do your job."

(Right now, any and all of my nurse friends are lifting their eyes to heaven and hoping they never have anyone the likes of me as a patient, I know.)

Anyway, the port was the beginning. Yesterday, around 11:00, I had the first of what would turn out to be... I don't even know how many, because I've lost count, total meltdowns. (I'm talking, repetitive, rolled up in a ball, crying so hard that my eyelids are swollen, meltdowns.)

It'a been a rough 36.

Mostly, because I'm in more pain than usual, but between the pain and stress, it's a vicious cycle.

The tissue surrounding my port is always tender for a few days after it's accessed, and I had not one, but two nurses poking and prodding me yesterday. 

The pea in my back is aggravated, because I felt crappy yesterday and spent much of the afternoon lying or sitting in an unusual position, trying to alleviate the pressure near my port.

This caused some (by which I mean: a crap ton of) back pain that was exacerbated by me spending too much time hunched over a laptop. 

Throw in stessors in every single area of my life this week, and I now have pain in my neck and between my shoulder blades that's making it painful to breathe. 

Like my body itself isn't enough to drive a girl to drink, the effect that stress has on my body anymore just makes me want to rock in a corner  (or curl up in the fetal position and cry... tomato/tomahto).

And while I've been lying here in bed all day (not really all day - I got home from work at 12:20, so it's really "only" been seven hours), I've been thinking that (feeling like) something needs to change. 

I don't know what that change is (who's kidding who? let's go ahead and upgrade that to what those changes - plural - will be), I do know that something's got to give. Soon.

And while I know that sounds like I'm being crazy dramatic at the end of a couple really hard days, what I know is that I need a change in the way the wind is blowing. (You know I do love me a solid Mary Poppins reference.) 

Fingers crossed that there's more than the fall weather coming. Maybe there really is a major change on the way. 

I hope so, because the last couple days have been hard. I mean HARD.

I'm really grateful that I don't have hard days really often, because man... when I do, they're brutal. 

First in a series

I've been getting a lot of questions lately about how I'm feeling, what I'm doing with my time, why I'm choosing to do that with my time, etc., and while I'm doing my best to answer these questions, individually, as stuff comes in... I figure that not everyone feels like they can ask these questions. (And we all know that I have basically zero pride and will totally overshare when it comes to the details of my life.) So, I've decided to devote a few blog posts to hitting the high/low lights on a few different topics.

First up...

I've been getting asked A LOT if I'm back at work, mixed with why I'm back at work.

Yup. I sure am. I went back on a super part time basis at the end of June. Because I wanted to. (You heard me. ... I literally asked for it.)

When I went to Texas in June and was given those first two months chemo-free, one of my first calls was to the CFO, to ask if we could meet and discuss the possibility of me either returning to work or being armed with a laptop that I could bring home. We had dinner that week, and I was at work bright and early the next Monday.

I started at two hours a day (yup, ten hours a week... told you it was very part time) and gradually worked my way up to a full part time week of 20 hours. ... I keep trying to go over four hours a day. Every once in a while, I'll hit five hours, but then the next day, I feel like death and get pushed back to 3 or 3.5 hours before I know I need to be done.

So, I've pretty much plateaued at 20 hours a week. Which is kind of frustrating, but what I've been learning in the last month is that there's a time to push boundaries, and there's a time to just be glad that I can do what I can do.

What's great about going to work:

I have a reason to get up and put real clothes on every day.

I have somewhere to be.

I have a project. And more than just having a project... it's a project that I have about 98% autonomy on, which has been really good for the parts of my brain that need to create a working wheel. I can't tell you what it has meant to me to have something to think about outside of planning my funeral. (Don't get me wrong, it's gonna be a rocking awesome funeral, and it's actually been sort of fun for my weird control-freakish self to feel like I have a guiding hand in my final party. But still, there's a sense of accomplishment that comes with this work project that I'm sort of missing when I'm working out funeral plans.)

I have responsibilities, but I also work for and with the most accommodating people. They're awesome about when I need to come in later or  leave early for an appointment... or when I can't make it in. (Because some days I just flat out hurt too bad to sit up in a chair that day.)

Going to work gives my life a semblance of normality. ... Even if I stagger up the stairs at 1:00 and am putting myself into bed as soon as I can get back in my pajamas, my mornings feel like I still have my normal life.

I'm working because I want to. The bank has been awesome to me - for all the time that I've known this management team, they have been awesome to me - but this year, especially, they have worked with me as my body's taken a turn for the worse. I'm working because I want to give something back to the bank, because of all they've done for me.

I'm working because I believe in doing all that I can do, and right now I can work part time. It's been my experience that when I do everything I can do, everything else just sort of falls into place when I can't keep going anymore.

What's hard about going to work:

I have somewhere to be, where I'm required to wear real clothes. (It's both a blessing and a curse, man!) I have this project that I'm working on, and every once in a while I have a bad pain day (or... erm... days) and then I start to wonder if/when I'll be able to finish it. And that can stress me out.

But at the end of the day, I am choosing this. I am choosing it because I want to be productive, because I want to contribute what I can, where I can. Because I want to finish this project, and then I want to be strong enough to start on another one.

Because... you guys... if I live, I need to know that I've done everything that I could, for as long as I could. That I never slacked off and let go of what I think is important. ... And if I don't live, I need all the people that I love (especially the kids) to know that I did everything I could, for as long as I could. That I never slacked off and let go of what I think is important.

Here's what I think matters: showing up in your life, doing everything you can do, trying every day to be even a little bit better than you were the day before, never giving up on what matters to you (even if what matters the most is keeping a smile on your face). And, right now, what matters to me is that I'm doing everything I can.

So, yeah, I'm working.  Because, right now, I can. And because I want to.

Sept 20th

Today was a good day.

We have a missionary leaving our ward this week (the bishop's oldest son), so church was totally packed out this morning with Bill's high school friends and families that used to live in our ward but have since moved out into bigger homes in nicer neighborhoods. (It happens.)

It was like old home week. 

The high school kids reminded me of the time in my life that my friends and family were leaving on missions and we'd travel to be there for their "farewell" talk, and the families who'd come back to visit the ward reminded me of good times I've had with those women in the (almost ten) years I've lived in this ward.

It was kind of surreal, but in a good way, to have memories and emotions from two totally different times in my life converge. I spent all of Sunday School in the chapel, having a mini-reunion with the families who were visiting for the day, and hearing the chattering and laughter of teenagers behind us, as Bill's friends gathered around him, one last time.

It's been a while since I've had a day where I felt like so many conversations I was having were good byes, but today has been full of so many of those. I'm sure that part of that was brought on by saying goodbye to Bill, who I'm so glad I've been able to watch grow up... he's a great kid, and will be an awesome elder. But some of it is that... frankly, I'm not well.  

Between saying goodbye (literally) to Bill, having my sweet little old lady friend, Ruth, reach up and out of her wheelchair to pull me into a hug, and being (albeit temporarily) reunited with so many people who used to be a part of my weekly (and sometimes daily) life, just made today... more real than a lot of other days have been lately.

I don't really know what I'm trying to say. I don't feel like I can find the right words to make this make sense to me, let alone anyone else, but I needed to document this day for my own self. It's so weird to know that you're sick in a way that you don't have a guaranteed outcome, to know that your time with the people you love might be shorter than you want it to be. Usually, the lack of control over the length of my life is just a punch that I roll with. (Because, really, who knows how much time they have? Uh, no one.) I make the choice daily to make that day the best that I can, and I don't generally feel like I have a certain number of days hanging over my head. But today... today has been different. Not bad, just different. 

Just know that if you're reading this, I love you. I'm glad you're in my life. That, at some point in time (maybe even now), you've been part of my daily, weekly, monthly, annual self, and that means that you're part of who I am. Thank you, and I love you. 

Four months

It's one of my favorite days of the year!

That would be: International Talk Like a Pirate Day.

AKA: Get a Dozen Free Donuts if You Dress Up Like a Pirate and go to Krispy Kreme Day.

This morning (after having had a sleepover last night with Maggie (7) and Sally (5), during which very few people got any kind of decent sleep), the Wood kids and I (sans Roomie, because she had a soccer game and thinks her priority needs to be with her team and not with us and our glazed donut pirate booty - lame!) dressed up and went to claim our goods.

One dozen donuts per person in costume = 5 dozen donuts. That's 60 donuts for five people to eat, kids.

And while we didn't eat all 60 of them, we ate... a lot of them. Like, until we all felt sick.

It was a very awesome morning.

And then, this afternoon, I met back up with the Woods to see this Mormon movie.

And, you guys... IT WAS FUNNY.

As in, actually funny. Not just laugh-at-Mormon-culture, funny. (Okay, mostly it was that. But I think it would be funny even for people who don't know about camp songs or ridiculous, totally contrived, but still somehow effective spiritual object lessons.)

I laughed. I cried. I thought about my life, about the people I love the most and would do anything for (including putting myself right back on chemo, even though it made me wish I could just die, in case it'll give me more time with them... but that's a post for another time). And then I laughed again.

At one key moment, I had just taken a swig off my ever-present water bottle and something happened that made me laugh. I mean, out loud. ... After spitting my entire mouth full of water into my hands and then letting it fall into my lap. (It was a super full theater, and I didn't have any napkins. Or warning. What was I supposed to do? Spew water on the kids sitting in front of me? ... I felt like spitting it into my own hands and then dumping that popcorny spittle into my lap was the right thing to do.)

You guys. This movie is funny. If you live somewhere that you can see it (which, mostly, is... Utah), you should. It was a good time.

And, when the movie was over, I walked outside to see this. You can try all day long, from wherever in the world that you are, but I'm telling you straight up that you just can't beat an Arizona sunset.

Pirate costumes. Free donuts. Harkins popcorn. A movie that made me laugh and made me cry. All kinds of quality time with my favorite little weirdos. A gorgeous sunset.

Topped off with the fact that, as of today, I'm officially four months into the 3-6.

It's been a really good day. ... And, so far, I am winning.

Decisions, decisions

Some (read: most) of you have probably noticed that there hasn't been much going on here in my little corner of the www for the last couple months.

There are a lot of reasons why I haven't been posting as often. Some of them are:

I've been tired. Super tired. More tired than I have words for. I mean, T-I-R-E-D.

Part of that tiredness has spilled over into my ability to use words. (And that, my friends, is one of the hardest sentences I've ever typed.) I hate what chemo has done to my brain, to my vocabulary, to my ability to speak and/or spell well. And I've let my inability to command language stop me from writing. Partly because it's really hard for me to see typos and writing styles shift mid-post, and partly because...

I've been protecting people who love me from knowing how bad it can get here in my little world. Because there is nothing anyone can do about my brain and/or my body from giving out when I am too tired for words (or to use words properly), there's a lot that I've kept to myself.

But, today, I realized that I'm not doing myself (or any body else, really) any favors by pulling punches. So, I'm done.

I may not write the way I used to write. Sentences will be choppier. Words will be missing. (Hell, they may even be backwards. Because saying the opposite of what I meant to say is totally a thing that's been happening this summer. It's been super fun.) But I'm still me, and this is still my blog. And chemo brain is part of what has happened in the last few months of my life.

Readers, beware.

There are posts that I've written over the summer but couldn't bring myself to post because... well, the emotion was too raw (oh, right... and the writing was crap). I may or may not be going back and posting those with a back date. I don't know.

But I'm coming back.

Not that I've been gone. And it's not like the Chia Pet updates have been fake, per se. But I haven't been 100% authentic. And I've decided to change that.

You've been warned.

Three months

Three months ago, today, I sat in Dr. H's office and was given an estimated 3-6 months to act before this tumor chokes me out.

Two months ago, today, I sat in Dr. Z's office in Texas and was told that #9 hadn't shown enough growth in the month from May-June 18th to merit starting another treatment plan right away.

A week from today, I fly back to Texas. I'll have another round of tests/scans done Thursday and I'll get the results on Friday.

Fingers crossed that the scan will show that my little friend is still little and I can squeak in another couple chemo-free months before I go back into treatment.

I know that it just is what it is, and when I'll go back into treatment and how that's going to look is totally beyond my control. But man alive, am I grateful for the last three months.

I am tired in a way that I didn't know existed eight months ago, and I have some discomfort that is pretty consistently bordering on pain these days, but I've said it before and I'll say it again... I will take feeling this level of crappy all day long, and for as long as I can get away with it.

I haven't been all that awesome about blogging lately. And, I'm sorry, but... I'm not sorry. It's because I've been busy squeezing as much life out my life as I can, and the reality is that all that living has made me really tired.

But listen... it's been a great three months. I mean, the best.

Here's to hoping that the doctors' calculations are off and I have, like, 372 months left. (And hey, assuming they're wrong, someday I'll get back to blogging again. Promise!)

Plans

Here's the thing about making plans: I need them. I love them. I also hate them.

Without a plan, I'm too tired to do anything. If I have a plan (meeting a friend for dinner, going to work in the morning, washing laundry, going out of town for a few days, having a friend or relation coming here for a weekend, etc), I can push through the exhaustion and the pain and I can get myself up and out of the magical bendy bed. I can get dressed and I can show up and I can do the thing that I planned. If I make plans to live my life, I somehow have the energy that I need to do whatever it is that I planned on doing. But here's the thing... making too many plans, doing too many things, also renders me completely useless. (I should know. Because I am typing this from my bed. At 3:00 PM.)

It's a weird (and really hard, mostly because my body is getting less and less dependable) balance of making plans to go out and making plans to stay in.

I want to spend as much time as I can with the people I love the most, but I don't like it when I'm too tired to enjoy that time, so I feel like I have to limit myself to X number of hours so I don't get so tired that I can feel myself coming apart at the seams.

I want to go to work, because that's what feels normal, but I keep learning the lesson that I don't have the stamina to work even a half day. I've been able to push myself from 2-3.5 hours a day, but it took a month to get to three hours, and I've found that I lose the ability to articulate if I try to stay four.

Which brings me to another thing. I'm fine until I get too tired, and then I hit a wall and words just fall out of my sentences. I think I've typed a complete sentence, but when I reread an email prior to sending it, I find that I've missed words that I know I meant to type... that I thought I  had typed... but they're not there. Or I talk like it's backwards day. For real, last Friday I said "you're welcome" when I meant to say "thank you", in the middle of a conversation. It would be funny, if language wasn't one of the most important parts of my life. But it is. So, this is heartbreaking more than hilarious.) The obvious upside to losing my words is that it lets me know when I'm at my limit. I work until I catch myself getting weird, and then I'm out.

I want to stay home and read or watch TV and just hang out with me, because that's also part of my old normal. But sometimes I have this fear that I'm running out of time, and that makes it hard for me to enjoy downtime like I want to. Like I need to, because I neeeeeeeeed to be able to hang out with just my books and/or my shows, so I can sell myself a story about how if I do this, I'll have energy later to keep my plans.

It's so hard.

Here's the thing about making plans: I need them. I love them. I also hate them. ... So much.

July

You guys. This month has been crazy busy.

I know that I haven't blogged about it a whole heck of a lot. But I will. ... Eventually. I promise. (Read: hope.)

For now, let me show you what I did every day.

At the beginning of the month, I started writing down the highlights of the day every night. And... would ya look at that? I've been busy.

It's been a great month.

I went back to work. I had an old-fashioned sleepover with Jo and her girls when Dean was at scout camp. I went home for the 4th of July. I lit the freaking anvil. I got to sit with Jennifer O and talk for hours. I went on a roadtrip with Judy. I had lunch in Flag with Brett and Karen and Natalie. I drove over Cedar Mountain. I had a sleepover at the Cameron Trading Post. I got to spend a whole day with Cindy and Amy and Holli. I got to eat squeaky cheese. I drank an absolutely ridiculous amount of caffeinated beverages. I stayed up late with Rachel, and then again with Spence and Brea. I had breakfast and lunch and dinner with some of my favorite Utah County peeps. I got to have a sleepover with Mich. I ate almond paste cookies for the first time. (I'm here to tell you, it will NOT be the last time!) I got to hang out with my Solomon girls: Luana, Victoria Lynn, Cathy, Christine, Camille, Rachel and Patty. I got some more real chicken eggs.I ditched Sunday School with Lisa G. I got to see a whole bunch of cousins when I was in Utah: Amy, Holli, Shelly, Rachel, Julie, Everett, Lisa, Christie, Dr. Doug, Nate, Brooke, Lindsay, Klancie, Randy and Nikki. I had some sleepovers at Spencer's house. I tried bacon & maple potato chips. (Surprisingly, not awesome.) I got to hear Seth play the guitar and the ukelele. I got to have a perfect day at Fiiz with Conman. I had the distinct privilege of referreeing Kirk and Russell play a game of Twister. I read books. I saw Top Gun in the theater for the first time. (I wasn't allowed to see it when it came out. But now I'm 40 and can see whatever movie I want.) I took a ton of selfies in the car with Hilly. I was strong enough to let both Hazy and Monson sit on my lap. I taught my family about the joy of homemade pineapple ice cream, and Spencer and I made up a recipe for homemade almond joy ice cream. I got to sleep in Grammy and Grandad's house. I took Julie's girls to see Inside Out. (Loooooved it!) I was able to stay up late and wake up early for a solid week while I was on the road. I ate at Cheesecake Factory. (Twice. Once, I even had cheesecake.) I decided to cater my funeral dinner. I did some research and discovered that one bag of Sun Chips (the small size from the gas station) is over 20% of my daily recommend fiber intake. I ate a crap ton of salmon. (And it was awesome. Every time.) I worked from the Camelback office one day this month. I watched all of Covert Affairs and the first four seasons of The Good Wife. (Again.) I had a heart to heart with Dr. H - and he complimented me on my new hairdo. (Three times in five minutes.) I went to the movies and I ate a lot of theater popcorn. I got stuck in multiple rainstorms. I grew almost an inch of hair on my head. I got matching pink mani/pedis with Hillary. I laughed and I cried. I told a bunch of people that I love them, and I meant it every time. I got to hold a hedgehog. I drove my car to Utah and I flew home on an airplane.

And there's a whole bunch of other stuff that's written on the calendar that I didn't mention.

Like I said, it's been a great month.

I am tired, but I am happy.

And (maybe) next month I'll get around to posting pics of all (or at least some of) that awesomeness. For now, just know that I am doing my level best to live. Every day.

Tuesday

It's Tuesday, and Judy and I are holed up in the hotel, waiting for a call from MD that my insurance has approved the scan and I can come back. As I didnt get out of there until 4:00 yesterday, and it's noon-thirty as I type this... my money's on the scan happening tomorrow, not today.

Which is fine with me.

Because, A) We're watching Tropical Storm Bill happen outside our 3rd story window. Ten feet of rain's a lot of water, and while it hasn't all come down yet... the city's on flood warning and we'd rather not be out in that. Also, B) I've been up and about way too much over the past two days. It's been great to have a day to stay in bed and off my feet.

Also, this is the reason I'm here for six days. I know that nothing is fast or easy when it comes to getting answers. I have cable TV, a fridge full of snacks that I can eat without having to leave the room, and a Sonic that's directly across the street if I have a sudden need for a giant soda. Win/win/win.

Texas is gorgeous. The people have been awesome. Every person I interacted with in the first 24 hours here was perfectly lovely. I'm so glad that I'm here, that Houston was my #4. I don't know that they'll have a TON of options outside of what I was presented with in Arizona, and it will most likely be chemo again... but they have access to different drugs here that I might be a good candidate for.

A lot of people are asking how I'm feeling, so I'll adress that here. Right now, I feel fine. Pretty normal, actually. My body was completely wasted by the end of the day yesterday, but after a little Panda Express and 8 solid hours of sleep last night, I woke up feeling more like myself this morning. Still bone tired, but my legs aren't swollen and achey anymore, hallelujah!

Emotionally, I'm also fine. I'm sure that a lot of that is that I'm in an emotional holding cell until I can actually get more information. Four weeks ago, the 3-6 month timeline was incredibly hard to hear, much less believe. And it's not like my body actually feels any different than it did 4 weeks ago, but I've had time to sit with that information and accept this as my new reality. This doesn't mean that I'm giving up or giving in, but I am accepting that this tumor is a threat in a way that nothing else ever has been. It's wrapping itself around an organ that I can't live without, so surgery isn't an option. The doctor talked yesterday about a couple different chemos she thinks might do something. ... We'll see. She needs the scan before she can formulate a real opinion (and get a timeline for when we'd have to start), and then I'll have to make some hard decisions. But for now, I am feeling pretty good and am emotionally stable. I know it's just a lull in the storm, but since Judy's here with me and we're in a hotel, it's SORT OF like a vacation.

Of course, I'll continue to post updates as I learn anything new. Or maybe I'll just post pics of the flooded streets. Either way, check back tomorrow and there'll be something here.

One more last...

This morning, I took my last shower before I go to Texas.

I've had so many first and lasts in the past five years, but for some reason... the showers always seem to carry significant weight.

I vividly remember the last shower before my first surgery, running my hand across my swollen and extended belly, knowing it was the last time I'd ever touch my stomach without feeling a scar.

I'll never forget how hard it was to wash my hair for the last time, knowing that in mere hours it would be cut off and packaged to send to the wigmaker.

I will always remember the shock of hot water splashing against my head the first time I showered after my hair fell out. Hot water has never felt as awesome as it did in that first baldie shower.

Coming home from the hospital after every round of chemo, I was so weak that I could barely shuffle from the car to my apartment, but I would still somehow gather up the gumption to step into my tub and take a shower. Washing the smell of chemo off my skin was more important to me than sleep, and sleep was more precious than gold.

This morning, I stood in my shower, with my forehead against the wall. As tears rolled down my face and water rolled off my shoulders, I couldn't help but think, "One more 'last'."

Because, tomorrow, my life will change. Again.

I have a return flight booked for Saturday. Only time will tell if I'll be flying home, back to the comfort of my own shower, in six days... or if they'll keep me in Houston for surgery/treatment for a few weeks or months.

I'm not even gone yet, but I'm already homesick for my own home.

Going to Houston is hard. It's what I need to do, and I'm so grateful that I'm strong enough and in a position that I can go, but it's still hard. I'm taking my own soap with me, so I'll still smell like me. But I know that I won't 100% feel like me again until I am home, taking that first shower in my own bathroom, starting the next phase of my life.

24 hours later

It is done.

I am packed.

Yes, that's one carry-on with clothes for six days. 

Including three hats, two scarves, a sweater (in case I get cold in the sweltering humity that is Houston in the middle of June) and an extra pair of shoes. All that's missing is the toiletries that I'll be using from now 'til Sunday morning.

I know. ... I'm, surprisingly, a minimalist when it comes to traveling.

And just in case they end up keeping me in Texas and I want some more wardrobe options...

I have this box packed and ready to be shipped to me.

And yeah, that's another week worth of clothes in that little box.

I know, I'm sort of a packing wunderkind. 

A few talking points

In the last several weeks, I've had a few friends/family members break down and say the words...

"I just don't know what to say."

And, ya know what? That's alright. It is totally alright not to know what to say. Hell, I don't know what to say about what's going on in my guts right now. If anyone/everyone else knew exactly what to say I'd be shocked. (Oh, and jealous, since I'm so often riding the line between being at a loss for words and starting to wonder if the only words I know anymore are the cusswords.)

So, I thought maybe I'd throw out some talking points. You know, in case any of the 27 people who read this blog have been wanting to say something to me, but haven't been sure where to start.

As always, there are three responses that I happen to think are always appropriate when anyone (and I do mean anyone) is facing any kind of trial or trauma (and I do mean any kind of trial or trauma) in their life:

I love you.
I'm so sorry this is happening.
Is there anything I can do to help?

Beyond the three golden statements, there are, of course, several other approved topics of conversation.

Feel free to talk to me:

About your kids
If you've seen a good movie
To tell me what you're reading
Why you think it's ridiculous that everyone on Facebook is obsessing over Caitlyn Jenner
When you try a new recipe for chocolate cake and decide it's the best thing ever
To brag about how your new car gets such incredible gas mileage

Screenshot the lamest thing you've seen on Facebook all day long and send it to me to make me laugh. Call to talk to me about why work is stressing you out. Text me because you're about to explode over how great/terrible it is that the kids are out of school and the entire neighborhood has moved into your kitchen/fridge/pantry for the summer.

You guys, I know this may be hard to believe, but... I'M STILL ME.

I may be sporting a new baby bird fuzz hairdo. I may be about a zillion times more tired than I used to be. I may have been given 3-6 months, outside of a major medical intervention, to live. But please hear me when I say this; I am still me and that means that I still care about all of the important (by which I mean: actually important, but also mundane and seemingly inconsequential) details of your life.

Now, there are a few things that I don't want to hear. So, I'll be real blunt and tell you:

- Don't talk to me about how hard this is for you. I am truly and deeply sorry that my being sick has an effect on so many of the people I know and love, but I can't help anyone else process this. I'm doing my level best to keep my own head above water and therefore cannot be an emotional support to anyone outside of the circle that is my own personal space.

- Don't question my medical choices by offering differing medical advice or miracle cure-all's.

- Don't tell me that I did this to myself.

Don't tell me that I have cancer because I ate too much sugar (in cake, or any of its other delicious forms) or bacon (if one more person tells me that we shouldn't eat cancer-causing pork because of the cloven hooves, I'm gonna lose it) or because I've been carrying an extra 50 lbs around for most of my adult life. Even if you believe this is true, don't say it. It won't help me - in any way - for you to say any version of this out loud, and it will do some serious damage to our relationship if I hear these words come across your lips, esp if you say it after I've told you not to.

- Do not, for the love of all that is holy, read me scriptures, tell me that all things have a purpose, that God doesn't give us more than we can handle, or that my reward will be great when this is all said and done.

Because while I do actually believe that God has a plan for my life, and have accepted that the cancer is part of His plan for me (because we all know for dang sure I wouldn't have added this to my own mortality itinerary), I swear that I will CUT the next person who tries to bring the spirit into this fight.

If I choose to go down a spiritual road during a conversation, then I will need your support and understanding as I talk through those points, but what I don't want is for anyone to think they're my spiritual coach and need to pump me up by sending me scriptures or spiritual/uplifting memes. I will cut you. (And I hate blood. A lot. So that should give you an idea of how much I don't want this to be said/done.)

But really, outside of the four things I've just told you not to talk to me about... Just about anything goes.

You know me. In the way of conversation, just about everything has always gone. 

I love you, and I know you love me. I'm scared, and I know that the people who are closest to me are, too. But don't let yourself get so wigged out that you can't talk to me. You can, and you should. I want you to talk to me. I need you to talk to me. We can talk about the cancer, or we can talk about how Scandal went completely off the rails at the end of season four, or we can talk about the coolest thing you saw on your family vacation, or how you really want to make suckers, but can't find the molds, or about what's new on Netflix. Or whatever.

I'm still me. And you're still you. So, we're still friends and/or family. We can't let the cancer stop us or shut us up, because then it wins. ... And as for me and my house, we don't believe in letting the cancer win.

Dispelling Myths

Okay, so... I've been on the receiving end of some teary phone calls/texts/emails/visits in the last four or five days and while I'll be the first to admit that I am amazing, I don't think I'm amazing in the same ways that so many of my friends and family seem to think I am.

For example, I think I'm amazing because:

I can make cookies without a recipe. Actually, I can make a crap ton of things without a recipe, and without measuring the ingredients. I can go to a potluck and taste something and know what's in it and come home and replicate it. Almost every time. ... I think that's amazing.

I make friends everywhere I go. I have left restaurants - several times - with the contact info or schedule of a particular server, because they were so freaking awesome that we became friends in the course of a meal. Sitting by a stranger on an airplane is not a problem for me, because I've usually made that stranger into a friend by the time we hit 30,000 feet. I can talk to anyone, anywhere, about just about anything. ... I think that's amazing.

I can wiggle my ears, and I have a patented fish lips/eyelash batting combo that is guaranteed to make any child under the age of four laugh out loud. ... Again, amazing.

Like I said, I think I'm awesome. Amazing, even. But not in the same ways that I'm hearing other people say that I'm amazing. So, I'm here to set the record straight on a few matters.

Myth: I'm calm and/or at peace with what is happening in my body - to my life.

Myth Debunked: I am NOT, in fact, calm. Nor am I at peace. I am pretty pissed off about it, actually. Now, I may be able to talk about the facts of what is happening without bursting into tears, but that doesn't mean that I'm calm or okay with this on any level. I hate it. I hate the cancer, I hate what it's done (is doing) to my body. I hate that I have no control over the situation and am at the mercy of my insurance company and my doctors and God himself. I hate it. (And yeah, I know that my entire life is, and always has been, at the mercy of God. I know that. But listen, I'm still pretty mad at Him. And I think that's okay. He's a big boy, and He can handle it. And - hopefully - I won't be mad at Him forever.)

Myth: I always have such a positive attitude.

Myth Debunked: FALSE. (Don't believe me? Go ahead and scroll up and reread what I just wrote.) I do believe that we get to choose our perspective on things, that even when you're facing a formidable foe (cancer, anyone?) you get to choose your attitude and how you react to what is happening in your life. I believe that life is easier when hard things are handled with a sense humor, that a spoonful of sugar really does help the medicine go down. Do I make an effort to put a positive or humorous spin on my life in general, and specifically in how I share medical info? Absolutely. Because I think it's important not to get bogged down in what is hard, because letting yourself get sucked in by that will only make your journey harder. But it's not all sunshine and daisies over here. Not by a long shot.

The truth is, that little orphan Annie has me out-positived by about a hundred miles. Maybe because I'm a grown up and not a kid (also, not a fictional character), but I have a keen awareness that knowing that the sun's coming out tomorrow doesn't necessarily mean that it's going to be an easy, sunshiney, day. I am actually, against public opinion, a realist who's currently fighting a daily battle to remain optimistic.

Myth: I'm so brave.

Myth Debunked: I am scared out of my ever lovin' head! I mean it. About just about everything: treatment plans versus surgery, what either/both will mean to my quality of life in the future, traveling to Texas and maybe having to stay there for weeks while I undergo treatment, how much money this is going to cost, how long it's going to take to recover (from chemo, and from whatever comes next), how in the world I will ever get back up on my feet when this is all said and done, what the rest of my life will look like... what if it (whatever "it" ends up being) doesn't work?

I promise you, I don't feel brave at all. What I feel is fear, on a level that I have never felt fear before. Am I still going to walk into this with my eyes wide open? Yes, I am. But it's not because I am brave. ... It's because I don't have an option, other than to fight back.

Myth: I'm so strong.

Myth Debunked: What I am is stubborn. I was born with an iron will that has been both a blessing and a curse for my entire life. Sheer stubbornness has kept me smiling through multiple surgeries, radiation and chemotherapy treatments, more hard conversations with medical personnel than I would wish on my worst enemy, a handful of hard months, a few wicked weeks and some truly terrible days.

While I would never call myself weak (I am, after all, a shameless self promoter), I feel like it's important to say that I'm not as strong as my friends and family want to think I am. Nobody is. We all need each other. It's part of the plan that we rely on each other, so we can help each other grow. And I'm no exception.

So, now you know; I am not calm, I'm actually downright furious about the turn this tumor's taken, I'm not happy or positive all of the time. I don't feel brave, and while I'm not about to give up... I am super aware that both my body and my spirit are perilously close to breaking.

One of the hardest things for me to hear has been "You've got this". Because, here's the thing, kids. No, I don't. I am muddling through this, and I'm doing the best I can every day. I have hope that someone's going to know something that's going to turn this around, that there will be an option presented that I can wrap my mind around, be at peace with, and allow to shape my future. I will keep going and I will put one foot in front of the other, every day. But it's not because I've "got this", it's because I am dealing with this. One day, and often one hour, at a time.

And that's the truth.

I actually wrote a talk!

Sort of. (Not really.)

I can't remember if I talked about this on ye olde blog. ... I know I did on the facebook, but I can't remember if I ever mentioned it here. (Don't ever get old. Or, if you do, don't lose your memory like I have. It's not fun.) ... Anyway, I was asked to speak at the Single Adult 3rd Sunday fireside this month. (We all know that I am a public speaking junkie. We also know that I will NEVER pass up an opportunity to speak to a group of single adults, because I am what we in the industry like to call a "shameless self promoter". I will get the attention of a tall man just about any way I can, and if that means I need to get up and talk about my history with the cancer, then... so be it.) I had been asked to share some of my experience with the cancer, and speak with an overall theme of gratitude.

Check and check. Those are, pretty much, my favorite things to talk about. E-ver.

And I did something totally out of character and I wrote a talk. (Not really. More like, I made a list. Or, rather, a series of lists. We all know that I love to make lists!) First I gave some details with the initial diagnosis and the history of the surgeries... and then, in the last 15 minutes or so, I shared the following:

What I've lost:

- A kidney, my spleen, a foot of my colon and 5 cm of my diaphragm.

- My immune system.

- A ton of weight. (Most of which I've gained back, but whatever. I lost it at one point, so I'm counting it here.)

- The ability to digest bell peppers, onions, garlic and spaghetti sauce.

- The will to hold a grudge, and/or the desire throw a fit when things don't go the way I wanted them to.

What I've learned:

- Where the retroperitoneum is AND how to spell it.

- That having your spleen removed is a splenectomy, but having a kidney removed is a nephrectomy. (I'm not sure why this is. Neither Merriam-Webster nor Dictionary.com can give me a satisfactory answer as to the etymology of the word "nephrectomy". Apparently, it started showing up in medical journals between 1875-1880, with no notes as to the actual origin of the word. ... Argh.)

- All manner of information on stool softeners and laxatives: which brands work best, and how often to take them (and in what combinations) to offset the effects of narcotics.

- How to walk again. Three times.

- That more people remember me, love me, and are genuinely interested in my life than I ever could have imagined.

What I know:

- The Lord has a plan, for all of us. He has a great, wide, plan for all of His children, sure. But He also knows us as individuals, and has a specific plan that was custom-made for each one of us, to get us where He wants us to be.

- Me getting cancer, three times, was part of the plan. I know this, because with each successive diagnosis, I was changed. There were things I learned the first time around that blew my freaking mind: not the least of which is I learned what my body could go through, and still come out okay. (Not awesome, but okay.) With my second tumor, I gained a whole new appreciation for the blessings of the priesthood my life. That second round clarified how important the gospel is to me, how important family relationships and friendship really are, and it helped me learn not to take my life - or anyone in it - for granted.  And the third time around... well, there aren't words (and there isn't time) to go into everything I learned that time, so I'll narrow it down to my three biggest lessons learned in the calendar year of 2012: Love is the most powerful force on earth, prayer is real, and miracles happen.

- I know the Lord loves me. I know that He is aware of what happens in my life. I know that, even when (especially when) things are really hard, He takes care of me. I know that He has placed people in my sphere who bless and enrich my life in ways that I cannot begin to number.

- Again, I know the Lord has a plan. For each of us, He has a plan. And the cancer was part of His plan for my life. I know that. I know it as sure as I know that 1/3 of the hairs on my head are grey because of said cancer. Why I had to get sick, I may never know, but what I do know is that I would never give it back. The sleepless nights, the fear, the anxiety, the pain that I cannot begin to describe, the nerve damage and the scar tissue and the knowledge that I'll have scans for the rest of my life... I wouldn't give any of that back, because while cancer was really (REALLY) hard, it was also incredibly awesome, because it taught me about faith and life and love.

- And the most incredible thing about knowing that the Lord knows me, loves me, and has a plan for me is knowing that He also knows, loves, and has a plan for every other single person on the planet.

I testify that there is a plan, even a plan of happiness. Men are that they might have joy. Even in the midst of our trials - in the middle of the deep, dark night - the Lord knows who we are and He knows what we need. It is my belief that He wants us to be happy, to find the joy in the every day, and to celebrate every good thing in our lives.

* Yup, I talked about poop. From the pulpit. I even said the word "poop". Because it's Whitney's birthday - and because I could. (How often does an opportunity to say the phrase "poop from the pulpit" come up? I mean... I had to snatch that one right up.)

* I had no less than three people (a biology teacher, a doctor AND some sweet soul with an iPad) inform me that the word nephrectomy comes from nephrons. Apparently, that's what kidneys are made of. ... Or something like that. (I stop listening as soon as medical talk gets too graphic. Don't judge. It's a coping mechanism.)

* I had several people come up and tell me that they hadn't planned on coming, but felt like they needed to... and they were so glad they did, because that talk was for them: a cancer patient (breast cancer) and a man who's getting ready to undergo his fourth abdominal surgery in less than a year among them. That is literally what I prayed for, people - that I would say would people would need to hear. (Oh, and that I'd be funny and they would laugh. Because I so didn't want to be a boring fireside speaker. ... It happens. Sort of a lot.)

Man alive, I enjoy public speaking. But beyond the act of standing in front of a room full of people and knowing that I can make them laugh and/or cry, I love the personal connection that comes of knowing that people really heard what you had to say. I love people. I love them SO much! I'm so-so-so grateful for my life, for all of the blessings and all of the awesomeness that I enjoy on a daily basis. And tonight, I'm grateful that I had an opportunity to talk about so many of the things I am grateful for. ... If I could find a way to do this for a living, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I really would. But for now, I'll just go to bed happy that I was able to speak tonight, because I really do love it - so much.

The five (and/or seven) finger countdown

So, I got up bright and early this morning. Didn't eat any breakfast. Brushed my teeth, threw on some clothes, grabbed a bottle of water and high-tailed it across town for my blood work and scan.

I'm pleased to report that the phlebotomist who pulled my name this morning got five vials of blood out of me with just one stick. I sort of love her. I would hire her to be my personal blood sucker and have her follow me from appointment to appointment, she was so good at her job! Seriously. Loved. That. Woman.

Blood work over and done with, I moseyed upstairs to get in line for my PET. ... In retrospect, I should have taken it as a sign when the elevator doors wouldn't stay closed. (They would almost close and then fly back open. And then gradually come back to a close, and then inch apart again. It was pretty funny.)

When I got up to the registration desk to sign in, my girl Stella (yup, I know the staff by name, I go there that often) couldn't find me in the computer.

And then she did find me.

Well, sort of.

She found my canceled appointment.

Adorable.

It seems that my appointment was canceled through a combination of miscommunication and internal errors. I had multiple people give me different stories, but the general gist of it is that the initial scan was ordered as a full body PET. Once the error was discovered, the fully body PET was canceled - but my standard skull-to-thighs scan wasn't scheduled in its place. Add to that the issue that, until 4:00 yesterday afternoon, my insurance hadn't approved the PET, and it was a full-blown comedy of errors. By the time the approval came in and my scheduler realized that she COULD get me in this morning, another scheduler had slid one of their patients into my slot.

My sole consolation is that whoever got my early morning PET scan is another patient who's needing to know if their cancer is still gone, if it's back, if it's better, or if it's worse.

I can't be too upset when I know that my scan went to someone who needed it every bit as much as I need it.

The soonest they could get me in - first thing in the morning, because I am an anxiety-riddled crazy person who does not need to wait longer than she has to, esp when she's fasting - is next Tuesday.

Blech.

I'll go in Tuesday at 7:00 for my PET, and then go back to work for the rest of the day. My follow up with Dr. H will be Friday afternoon.

So much for having a definitive answer tomorrow to the question of whether my pants don't fit due (and due only) to over consumption of Hershey's Kisses. I'll have to wait 'til next week for that intel. ... In the meanwhile, I'll keep watching Numb3rs every night until I fall asleep on the couch.

As my sweet cousin Rachel would say, "Adventures!"

The four finger countdown

It's scan week.

Read: I'm exhausted, but I can't sleep, because I can't shut my brain off.

I hate that I get crazy when I have a scan coming up, but at the same time... I do get crazy, and I've learned that there's nothing I can do about it, so I've come to expect and - on most levels - accept the crazy. The good news is that I haven't been crazy the whole six weeks that I've known that I had this appointment coming up.

That's right. I've had this scheduled for six weeks. MD Anderson called me the second week IN APRIL to schedule this round of appointments. ... As much as I do appreciate them planning things far enough in advance that I am guaranteed the first slot in the radioactive chamber, it's difficult for me to know that far in advance when D Day is going to be.

For the last several weeks, I've had fleeting moments of panic attacks. When the first one hit, five weeks ago, I was lying in bed, when all of a sudden, I could feel blood pumping in my temples and my chest tightened up. I lied there in bed, wondering what was wrong. As I rolled to my side, I heard the words in my mind, "In five weeks, I will know". Aha. That is what was wrong. Awesome.

The panic hasn't been constant, and it's not nearly as crippling as it used to be. But it's still there.

One thing that I hate (I mean, H-A-T-E, in all-caps) is that cancer has taken my hope. ... That sounds extreme. I do not mean that I have no hope whatsoever. I do have hope. I have a whole heck of a lot of hope - that this scan will be clean, that my life will normalize, that it'll never come back. But too many scans have come back dirty, for lack of a better word, for me to go into this with blind optimism. Growing four tumors in less than two years has taken away any trust that I had in my body to not do something stupid. Sometimes I miss the days when I could believe that Darth Vader was just a one-time fluke... I know better now, and that's why I can't sleep.

I lie in bed, and this is what makes me panicky:

- I've had some weird pains in places that I have nerve damage. Call me crazy, but I have to think that feeling stabbing pain where I'm not supposed to feel anything can't be good.

- When I lie flat on my back, my stomach is bigger on the left side than it is on the right. I'm pretty sure that's my liver having crossed over to what used to be an empty cavity. But still... it makes me nervous.

- My back's hurting again in the area where I used to have a kidney. I've started walking again in the last couple weeks, and I'm pretty sure that the pain is related to irritated scar tissue. But in the middle of the night... that's hard to remember.

So, this is what I tell myself to talk me off the emotional ledge:

- Listen, Evans. You knew better than to lift the commercial files. Dollars to donuts, that's why you are feeling pain in your belly-button. Don't do it anymore. Also, the pain in your hip is reminiscent of how it felt last summer, when your body was deep in a healing phase. Maybe this new burning sensation is related to nerves moving onto another level of healing. (Just call me Pollyanna.)

- You don't have any firm lumps/bumps in your body, and you know darn good and well that you had organs migrating when your last scan was done. That could totally explain why your body feels uneven from the outside. ... Yeah, let's go with that. (Note to self: Google livers. How big are they, anyway?)

- Maybe you should take advantage of that new-found ability to roll over and go back to sleep...

Sometimes I can talk myself down. Sometimes I can't. Sometimes I give up, give in, and go get an Ativan. Sometimes, even after I'm drugged, I have to get up and watch another episode of Numb3rs to sidetrack my brain and then I fall asleep on the couch, only to wake up and roll myself back into bed at 2:00 AM.

Four more days. Three more nights. ... In 72 hours, the scan (and the blood work that I love so much) will be done, and I can look forward to seeing my beloved Dr. H.

Maybe if I focus on my dreamy doc, I'll be able to fall asleep. (He beats the heck out of counting sheep!) ... It's worth a shot. Wish me luck!

Perspective

I have a cold.

Have I mentioned that?

I blame the church coughers.

Also, the multitude of people at my work who've been hacking up a lung for the last month or so.

And the handles on shopping carts, and the door knobs at the church and those grody little kids that I love who insist on getting up in my business.

Not to mention, my lack of a spleen/natural immune system.

Anyway, I have a cold.

And I'm a miserable sick person. I mean, miserable.

Give me cancer any day. I can handle a potentially deadly health threat with the grace of a gazelle. ... But when I have a stuffy (or runny) nose, all bets are off on how I'll handle stress or what kind of attitude I'll have.

So, I've been sniffling, sneezing, leaking and/or struggling to breath for over a week now. I've been wondering at how my nose has turned into a veritable snot factory. My energy has been sapped. (Even more so than usual.)

I noticed that I have a brand new growth on my forehead, and have been having flashbacks to both the first grade and September of last year.

Oh, and I have a scabby sore on my nose from blowing it too many times.

Folks, what I'm saying is: I am tired, I am stuffed up, I have a scabby nose and a warty forehead.

It's not pretty. (Literally or emotionally.)

I have been wondering what is wrong with my body, why I ever had to lose my spleen in the first place and what new stressor is making my stupid body revert to a childhood wart-causing virus. (Again.) I've been hating the cancer and wondering why it had to come along and wreck my body.

Basically, I've been feeling pretty sorry for myself. ... It's because I have a cold. I always get stupid when I have a stuffy nose. (Maybe my brain turns into boogers? I don't know.)

...............................................................................................

Enter the experience that turned my outlook around today...

This morning, I was walking through my office building when I noticed something unusual. Or, rather, someone unusual. (We bankers are coached, regularly, to pay attention to the height, build and general appearance of people we don't recognize. Call it an occupational hazard, but we have to stay on task and pay attention to our surroundings.)

I was walking behind a gentleman who was wearing the most unusual get-up: baggy, loose-fitting pants that were long enough to cover his shoes, long-sleeved shirt with a high collar, gloves that went up under the sleeves of his shirt, and a hat with some serious neck coverage. Something like this:

He was walking really slowly, and looking into each office along the hall, and my spidey sense went off, telling me that I needed to stay behind him to see where he was going. (There are two banks in the complex I work in. A man who's completely covered up is a pretty big red flag. Bank robbers tend to wear disguises to throw people off, and baggy clothes can hide a true weight/build, making them harder to ID.)

As I slowed my walk to match his, he stopped altogether and turned sideways. I paused, too, unsure of why someone who I'd decided was some kind of suspect would be stopping in the middle of the hall... other than to catch me out as following him and maybe shoot me in the head. (Who has an overactive imagination and watches too much crime-drama television? This girl!)

He turned sideways, and looked into an office, and then slowly turned toward me... Looking lost. And very much NOT like a bank robber.

Sweet blue eyes peeked out from under that hat, and he asked me if I knew where Senator McCain's office was.

I concentrated on keeping eye contact - and not looking at his distorted face - as I explained that Senator McCain's office is in our general neighborhood, but it's not in our office building. I offered to look up the exact address for him, if he came back into the bank with me. He smiled, and thanked me - as much with his eyes as with his words - and we walked back down the hallway together.

We walked slowly, because he couldn't do much more than half my usual pace. (And, folks, I am not a fast walker. By a long shot.) As I pulled the main door open and we walked into the sun-filled courtyard, I held the door for him and asked if he was wearing the hat to protect his skin from the sun. He nodded, and as he looked down at his baggy pants and gloved hand, said two words: Skin cancer.

I just nodded, and said I was sorry. (Truth is, as soon as I'd seen his profile, I'd figured it was the C word.) Bless his heart.

It turns out he was walking slowly because he is sickly. His clothes were loose because I don't know that they make clothes small enough to fit his tiny little frame. He was covering every square inch of skin that he could to protect his sensitive skin. (So much for those super heightened robbery spidey-senses I thought I had.)

We went into the bank and I sat him down in the lobby and asked him to wait while I went back to my desk to look up McCain's address for him. Roughly three minutes later, I came back to find him writing in a notebook in a weak, scratchy script.

I gave him the address and a printout of Mapquest directions from our building to McCain's and offered him a bottle of water, which he declined.

As he walked toward the door, he thanked me again. I told him he was most welcome, and I thought to myself...

"No more, Evans. You may have a stuffy nose, but you have a nose. You may not have the energy to walk around the block, but you still have the pleasure of sitting in the sun. No more whining. Not about a cold, or a bump on your forehead, that you can't walk as fast as you used to, or about the kind of cancer YOU were lucky enough to get."

I tell you, that sweet, slow-walking, little man was a gift from God.

I love how, every once in a while, I can see His hand in my life. I'm so glad that I was able to help someone today. I'm so grateful for what helping that sweet man gave me in return: Perspective.

We all have something: a burden to bear, a trial to learn from. ... Today, more than usual, I am grateful for what it is that is mine.