January 24

Q: How lucky am I to get two pieces of personal mail in less than a week?
A: Soooo lucky!

Check this card out:





HA! I totally love it! It's from my friend Mich, who wrote in the card that when she saw it in the store, she thought that this sounded exactly like something I'd say.

Uh, yeah. This is something I'd say. This is something I do say! ... Am I excited for chemo? No. Am I willing to go through it because I'm hopeful that it will bring an end to this chapter in my life? Heck yes!

I love Mich. She has a knack for finding the funniest cards in the shop. I love it when I open the little door to my mailbox and see her teeny tiny handwriting on an envelope, because I always know that whatever's in there will always be good for a laugh.

January 22

I'm sort of famous for letting my mail back up, it's true. (Esp when I know for darn sure that it's likely that there will be some sort of medical bill in my mailbox.) I put off picking it up for days at a time, sometimes for more than a week.

But oh my goodness gracious, I do love it when I finally dig up enough moral fortitude to open my mailbox and I find a piece of personal mail from one of my favorite people!

Behold, my prize from Cousin Lindsay:



This is a fridge magnet. Leave it to my silly cousin to send me an irreverent fridge magnet that makes me laugh out loud. (And who loves magnets more than I do? No one! I buy a magnet on every trip I go on. They're the best souvenirs and mementos, hands down.)

Also, this necklace that I love because L is for Laurie. L is also for Lindsay. L is also for Love, which I realize more and more every day is everywhere I look.



She sent me this super funny card, because she's my super funny cousin:





It's a funny card, right? But the best part of the whole card was this little bit on the back. (You know how some cards will have an inspirational quote on the back? Yeah, these are the "inspirational words of wisdom" on the back of this puppy.)



This card is so Lindsay. I love her! She is the perfect mix of smartass funny and tenderhearted/sweet. Besides writing that she refrained from using the really good F word, in case other eyes saw this card, she wrote "I wanted to send you something to remind you of how much you are loved. Know that there are many that will do whatever it takes to help you."

My word, I love Lindsay! I sort of hate that it took cancer to make us the kind of cousins who text on a weekly basis and talk whenever we can, but I love the relationship that we have. I love that she is the same as me; that she is as weepy as I am, and even more sarcastic. She makes life so much more fun than it would be without her - and that she's able to have such an impact on my life from 600 miles away says a heck of a lot about her.

Linz is coming in March. We have tickets to Wicked. As excited as I am to see the show, I'm about ten times more excited to have some serious cousin bonding time with one of my favorite girls.



I love that my cousins are some of my best friends! (And I especially love that Lindsay - and about 20 other cousins - will totally get the reference when I draw attention to the fact that her beads don't hang straight.)

January 21 - evening

This weekend is our Stake Conference, and for the first time in my life, I decided to act like a grown up and go to the Saturday night session. (I figure that I need all the blessings I can get, and two bonus hours of church is bound to give me at least half a blessing.)

I may or may not have had (read: I definitely did have) a little bit of a high-speed-come-apart during my bishop's talk about hymns and how the Lord can speak to us through music. In times of fear, or heartache, there are a few hymns that always come to mind. I had a hard, late night last night and verse three of Abide With Me, Tis Eventide has been with me.

Abide with me; 'tis eventide, and lone will be the night if I cannot commune with Thee, nor find in Thee my light. The darkness of the world, I fear, would in my home abide. O Savior, stay this night with me; behold, 'tis eventide. O' Savior, stay this night with me; behold, 'tis eventide.

Never in my life has that verse been so literal for me. I'm grateful for music. I'm grateful for the gospel. I'm grateful for the peace that music and faith bring into my life.

January 21

This afternoon, I got to talk to Cousin Bethy. I love her! We don't get to talk often, because we live in different time zones (she's my England cousin), but I sure love it when we do.

I love Beth. I love her British accent. I love that her voice is like an echo of mine, an octave lower. I love to sing with Bethy, because her voice is like low, mellow butter. I love that Bethy's eyes get really green when she cries, because mine do, too. I love that Beth can make me laugh faster than almost anyone I know. I love that we can talk for hours on end and never run out of things to say.

Today, we were talking about how it's the hard stuff that teaches us the life lessons we need to learn. Beth and Gohar have five children, but for the first several years of their marriage, it was just the two of them. She fought the infertility battle for a couple years before she got pregnant with Elly, her oldest. She told me today that the years of trying but not succeeding were really hard, but that they helped her be grateful every time she found out that was pregnant. We talked about how wanting something, but not being able to have it on your own timetable can be so frustrating, and that the flip side of that is that having had to go through the wanting-but-not-having gives us compassion and empathy that we wouldn't (couldn't) have any other way.

I'm so grateful for a cousin who's a friend. I'm grateful that I was able talk to her about what is hard - and what is awesome - in our respective lives. I'm grateful for the reminder that we all have our own battles, and that no one person's trial or battle is more or less important that anyone else's.

I believe that we were all born with a unique skill set. I believe that our personality and our spirit are intertwined and interchangeable. I believe that, on some level, our spirits knew what trials we would face in mortality and that, knowing then those things we can only hope for and have faith in now, we willingly subscribed to them. I know that sometimes there is no other way to learn a lesson than to live through something that's really hard.

I hope that someday I'll be able to look back on the two years in which I fought cancer three times and be able to say what Beth said - that those two years changed me, that they taught me compassion, that they made me better and stronger that I would have been otherwise.

January 18

Tonight was one of my bi-weekly hair-washing nights. (I know. First I tell you, months ago, that I never brush it. Now I'm coming clean that I rarely wash it. For such a girly girl, I'm a total slacker when it comes to my hair.) I reached for the bottle of shampoo and it was MUCH lighter than I expected it to be. My first thought was "I need to add that to the list of stuff to get at the store". My second thought was "Actually... I need to wait a couple weeks to find out if I'll really need it. I might not have hair before this bottle runs out." And then I laughed out loud at the lunacy that I am back in the same place I was in a year ago. I can't believe that - AGAIN - I am wondering if I'll need shampoo next month.

It's so funny. It's so tragic.

I'm glad I can laugh.

January 16

Tonight, I closed out my online dating profile, because I know I'm not in a position to be starting a relationship. (Not that I've had all that many actual relationships come of that site. A lot of really good trainwreck-of-a-bad-date stories? Yes. Actual relationships? Not so much.) I'm not sure why it was so hard for me to click the "hide" button on my profile tonight. In December, I'd decided not to renew when it came due mid-January. For weeks before I got my MRI results, I'd had canceling that membership on the books. And yet, I am sitting here on my couch with a little bit of a broken heart that I am officially taking myself off the market. Again.

Here's a little known fact about me: I wish I had someone who loved me.

Now, I'm not saying that to get any "I love you!" comments from the peanut gallery. I'm not looking for sympathy. I don't think that having a boyfriend/husband fixes all your problems. (Please. I am not twelve. I've been around long enough to know that life is hard, and when you're in a relationship with another person, sometimes you get double the stress and/or drama that just comes of ... well ... living.) I count myself very fortunate that I've been able to provide for myself, that I've had financial and emotional stability as a single woman. I know that I am a whole person without a man in my life. I love my life and am grateful on a regular basis that I have sole custody of both the remote controls in my house. I tell you that I wish I had someone who loved me because, esp when I am sick, being single is hard. I miss having someone to talk to in the way that you can really only talk to the person who loves you. And boy howdy, what I wouldn't give for someone who would hold me and pet my hair and tell me that things are going to be alright.

Tonight, I shut a door. A door I'd been planning on shutting anyway, but it was harder than I thought it would be. When I decided, a month ago, to cancel that account, it wasn't because I thought I'd be staring cancer in the face. It turns out that I am, and I hate that right now.

January 14

Today was the pretzel party at Spence and Brea's. It was such a great day, exactly what I wanted. It was fun. There was food involved (and lots of it). I got to laugh with the kids. I got to cry with my sisters-in-law. I got to hug every one of my nephews and nieces, and play the kissey game just a little bit with Russellbear. My mom, my sisters-in-law and I talked about what is hard in life, and what is great in life. My brothers ate the white chocolate and peppermint popcorn that Cousin Becca had given me the recipe for, and they declared that I am amazing. (I didn't tell them it was Becca who was amazing. I figure that giving full disclosure here that it was really Becca's awesomeness that brought that to the party will cover my sins.)

Later in the evening, after Kirk and Mary had gone and while Brea was upstairs tucking the kids in, Mom and I were talking in the living room. At the end of a long (but fantastic) day we were both a little bit weepy. She told me she was sorry that I was having to go through this again. I told her that I was sorry she was going to have to do it again, too. She told me that she knew I'd be okay, but that she was sorry that I was having to go through the highs and lows that come with this diagnosis. I hugged her, and in the middle of the hug, she said "It's an emotional rollercoaster." And before I could respond, she whispered in her sweet, quiet little voice "I hate rollercoasters." So do I.

January 13

Today, I told my boss. Greg shut his eyes, grabbed the bridge of his nose with his right hand and dug into his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. After about 90 seconds of nose grabbing and eye digging, he put his hand down, opened his (just a little bit watery) eyes and asked me what came next. I told him that I didn't have a lot of details yet, but I'd been told that a chemo cocktail was definitely on the table this time, with possible surgery, if the chemo didn't work the way they wanted it to. He asked how I was doing. I told him that I'm a little scared and it's frustrating not to know exactly how this will all come down, but I'm fine.

At that moment, Greg snapped back to his regular jokey self and told me that it would probably help if I prayed. Like Tebow.

Uhhhhh.... Tebow?

I laughed and told him that I do pray, but that I had no idea who Tebow was to know what he was talking about. (True story. I'd seen Tebow's name in many a friend's FB posts, but anyone who knows me knows that I am not going to know a dang thing about anyone or anything sports-related.)

Greg immediately got up from his desk, moved over to the side of his office where there was enough space to stretch out and assumed the position.



After showing me exactly how Tebow prays, he got up, sat back down at his desk and, completely straight faced, told me that if it worked for Tebow, it would work for me.

Here's hoping!

January 12

Today, I found out that I have a new tumor. Un-freaking-believable.

Or rather, given my health history of the last two years, it's totally believable.

When I had my first tumor removed in 2010 and my doctors told me the treatment plan (scans every 90 days for the first five years, then if there was no recurrence, they may relax and scan me every six months), I thought they were being a little overzealous. Honestly, I could not wrap my head around the likelihood that I would need to have an MRI every three months. The thought of my body growing another tumor - ever, let alone in the space of one 90 day interval - was just too much for me to process.

I went six months between radiation and tumor #2 showing up (one clean scan). I went nine months between tumor #2 being surgically removed and tumor #3 making a grand entrance (two clean scans).

This afternoon, I got the results for the MRI that I had on the 3rd. Jo went with me, because she can't handle the thought of me possibly getting bad news when I'm by myself. (Bless her sweet mothering soul.) My doctor came in, all happy and bubbly as usual, then sat down, looked me in the eye, and told me that he was sorry to have to tell me that I have a dime-sized spot just under my left kidney. Jo was shocked and visibly upset, as she'd had herself convinced that I'd have another clean scan.

- Jo's the eternal optimist and had convinced herself that, as long as she went to the doctor with me, the results would always be negative. (Which is to say, positive.) She was with me in May 2010, when my primary care physician gave me the results of the CT showing that I had a large tumor in my abdomen. The doctor told me it was likely a terratoma, which are almost always benign, and referred me to a surgeon. When I met with the surgeon later that week and he told me that he was almost 100% certain that it was a liposarcoma, which are almost always malignant, I was alone. Jo kicked herself for months for letting me go to that appointment alone. In February of 2011, I went to what I had hoped would be a routine appointment - alone - and was told that the MRI had shown a spot on my left kidney. After that, Jo vowed she'd never let me go to the doctor alone, just in case it was bad news. Mind you, I can handle the bad news when I'm alone, but she can't stand the thought of anyone having to hear that sort of thing without someone there to share it with. She's been saying for almost a year now that she's my lucky charm and that as long as she's there, the cancer won't be. She's adorable. Also, a little bit delusional, in that I think she really had convinced herself that the news would never be bad news as long as I had the support of a friend. -

Jo sat across the room, in the chair under the window, with tears streaming down her face while I asked questions about what the treatment plan would be, discussed disability options and talked worse case scenario with my doctor. She cried while I held it together, for as long as I could, and then we traded emotional places and I cried until she offered to buy me an ice cream.

Because I think Rocky Road is the cure for all that ails a person - even cancer - we went to Cold Stone on the way home. We sat on the patio furniture at Tempe Marketplace while we talked and cried and laughed and cried and then talked some more. Jo has saved me (literally) in the last 18 months. She has been my driver and my personal shopper. She's sent her children here to clean. She let me hold her baby for months on end, because I think baby holding is the cure for almost everything. (Anything ice cream can't fix, a baby can.) She has listened to me cry and she has made me laugh. I'm so glad she's my friend.

Before we knew it, it was dinner time. Jo went home to feed her family. I came home to make some hard phone calls. As I was walking in to my apartment, I had the thought "I don't think this will kill me." I stopped for a minute and thought about that, and I marvelled, because almost every cancer survivor I've talked to has, at some point, been afraid that their fight would end in their death.

I closed the door behind me and stood in my living room, thinking about that and I was amazed. Amazed, because this is my third time going into this, and, again, I am not afraid of death. And what's truly incredible and what, I believe, has been one of the single biggest blessings through this whole ordeal, I have never been afraid of it.

Am I afraid of other stuff? Yes, I sure am. I'm afraid of how sick chemo will make me. I'm afraid of what a toll this will take on my already tired and achey body. I'm afraid of how financially devastating this time around could be. I'm afraid of how cold I'll be without hair on my head. I'm afraid that I'll have to take Zofran twice a day (again) just to keep what I eat inside my body. I'm afraid that I'll have to have another surgery.

I could go on and on.

Trust me, I am afraid. There are a lot of things that are scary, and right now the unknown is the scariest thing in all of this. But I am grateful for the comfort that comes from knowing that death is not at the top of my list of Things I'm Afraid Of.

I'm so incredibly grateful for the clarity that knowing that I am not afraid to die gives me.

I don't know what the months ahead will bring, but I am grateful every day for doctors who felt that they needed to have such an aggressive treatment plan in place for me. I am grateful for friends and family who I know love me and will help me and support me in any way they can. I'm grateful for hope and the peace that comes with knowing that the Lord has a plan for my life. (If I could get a peek into what the plan is, I might like this a little better... But still, I know there is a plan, and that brings comfort.)

So, I have cancer. Again. ... But I also have hope. Still. (And I'm pretty sure that hope will make all the difference.)

It's coming, folks!

A week ago, I posted a little bit of a warning that I was going to be sharing a little more. And then I didn't share. Anything. At all. All week long.

I promise I'm not ignoring you, my dear bloggy friends. I've been working on editing posts that I'd written weeks ago before I just started throwing random posts up.

Little did you all know that I'd been thinking about stuff and journaling since the beginning of the January. (Insert evil laugh here.) I needed to write, because I needed to get things off my chest. I don't have much in the ways of venting or coping, other than words. (I cannot kickbox like Sydney Bristo because a) I have no coordination and b) I don't think she's human. Please, thanks to my lovely hernia situation, walking around the block is about all I can do in the way of exercise, and even that can be taxing because I simply have no energy.)

Anyway, I've been editing. I wanted to go through what I'd written and put it in order before I just started publishing stuff. I'm almost caught up to the current day. (I'm within the week of editing, adding pics and making sure I'm ready to actually go public.)

Again, please remember that I'm writing in a more serious vein because I need an outlet. I need to get some things out of my head and onto paper. Another thing I want my friends and family to remember is that, just because I may be honest and go on a rant about the stupid things people say or share that I am sad or scared or lonely does not mean I'm miserable and/or unhappy. I've been reading through what I've written in the last three weeks and I've wondered if I really should share it all. I've decided that I should, even if sometimes it's an over-share, because what's the point of being honest in what I record/write if I'm not willing to share the honesty?

The entries should start to appear tomorrow. They'll be in date order, beginning with the oldest and running toward the most recent entries. The titles in this series of entries will always be the date I wrote it, the label will be "journaling". I decided to title/label these entries so they'll be easy for me to find or look back at. Again, one of (if not the) biggest reason I'm journaling this time through is that I've decided to write a book and I need to have things written down so I can use them as a resource when the time comes. (Seriously. I'm going to write a book. This is the upside of having cancer three times; I now feel qualified as a subject matter expert.)

I figure, I can use the cancer as a vehicle to get where I want to be, or it can use me. ... I choose to use it.

That being said, I don't want the cancer to take over my blog. (Hi, I don't want it to take over my life. Why would I let it take over my blog?) So, while I am going to be writing more honestly and openly about the cancer, that doesn't mean that I'm going to stop writing about taste test comparisons, my lifelong love affair with the two B's (bacon and butter) or my favorite TV boyfriend of all time, Nathan Fillion. "Normal" posts will still have goofy titles and kooky labels. I'm still me. I'm just me, being a little more open with the experiences that come with doing the cancer thing.

Thanks for bearing with me, folks. Thanks for caring enough about who I am (and, lately, how I feel) to be regular readers. I love ya bunches!