June 12

I've been thinking that I should do a series of belly shots by the week. You know, like the pregnant-with-an-actual-child women do...

Behold: June 2

I'd been happily typing away on my keyboard when I happened to look down and see what looked like a VERY pregnant belly in front of me. (I was sorely tempted to post it on the blog that night, but just in case that was all cake and no tumor, I didn't want to show the world how big and round my tummy was getting.)

But now, the results are in. That's a tumor, kids. Well, it's two tumors, actually. And a hernia. ... And not a small amount of cake. (But I'm blaming the round and firmness of my belly on the tumors and the hernia. Fo sho!)

A week later, I was at Spencer's house and Brea asked if she could take a picture of my belly.

Behold: June 10

Too bad the lighting's not great, because my face looks a little Gremlin-y (for those readers who only know me virtually and haven't ever seen me in actuality, I promise that my eyebrows don't usually look so weird and pointy).

This is what I'm saying people, I AM A TUMOR GROWING MACHINE. Honestly, no wonder I'd been feeling like my belly was getting bigger every week. It was! (It is!)

Stay tuned for an update on the belly this coming weekend. ... I know, this is exactly the kind of scintillating reading/viewing that keeps you coming back for more. (Listen, at least I'm not showing you my scar. Though I'm half tempted to document it, knowing as I do that Dr. G's gonna cut the whole thing out and I'll be growing a new scar from scratch. Only time'll tell on that one. I figure I have eight more days to decide if I want to document that lovely piece of my anatomy, before I lose it forevermore.)

June 11

It's just after 2:00 in the morning, and here I am... blogging, while I wait for the Ativan to kick in so I can fall back to sleep.

I went to bed at a decent time last night, and I slept solid for about five hours (this is a pretty good stretch for me, at this point). I woke up with a start just after 1:00 and couldn't get fall to sleep. I did lie in bed for quite some time, curled up and on my side (because I won't be able to do that comfortably for a few months), thinking... Thinking about my silly nephews (I spent the afternoon at Spencer's yesterday), thinking about who I needed to email and/or text back (I just can't keep up with all the love!), thinking about how I need to organize my desk tomorrow (today) and start getting ready to abandon ship for the next couple months, thinking about the brownies that Linsey brought over yesterday, thinking about what's clean (and what still fits), so I know what I can wear to work tomorrow, thinking about how I Redboxed a movie on Saturday morning and then totally forgot to watch it all weekend long (it's still in my purse - awesome), thinking about how I really need to clean the blades on my ceiling fans and take the garbage out. Thinking. About anything and everything under the sun, in an effort to avoid thinking about: surgery, pain, fear, cancer.

And that's when I decided that it was time to get up and take an Ativan. (And maybe over-share a little, online. Because that's always fun. For everyone.)

I don't know what in the world I'd do without that stuff. ... I mean, I do. I'd lie there, and I'd think too much, and eventually I'd start crying - a lot - and eventually, I'd (hopefully) wear myself out and fall back to sleep. But this, this drug-infused ability to let go of the things that I am thinking about, and distance myself a little from the things that I'm trying really hard NOT to think about, this is such a blessing.

My goodness, I'm grateful to live in a day and age where not only can my doctors surgically remove tumors from my body, but they can also prescribe medication that helps me stop the runaway train that I call my brain.

Ativan: Just one more reason I am grateful to have been born in this dispensation. And not in Massachusetts in the 1600's, when I surely would have been questioned - and then probably thrown in prison - when my tumors made me look pregnant. At the very least, I'd have been forced to wear a scarlet letter. In all likelihood, I'd have been hanged as a witch for carrying the devil's child. (Assuming my tumor didn't choke the life out of me before the Puritans could.)

And, on that note, I think I'm going to head back to bed. Here's to hoping that my Massachusetts references don't follow me into sleep...

June 9

I've had a lot of great conversations in the last 24 hours with people whom I love.

I tell you, this is what I love about the cancer... the people who come right out of the woodwork when they know there's something new and/or major on my cancer-fighting horizon. (Keep in mind that there is very, very little that I love about cancer. But this? This outpouring of love and support? ... This, I love.)

In my many conversations, there have been certain themes... Common questions have been asked, if you will, and I want to take a moment and address those. You know, for the two or three of you who read this blog, but may not have had time to call/text/email or FB me today.

Q: Will I really never be able to drink Coke again?
A: It's very possible. ... This is why: while Coke is a refreshing and delicious and is seen by many (myself included) as a viable beverage option, it really has no nutritional value. In fact, it sort of has the opposite of nutritional value. (Some of you will be shocked to learn that I was aware of this, I know.) While it is certainly delicious to the taste, and I can suck down 32 oz in no time at all, it doesn't actually hydrate a person. And when I morph from the Cancersaurus that you see before you today into The One Kidneyed Wonder that I shall become in approximately two weeks' time, I'm going to have to focus on the hydration. Dr. Dreamy tells me that I'm going to have to commit to eight 8 oz glasses of water a day. For life. Or else. (We didn't really discuss the "or else" part of the equation, but my best friend is a dialysis nurse and I know enough about what she does to scare the the bejeezus out of me.) I can give up Coke if it means that it will decrease my chance at ever having to have my blood cleaned by a machine. Not a problem. ... And I really, truly do love water. So, it won't be that bad.

Here's a fun fact: Aleve and Advil are no longer medication options that are open to me. It has something to do with only having one kidney. ... I didn't really get why I'm not allowed to have either of them, but it was drilled into me good and hard that I am not to take anything other than Tylenol for a solid week prior to surgery, and I need to steer clear of them in the One Kidneyed future, too.

Q: Are they really taking your spleen out?
A: Yes. Yes, they are.

Q: What do spleens do, anyway?
A: The spleen produces, monitors, destroys and stores red blood cells. It also helps your body fight off infectious diseases. (You can read all about it here: http://www.ehow.com/about_4570381_what-does-spleen-do.html)

Which brings me to one of the weirdie moments of my dr visit yesterday. Apparently, since I'll be spleen-less, I need to be vaccinated prior to surgery. Yeah, vaccinated. Like a dog. At the pound.

(I used this dog/pound analogy when I was talking with my friend Kimmie this afternoon. Her response? "Or... like my babies!" ... Oh, yeah. Babies get vaccinated, too. I forgot. ... This would be one of those moments where it becomes all too clear that, while I have adopted pets from the Humane Society, I've never had children, so my vaccination frame of reference can get a little skewed. At any rate, I'm glad that Kimmie reminded me that people get vaccinated all the time. I'll try to stop feeling less like a stray dog and more like someone's precious little bundle of joy. Stat.)

Q: Am I really considering an epidural?
A: Hi, have you met me?! ... I'll consider any and all methods of anesthesia. I. Hate. Pain.

Q: Have you considered medical marijuana?
A: No, not really. But only because there's no real need to go there at this point. The doctors will give me high strength pain meds to get me through surgery recovery (this I know). Two of the major benefits of MM include pain management (which I'll already have taken care of) and help with nausea (I have pills for that, too, actually). There have been some studies that show that MM can help decrease the growth rate in tumors, but... those studies, once again, don't include liposarcoma tumors. Gosh, I love having the rare cancer/freakshow tumor that doesn't respond to much of anything.

*Disclaimer: If I were to ever go the MM route, I'd do the pill. No way would I smoke it. The smell is offensive to me. Oh, and I wouldn't want the college kids across the way to think I was having a party and invite themselves over.

While we're talking about my tumors not responding to much, I am feeling the need to break the Q&A pattern and dish some new intel I got on liposarcomas yesterday. Get this. We've talked about how liposarcomas don't respond well to traditional treatments (radiation and chemo), but yesterday, Dr. H went into a little more detail and gave me some hope that there may be treatments available to me at this point, should I have another recurrence after Dr. G basically guts me. It seems that research has shown that liposarcomas, in their beginning stages, don't respond to chemo based treatments, but... as the tumors recur and start to get more aggressive, the cell make-up changes, and they're seeing that those more aggressive tumors DO respond to chemo, because they've turned into fighting cells, and aren't just weird little baby cancer cells anymore. Soooo... one of the things that the pathologists will be looking for, esp on this new little friend, will be the mutated/aggressive cells. If I'm now producing a stronger, more aggressive tumor, it could open up an opportunity for treatment options (v. surgery, which is the only option I've had thus far), should my body continue to grow tumors even after they take all the guts out of the left side of my body.

*Disclaimer: Please do not read that I am expecting the cancer to come back after this surgery. This is not me sending a message to The Universe that I want or expect that. At all. ... I'm just saying that, while I hope this surgery does the trick, I need to be honest with myself that, esp since they can't tell me where the first tumor came from or why this happened to me in the first place, there will always be a chance that it could come back. I know that may sound like negative thinking to some of you out there. I assure you that I don't assign negative or pity elements to this thought process. This is purely me being a realist that the other shoe could drop at any time (which, in the world I live in, is a totally different thing than expecting the other shoe to drop). Knowing that this is something I'll have to be regularly scanned and tested for - for the rest of my life - is a coping mechanism and a survival tool for me. While I hope and I pray that this will be the end, and that it will never ever come back, I have to be prepared for the possibility that it might. ... And if that sounds like I'm borrowing trouble, all I can say is that this is the way my brain works, and I have to let my brain be. It takes too much energy to fight the part of me that has to define and prepare for all possible outcomes, and I don't have any energy to spare these days.

Q: What stage is your cancer?
A: There isn't staging with liposarcomas. At least, not in the traditional and familiar sense. When my tumors come out, they're sent to pathologists who dissect them and give them a grade of 1-4. The grading isn't the same as "staging" that you'll hear about with other, more common cancers. If I remember right, my first (22.5 lb) tumor was a grade 3. I don't know what my second tumor was. ... I'll try to remember to ask what #3 and #4 are, so I can report that, but I know I'll be pretty out of it when the reports come in, so I promise you nothing.

Q: How are you?
A: Welllllll.... I'm fine. Except, you know, I have cancer.

Here's a true story from my actual life. My cousin Julie called this afternoon (when I was at the tail end of a crying jag... it's been coming and going like that all day) and she asked how my day had been. I said, "I'm going to be honest here and tell that it's never a good sign when I'm blowing my nose into my shirt". Her response? "Really? My girls do that all the time, and they seem fine." At which point I said, "Well, that's because they're kids. But I'm here to tell you that if they're still doing it when they're 37, it's a sure sign that they have cancer."

Disclaimer: I wasn't actually blowing my nose into my shirt. I was just wiping away the snot with my collar. ... That's SO much better, right?

Q: Are you scared?
A: Of course I am. (And I have the boogery t-shirt to prove it.)

Q: Is there anything I can do to help?
A: Not really. Except prayer - or finding a cure for cancer.

Q: Are you still going to do the Jester'Z fundraiser?
A: Yes, but not any time in the immediate future. For a few reasons, the most important of which are: A) I want to be there, and I won't be able to laugh until at least August. (Not like I'm going to want to laugh, anyway.) and B) I'm in need of a serious cash infusion. By the end of next week. So, I'm working another angle. More details on that to follow...

June 9

So, I went to the store this morning to get some breakfast.

Yeah, that's right. My breakfast plans today were McDonald's Coke (next to the Disneyland mix, theirs is the best!) and a pint of Moo-llennium Crunch. (Yeah, I know. I said I was going to eat one pint. One pint today, and one for tomorrow... just in case.)

I figure that I have 12 more days of being able to drink the Coca Cola. ... When I'm down to one kidney, I'll be on a strictly water diet. For, most likely, the rest of my life. (Insert a deep, greiving sigh here.)

And I know what this surgery does to my ability to process dairy. I will be able to eat ice cream again, but it's taken me 3-4 months in the past to be able to work my way back to ice cream.

So, I went to the WalMart in search of ice cream and Coke. Because, while I'm not planning on dying any time soon... I do definitely prescribe to the "eat, drink and be merry" mentality when I'm in the pre-surgery zone.

And while I was there, I saw a Summertime display of Smore's ingredients. I tell you, they had the graham crackers stacked in a diagonal and the marshmallows were puffy and delicious looking. It was impossible to resist.

Obviously.

Do I have a fire pit over which I can roast these marshmallows? Nope, I sure don't. (I don't even have a gas stove top.) So... I'm not sure exactly how I'm going to make this happen. But once I saw the makings for Smore's, I knew that I had to have them. I figure the graham crackers have some sort of nutritional value. Between my Coke and ice cream breakfast and the Smore's I'm planning for lunch, this is shaping up to be a day full of deliciousness. And maybe a little bit of denial in the way of health and nutrition. But delicious, nonetheless.

June 8 - The Results

Something I've learned in the past two years: It's never a good sign when you've have noticed substantial abdominal changes (to such a degree that you've outgrown your clothes), and yet... when you weigh in at the doctor's office, you weigh exactly the same as you did the last time you were there.

Just a little foreshadowing there, folks.

It turns out that my "imagined" abdominal changes were not so imagined. (Duh. I could have told you that something was amiss. I can't button my black pants anymore. Haven't been able to wear them comfortably for about three weeks now.)

And the thing that's amiss is... I have a new tumor.

Yeah, as in... another tumor. A tumor in addition to the tumor they've been tracking since January (which still hasn't grown, thankyouverymuch). What I'm saying is, I am now have two active tumors.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

(By which I mean: not fan-freaking-tastic, in case you're not a regular reader and aren't sure how to read the subtext here at Razzzberries.)

The new tumor is sitting on top of my left kidney (as opposed to under the left kidney, in the retroperitoneum, as its predecessors have done). It appears to be pushing up against my spleen, and possibly my colon.

What does this mean? Surgery. Imminent surgery. As in, the surgeon had me scheduled for June 21st before I even met with him today. That's a Thursday. Thirteen days from today. (Can you tell that I'm working on wrapping my head around this?)

What's the rush? ... Oh, just that this tumor is roughly the size of a grapefruit and this is the first they've seen of it. And my last scan was 12 weeks ago. If you do the math, that's a pretty aggressive and rapidly growing tumor. (Confession: I don't even know why I said "do the math". I don't know that math is even possible, at this point, because we're missing a lot of words in the word problem equation. Not that I'd know how to do said math, if it were possible. ... I guess all I'm saying is, I can't do math. - I'm more of a word girl, in case you hadn't noticed. - Also, I have what appears to be a rapidly growing grapefruit-sized tumor that we don't want to turn into a watermelon-sized tumor. Been there and done that. I'd really rather not repeat the experience.)

So, surgery it is.

During said surgery, I will lose: my hernia (glory be and hallelujah!), both tumors (hooray!), my left kidney (not surprising, but I'm still wrapping my head around it), my spleen (because, if he left it in and something crazy happened down the road - say, like a new tumor cropped up - it could put me in danger if he had to go back in...  apparently, spleens are bleeders (who knew?!) and can cause all kinds of  drama, so it's better to just take it out since he'll be in there...) and possibly part of my colon (don't worry, he said he could take out a section and then sew it back together and I'd be as good as new, no need to carry a bag around for my poo... phew!). Basically, all of my guts on my left side will be removed.

Lovely.

He'll open up my full incision (all 13 inches). (There aren't words for how much I am not looking forward to the recovery there.) I did tell Dr. G that I will allow him to operate on me if he promised to go straight to Dilaudid, because I simply cannot bear the thought of waking up to Morphine that can't even touch the pain. He promised Dilaudid and raised me an epidural. (Is it sick that I got giddy at the talk of an epidural? Probably. But I'm seriously anti-pain, so I'm in! ... And giddy as all get-out.)

I have other grody details (IV's in my neck to check blood flow and oxygen? ... Something like that. Disgusting.), but I won't go into a lot of them now. Mostly because I'm tired, but also because I think it's grody to talk about neck IV's.

I do have CT pictures of my new tumor, but for some reason I can't get them to upload right now. Be sure and check back, because a gray blob in the middle of a lot of other undecipherable matter is going to be a treat, for sure.

And there you have it. The Results.

More information to come as I receive it, remember it, or can muster up the intestinal fortitude to talk about it. (Lest any one of you readers think that I'm some kind of brave soul who's ready to take on the world, I will just come right out and say that some of this stuff melts me into a puddle of tears and I really have to make an effort to stop the crying so I can find the words. Sad, but true.)

At the (literal) end of the day, I am, once again, incredibly grateful for doctors who check my body on a regular basis for changes or inconsistencies. I'm grateful that they did a different set of scans than they usually do, because I owe the fact that they found this tumor to the (mocha, thanks) barium that I drank yesterday and the way it lit me up inside. I'm grateful to friends and family who've blown up my phone (and my Facebook page) tonight with so much love and support that I have to wonder what I ever did to deserve so many good people in my life.

Yeah, I have cancer. (Times two.) ... I also have the most amazing medical and emotional support. I'm so grateful for all of the awesome people in my life, and for the "First World Problem" of having a disease that can be treated (and *fingers crossed*) cured with surgery. I am a lucky, lucky girl... who just happens to have the cancer.

June 8 - Morning

I woke up this morning feeling a little curious about the barium that I drank yesterday. I thought to myself, "Self... what was that stuff?!" So, I asked my friend Google about it and he told me all about barium. It turns out that it's a chemical element. It's on the periodic table and everything. It's powerful stuff, Barium.

It turns out that it's used in the manufacturing of pyrotechnics.

That's right. I said pyrotechnics.

No wonder I felt like my stomach was going to explode yesterday. I'm pretty sure that it very nearly did.

June 7

As mentioned in an earlier post, Thursday was Scan Day here at Cancer Girl HQ.

I'm pleased to report that I did not have to do MRI's this time. (Read: I didn't have to spend an hour of my life in the chanting and vibrating tube of death.) Instead, I got to do a triple CT, complete with barium sulfate and intravenous iodine.

Don't be jealous.

All this really means is that I got to drink a good half gallon (that may be a slight exaggeration, but it really is only a slight exaggeration) of thick goo over the course of an hour while they IV'd me so they could push the contrast through during my abdominal and pelvic CT's. There were several delightful "flavors" of barium from which to choose. I went with mocha. Why? Because I had it on good authority that the apple is about 17 different shades of nasty, and I was afraid that the berry flavor might ruin berry shakes and smoothies for me forever. ... And also because I thought that drinking the mocha would give the rebellious side of me a little more purpose in getting it down. (Turns out I was right, in case you were wondering.) I giggled more than once at my "medicinal" coffee. Sometimes being a practicing, yet very snarky, Mormon has its upsides. (Whatever it takes to get through the barium, I tell you. Whatever it takes. ... And if any of you Super Mormons out there are getting all Judge Judy over my mocha barium, I have nine words for you: "Don't judge me because I sin differently than you." - Just cracked myself up. Hardcore.)

I'm not exactly sure why they good doctor ordered this specific kind of CT. I've always had the iodine contrast, but I've never had to drink the barium stuff before. When they were setting me up for the CT, I asked the tech running the machine what all the goop was for (do you love how technical I am?) and she explained that it gives a different kind of picture than an MRI does, more of a 3-D shot, if you will. She explained that this would help them see not only my tumor, but also what's going on in my surrounding organs and even with my hernia. This is intriguing to me. I still don't understand how it works, but it's fascinating to me that I can drink something that makes my guts light up so the doctors can see what's going on in there.

The scan itself didn't take long 20, maybe 30 minutes. Jo was kind enough to drive me (so I could take a double dose of Ativan and not have a freakout on the medical personnel at the cancer center). After the tests, we hit McDonald's (totally our breakfast of choice) and then she took me to work.

It's been a long day. ... Mostly because I have been alll kinds of sick to my stomach from the medicine that turned my guts into a Christmas tree.

But Scan Day is over. ... Now I just have to get through Results Day. I'm curious to see what the results are, because there's something going on here. My pants don't fit. My stomach is more pokey-outey than it was two weeks ago. And I ate the last Nothing Bundlette that was in my freezer some time ago, so I'm pretty sure it's not the cake that's making this happen. Tomorrow, I will be smarter. (Or, at the very least, get the results from today's blood work and CT's.)

June 6

I finally found (read: made) time to call the nice Jester'Z lady today. I got some info on what it will take to get a fundraiser put together, and I'm rather pleased to report that I've been scheming and planning and fantasizing all night about how this is all going to work out.

First things first, I need to find a venue. She suggested a church, or maybe a school auditorium. The Jester'Z need a stage and some kind of a sound set-up, so the audience can hear them. My brain's been running its little hamster wheel and I've had a few ideas pop up. I've sent a few texts and emails to friends who are big on the theater scene here in the valley, and I'm hopeful that the perfect venue is out there, just waiting for me to find it, and that my friends will help get me there. Worst case scenario isn't really all that "worst case", in that I know that I could make an LDS Stake Center work, but I'd really rather not have to worry about having chairs set up and then taken down. Let alone the gym acoustics and the mic situation.

The ideal situation would be something with a stage and an auditorium of sorts, that also has a large enough lobby to accommodate a bake sale. (I only want the best for my friends and family who will come to this party. As a lover all foods that are butter and/or chocolate based, I've decided that a bake sale with home-made goods is a must.) I've also sent an email off to the fine folks at Fight Like a Girl Club, asking them for more details on how their fundraisers work. As much as I am NOT one to wear a T-Shirt with any type of logo on it, I AM one who supports their cause. And besides, it would be another fun (and hopefully, profitable) thing to sell at this fundraiser that I've decided to throw myself.

So, here's what I need: a venue, a series of dates and times that Jester'Z can work with (nothing on a Friday or Saturday night, as the performers need to be available for their regular shows). Once I have confirmation of a location and a date/time, I'm going to need a publicist (or a team of them). I'm thinking maybe a website specific to Cancer Girl Enterprises and The Gala Fundraising Event, with the ability to pre-purchase tickets with a credit card (does anyone know how to set up a PayPal account?).

All in all, this day has left me hopeful that I really can make this happen. Can I control the cancer? No. But I sure can control what I let myself focus on. And, right now, I'm focusing on making a fund raiser happen.

To quote one of the greatest media influences on my life to date: "I love it when a plan comes together."

June 4

A funny thing happens the week that I have my scans scheduled. (This happens every single time. Seriously, I've been doing the rounds every 90 days for almost two years now and this always happens.) My friends and family know I have doctor appointments coming up, but they either don't know or can't remember when they are scheduled. So, every time I make a phone call, it seems, the person on the other end of the line picks up (thanks to caller ID) and asks some variation of "What did they say?" instead of "Hello".

And my response is, "My appointments are at the end of the week. Scans on Thursday. Results on Friday."

I've been having this conversation with... oh, just about everyone in my life since the end of the week last week. No less than three people stopped me at church yesterday and asked about the growth of the tumor. (I'm choosing to believe that this is because they love me and know that I have an appointment coming up, rather than I looked very much like I was wearing a maternity dress - complete with baby bump.)

Another thing that happens whenever I have a scan coming up. ... I turn into a crazy crying person.

I know, you're rolling your eyes and wondering how the crying could possibly be any worse during my check-up weeks than it is every other week of the year. ... All I can say is that it is. I hate that I turn into an obsessive, blubbering fool this week. H-A-T-E it. ... But I learned some time ago that it just is what it is, and trying to fight the emotion just makes me that much more tired. My best defense/coping mechanism is to make every effort to just live my life. I put myself to bed on time. I eat normal, healthy meals. I make myself assignments to go shopping and do my laundry and live life like a normal person....

But in the back of my head, I have a lot going on. Here's a small sampling of what's going on in there:

* Has it grown?

* How much?
* I hope it's grown, because if it hasn't, I have some weird hernia/cake combo going on in my midsection right now.

* I wonder if it's big enough to operate yet.
* How many radiation treatments will they do before they cut me open?

* How is it even possible to irradiate an area that's been hit before? (Didn't they tell me this can't be done? ... And the answer to that is Yes. Yes, they sure did. But these are different doctors who say they can. So, whatever. Who cares if my guts start to look like Chernobyl?)

* Will I ever truly be well?

*Gosh, I hope they don't have to put a tube in my stomach again this time.

* I need to find a way to make this surgeon believe that I'll need him to put me straight on Dilaudid. I don't think I can bear waking up on Morphine again.

* I need to play more with my nieces and nephews.

* Yeah, right. I need to sleep more than I need to play.

*If it has grown, I wonder if I can talk them into not operating until after July. I want to go to my 20 year reunion walking on my own two feet - NOT with my walker.

*At some point, I need to cook that turkey that's in my freezer.

*I wonder how long I'll be in the hospital this time.

*I'll bet all their rooms are private...

*I'm going to have to have Mom read Les Mis to me, or I'm never gonna be able to keep up with Myra.

*Who's kidding who? If I have surgery in the next few months, the plan to read Les Mis is toast. I have no attention span when I'm on drugs and I know it. ... Not to mention, the unabridged book is so heavy that there's NO WAY I could hold it until at least two months after surgery.
* I need a Kindle.
* I only have three boxes of Thin Mints left, and I can't buy more Girl Scout cookies until February. Crap.

* Another reason to hold off until after July: Batman. No way could I sit in a theater for at least two months. Let alone, my nervous system. I'm a pansy, and I'm pretty sure I couldn't take the stress of that movie if I was still in recovery from surgery.

* How in the world will I pay my rent, bills, etc when I have to stop working?

* One more day down that I didn't find/make time to call Jester'Z about my fundraiser. Rats!

* For now, I can still lie on my side. I need to revel in that.

* I need to take an Ativan so I can breathe.

* Will I ever be able to just live my life instead of taking a ride on this emotional roller coaster every 90 days? ... I hope so.

These are the things that I'm thinking, when I'm not consciously side-tracking myself with something else. No wonder I cry.

Scans on Thursday. Results on Friday.

I'm hoping for a full night of sleep on Saturday.

June 2

This is the first thing I saw this morning. God bless Facebook! (Oh, and James Owen, since he's the one who posted this with the instruction "Go forth, and be Awesome". I heart James.)

I'm happy to report that it has, in fact, been a great day. Even if I did wake up at 4:30 and couldn't get back to sleep. (I finally gave in and got out of bed at 5:00. The good news? I got three loads of laundry done, not to mention to and home from the grocery store by 7:30.)

Since I was up anyway (and all of my chores were way past done), I decided to go to the breakfast and Morningside at the Singles Conference. (In an effort to not let the cancer rule my life, I'm trying to be a little more sociable. Now, I can't really do a whole lot in the evenings, because I'm too tired. And we all know there's no way I was going anywhere near the bowling and/or roller skating activities they had planned ... Mostly because I don't even want to think about how badly I could hurt myself with either or both of those plans. So, basically, it was Morningside or nothing for me at this conference.)

Anyway, I got myself dressed and across town by 8:30 and I'm glad that I did. (And I'm not ONLY saying that because there was a breakfast buffet with all-I-could-eat bacon involved.)

The speaker was exactly what I needed. (John Rhode. ... I hope I spelled that right. He was The Biggest Loser winner, Season 12.) I tell you, the talk was basically written for me.

Except for the part where he talked about how hard he had to work to stay on the ranch and how determined he was to do his best, and how he knew that he'd stay on the show for as long as the Lord wanted him to. That part wasn't written specifically for me - as I'm not on a televised weight loss competition. -- Oh, except that even that part of his talk hit home, in that I am also fighting a hard fight. I'm working really hard to beat what often seems unbeatable. And I'm in this for as long as the Lord wants to keep me here.

So, see... pretty much everything he had to say struck home:

* The Lord knows who I am, what I need and what I am capable of.

* I have exactly as much strength and determination as I will need to do what I need to do.

* My prayers are not answered, even if I don't get the answer that I asked for or expected.

* There is a plan. It might not always seem like there's a plan, and it might not make logical sense, but it's always there.

These are all things that I know. I mean, I know this stuff. ... But life's been a little crazy, and I needed to hear these truths coming from someone else to really register them.

My goodness, I love timing! I mean, sometimes I hate it... Like, at 4:35 in the AM, when I absolutely cannot fall back to sleep. ... But when I can look back on the day and realize that my waking up extra early set things in motion for me to be awake, dressed and ready to be somewhere that I needed to be at 8:30, I am grateful for an early morning that was the gateway to get me where I needed to be today. Hallelujah and amen.