The Gift

What you say can and will be used against you. Make no mistake about that. A couple of perfect examples that come to mind involve this very blog. A couple posts ago I mentioned that I was having some concerns about someone being an irresponsible parent. Someone I know assumed the post was about them. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. It doesn’t matter. Example two is last edition, I talked about some of my OCDness. A friend of mine has now used the word neurotic at least three or four times since then when talking about me; something they didn’t do previous to my post. But you know what, that’s okay too. As a writer, I know that there are consequences to anything I publish. Whether it’s hurt feelings, or pissing someone off, or exposing myself for the world to see; it can make you vulnerable. That’s the risk. It’s also the main reason I have yet to write the book I’ve always wanted to. But it’s coming. As a matter of fact, I have already started it. And my new year’s resolution is to finish it in 2016. And if anything I have said in my blog has perhaps offended your senses, or you think “wow, that girl has issues” then you really should read the book. I haven’t even scratched the surface yet. The truth shall set you free. It also may alienate certain folks who would rather you didn’t speak it so freely. But that is what a good writer does. Or at least the authors I’m interested in reading, and therefore is my goal to do the same. Consequences be damned.

Each moment we have is so brief. Every second of our lives spent, is another second of our past. Gone, forever. These collections of moments are what we call memories. And while you’ve heard a million times in a million ways, you still don’t understand. We forget that every single moment counts. Not because you may get hit by a bus on the way home and never get to tell your wife you're sorry for the argument you had before work, but because that minute you spent arguing is now a recorded moment of your past, a time past that you will never ever have again. And those precious minutes now influence your recollection of the past and the feelings associated with it, whether it’s guilt or pain or joy.

I was really looking forward to the TV movie “Coat of Many Colors”. I missed it the first time, and had plans to watch it Christmas night on the rebroadcast. However, a couple of friends I know wanted to get together and drink and be merry. I knew I couldn’t do both. As much as I wanted to watch my show, I couldn’t pass up the chance to spend time with my friends. The show was the story of Dolly Parton’s life or at least a portion of it, but this time now, this is my life. And I want to make my moments count. I would rather fill it with memories of laughter shared among those I love, than countless hours spent watching someone’s else life on screen.

So remember that the next time your best friend calls and you don’t pick up the phone because you’re in the middle of cooking dinner. Remember it when your husband comes home from work, stressed about a hectic day, and you are tempted to tune him out. Or when you’re driving home from the grocery store, on the same road you drive everyday, no longer mindful of the trees. Or when you just can’t bear to swallow your pride and say you are sorry. I think if I could leave you one thing, one thought, this would be it. But you probably won’t listen anyway. I mentioned in one of my earlier blog posts about reading an article regarding Melissa Etheridge and Sheryl Crow and their respective battles with cancer and how they referred to cancer as a “gift”. I know now what that gift is. The price for that knowledge and the wisdom gained is rather steep, and comes at an incredibly painful price, but I think in the end it’s worth it. It’s value is immeasurable.

A day late and a dollar short

I worry a lot. I will overthink every situation that comes my way. As an example, if I think I have said something that may have offended one of my good friends, I will stress about it for hours, days, even weeks maybe. Then, the next time I talk to my friend, I will bring it up, only to find out they have no idea what I’m talking about. Part of my “life after cancer” is to learn how not to worry quite so much, since I’m convinced that over worrying may have led to this whole situation to begin with. My dad doesn’t worry about many things at all. My mother usually worries double for him. I obviously inherited it from her side of the family.

I’ve decided it must be a control thing. I worry about the things I cannot control. I can be somewhat of a perfectionist, and no, it’s not a good thing all the time. It serves its purpose when it comes to certain tasks. But it carries over into other aspects of my life where it has no real purpose, and becomes more of a hindrance than an attribute. My friends are aware of my neuroticisms. They love me anyway. It’s not that I’m bossy, it’s more like, I know what needs to be done, and how, and I know it will be done right. In fact, I’m reciting the serenity prayer right now, in an effort to let it all go. Because, guess what... I’m again worrying about something that is beyond my control and I know it. At least I can now recognize the signs. They say acknowledgement is the first step to recovery.
I’m working on it. Sometimes it sneaks up on me though, and I find myself fretting over something I can’t really do much about, like earlier today. Part of my conscious effort is to try to imagine the worse case scenario and how it might play out. It seems to be helping. So far, no worlds have exploded regardless of the outcome. But old habits die hard.

I cry more these days than I recall ever having done in my past adult life. I laugh a lot harder when I laugh though too, I think. I embrace them both. Hell, just yesterday, I started crying in my doctor’s office while talking about my pain. Not like snotty nose, boo-hooing, but more like as-I’m-talking-tears-start-coming-and-I-can’t-seem-to-stop-them kind of way, with no apparent reason. And just a minute ago I busted out laughing rather loudly while sitting in the hospital waiting room and didn’t care. I’m just more emotional these days, and it doesn’t take much to set me off one way or the other. I can cry and laugh within the same thirty minute time frame, and often do. And just because I’m crying (or laughing) doesn’t mean I’m sad (or happy). But more like, I seem to feel every emotion I go through in a day’s time more deeply, and I don’t consider that a negative. I guess it’s all a part of Jennifer’s home therapy. Because a portion of that therapy is embracing who I am. The core of me. The good, the bad and the slightly neurotic. And being more aware of each moment as it’s happening. It’s never too late to change the parts of you that need improving. It’s also never too late to accept who you are fundamentally and embrace those quirks that make you so damn, well, you. 

Suck It Up, Buttercup

The Lord works in mysterious ways. The universe has a twisted sense of humor. Life has a funny way of working out. Pick whichever one you like. But I’m telling ya, it’s true.

Yesterday was a fairly shitty day. I woke up with a slight hangover from too much celebrating the night before. It was my friend’s birthday, and my motto has always been, go big or go home. Hangover aside, I was just downright depressed and have no real reason why. I take medication for this so you would think that wouldn’t be a problem. Maybe it was that shot of Fireball. Whatever the reason, I woke up feeling sad and blue, and more than a little aggravated. The object of my aggravation was a friend of mine and his um, how shall I say, baby momma drama? And of course, not one to just let things go, I had to have a discussion about it. And guess what, this discussion did absolutely nothing to make me feel better. Instead I felt even worse.

I go the grocery store, still agitated from my conversation. As I’m walking down the aisle, I feel tears threatening to spill. And who the hell wants to start crying while picking out cereal? That’s just awkward. So I suck it up like a big girl (a big, sad, almost crying in the store, girl), get my purchases and drive home. As I’m driving it occurs to me that my frustration goes beyond whether or not the mother of my friend’s child is fit to take care of a small person. And what I’m about to say is probably going to sound horrible, but here it is anyway. I was upset that she was allowed by nature to have a child, and is perhaps one of the most irresponsible people I know, and yet God saw it fitting to make sure I will never have a child of my own. There I said it. I was angry at life’s unfairness. Now I realize that I was once married and had reproductive capabilities for many years. However, in my defense, I was in my mid-twenties when I got married and raising future adults was not high on my agenda. I was pursuing more career oriented goals. By the time the notion of having kids even registered on my radar, my marriage was already on a downward spiral. Having seen firsthand what having children can do to an already unstable marriage, I opted out. I still think it was the right decision. However, this didn’t make it any more comforting when the doctors told me I needed to have a hysterectomy in addition to my colon resection. The radiation had fried my ovaries, there was a better than average chance the cancer had already spread to my female organs, and if it hadn’t yet, it surely would and I would only be prolonging the inevitable and another risky surgery down the road, combined with the fact that it was a threat to my very life by not having them removed, I mean, what damn choice was there... Exactly. There wasn’t one. And having your choice to reproduce taken from you will wreak all kinds of emotional havoc.

And it wasn’t just for my sake I was upset. I thought about my parents and how they would forever be denied a grandchild to love and spoil. So that was my emotional crisis yesterday. But, as fate would have it, a three year old child spent the night with me last night. And she got sick - as in vomiting on my bed and on herself sick. And not just once, but multiple times throughout the night. Which, of course, meant I got no sleep either. If she was up, I was up. And maybe this was my reminder that having children is not always sunshine and rainbows. And maybe for reasons unknown to me right now, there is a perfectly good explanation, to be revealed much later, as to why I am childless. I like to think so.

Oh, and remember last week when I volunteered at the Help Center and questioned whether or not I was doing anything worthwhile? Well, that question was answered today too. One of the volunteers had to leave early and we got crazy busy shortly after they left. At one point, I was running around so feverishly I was starting to sweat. And a small thought came to me. Had I not been there, there would only have been one person back there working in that area, and that poor person would be completely swamped. And whether or not I made a direct impact on any one person’s life, somebody had to be there to bag up clothes, so it might as well be me. So there. A lot can change in one week, most especially your perspective. So remember that the next time you’re having your own emotional crisis. Nothing lasts forever. (Even Cold November Rain) Until then, suck it up, and keep on doing your thing.

Not Forgotten

I had a great holiday week, but I have to be honest and admit that I’m glad it’s over, only because I am exhausted from the going and doing that accompanies it. I got to see a few friends that I rarely get to spend time with, including my high school best friend that I haven’t seen in about seventeen years, and that was beyond wonderful. However, catching up with friends, spending time with family, and good times abounding can wear you out. To start the new week, I went to Florence, AL today and donated my time working at the Help Center. It’s part of my pay it forward mentality I’ve adopted these days. Plus, I feel like for every charitable deed I do, maybe I can atone for past sins.

Typically, after a bout of good-deed-doing, I get a warm, fuzzy feeling all over. Today, I did not. Maybe it was the cold, rainy weather, or perhaps fatigue from the recent week’s activities, but as I drove home after my volunteer shift, I couldn’t help but feel rather melancholy. Perhaps it was knowing that I really didn’t do anything special and that for most of the people that came in today, their problems are much larger than anything I can fix. They leave with groceries and possibly a couple bags of clothes, but not much else. There were stories of those who can’t find work, or a house that recently burnt, or bad health that leaves them unable to keep a steady job. A brown paper bag full of canned food isn’t going to fix that.

Or maybe my depressing mood was because today only served as a reminder that life isn’t easy, and the solutions to everyday problems are often more complicated than anything that can be fixed in one day. Or sometimes even, in one year. This past Thanksgiving, as I was be-bopping up my cousin’s walkway, arms full with a casserole, tea and a few bottles of wine, it occurred to me that the Thanksgiving prior to this one, was a much different story. I wasn’t carrying wine or a casserole. As a matter of fact, I had to have help just getting out of the car. I can remember pulling into the driveway, popping a pain pill, and waiting for the wave to pass before attempting to get of the passenger seat. And throughout dinner, I barely moved. At times it’s easy to forget that. It’s easy to forget how bad things were, during a period in life when things seem better. But I do not want to forget. Ever.

As I stood at the counter of a gas station this afternoon, waiting on my friend to finish pumping gas so we could pay for it, an older gentlemen turned to me and said (as I stood staring out the window) that I had a faraway look fitting for a rainy day. I smiled at him, and he smiled back. Then, as he was walking out the door, he turned around and smiled at me again. There was something about that smile. It was one of those knowing smiles. A smile that says, “I understand.” “I’ve been there before.” The truth is, we all have been there at one time or another. The trick is to not forget it. When we lose ourselves in the commonality of everyday living, it becomes easy to take these moments for granted. It’s only when we make a conscious effort to remember the pain from our past, that we can embrace our present and make purposeful our future.

Turkey Day Tribute

Okay, so I guess I should apologize for not posting anything in two weeks. In my defense, since the last we met, I’ve been to Colorado and back, had another spot on my liver burnt off, and walked up and down Beale Street listening to some blues. I mean, who has time for writing amongst all that?

Quick thing on Colorado: I freaking loved it!!!! And for one main reason, and that reason, is marijuana is completely legal there. Now, granted you have to be 21 to purchase it, and you can’t just light it up in the middle of a restaurant, but they do have smoke bars and pot friendly areas. And of course, in your own home, you can do whatever you want with it. The hotel we stayed in had a smoking area, which was awesome. I met two different couples there, a young couple from Florida and an older couple from Pennsylvania, who were there for the same reasons; to smoke weed without worrying about cops busting down your door. To be honest, I’ve never understood why it’s not legal everywhere.

But that’s another post for another day. Maybe next week. This week I want to focus on the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. It’s a day dedicated to giving thanks for our blessings. Granted, we should do this every single day, but most of us don’t. We forget. We wake up in a hurry to get dressed for work, spend hours responding to texts, calls and emails, get our jobs done, then rush back home for dinner, laundry, and late night television. Then we get up and do it all over again. Except Saturdays. And on Saturdays, in the fall, in the South, we drink beer and watch football. But at Thanksgiving, we gather around the table with our families, and take a minute to appreciate one another before digging into the turkey and dressing, and then promptly fall into a food coma. I have to be honest, one of my favorite things about Thanksgiving are the leftovers. Casseroles just seem to taste better the second time.

I try to remember these days to include a moment of thanks in my daily routine. Not that I have a daily routine anymore. I just commented to a friend today that every day is Saturday for me, but without the beer and football. That’s what happens when you haven’t had a real job in over a year. But I do try to stop and say a prayer at the end of each day thanking God for the blessings in my life, even though I too, sometimes forget. But I have so much to be thankful for. Being alive is quite obviously at the top of that list. My parents being a close second. And my girlfriends, well, I can’t imagine my life without them. But I’m honestly thankful for all the wonderful people in my life. I’m thankful for you all, who are reading this post right now, for supporting me on this journey. I am thankful for every single person who has helped me in any way throughout the last year and a half. Sometimes I catch myself feeling a bit guilty at all of the kindness that has been bestowed upon me. Who am I to deserve it? I have tried in earnest to pay it forward as much as I can by doing things for others in need. And I have no doubt if I lived 100 more years, I would never be able to repay that debt of gratitude. But I can always try. And I will.

And I am thankful for every trial I have gone through and every lesson learned along the way. I am thankful for a second chance at life, God willing. Let’s all try a little harder to acknowledge life’s blessings each and every day, and not just on holidays or Sunday mornings. Tell the people you love, today, that you love them. And thank God for every day you wake up, because one day, you won’t.

So happy Thanksgiving to each and every one of you. May your holidays be filled with love, laughter and leftovers.

For Better or Worse

This time two years ago I was pretty sure life couldn’t get much better. This time one year ago, I was pretty sure it couldn’t get much worse. Nowadays, I hope for better and pray for no worse. The last year and a half has shown me that life can very suddenly take a turn in any direction, and that things can get a helluva lot worse than you ever imagined. And if given the chance, I would not hesitate to change my present circumstance. And if it were in my power, the word cancer would not exist. But it does. And I can’t change that. But not everything in the past year has been without merit.

I can very clearly recall a time period this past fall, when I was so sick I was certain I was knocking on death’s door. And it retrospect, I may have been knocking louder than I thought. It was during this particular time frame, that on one day my ex-husband came to pay me a visit and check on me. I was going through radiation at the time, and battling c-diff. I was completely dehydrated and in utter agony. No, I’m not being dramatic. It literally took all my strength and energy just to get out of bed and go to the bathroom. In fact, I was in bed the day he came to visit. I could barely move. He walks into my bedroom and immediately his face took on the look of someone who has just seen a ghost. He quickly tried to compose himself and recover, but in that one instant, his expression betrayed him. I lived with the man for 12 years. I can read him like a book. In that moment I knew just how terribly close to death I looked. He told me much later that he went home and cried that day. He was certain I was dying.

But I didn’t die. In some of those darkest moments, when every piece of me hurt, and I was so sick that some days it felt easy to just give up, I would pray. I would lay in bed and cry, not just for myself, but for those around me who were affected by my condition, like my parents. Their love for me was one of the things that got me through. I would ask God to spare me for their sake. I knew that if I died, my friends and family would be upset, and certainly mourn my death. But I also knew that they would manage without me. Eventually the pain would ease, and while they might miss me on occasion for the rest of their lives; their lives would continue on. But not my parents. My parents would be devastated. I am their only child. If I died, it would absolutely break their hearts. And I just couldn’t do that to them. So I prayed. I begged and pleaded with God to not take me just yet, for them, if for no other reason at all. And for now, I am still here.

So what good has come from this journey? Well, I have tried in earnest to remove the phrase “I’m too busy” from my vocabulary, because I understand that 99.9% of the time, it’s only a lie we tell ourselves and others. You will always find time in life for what or who is important and meaningful to you. So, instead I prioritize what is important to me, and at the end of the day, I feel as though I have made the most of it. I try to to be more patient and forgiving of others, even though there are times when I still fail. I have come to value my relationships more so than ever before. Our connection with others is perhaps what matters most in our lives. This will be your legacy. The people in your life will be the ones who recall you in death. And my relationship with my parents is one that has indeed become stronger, among a few others. I have challenged myself in new ways since my diagnosis. I was forced to take an introspective look at my life, and decide what changes needed to be made and where I want to go from this point forward. Because of this, I am now looking into an entirely new career path, which is both scary and exciting. I have a new peace with life and death that I didn’t have before, and a newfound confidence and deeper sense of self.

I still pray for healing, not just for my body, but for my mind, heart and soul. There are still hard days. Today is one of them. Last week was pretty tough too. I underwent ablation on my liver to remove one of two lesions. Next week doesn’t look much better, as they will be doing the same thing on the second spot. But I know I can get through it. And I know that with all of the bad days, there will still be good days too.

Public Service Announcement - No Disclaimer Required

There’s a conversation I keep having a lot here lately. It goes something like this:

Me: How are you doing?
Friend: Well, to be honest, not too well. I lost my job, my spouse left me, my dog died, I have a bad case of the clap and I’m going blind. But, I mean, I know it’s nothing like what you’ve been through.
Me: I don’t know, that sounds pretty awful.

Okay, so maybe that’s not exactly the conversation word for word. The thing is, whenever anybody starts telling me about a situation they have had to deal with, whether it’s bad health, financial woes, family problems, or whatever, they almost always follow it up with a disclaimer of how their problems are in no way a comparison to my own battle with cancer. And I honestly don’t know how to respond to that. First of all, I never assume they are making a comparison to begin with. What sort of jackass would do that? But secondly, having cancer doesn’t mean I’m the only person allowed to have problems.

I assure you, nobody is more aware of just how terrible this past year has been for me more than I am. I’m the one who had to go through it. But at no point do I recall ever thinking I have it worse than anyone else on the planet. If anything, I have gained a deeper appreciation for how lucky I have often been. Just last night I was sitting by a campfire talking with a friend about the past year. He said to me that when he has bad days and feels himself getting irritated over life’s unfairness, he thinks of me and it helps him put his trials into perspective. I told him that I do the same thing. There have been many times when I lost myself in self-pity and had to stop and remind myself there are those people who have suffered much more greatly than I have. Over the last year I have met some incredible people and have listened to some truly heart wrenching stories. No matter who you are, there will always be someone who has it better than you. And there is always someone who has it much worse. Each new day that we wake up gives us an opportunity to try to overcome obstacles, improve our situation, and prepare for new challenges. Nobody is immune to difficulties in life. Sometimes the hardest part is remembering that nothing lasts forever, and whatever struggle you are currently facing will eventually be but a brief moment of your past.

I wouldn’t want to be someone who had never experienced hard times. Every rough patch I’ve endured in life has made me a stronger person, and has made me more empathetic to other people’s dilemmas. Quite frankly, I fully believe that a lack of empathy is the root of most of the world’s problems. Without it, it becomes easy to quickly judge a person’s situation without fully understanding it. Not to be confused with sympathy, empathy allows us to appreciate our unique differences and value our sameness; to understand how close we all are to walking in someone else's shoes, had the hands of fate varied even ever so slightly. Perspective. It changes with time and circumstance.

So please, do me a favor and drop the disclaimer. I am still the same person fundamentally as I was over a year ago, only with a new and different perspective. But if I loved you before, I still love you now. I still care about your happiness, and am sympathetic to your problems. Yes, you are allowed to have them too. You do not have to justify your troubles and you do not have to apologize for the need to occasionally talk about them. You’re allowed to vent every now and then - even to someone you think has it worse than you.

The Evolution of My Ass Part 6

Well, I made it through the surgery. Since April 2014, I had lost my corporate job, became increasingly more and more sick, dealt with excruciating pain, radiation, oral chemo, two bouts of c-diff, a total APR (abdominoperineal resection {removal of tumor and portions of my buttocks and a couple abdominal muscles just for kicks}), colostomy surgery, a complete hysterectomy, a second surgery to fix a bowel obstruction, and more tests, exams, needles, and labs than I can even count. But I wasn’t done yet. The first month or so after surgery was spent at home in recovery. After a three week long hospital stay, being at home, in my own bed, was pure heaven.

Next on the “to do” list was to prepare for chemotherapy. I have decent looking veins, but as soon as they see a needle, they become very persnickety and try to run away. They roll like the tide. It was decided it would be best for me (and future medical personnel) that I have a port installed. So, I headed in for yet another surgery. This one was very minor compared to others. I now have a power port located in my upper right chest, allowing access for IV drugs or when I need to have blood drawn. It doesn’t hurt, although if pressure is put against it, it does. I just hug more from the other side now.

After my port was installed, I began the next round of chemo. And oh heaven have mercy; it was PURE HELL. I don’t mean a little hell, I mean full on some of the worst misery imaginable. The type  of chemo I had was called FolFox. It’s administered by starting an IV with anti-nausea meds, steroids, and some other stuff, then the chemo itself is given. The process takes a couple of hours. Then they give me a fanny pack with the chemo drugs inside, and and IV connected to my port. I would wear it home and for the next 48 hours get a continuous drip of poison. The first dose was merciless. I threw up for 24 hours straight. I lost about 8 pounds in three days. I ate nothing but a handful of saltine crackers and tried to drink enhanced water as much as I could. I was taking anti-nausea meds about every two hours.

The next round we adjusted my nausea medicine. I was still sick but didn’t throw up quite as much. All in all, I had 11 total treatments. I was scheduled for 12, but number 11 I thought would be the end of me. Even though the vomiting wasn’t as severe, the other wretched side effects were becoming worse and each treatment was harder than the previous one. I didn’t have one more in me. So I took my final chemo treatment (at least the hard stuff anyway) on August 25th.

During the midst of all this, I was scheduled for another CT and MRI. Thanks to the close eye of the radiologist, he noticed two tiny spots on my liver that had appeared to have changed/grown since the last CT I had. My oncology surgeon reviewed them and we decided the only way to know for sure was to have a liver biopsy. Now, let me say something about that. So, I go in for the biopsy in Memphis and meet with the nurse and the doctor who would be performing the biopsy. He seemed to think it was an easy procedure, they would go in and numb it and I might feel a little “pressure”. Ha! Hahahahahaha! So, what happens is you are put on a flat table, and you get sent in and out of a CT scan (in, out, in, out, in, out, repeat). In the CT they take an image that pops up on the doctor’s computer screen. I come out and he pokes me with a needle. Repeat, repeat, and repeat some more. The thing is, you are not allowed to take deep breaths, only very shallow breaths so as to not move anything in your body even slightly. He starts with the numbing needles. I feel each one, going in deeper and deeper and deeper. Then comes the needle that snips off a piece of liver to be biopsied. Holy shit. A little pressure, my ass. I start crying from the pain. The crying causes my breathing to become heavier. The doctor yells at me because it’s causing his needle to jerk around. I yell back. I hear the nurse mention my blood pressure in a concerned tone. I’m sure it was skyrocketing from the pain and now the whole “I can’t breathe and am about to hyperventilate” thing going on. The doctor instructs her to inject me with something, stat. She does. I immediately feel very, very relaxed and the pain has subsided. Now, why the hell didn’t they just give me this magic medicine BEFORE the procedure and this could all have been easily avoided? Note to medical staff - drugs are good. Always. And before the pain and panic sets in is preferable. But, I made it through. Bad news. It was indeed metastatic cancerous lesions in my liver. I was officially upgraded to stage 4. Previously it was thought I was only a stage 3, even though there were some concerning lymph nodes in my groin they removed in surgery “just in case". It’s amazing how the odds go waaaayyy down from stage 3 to stage 4. The five year survival rate for stage 4 colorectal cancer is around 12%. Now, granted some of those stats may be old, and each case is different. And so far, my cancer has not played by most of the rules anyway, so who knows. I have been told twice by my oncologist at the West Clinic that she doesn’t know just exactly what to do with me, and that I’m a difficult case. I told her this wasn’t the first time in life I’ve been told this.

See, here’s the thing. The spots on my liver didn’t look like cancer. Not to the radiologist, my surgeon or even to the doctor who performed my biopsy. Until the results came back they were convinced they had to be something else. They just didn’t look like your typical cancerous spots. And at my last PET scan, not a single thing in my body lit up. Nothing. Zilch.

My oncologist started me on Avastin. It’s different than chemo, in that it works to cut off the blood supply to the tumor, essentially starving it. It seems to be working. Since starting Avastin, my CEA levels have decreased over 80% and are close to the normal range. So, that’s all good. BUT, there’s always a BUT these days, during my last CT and MRI which was just a few weeks ago, something else showed up. The good news is that it appears that one of the spots on my liver has disappeared entirely and the other spot has shrank (or is it shrunk?) by over 50%. That’s good news. It means the Avastin has been doing a good job of what it’s supposed to do. Bad news, a couple of spots on my lungs have also shrank/shrunk. Wait, I didn’t tell you about those perhaps? Well, that’s because they weren’t supposed to be anything significant. Way back when this all first started and I was initially diagnosed they noticed a couple of tiny spots on my lungs, most likely some type of fungal something or other that most everyone that lives in certain areas get from time to time. However, it appears these spots have also decreased in size along with the spots on my liver. What does that mean? Well, most likely it means they were also cancerous. It means that damn tumor that they declared was very aggressive and quite unusual for someone at my age and my history, was in fact, exactly that - very aggressive. It means this tumor meant to kill me, and rather quickly. The only way to know for sure is to have another biopsy - this time on my lungs. Let me make this clear up front - I want drugs. Lots and lots of happy, happy, la, la, la drugs, before they ever even get close to me with a needle.

As of now, my surgeon is supposed to be presenting my case to the tumor board, and get the opinion and expertise from other members of the council on the best course of action henceforth. My oncologist has postponed any more treatments for the time being, until after the board meets. If I do have a biopsy, or possibly ablation to burn off the remaining lesions in my liver, then I need to be off the Avastin for a month at minimum due to risks of complications and bleeding that occur because of it.

So, here I am. Over a year later. Overall, I feel much better than I did a year ago, and am quite lucky and damn thankful to be alive. For now, I wait. I wait to see what my brilliant medical team determines is the next best step for me. In the meantime, I am trying to stay positive and focused on the present and plan optimistically for the future.

Be careful what you wish for

The following is a true story.

In the year previous to my cancer diagnosis, I was sitting at a bar having a few beers with a friend of mine. Earlier that day somebody had posted a comment on Facebook about how breast cancer got all of the attention when it came to various cancers. I brought this topic up while sipping on a cold brew that evening. Basically what I said, can be summarized like this: “I agree completely. Quite frankly, I’m glad that everyone wearing pink has possibly raised awareness for breast cancer, but there are so many other cancers out there that have higher mortality rates with much less recognition and it’s time people started showing support for those cancers too. I know, how about an ass cancer campaign? We should start one of those!” Then we spent a few minutes coming up with catchy phrases we could use as part of our Save Dat Ass campaign. 

That conversation has haunted me more than once, and my friend as well. Not long after my diagnosis of colorectal cancer, he came up to me one night at that same bar, hugged me, and said, “Child, you don’t think we jinxed you, do you?” I have no idea. Perhaps we did. Maybe God heard me talking and thought to himself, “Well, now, Jennifer, I think that’s a great idea. I will even let you be the poster child for “ass cancer” if you wish.” Or maybe somewhere deep in my subconscious my mind already knew what was coming. I mean, even then, if I look back with 20/20 hindsight, I can see little telltale signs of early symptoms even that far back, but at the time they were so insignificant I didn’t give them much thought. 

However it came about, I got my wish. I did start an ass cancer campaign - just not exactly how I had envisioned. Ever heard the old saying, “Be careful what you wish for”? Yeah, me too. But I am glad something positive has come from all of this. Because in a way, I have started a new campaign. And there are people who now know more about colon cancer and some of the signs and symptoms because of me. I am also a testament to the fact that you are never too young. And that yes, it can happen to you. It’s about time, we, as a people, started talking about such things instead of acting like it’s taboo to discuss problems going on down south. Too many people wait far too long to seek help because they are embarrassed to talk about their symptoms. 

I realize the Susan G. Komen foundation has taken some heat lately. I stopped supporting that particular charity years ago, for many of the reasons that are being talked about on the news currently. Overall, they haven’t had a good rating among charities, especially when it comes to donations coming in vs. money spent on actual cancer research and funding. I like to know when it comes to donations that my money is being used for the cause I am supporting. And while it’s great that so many people wear pink, it’s also sad that there are so few who wear other colors, or that cancers like pancreatic, colorectal, prostate, ovarian, or many others are not being talked about or given the same spotlight. They are all deadly. And while maybe some men (and some women) are fascinated with breasts, they are not essential, other than providing nourishment to newborn babies, to our lives. You CAN live without breasts. You CANNOT live without a colon. And no, this is most certainly not a post meant to diminish the devastating effects or seriousness of breast cancer. I have lost loved ones to that horrible disease. The point is, there are other, just as deadly (and more so in many cases), types of cancer that need the same attention. But for heaven’s sake, just don’t say you would like to start a campaign for any of them!!!! 

And, because of this blog, several people have reached out to me, in private messages or phone calls, asking for my help, or thoughts on treatment options, or how to cope with chemo, or sometimes just because they know I will listen to them when they need an ear. And I will. I will gladly do what I can to help any of you. Please know that. And if I don’t know the answer to a question, I will do my best to find it or point you in the direction of someone else who may know. I still want to start an “Ass Cancer” campaign. I hate that I had to do it this way, but maybe this was the best way. Maybe it was the only way. Maybe God isn’t finished with me yet. I like to think not. I like to think that there will be a silver lining in this cloud, and that my suffering has not been in vain. I am certainly no saint, nor do I even try to be, but I do hope that I have something positive to contribute to this world before I leave it. Save dat ass, people.

It’s My Birthday

Today is my 38th birthday, woo boy, 40 is just around the corner. How and when did that happen?

I have a lot to be thankful for today. Number one, I am thankful to still be alive. Number two, I am so very thankful for my family and friends who have supported me over the last year, and all the years previously. I am thankful for my loving, faithful canine companions, and even my cat, even though he is a stone cold killer and has destroyed more things in and around my house than all of the dogs combined. I’m thankful God has given me strength and determination, and a good sense of humor. I’m thankful that I have a cozy home to live in, and can afford to provide for myself and my animals. I’m thankful for insurance, and brilliant doctors and other medical staff. I am thankful for advancing technologies in healthcare. And I’m thankful Facebook did not exist when I was a teenager.  Thank YOU, mom, for giving birth to me and enduring my stubbornness even at birth. After all, I was a breech birth.

I have learned so much about myself, life, and even some of the people I thought I knew well, only to realize there is still much to learn about them and from them. I have gained a wisdom that only comes from experience, and much of that experience stems from learning a few lessons the hard way. I’ve made many mistakes in life, and have tried to balance those mistakes with sharing some of the knowledge I have. I told my parents not too long ago, that while I am in no hurry to die, and would rather not for many, many, many years to come; if I did meet my end in the near future, then I have no regrets. I have lived a fuller life at 38, then some people have at 98. I’ve been sick, I’ve been poor, I’ve had my heart broken. On the flip side, I have had many years of good health, I’ve earned more money than I needed to live, and I have been deeply loved. I have travelled to many places and seen some truly wondrous sites and met truly incredible people. I have friendships that will never end. I have stories. Lots of stories. I’ve had many adventures, and still do, with more to come in the future.

A few nights ago we celebrated mine and my mom’s birthdays. Her, my dad, two of her sisters and I went out to eat, then went back to my parents’ house for after dinner drinks and socializing. We had a wonderful time, and did a lot of laughing. My dad got me a handgun I’ve been wanting, and told me he was proud of me. Saturday, some friends and I enjoyed an evening of food and drink, and lots of laughter. Today I’m having a spa day with one of my best friends, and tonight, it’s dinner with some of my favorite women. It doesn’t get much better.

I have been blessed far more than I deserve. But, if given the opportunity, I will strive to make the next years of life the best; continue to reach for the stars, surely fail a few more times, but occasionally win a few too. I will shine as brightly as I can, even when there is no light.

#LifeIsAJourneyNotADestination
#Grateful
#Humbled
#ThirtyEightYearsAndCounting

Clay Pigeons

Sitting here listening to John Prine on iTunes. If you’ve never listened to John Prine, I highly recommend you do. One of the all time great song writers, in my humble opinion. And it looks like I may get to see him for the third time in concert in October. A friend of mine was given two tickets, and I was lucky enough to be invited as her guest. If you know me, that should tell you at least a little of what a fan I am of his. There has been no other singer/band that I can recall having seen more than twice in concert; not including some local bands, of course. His songs range from the insightful, thought provoking, and sometimes sad to the entertaining and quite humorous.


Music has a way of touching the soul that few art forms can really do - again, just my two cents worth. Some music makes you want to dance, some music makes you want to sing along, and some music just makes you want to stop and think for awhile or reminisce on fond memories. How ironic, as I sit here typing this, “Long Monday” comes up. It certainly has been. People are just damn strange sometimes. And I mean, damn strange. I hate to sound like some really old person talking about the new generation - Ha!!! - but, sometimes I just have to shake my head and wonder. I’m sure that’s what the almost 40 somethings probably said about me at one time.


Some days you just don’t have the words. But never fear, somebody out there does. And tonight, it’s Mr. Prine. So the best thing I can do for y’all is leave you with the words from the song that happens to be playing right now. And most appropriately, I might add. Couldn’t have said it better myself.


"Clay Pigeons"


I'm goin' down to the Greyhound Station, gonna get a ticket to ride
Gonna find that lady with two or three kids and sit down by her side
Ride 'til the sun comes up and down around me 'bout two or three times
Smokin' cigarettes in the last seat
Tryin' to hide my sorrow from the people I meet

And get along with it all
Go down where the people say "y'all"
Sing a song with a friend
Change the shape that I'm in,
And get back in the game,
And start playin' again

I'd like to stay but I might have to go to start over again
Might go back down to Texas, might go to somewhere that I've never been
And get up in the mornin' and go out at night
And I won't have to go home
Get used to bein' alone
Change the words to this song
Start singin' again

I'm tired of runnin' 'round lookin' for answers to questions that I already know
I could build me a castle of memories just to have somewhere to go
Count the days and the nights that it takes to get back in the saddle again
Feed the pigeons some clay
Turn the night into day
Start talkin' again, when I know what to say

I'm goin' down to the Greyhound Station, gonna get a ticket to ride
Gonna find that lady with two or three kids and sit down by her side
Ride 'til the sun comes up and down around me 'bout two or three times
Smokin' cigarettes in the last seat
Tryin' to hide my sorrow from the people I meet
And get along with it all

Go down where the people say "y'all"
Feed the pigeons some clay
Turn the night into day
Start talkin' again
When I know what to say

Help is not a four letter word

A friend once asked me if I would write a blog post on how people can best help others who are sick. I’ve given it some thought, and probably the only way for me to answer that question is to share a few stories of those people who have helped me in ways that for me were the most significant. But let me start by saying, that any act of kindness or generosity is always appreciated, but yes, there are ways you can really be helpful to those who are undergoing any sort of life crisis.

The answer is simple. Do something. And I mean, actually, DO something. Cards and flowers are nice, and again, always appreciated, but when you’re sick, or disabled, or going through a period of grief, it’s the most mundane tasks that become overwhelming and when someone lends a hand, it goes a lot further than just a phone call to check in with them and ask how they are doing.

Also, know this: most people who need help are hesitant to ask for it. Nobody wants to feel like they are a burden to their friends and family, and we still have our pride. So just because someone says they don’t need help, doesn’t mean it’s necessarily true. And sometimes, we don’t realize how much help we really do need. And often times, it pains us to admit it.

I remember once this past fall, when I was in so much pain, I could barely get off the couch. In fact, that’s how I spent the majority of this particular day - on the couch. I had a few friends who visited that day, and we chatted a bit, shared some stories, and passed the time enjoying one another’s company. I had some dirty dishes piled up in the sink, and since I am usually very fastidious in keeping a tidy house, I was somewhat embarrassed about the dishes; however, I was in no shape to get up and wash them. Eventually, they left. Just a couple hours later, another friend showed up. She drove here from Alabama, and came to visit for the night. After we sat and talked for awhile, she wandered into the kitchen and asked if I would like for her to wash the dishes. Of course I said, no, I would get to them maybe tomorrow or the next day. She came back to the living room, and we picked up our conversation. A little while later, she’s up and back in the kitchen. I hear the rattling of pots and pans, and I ask her what she’s doing in there. She responds, “I’m washing your dishes! I will be back in a minute.” Y’all, I got tears in my eyes. She knew I was too weak and too tired to fool with them, and she knew they needed to be cleaned. So she just did it. Even against my protest.

Also, for the last year, I have not had to mow my yard, not a single time. My dad, my mother, my uncle, another good friend of mine, and once, even my neighbor, have done it for me. And not once, did I ever have to ask them to. They knew it needed to be done, and they knew I could not do it myself, so they took it upon themselves to step in and get the job done.

There is another lady, whom, if I have met her, it was only briefly. But, she knows my dad, and sees him often at the marina, and he shares stories about me. Over the last year or so, that woman has stocked my freezer with homemade soups, quiche, and other goodies. Pre-cooked, all I have to do is thaw and reheat when I’m hungry. I have a cousin who has done the same for me. And you can’t even know how many times in the last year and a half, that I have been too sick to cook my own dinner. If it weren’t for this lady, my cousin, and my mother cooking for me, I may have very well starved to death; or at the very least, been even more malnourished than I probably already am.

And the same friend who has mowed my grass a few times, is also the same one who at one time came over and cleaned out my refrigerator when it was becoming cluttered and disorganized from too many leftovers. She also bathed my dogs for me. Trust me when I say, I hold this person in very high regard among my friends. She has done way more for me than most people I know, and does so without any thought of thanks. The gratitude I feel for her is immeasurable.

Now, granted, there are no two people on earth that I feel I owe more thanks to than my mom and dad. Their love, their support, and the things they have done for me, go so far above and beyond that nobody could even come close to matching that level of love and devotion. But, then again, they are my parents, and of course nobody else could ever compare.

Another person who deserves mention, is my ex-husband. Not long before I was diagnosed, we had reached a point in our relationship, while tenuous in the past, where we could once again be on friendly terms. And after my diagnosis, he went above and beyond to help me in any way he could. This past fall, when I was undergoing both radiation and chemo, and was so sick I felt close to death, and pretty much didn’t leave the house except for treatment, he made a point to come stay with me at least once a week. There may have been a few exceptions, but for the most part, he was there every week on his off day from work. He cooked dinner, or brought food, he fed the dogs, he listened to me complain, he ran errands for me, and pretty much anything I needed, he made an effort to provide it. And during this last bout of chemotherapy, which has been beyond hellish, he has been one of the very few people, (outside of my parents) who have actually been here while I was sick. Sometimes, the only thing you need when you’re that sick is just for someone to be there. Maybe they just sit and watch you sleep, or hold your hand when you’re crying from the pain, or hold your hair while you puke your guts out. But there’s only a tiny handful of people that have done that for me. And to those few, I will be forever thankful.

So there you go. Be there. Do things. Offer to get groceries, mow their yard, cook them dinner, wash their dishes, sweep their floors, feed their pets, run errands, fix clogged drains - anything that needs to be done. Just because someone is ill or otherwise compromised, the world doesn’t stop spinning, and they have chores and errands just like anyone else; the difference is they have a diminished capability for getting those things done. And when they say they don’t need help, help them anyway. They will remember your kindness, and they will be grateful.

Ramblings of a cranky old woman

I need to find my passion in life again. I feel like I’m losing it. So often these days I just feel plain tired. Tired of fighting this battle. Tired of gaining weight, then losing weight, then gaining weight, then losing some more. I have nightmares. Sleep is hard for me. I often stay up almost all night, then sleep half the day. I can’t get on a regular schedule. I have too many pills to name. I simultaneously can’t wait to go back to work, and scared witless about starting a new career. There aren’t enough hours in the day, and my to do list never ends. My back and shoulders are a maze of knots, stretched tight, like strings on a violin. I cry at random moments throughout the day. I stay anxious and wound up, feeling like I’m in a race I have to win.

So some nights I take a bubble bath. I may have one tonight. Lord knows I could use one. And a massage. I just had a professional massage not that long ago, but if there’s one thing I could probably never get enough of, it’s a good massage. I’m pretty sure that’s my idea of heaven, an endless eternity of massages. Or sometimes, I smoke a little of God’s miracle drug, marijuana. I may do that tonight too. It helps. And sometimes the best therapy is to talk to a good friend. Maybe my mother, or a relative, or one of my girlfriends. Laughter really can be the best medicine, but so can too a silent ear. Or a hand to hold.

Last night I was having terrible nightmares. It was the kind that as I dreamt, I knew I was dreaming but couldn’t wake from. When I did finally awake, I called out for my momma. She came and laid in the bed with me. And everything was okay again. That’s just what momma’s do I guess. Right now I am sitting on my screened-in porch, and trying to let the sounds of nature work it’s magic. It’s kind of sad knowing that it takes effort to relax. But that’s how I feel most days - that true relaxation is a thing of the past.

I died my hair blue. Well, parts of it anyway. And for some reason, that made me feel a little better about life. Something to control. Something fun and different. Or maybe I’m also just a little tired of hearing how lucky I am that I didn’t lose my hair in chemo, which seems so inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. I feel like I’ve lost so much already, what’s a little hair to boot? But, I guess I should be thankful, and truthfully I guess I am. So maybe I added a little color in honor of those who weren’t as lucky. Is it a coincidence that blue is the color of colon cancer awareness? Perhaps not.

It’s been a long year and a half. I wish I could be more optimistic, and offer up something inspiring and thoughtful. But not this night. This night is for me. You want the truth? The truth is, I’ve been to hell and back and it’s been no easy journey. And while I have loved ones who may encourage me along the way, ultimately it’s my path to walk alone. So I take inspiration where I can, gain strength and wisdom along the way, but sometimes I just have to let it out. And just breathe.

Tomorrow is a new day.

They Say

They say that adversity doesn’t build character, it reveals it. They also say things like 'when life hands you lemons, make lemonade’ or ‘when times get tough, the tough get going’. They say a lot. And to be perfectly honest, they for the most part have no idea what they are talking about. Life is not a cliche. It’s hard, is what it is. When you think about it, most of our lives are spent in an endless cycle of shit to deal with it, sprinkled intermittently with happy moments that help get us through the bad times. I mean right now at this moment, I can sit here, and thinking of people I know, count among them ones who are going through a divorce, a bad breakup, a sick child, unemployment, their own ill health, family drama, and financial struggles. And that’s just off the top of my head. I, myself, am currently dealing with a broken down car that needs a new transmission. So what gets us through this parade of broken cars and broken marriages? Is it faith in a higher power? Inner strength? The will to live? Lemonade? Or is it perhaps a combination of these things? I truly do not know. Because when you put pen to paper, life sometimes seems like a hard row to hoe.

But we do. We overcome. We keep on keepin’ on until the wheels fall off. Since my diagnosis, I’ve had many people tell me that I’m a strong person for handling this load. I don’t know, maybe I am. Maybe some people just throw in the towel and give up. Or maybe I’m really not that exceptional at all. Given the same circumstance, I tend to think most people wouldn’t do things much differently than I have.

Someone I know very recently passed away from breast cancer. It affected me in ways that other deaths have not. We were not particularly close; I just knew her from around, as often happens in small towns. She and I had some of our radiation/chemo treatments during the same time this past fall, and got to know one another a little better. The thing I remember most was her unending positivity. Even after the cancer spread to her other breast, she remained steadfast in her faith. The last time I saw her was at the grocery store where she worked. We talked for a few minutes, she hugged me, and said, “We will get through this.” That was just a few short weeks ago. Her death seemed so sudden. She was hospitalized due to complications, and then that was it. She was gone. I am still struggling with why. To say that it was unfair, seems trivial and meaningless. Of course it’s not fair. If life were fair, good guys would always win the girl, and mean people would be the ones who lose in life. So really even asking why is pointless and gets you nowhere.

So again. What gets us through? I am not a particularly religious person per se, but I am deeply spiritual. I talk to God, and I pray. I also talk to my dogs. And my cat. And my parents. And my friends. I guess perhaps this is what gets me through the hard times. But the truth is, I am content. Probably more so now than I ever have been. I have no job, a busted car, and my health is somewhat uncertain. But as I sit here in this moment, laptop in front of me, under soft lamplight, with the windows open so I can hear the sound of rain and thunder, the dogs and Kitty Von Mouser sleeping, sharing my story, I am at peace. I have made my peace with life, and death, and the ups and downs in between. And I hope that no matter where life takes me, or throughout the inevitable pitfalls that are sure to come my way, that I am able to maintain this sense of peace and contentment. And remain just as steadfast in my will to overcome and persevere; doing what I love with the people I love. In the end, we all perish. But our spirit can live on. As they say, life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.

A Walk Down Memory Lane

I went to Birmingham, AL this past weekend, and met up with some friends who live in the area. I lived in Birmingham for about seven years and it was great being back. We took a nostalgic walk through the Five Points area in Southside, seeing what has changed and the places that are still the same. I had forgotten how beautiful the architecture is. Most of the buildings; apartments, houses, stores, churches, are very old, and I love their charm. One of our friends we stayed with lives in an official “historical home” and it's quite lovely. Among the things I do not miss are the occasional wafts of some terrible smell that sneaks out of nowhere and attacks your nasal passages and the never-ending traffic. But bigger cities do have their perks - an abundance of shoppes, boutiques, restaurants, and availability of a variety of beers, groceries that are not often found in small towns, and unique bars and other watering holes. And in my humble opinion, Southside is the best area in Birmingham. It’s a great mix of college students, artists, and other interesting folks. And a few bums too. 

I moved back to my hometown in February 2007, and have only made a handful of trips to B’ham since my departure. I don’t think I so much left Birmingham, but more accurate to say I ran like hell. When I first left my little hometown, I was 20 years old and had moved to Florence, AL to attend The University of North Alabama (UNA). I left with my middle finger in the air with no intentions of ever returning on a permanent basis. It wasn’t bad growing up here, but I had bigger plans in life, and felt suffocated by the smallness. Everybody knows everyone and also “their business”. So off I went to face the world on my own. I’m a firm believer that everyone should leave their hometown at least once in life, whether to return or not, but getting out and seeing other parts of the world gives us a better perspective on things I think. I don’t know if I have ever heard anyone who regretted leaving. 

After a year in Florence, I packed my bags and headed West, where I worked in the gift shop in Yellowstone National Park for possibly the best 5 - 6 months I’ve ever spent anywhere. After leaving Yellowstone, I was eager to finish college and get my degree. So I did. Which is how I ended up in Birmingham; as a student at UAB. My boyfriend, who I would later marry, and I shared an apartment. I worked and went to school, and life was good. In May of 2003, we tied the knot. We had also moved to our second apartment, just a few blocks from the first one. Not long after we were married, I severed my achilles tendon (that’s another story for another time) and spent the next several months in a cast followed by physical therapy. That was probably the beginning of the downhill slide. In 2005, my husband was diagnosed with Cor triatriatum. A congenital heart defect, it is extremely rare and results in the heart being divided into five chambers instead of four, due to a membrane separating either the left or right atrium. He had open heart surgery to correct it. My time was divided into working in the graphics department at Infinity Insurance during the day, and playing nurse in the evenings. It was exhausting, both physically and mentally. The surgery was successful, but my husband went through a long period of severe depression. He spent most of the next year wearing a bathrobe. He became increasingly moody and I became increasingly more fatigued. 

In January 2006, our Boxer, Punchinella was born and she came to live with us when she was six weeks old. She was (and still is) my baby. My marriage was already in trouble by that point, but she brought a new joy to our home, and for awhile I thought we might make it. We went through couple’s therapy with a counselor, and it helped a little, but after the counseling was over, we soon fell back into our old patterns. The arguments were increasing in frequency and intensity. At one time, my husband had a successful landscaping business, but after the heart surgery, the business suffered as well. So for awhile I was the breadwinner in the family. Then, in September of 2006, I lost my job as well. Adding fuel to the fire was a dispute between us and our landlord, a liar and crook, which resulted in a court case. The dream was over. What had started as a beautiful adventure, filled with hope and ambition, had turned to bitter feelings, resentment, hurt and anger. 

It was my husband’s idea to move back to my hometown. He had visited home with me, and to him, it was a quaint and charming town, sort of "Mayberryesque". So once again, I packed my bags, only this time I was coming home. The town I once vowed never to live in again, I now returned to, quite anxious to leave Birmingham and the terrible series of events that had tainted my feelings for the city. All of a sudden, that small town that I had escaped nine years before, didn’t seem like such a horrible place after all. I have friends and family here, and I’ve enjoyed living here again for the past 8 years. I can’t say that I won’t leave again, but if I do, I know I will always have a place to come home to, when the world outside gets a little too overwhelming. 

Ostomy, Schmostomy

During the summer of ’99, my then boyfriend (future husband, future ex-husband, and future good friend of mine) travelled to Yellowstone National Park to work for the summer. We stayed until the end of the summer season, which was mid-October and then came back home. Having been gone from home so long, we were anxious to make the trip back. We took turns driving in an effort to cover more ground quickly, and it was during a stretch of driving through Iowa that I was up at the wheel. If you’ve never driven through Iowa, then don’t. I don’t care what the geography books say, Iowa is the longest state in the U.S. Nothing but fields of wheat, or corn, or whatever it was, for as long as the eye can see. Here we are heading down the interstate surrounded by vast stretches of nothing, when “it" hit me. Stomach cramps. The kind that make you want to double over and cry. Also the kind of cramps that say, “You better find somewhere to pull over soon.” I started to panic. There was no bathroom of any sort anywhere. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead, I clutched the steering as another spasm hit my stomach. I was pretty sure I was going to shit my pants before we could find civilization. At long last we see an exit sign. No clue what lie ahead, but it didn’t matter. My bowels were on the verge of exploding inside my car. We veer off the interstate on two wheels, and whip into a gas station/restaurant. I ran into the store, and practically yelled at the cashier/waitress that I needed a bathroom. STAT. She pointed in the general direction, and I made a mad dash, only to find myself inside one of the top ten nastiest bathroom stalls I’ve ever been inside. Normally, toilet seats don’t bother me, but this was the exception, with obvious residue on the seat from the last few people to use it. I quickly grabbed handfuls of toilet paper and covered the seat, dropped trou, and managed to get both cheeks on the toilet before having my insides turn out. That was a close one.

The point of this? Everyone poops. Everybody. It is the lowest common denominator for humans. Rich or poor, black or white, male or female; at some point during the day, we all sit on the porcelain throne, pants around our ankles, and drop a deuce. It is one of our most vulnerable moments. Heaven forbid, if intruders burst into your home while you’re making a stinky. However, for me, I no longer have to worry about finding a private room in which to do my business. It’s one of the benefits of having a colostomy. Since my operation, many people have had questions. Like, what does it look like? How does it work? Do I still pass gas? So I thought this would be a good time for an educational piece; we can call it “Life with an Ostomy”.

First there are different types of ostomies: colostomy (large intestine), ileostomy (small intestine), and urostomy (bladder). I have what is known as a sigmoid or descending colostomy, the most common type of ostomy surgery, in which the end of the descending or sigmoid colon is brought to the surface of the abdomen. It is usually located on the lower left side of the abdomen. The end of the remaining portion of the colon is brought out to the abdominal wall to form the stoma.

No, it doesn’t hurt. Now, granted, if someone punched me there, it would, but then again, it hurts to be punched anywhere. And while I’m sure nobody would rush out to get one, there are certain benefits to having one. For example, as I mentioned above, I no longer have to “be somewhere” to do my business. I could be driving through Iowa (but let’s hope I never again have to), having dinner with friends (yes I have, and you never knew), or reading a book on my sofa. It just happens when it happens, with no fuss or mess. Also, as a bonus, I have saved several dollars on toilet paper and wet wipes.

Ostomies have come a long way in the last several years. There are as many different pouching systems as there are electronic video games. Open end pouches, closed pouches, clear, opaque, one-piece, two-piece…. and the list goes on. I have found that the manufacturers of these products are more than happy to send you free samples, so if you should ever find yourself in such a position, I highly recommend getting as many samples as you can until you find something you really like. For me, I prefer a two-piece, closed end pouch. When I was in the hospital I used what they had, which was a one-piece, open end pouch. Of course, back then, at the expense of getting graphic, my poo was very liquid, so it made sense to use an open end pouch that can be drained. However, nowadays, my poo is more solid, much as it is for everyone else with normal bowel function, so a closed end pouch is preferable. When it gets full, I simply, peel it off, throw it away, and replace it. I can do this in less than a minute. It’s that easy. One of the reasons I prefer a two-piece pouching system is that I can easily remove the pouch itself (as mentioned above) very quickly and only have to remove the entire system a couple times a week, about every three or four days, although it can last for up to a full week at times. Even with a full system change, it still only take a few minutes. It’s painless, pretty effortless, and I have gotten quite adept at it. It’s now just a part of my normal routine.

Another benefit is that most pouches these days are lined with charcoal filters. This means that when I pass gas, (and yes, I still do) it has no odor. Guess what? I can now say my shit doesn’t stink and actually mean it. Secretly, I always knew I was better than everyone else….. ;) Ha! Just kidding, peeps.

But really, it’s no big deal to me anymore. When they first told me I would have to have one, I thought the world was ending. And to be honest, it was mostly vanity that made me think that. We live in a world where perfection seems to be the goal. Perfect bodies, perfect lives. And all I could think was how horrible it would be to have a bag of poop attached to my stomach. But, after what I have been through, most especially last fall, when I was undergoing radiation, chemo, and had c-diff, I was in so much pain and so sick that I decided a colostomy wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. I lost over twenty pounds in only a couple of months. I was so sick some days that I never got out of bed. I really thought I was dying. And to be honest, I was looking forward to anything that could make the pain go away. And it did. It saved my life.

I have embraced my new appendage. I even have colorful pouch covers made for my by friends, plus a few I ordered online, to wear to the lake or beach or anywhere really. And nobody points and laughs or calls me a freak. I have plans to attend the UOAA (United Ostomy Association of America) in September, where I look forward to meeting others with ostomies, and maybe snagging some more samples to try from the various manufacturers. As I said before, I highly doubt anyone would volunteer to have one, but if you do have to, then you should know that it’s really not that big of a deal. You will adapt. And there is nothing that I could before, that I can’t still do. I can swim, I can jog (I don’t - but I could), I do Yoga, and I still drink beer. I hope this helps to answer some of your questions, but if not, feel free to ask. I will answer as many as I can. Poop on, my fellow humans!

Greetings From Paradise

Hola! If you're reading this, then greetings from the beach. Where life is good today and it's always 5:00. Life really is better at the beach. Vacations are good for the soul. No worries, no cares, nowhere to be on a schedule, no appointments or errands, and it's okay to leave your phone tucked away in a bag or on the charger all day and never even pick it up to see if someone has called. This is my time.

I started a new book today. In a previous post I mentioned my doughnut giving friend had also gifted me with a stack of new books to read. I just started one and already am a huge fan. For all my reading enthusiasts, I strongly urge you to pick up a copy of The World's Largest Man by Harrison Scott Key. I’m only on page 15, and already hooked. The author was born in Memphis, but grew up in Mississippi, or in other words, my neck of the woods. His writing is relatable and his characters are the people I know in my own life. I think anyone who grew up in the South would probably appreciate his prose.

Writing is more fun at the beach too. Sitting here in my gauzy white cover up and sun hat, I can fancy myself as a great literary talent, creating beautiful masterpieces to be treasured forever, perhaps the next William Faulkner. Or maybe I’m just stoned and daydreaming. That’s okay too.

But let me tell you about my friend. The reason I am here. Now. At this moment.

I had texted a couple of girlfriends earlier in the year, and mentioned I wanted to take a trip this summer to Ft. Morgan, AL, with Punchinella, my Boxer and best friend for over nine years. My ex-husband and I brought her down here once, several years ago and she absolutely loved it. If you aren't familiar with Ft. Morgan, then at the expense of exposing it’s secret, thus driving more people here, and in turn losing some of the very reason it is so charming, let me tell you a bit about it. It’s a small community just West of Gulf Shores. There are no large hotels, no touristy restaurants, no raucous bars; just a small group of houses situated on a rather quiet stretch of beach. Quiet, at least compared to other beaches along the Gulf Coast. The big bonus is that the beach here is dog friendly, also a rare find in these parts. So I had decided that since Punchie is closing in on ten years old, the Golden Years in doggy Boxer world, that this would be a good year for us to make a trip down here. So I texted some friends and mentioned it, more to say, if anyone would like to join us please feel free. Lo and behold I get a message back from Tara saying that she had already rented a house here in July, taking her family and her dog, the sweetest little (er, not so little) Pit Bull puppy. He’s about a year and a half, still in full on playful pup mode. She said, “You might as well just come with us, I’ve already got us a house.” Who can say no to that? It’s only our first full day here, but her family has so graciously taken Punchie and I in and made us feel like a part of their group. Tara’s mother is with us, and so is her son and his wife, and their two children; a boy and girl, ages 9 and 7, respectively. The kids are adorable. I won them over within the first hour of getting unpacked by telling them I had brought a big bag of Laffy Taffy, with mixed flavors. They immediately asked if they could have some, and then came back with heaping handfuls after I said they could. Pretty sure we’re BFFs now. Earlier today at the beach, we were pirates and spies, except Tara who was a double agent. Figures. But that’s the kind of person she is. Not a double agent, by the way, but a beautiful and kind soul, who is happy to share her home, her family and her vacation.

So that’s where I am today. For me, vacation has just started. I have an entire week to look forward to. Nights of sleeping with no alarm clock, whether the digital kind or of the hound dog sunrise variety, days when I might enjoy both a beautiful sunrise and sunset on the same day, afternoons sipping on a Corona or Pina Colada, listening to the waves crash onto shore, and nothing on mind but relaxing and enjoying all of the moments with my dog and good company.

The Evolution of My Ass Part 5

The surgery went very well. My lead surgeon came into my room the next day with the good news. "We got it all. 100% margins." Yay!!!!!!!!!! Tumor has been removed. I'm cured. Let's go home.

But the universe had other plans. At first, everything seemed to be as good as it could be. Tumor was removed, margins came back clean, and life was looking up. They started me on a clear liquid diet. The next day or so I moved up to full liquids. That's as far as I made it. On Friday, my surgeon came around and expressed concern about my bowel function, most likely from an ileus which may just be some after affects from the surgery. But just to be sure, they ordered a CT scan of my abdomen. In the meantime, they insisted I needed an NG tube. If you don't know what that is, well, let me tell you it's a tube about the size of drinking straw, only much longer, that they shoved up my nose and down my throat. Completely, absolutely, 100% awful. I cried the entire time they were shoving it in and down me. So did my mom. So did my friend who was there by my side. And I'm pretty sure my surgeon was on the verge of tears before it was over.

Around ten or so Friday evening, maybe later, my surgeon walks into my room with some bad news. "Your bowels are obstructed and we have to do surgery immediately. Like right now." Oh shit. What? I just had surgery. So, there we go again. A mere four days after my initial surgery, they cut me open again to fix a kink in my bowels. Holy hell. So back to square one as far as recovery goes. Clear liquids, then on to full liquids. And then, guess what. Yep. Another ileus. Fortunately, this time that's all it was. Just my digestive tract dealing with the trauma. Another NG tube. This time, however, I insisted they give me drugs beforehand, to ease the pain. And no surgery this time either. At this point, we're closing in on the two week mark, whereas initially we were expecting no more than a week of hospital recovery time.

My mother, God bless her, was there the entire time. I love my mother. She has been by my side during the worst of the worst times during this past year, hospital stay being no exception. My dad was a total trooper. He went to work during the day and drove to Memphis to spend time with my mother and me in the evening. We had to convince him to stay at home a few nights just to catch up on some rest. My friends came to visit, and those brief interludes helped keep my spirits up. Again I reiterate that I know I have good friends, most especially when they volunteered to shave my legs for me. Two weeks without a razor can get pretty hairy. ;) I even had a few surprise visits from some old high school friends. It was great seeing them and catching up. Although one (whose name shall remain anonymous) brought these unbelievably delicious looking doughnuts which I couldn't eat. My hospital guests, however, devoured them - and right in front of me at that.  Okay, so maybe my friends aren't that nice after all...

But I digress. Back to hospital hell. As it turns out, if you have C-Diff once, your chances of getting it again goes way up. It's just one of those things. And with the antibiotics they used to prevent infections from surgery, I ended up with yet another case of it. C-Diff is highly contagious, and I was put in quarantine, which meant I couldn't leave my room at all, not even for strolls down the corridor. They called in an infectious disease doctor, that I swear, looked like the perfect example of "the mad scientist" - think Doc Brown in Back to the Future.

Cabin Fever set in rather quickly. I was pretty sure I was going to lose my mind in very dramatic fashion, and start clawing at the door like a caged animal. Practically every single nurse on that floor had been assigned to me at some point. I was getting a reputation as the patient who just won't leave, though I promise it wasn't by choice. Never take your nurses for granted. They work their butts off and many times for ungrateful patients or hurried doctors. I got to trade places with one of the newbies for a moment, and held HER hand as she cried (just a little) from the stress of the job. We've all been there.

21 Days Later.
February 14, 2015 I was released from my prison and sent home. It was absolutely the best Valentine's present I could have asked for. A new chapter in my life was just beginning.

Author's Note - Anonymous doughnut bearing friend has since redeemed herself by sending me a fantastic selection of books to read. I hope you're reading this, dear. And thank you.

Also, I want to say thank you to all of you who have been following my story so far. I feel like much of this has perhaps been rushed, and I apologize. It's that part of me that wants to catch everyone up to speed, but in a hurry to fast forward in time to now. Writing of the past is sometimes hard when there is so much going on in the present that I want to express. So forgive me. But I sincerely appreciate the encouragement I have been given. Over the course of writing this blog, there have been times when I have gotten quite emotional writing it, remembering some of the most difficult times of my life thus far.  I have tried to interject some lightheartedness into my story, but this is in no way meant to diminish anyone's struggle with cancer or other disease. For me, humor has been a way to cope with the dark times, and I hope that it is taken that way.

As always, thanks for listening.
Jennifer

The Evolution of My Ass Part 4

It was time to start preparing for surgery. I met with a couple of surgeons and found one I really liked in Memphis. He also arranged for me to meet two other surgeons who would be assisting on the surgery, a gynecological surgeon and a plastic surgeon. I really liked all of them. It’s funny how we stereotype people with certain careers. For example, prior to this, whenever someone mentioned a plastic surgeon my mind automatically conjured up an image of the guys from Nip/Tuck - arrogant, womanizing, assholes who imagined themselves as almost Godlike. My plastic surgeon was nothing like that. He is an older gentlemen with the friendliest smile who hugs my neck every single time I go in to see him for a follow up appointment, and always asks how my mom is doing. He calls himself the fender and bumper guy of the surgical world. ;) 

Not long after I finished radiation I was playing on Google and came across some medical info about side effects that basically stated how my ovaries were most likely fried from the radiation. I asked my radiation oncologist about it, and he very nonchalantly said, “Well, yeah, so?” I’m like, um, you might could have told me that beforehand. His response was that it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t have changed anything. This was what had to be done. Okay, maybe so, but I would rather not find out my potential baby birthing days are over on Google. But there it was. My ovaries were nothing but raisins now. That, combined with the potential of the cancer spreading to my female organs, the determination to have a full hysterectomy in addition to the colon resection and tumor removal was made. Although let’s be honest, I didn’t have much choice. As a woman, this was a hard pill to swallow. I’ve never been one to just really, really want kids, as is obvious by the fact I’m in my late 30’s with no children, and have had plenty of opportunities if I had so chosen. But to have that choice stripped from you, well, that’s a whole other ballgame. It definitely led to some depression and a feeling of not being in control of my life anymore. Men may not understand this, but I can guarantee most of the women reading this will know exactly what I am talking about. 

So I signed the dotted line giving them permission to not only repair the sewage disposal but remove the plumbing too. 

A date was set: Monday, January 26, 2015. D-Day. For me anyway. To say I was scared out of my mind is a slight understatement. This was a big surgery. A huge surgery. Not to over exaggerate, but about as major a surgery as one can get. So yeah, I was scared. But after meeting the surgical team, I knew I was in the best hands possible. 

Sunday, January 25, 2015. My parents and I checked into the Hilton Homewood Suites in Germantown and began the waiting game. I had to do yet another colon cleanse. Get those pipes all squeaky clean. There it was in the hotel bathroom that I shat for the last time. Or at least as normal shatting goes. No doubt it was one for the record books. I believe I briefly touched on just how terrible the colon cleansing process is, and this was no different. Let’s just say I managed to somehow get poo on me, the shower, the shower curtain and even the walls of the bathroom. I did try my best to clean up after myself but really there’s only so much you can do while spraying liquid poop in all directions. I left a nice tip for the maid.

5:00 am, Monday: We check into the Germantown Methodist Hospital. This is how I know I have the best friends in the world - because they were all there. There were so many people there for me, I looked like a rap star with my entourage. There were some tears, and praying and hand holding. Finally, the moment came. The surgeon greeted us with final words about the procedure and a nurse wheeled me back - floodgates opened, and I cried most of the way back. Once I got back to the pre-surgery holding room, I calmed down. They got me ready for an epidural (not just for pregnant women apparently). Good stuff. The nurse was really nice and asked if I wanted to listen to any music. I requested “Southern Cross” by Crosby, Stills and Nash. She downloaded it and gave me her iPhone to hold so I could listen to it. The last thing I remember is singing along (probably loudly) while they wheeled me back to the operating room, just smiling and singing to everyone in the room. It was a packed house. I asked the nurse to please let my Dad know I was going under to one of his favorite songs. And from what I hear, she did just that. And then, I went to sleep. 

The Secret To Happiness Is....

I've had a few people tell me that I have a positive outlook on life, or tell me how inspired they are by the way I am handling cancer, or that I am doing a great job of still smiling. People ask me how I do it. It's easier than you think. You will be surprised at how easily you can adapt to life's ever changing moments. We do it daily without even realizing it. It's the slow process of evolution. We do evolve. We evolve and adapt to our new realities, whether it's a new career, the end of a relationship, or a physical change in our appearance over the course of a lifetime. You are stronger than you think you are, and the will to live is deeply ingrained in our own biology.

But let me say, I am not always giggles and sunshine. Far from it. However, I restrain from constantly whining or bitching about life or my circumstances or the weather or any of the other hundreds of things there are to complain about. What's the point? It's not going to change anything. All that's going to accomplish is make the people who are around me miserable having to listen to it. (Just get on any social media site as an example.) Occasionally I do complain. And whine. And sometimes my friends probably get tired of hearing it. Too bad. They are my friends. That's part of the unspoken friendship contract. In return, I listen to them when they want to unload a full day's worth of crap. But for everyone else, I try to put a cap on it.

I figured out a long time ago, that happiness really is an inside job. It's not something you can buy at Wal-Mart or TJ Maxx or even The Bass Pro Shop. It's not hidden inside a lottery ticket. And it most certainly is not found in the arms of someone else. At the most, all you will find in any of these places are fleeting moments that at the time may look like happiness and may even feel like happiness, but it's not. And I know that some will argue, but Jennifer, I love my spouse/boyfriend/lover/significant other and being with them makes me happy. Nope. That's still not real happiness. If your "happiness" resides solely on a new gadget or a friendship or a social status or a reputation or a career or a car or money - then hear me now - it will not last. Because every single one of those things can be taken from you at any moment. Then what? At some point in life you have to find happiness inside yourself. Be happy with who you really are and embrace it. Love life. Love yourself. That's where happiness is.

I wouldn't wish cancer or any disease on anyone. I damn sure wouldn't have wished it upon myself. But it's here. And I can't change that fact. I can try to fight it (which I am) and hope to overcome it (which I will) but I can't erase what has already been. This is the hand I was dealt, and I will play it. And even if I have to bluff from time to time, I will not fold. If I am beaten, it will be with grace and dignity. But I'm going to make sure it's one helluva game before I bow out. In the meantime I'm going to keep on smiling that Cheshire Cat smile, just to make them wonder if there's still an ace in my sleeve.

But the real secret to happiness is

June 8, 2015

Trying to decide what to write about tonight. Do I pick up where I left off telling my tale of how I got to this point? Or do I write about what it is I am feeling at this very moment? It's hard sometimes to write about the past, and give it due justice, while still struggling to juggle the present. So, today wins. This is my story; slightly out of order.

I had perhaps a moment of clarity today, or maybe it was a complete come apart. I guess that depends on how you look at it. I was on my way to a small event, called Look Good, Feel Better, to be held at the West Clinic in Corinth, sponsored by the American Cancer Society. Basically they bring in a few cosmetologists who give makeovers and hand out free makeup. Chemo does hellish things to your body, and it also takes a toll on your skin. So, the idea is to cheer us up and make us feel all pretty again. It's a nice idea. And I was delighted to be invited to attend by one of the nurses at my chemo session last week.

The thing is, front the time my feet hit the floor this morning, I was already in a foul mood. I've been trying feverishly to get some home improvement projects completed that have been on going for far too long now. I bought my house a little over four years ago, and have been plugging away at it continuously, adding something here, redecorating there. For the most part, it's been an enjoyable process, and I love seeing the efforts of mine (and other's) hard work pay off with each small remodel. Well, the latest "big" project has been to enclose my patio space on the back of my house. It hasn't gone well, and by that I mean, it just hasn't gone - mostly due to the incredible amount of rain we've endured the last couple of months, which has delayed everything and everybody. Plus, as I have found out, contracting work out is a headache all on it's own. But alas, I finally had the roots, so to speak, of my patio laid out and someone hired to pour the concrete. And after a few sunny days, I felt sure today would be the day when they could actually get the concrete truck onto my yard and pour. But no, I awoke to dark clouds and thunder rolling. Here's the kicker, I no longer cared. It's like I finally just said, "enough" and honestly at this point, not real sure if I care if the damn thing gets built or not. (Okay, that's probably not completely true, but it's how I feel at the moment.) I'm over it. If it gets completed before the end of summer, fine, great. And if not, oh well.

Plus, my house was a wreck. Being sick all last week, plus going out on the lake this weekend, I had gotten far behind on housekeeping. People ask what chemo is like. To be honest, it's unlike anything I've ever experienced before and sort of hard to explain. The particular kind I am on now is called FolFox and it's one bad mama. I guess the closest way I can think to describe it is, pretend you have the flu. Now pretend you have the flu every other week. That's how it goes for me. I pretty much just try to load up on anti nausea meds and sleep through as much of it as I can. And I also lose the majority of a week of my life every two weeks. Of course, I still have the normal daily to do's, just like everyone else - clean the house, feed the dogs, pay bills, run errands, buy groceries, etc. Add to that, endless doctor's appointments and tests out the wazoo. I'm soon to be scheduled for even more, since my last tests only further baffled my doctors. And of course, it's summer, and I want to be able to enjoy time with friends, boating, and general moments of fun and pleasure. But when you try to cram it all in a week, it becomes absolutely exhausting. I feel like I'm marathon running every other week, just playing catch up. Even the "fun" times, start to feel like a chore. Adding to this, the whole home improvement fiasco, and well, maybe you get the idea.

Also to note, last night I watched a great movie called "The Judge". If you haven't seen it, I do recommend it. Spoiler Alert: Robert Duvall's character has stage four colon cancer. In the movie, he deals with one of the side effects of chemotherapy; dementia. Memory loss is just one of the many side effects. Just last week, my mother told me she had to keep going behind me to close the refrigerator, because apparently I would just forget I had opened it. This scared the hell out of me. I don't like the idea of not being in control or knowing what the hell I am doing.... unless alcohol is involved, and then it's kind of expected. And it could have been side effects from the drugs I am taking too. Ativan, prescribed for nausea, is in the same class as Valium, so it pretty much knocks me out and induces a 'fog' as I call it. But either way, it unnerved me. Point is, the movie, albeit a great film, hit a little close to home.

It's not much of a surprise then, that driving along highway 72, headed toward what should have been an enjoyable event, I had a mini breakdown. Here I am driving along, when it hits me that I have absolutely no desire to go this shindig. None. Nada. Zilch. As a matter of fact, the idea of going anywhere near the cancer center and watching other cancer patients get facials, seriously depressed me. So much so, that I started crying. I kept driving, tears pouring, when I had "that" moment. And I thought, "Why am I doing this? I don't want to do this." That's when I asked myself out loud, "What do I want to do?" Right now, at this moment "What do I WANT to do?" I have spent so much timely lately doing things I don't really want to do. Some because they are necessary. Others, because I feel like I should. And even some still, just because someone else wants me to, and I'm trying to make an effort to make them happy. Turns out, the answer to my question was ice cream. I wanted some damn ice cream. So I turned around on the highway and headed to Sonic. I ordered a caramel sundae with nuts - hold the whipped cream. I sat there and ate every single bite of it. Car turned off, window down, no music, no real thoughts. Just me and my ice cream. It may really be the best sundae I've ever had. I did the polite thing and called to inform them I wouldn't make it, and hopefully someone else got to go in my spot, as space was limited. I did feel slightly guilty about that, but not enough to give up my delicious treat.

So what's the point of telling you this? I really have no idea. There certainly isn't a moral to the story, except maybe sometimes you just have to do what you want to do. Find time to make yourself happy, even if it's nothing more than a caramel sundae from Sonic. And maybe that's why I'm telling you this story... because it make me happy to do so. It's my story. I will tell it however I want to.

Oh, by the way, after my Sonic treat, I came home and cleaned my house with some kind of fury. And it didn't exhaust me or wear me out. Instead, I actually felt rejuvenated when I was finished. So much so, that I took a shower, and got out my laptop to do a bit of writing. And to all you who follow this blog, I want to say thank you for listening to my ramblings as I muddle my way through this chapter in my life, one small moment at at time.

The Thing Is

The thing about cancer is that it consumes your life. It invades every aspect of almost everything you do. It becomes the thing that defines you. People no longer think of you as you once were; all of a sudden now you're the 'girl with cancer'. You live it every single day. And even when you try to forget, someone or something is there to remind you. "Oh, yeah, that. I had almost forgotten." People are suddenly much nicer to you. You get hugs from casual acquaintances in the grocery store. You get messages from complete strangers offering their condolences. It's the first thing people want to ask you about. You find yourself repeating the same brief synopsis over and over. There are endless  doctor appointments. It can be overwhelming at times. And tiresome.

And that's not to say I don't appreciate the support I have been given. I do. I really do. I can not imagine having gone through this without the love I have been shown by my friends and family. They have listened to me when I needed to vent, they have provided shoulders for me to lean on, they have cried with me, laughed with me, held my hand, traveled to appointments with me, donated their time and money, and cheered for me with each small victory.

At the same time, it is a strange experience to be semi-famous (in a small town) for something I would rather not be known for. I guess if I had to sum it up thus far, I would call it "surreal". At times it still seems like some strange dream that I will wake up from and laugh about. "Wow. You won't believe this crazy dream I had." "I had cancer and it was this big, long, sort of terrible, but not all bad,  adventure - you were in it, too -  and it seemed soooo real." "Haha." But then the nurse jabs a rather large needle into my chest, and I'm all like, nope, this is definitely not a dream. That shit hurt.

Someone once told me that cancer was as much a mental battle, as a physical one. I know now what they meant. It wears you down. Some days it gets the best of you, too. I have turned to God and prayer many times, mostly at night, when the house is quiet and darkness has settled in; when the only sounds are the dogs snoring and the insects doing what insects do. The meditation has helped me keep my sanity. These quiet moments have become moments I treasure. I do hope there is a happy ending to my story. But I am determined, to make happy the life I have while I still have it, whether it's only days or many, many years. A good friend gave me a card a few years ago, with a quote on it, that I loved so much, I framed and placed on my coffee table as a daily reminder. It's the most simplest of statements, and perhaps one of the truest. And I shall leave you tonight with this quote:

"Life is what you make it. Always has been. Always will be."
      - Grandma (Anna Mary Robertson) Moses