Prologue

October 21, 2015 

(The day Marty McFly goes Back To The Future {Part II})

This started out as a story of my journey with cancer. But after careful consideration, I have decided my story is much more than that. Yes, I have cancer; Stage IV Colorectal Cancer. I’ve been fighting it for well past two years now, and still undergoing treatment. However, I am currently 39 years old, so in comparison, two and a half years isn’t really that long. Plus, I refuse to be defined and labeled as a disease statistic. If, I am to be remembered in relation to cancer, I hope to be “that girl who made cancer her bitch and whipped it like a man behind the toolshed”. No, my journey has been much more than this disease. I would even say it's been absolutely wonderful. It has been full of adventure, mischief, bad behavior, good deeds, acts of kindness, despair, tragedy, pain, hope, dreams, love and ideas; both big and small. As far as a life can go, mine’s been a pretty damn good one I think, and I like to believe it’s far from over. Then again, I may get hit by an asteroid later tonight, so I figure I should at least get the prologue done for the book I’ve been wanting to write since I was about ten years old. It’s changed quite dramatically in the last 29 or so years, and it may change yet again before I’m through writing it. But for now, this is the start. 

This is what I have always wanted to do. It’s too bad that I had to come close to dying before finally doing it. This is my story, as best as I can recall. 

Chapter 1:

A Perfect Day

Life is better in the South. I’ve read a few Southern writers who have said something along the lines that Southerners have better stories. Mostly, in part, because Yankees are too cold to stand around and tell ‘em. Well, I think it’s true. But that’s another story.

I’ve said it before, and I will say it again, coming out from under a chemo fog, is a whole new experience. You don’t really feel great, until you have felt absolutely terrible. That’s what chemo is like, for anyone who would like to know. You feel the very life of you slipping away, and when it’s over, you think, “Holy shit, I’m glad that’s over.” But you feel somewhat renewed. Or I do anyway. I can’t speak for anyone else living this.

Every time I go into a treatment, I am filled with dread. I have anxiety the night before and barely sleep. I know what’s coming. And every single time, I think, I can’t make it through one more. But then, somehow, I do. And when it’s over, I look back and think, “I made it.”
And I’m grateful. I’m grateful for the chance to say I made it. So many don’t get that opportunity. And sometimes, when I’m laying there, feeling sorry for myself, I think of the all the people who weren’t given the chance; those that were given a death sentence and some morphine to ease the pain. And so it seems rather selfish to throw a second chance into the wind. It’s wrong not to fight.

Cancer is not the worst thing that can happen to a person. There are far worse fates. It’s just the name we give to a disease we don’t understand. It’s not fair, but nobody said life was.

I recall my Mom, Dad and I having casual conversations around the dinner table about how we would choose to die... not necessarily your typical dinner conversation, yet nonetheless, we did so more more than once. Maybe we’re just morbid. I always said I would rather have a disease like cancer so that I would know the end was near and make necessary preparations. My mother always opted for a car crash, or something immediate. My dad usually leaned toward my way of thinking, but perhaps slightly more hesitant.

Given everything that’s happened, I still stand by my original decision. At least I have a chance.

It’s always darkest before the dawn.

'Cation

I’m officially on vacation, at Gulf Shores in Alabama, thanks to a friend of mine who is letting us use his condo for the week.

Why am I writing this? Because life is good today. You never really realize how stressed and tense you are, until you get somewhere where stress and tense do not exist. And then all of a sudden, you don’t know how to act. Wait...what is this? No alarm in the morning? A beer for lunch? Don’t mind if I do....

We’ve only been here one day and so far we have seen six dolphins, although really it was the same three dolphins; twice. Once, earlier today, on their trip out to sea, and this evening, with the same three dolphins on their return voyage. Or, at least, so we’re guessing. And Seth caught two hermit crabs and got nibbled on by a school of fish. We went to The Hangout after we got in last evening and watched people dancing on tables and ate some of the best shrimp I’ve had in a really long time.

I love the ocean. I love how it makes you feel so small and tiny. No matter what is going on in your life, just sitting outside on the beach at night, with the sound of waves crashing in, neighboring vacationers dancing, drinking, or solving world peace; it’s like the “real world” no longer exists. All of the problems you have, all of the drama you have to deal with, or just the daily grind, just melts away. Slowly at first, as your body and mind adjust to the calm. And then, before you know it, you’re running down the beach with seashell braids in your hair, pulling a Bo Derek.

There’s an old saying, something about how if you find a job you love, you’ll never work a day in your life. And then there’s the one about creating a life that you don’t have to take vacation from. Well, that sounds pretty fabulous in theory, but most of us do not have that luxury. We have to take it when we can get it, and enjoy every single second of it, knowing that it’s only for a limited time, and next week, it’s back to reality.

Time for another Corona...

These Feet are Made for Walking

In July of 2003, I severed my Achilles tendon. All the way. Completely in half. 

I was married only a couple months before this. My newlywed husband and I had been at a friend’s house, soaking in the hot tub, drinking a few beers. On the way home we got into an argument. It was over a hypothetical poker game, and somehow, between the beers and the hot tub and the heat of the summer, it escalated into a full blown yelling match. 

We pulled into our apartment building, in downtown Birmingham. We had a large deck facing the driveway and parking area. We got out of the car, still screaming at each other. My husband was much larger than me; about six feet tall and weighing in at around 200 pounds or so. I am 5’4” and 120 pounds soaking wet. He made it out of the car first. As I came up the back steps leading to our back deck, he stood in front of the door way. He told me that I was not coming into HIS house. 

The rage overtook me. How dare he try and block my path. I lived here. I paid half the bills. I owned half the furniture. I would be damned if some man was going to tell me I wasn’t welcome in my own home. My first instinct was to kick him. Hard. Maybe in the groin. But he was much larger than me, and I realized the alcohol was clouding his judgment, and he was already angry. What if he kicked me back? 

The apartments and houses in this part of Birmingham are typically much older homes. Full of charm, but with old home problems. The door on the back deck was a glass paneled door, and if often stuck; meaning you had to push with authority at times to get it open. 

It was hot. I was wearing brown leather Eddie Bauer sandals. I reared back, and kicked at the wooden frame portion of the door, right past where my husband was standing, second panel up, probably close to 18 or 24 inches from the ground. I missed. I hit the glass. 

The door burst open. I immediately crashed inward and landed inside the house, just past the dining room table. The lights were off in the house. That’s when I felt it. It hit my stomach. A strange, sort of nauseating feeling, like I was about to pass out. I immediately knew something very bad had happened. 

“Bart,” I said. “Something’s wrong.” He had walked past me in a huff making his way toward the kitchen. “Whatever,” was his response. He turned the kitchen light on. Just then I saw every bit of color leave his face. 

It’s a strange moment when it happens. Everything that was just a second ago, so very important, all of a sudden, didn’t matter anymore. He grabbed one of his t-shirts that happened to be lying close by and wrapped it around my ankle. Blood was pouring everywhere. “Can you walk?” he asked. “I think so,” I said as calmly as I could. He said he was going to get the car and I would meet him downstairs. The walk down my steps was surreal. 

Once, years before, I was driving a car and the front axle went out. I could turn the wheel as hard right as I wanted, and the car only drifted in whatever direction it felt like. It was the same sensation. My foot floated and twisted loosely in my shoe. I was turning the steering wheel, but the tires weren’t moving. I assumed it was from the blood pooling in my shoe. My foot just can’t get any traction. 

We lived two blocks from St. Vincent’s hospital. We came in damn near sideways. Bart jumped out of the car in front of the emergency room doors. He told me to sit tight; that he was going to get help. As I sat there, I could feel the life drain from me. I knew if I waited any longer (it felt like eternity) I would surely bleed to death. I opened the car door. I hobbled slowly from the passenger seat. I felt dizzy. Small black specks were starting to float in front of my eyes. The nauseating feeling in my stomach grew more severe. Had to make it. I started trying to walk. I limped, half-dragging my useless foot and faced the sliding glass doors in front of me. They didn’t move. My dizzy head couldn’t stand there any longer and try to figure it out. I spotted more doors off the right. I dragged-limped over to them. They opened. There was a long hallway. The dark spots got bigger. I laid down - right in the middle of the hallway. At this point I realized it was either lay down or fall down. I chose to lay. A nurse spotted me. “Honey, are you alright?” she asked as she leaned over me. All I could do was raise my head, point at my foot, and say “I cut myself. My ankle.” 

I could see, out of the corner of my eye, my poor husband, followed by a medical team and a gurney, making their way to our car. I can only imagine their confusion, as they approached an empty vehicle, passenger door open and a trail of blood leading to yet another door. They hoisted me onto the gurney and started to wheel me into the emergency room. “BP 66 over 22!” I heard the nurse to my left yell to her cohorts. I shot straight upright on the bed. “Is that my blood pressure?” I asked, completely wild eyed. “Yes!” She practically yelled her response at me. “Well, that’s not good,” I informed her, just in case she was unsure. “I know,” she responded, “now lay back down.” 

And that’s it. That’s how I completely severed my Achilles tendon. At the time, I had no idea. I just thought I had cut myself badly, possibly severing an artery or something. It was later pointed out, while laying on a hospital bed, (by my husband, to the doctor on staff), that hey, that Vienna sausage looking thing coming out of my leg, looks like it might be a tendon. It was. I’ve not eaten a Vienna sausage since then, by the way. They stitched me up, and I met with a surgeon the next day. I had a tendon repair surgery, and spent about six weeks in a cast, followed by a couple more months in a walking boot, followed by a few more months of incredibly painful physical therapy, to learn how to use my foot again. I now have permanent surgical staples in my ankle holding my tendon together; reminding me on a daily basis that if you’re going to lose your temper and put your foot through a glass door, you should probably be wearing boots. 

Thoughts Worth Pondering

I have a love hate relationship with the television. Don’t get me wrong. There are few things better than a lazy, rainy Sunday spent on the couch wrapped in a blanket watching whatever Lifetime movies are on or any one of the Alien movies, or Shawshank Redemption. God. I love that movie. Ol’ Andy Dufrane. Get busy living or get busy dying…. one of my all time favorite movies. But sometimes, more often than not, it’s just an annoying noise in the background. Bored Housewives, Keeping Up with the Krazies; who watches this shit? Really? Does anyone? Most of the time all I hear is blah, blah, blah or more like muah muah muah (think Charlie Brown and his teacher). Background noise. 

The news is horrible. If you watch the “Evening News”, you get 28 minutes of horror, followed by a thirty second clip of the oldest woman alive skydiving or a Marine that saved a dog; and then you’re supposed to get all giddy about that shit. Nevermind that you were just subjected to the worst humanity has to offer: somebody shot somebody, somebody blew up somebody, somebody scammed somebody, but hey, here’s a puppy!!! 

And cable news? Forget it. 24 hour revolving door of death, murder, kill. But why don’t we all just get along? Hmmmmm…..

I like good movies. I like movies that make you think. One of my all time favorites in this particular think genre is called “Crash”. If you haven’t seen it, and you think you might possibly be a narrow minded nilly wilily; you should probably watch it. It might give you second thoughts. Then again, if you do happen to be a shallow asshole, then it probably won’t do much except confuse you.  

So my best advice to most of you, is to just turn it off. Turn. It. Off. Put down the t.v. remote, set aside the IPad, stop connecting to social media (it’s making you dumber) and go do something. Anything. Life doesn’t happen on the InterWebs. And it damn sure ain’t happening on the tel-o-vision. It happens every single day right outside your door. And if you’re lucky, it’s happening right now, inside your doors. Put your phone down, turn the tv off, and get freaky with your honey. Or go read your kids a book. Or go catch lightning bugs. And if you don’t live in the South and have lightning bugs, then move to the South. And then catch lightning bugs. 

‘Merica!!!

Happy post 4th of July celebrations. It’s Tuesday, so you should all be dragging yourselves back to work now, except you teachers, and we all know you don’t really work anyway. Ahem...

I used to get very involved in politics. Or put another way, I used to enjoy debating political policies while drinking beer and sitting around campfires. Being a democrat in a “red” state, I’ve had my fair share of heated talks, and have even been accused of being one of those “liberals”.  To be fair, if I lived in a more liberal area, I would probably be accused of being too conservative. Yes, compared to some of my peers in the rural South, I fall on the liberal side, but that’s mostly because I just happen to think people have a right to be happy, and do what they want to do, as long as what they are doing doesn’t somehow cause myself or others harm (physically, mentally, or otherwise). You want to drink beer on your front porch and jam out to Lynard Skynard? Fine. I don’t care. Just keep it turned down when I start blasting my CCR and dancing in the kitchen at two in the morning. My one neighbor is probably trying to sleep.

But then I just stopped. Not the dancing in my kitchen part; I still do that from time to time, but the engaging in fruitless political arguments (no longer debates) part. Either you discuss with like-minded individuals the best ways to solve the world’s problems, and then go back to business as usual, with nothing actually having been accomplished, or end up throwing said beer can at someone’s head because you think it might help dislodge it from their ass.

The idea of a democracy, or so how it was more or less explained to me, is that politicians are elected to represent the interests of the people. Hence, we LITERALLY call them “representatives”, as such, they should represent the interests of the population that voted them into office. But let’s take it a step further. I think there’s more to it than that. To me, at least in theory, a politician should take themselves out of the equation. No brainer, right? You are elected to serve the peoples; not yourself. But I like to think of it as akin to being the adult in a room full of small children. Let’s say you run a daycare, and the majority vote is ice cream for lunch, as it has been every day this week. Some of the children are even protesting loudly; two are screaming and wailing, one kid is refusing to breathe, and Timmy is picking his nose and closely examining the contents as a possible lunch alternative. However, as the adult, it is your job to say “No. No you can not have ice cream for lunch every day. It’s not good for you. Eat your vegetables and take a nap.”

Wake up, ‘Merica. It’s time some of you (us) remove our fingers and look around at the situation. For a great many of us, we have become polarized in our political stances. You’re either a Democrat or a Republican. Red or Blue. Liberal or Conservative. Right or Wrong. Hell or High Water. I can keep going if you’d like.

But maybe, just maybe, it’s time to shake things up. It’s time to decide what is best for this country. Maybe the time has come for a new party to emerge. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time in American history. Those crazy independents....damn, them!  Or maybe, the time has come to unite as a nation, put our petty little non-issues aside, and take measures that will benefit the majority of the people. For our own good. For our world. It’s not them or us. We are all in this shitstorm together, even though I know at times, it may feel like some piles are bigger than others. But don’t worry, everybody gets handed a handful at some point. Errbody.

Now who wants some ice cream?!?! Happy Birthday, America. I love you.

Tribute to my Boyfriend

Thanks for putting up with me. And you don’t have to thank me for putting up with you. I will gladly do so; for all that I get in return:

Someone that loves me in spite of myself. Someone that accepts my faults and flaws and still thinks I’m awesome, for whatever reason. 

Who thinks I’m beautiful, even when I’m not.

You find me charming and irresistible. You know you do. 

For making me smile and laugh, every single day. Every. Single. Day. Never do you not make me smile on the daily. That’s pretty amazing. 

For balance. I may be the female version of you, (so you say, and I still think that’s creepy) but you bring balance to my life. When I’m crazy, you’re sane; when I’m mad, you’re reason; when I’m down, you bring me back up. And when you’re being ridiculous, I will be sure to point it out. 

Thank you for being you. 

My Obituary

My Obituary

Jennifer Dees Whitten Grisham died yesterday after her first skydiving experience at the age of 93. The exact cause of her death is unknown, as it appears the dive went fine, and after landing gently, Mrs. Grisham could be seen smiling and laughing; when she suddenly fell to the ground and was pronounced dead on the scene. Authorities have ruled it as an apparent heart attack.

Mrs. Grisham was a notable author, having written a couple of personal memoirs in her lifetime, and was a successful real estate agent in the Pickwick Lake area of her hometown. Her greatest achievement though, was the Every Mile Matters foundation, a non-profit organization she and her business partner, and long time friend, co-created to benefit cancer patients. After the cure of cancer, the foundation broadened its scope to reach countless others in need. The foundation has raised millions and in 2027, it was named “Charity of the Year” by Forbes magazine.

Even at the age of 93, Jennifer could still pick up the guitar and make a horrible racket, which she often did, for her own amusement. She will be most remembered for her unique sense of humor and quick wit. After being awarded the Nobel Prize for her humanitarian efforts, she was quoted as saying, “Gotta save the world; one asshole at a time.”

She is survived by a loving husband, step-daughter, and countless friends and family. The majority of her estate was designated as a sanctuary for rescue animals.

Chasing the Dragon

I love scary movies. I always have. When I was younger, like maybe ten or twelve, I would visit my cousin and spend a week or so during the summers with him. He was four or five years older than me, and always had the coolest toys. He was one of the first persons I knew that had their own personal computer; back in the days of the floppy disk. He also had an extensive movie collection, most of them of the horror genre. My favorites were the Nightmare on Elm Street series. We would stay up late at night and watch them. Then, I would walk the long, ominous hallway to my aunt’s bedroom and crawl in to her king size bed; where I would have nightmares, and keep her up all hours of the night with my tossing and turning. She would scold my cousin in the morning, and the next night we would do it all again.

I look back on that time in my life with bittersweetness. Both my aunt and uncle passed away several years ago. They had sold their house in Scottsboro, AL and moved to my hometown a few years prior to their passing. But I can close my eyes and still hear the sound of the screen door slam shut, echoing through the garage. I can hear my aunt’s raspy laugh, and see the flickering dance of the fluorescent light in the kitchen. I learned to knee board on the lake across the street from that house, and played “war games” in the woods behind it. I remember swimming in their pool in the summer, and playing board games in my cousin’s bedroom floor, like it was just a brief moment ago, not well over twenty years or more.  

Freddy Krueger and the nightmare movies were a part of those great memories. Up, late at night, watching movies that terrified me, knowing I would probably get scared out of my wits, and loving it. One time, my cousin disappeared to the bathroom for a bit. When he returned he had two bloody bite marks on his neck, and looked at me with wild staring eyes, never saying a word. Just staring at me. I knew he was only fooling, and trying to scare me. And even as I tried to convince myself it was a prank, and knowing it was, there was still some doubt as to whether my cousin had just been bitten by a vampire or werewolf or some other ungodly creature. 

Morning would come, and the terrors of the night were forgotten; as it often happens in life. 

There have only been a small handful of movies that have actually terrified me as an adult, few and far between I would say, if any at all. Some make me jump, but few truly scare me. I still watch them. Still hoping for the one that will send chills up my spine and cause me to draw my legs up beneath me for fear of a hand reaching from under the couch to grab me, and pull me down to a hellish end. I think it’s similar to what drug users call "chasing the dragon”; which simplistically put, means to chase the ultimate high, which for many people is their first high, never to be reached again, but they always chase it, searching for that same euphoric feeling. It’s the same for me, I suppose. Always searching for that feeling, of times that are long since gone, the euphoria of innocence.

Short, Not So Sweet

Well, you want to talk about some shit? How’s this? One of my best friends for almost twenty years has just been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. And another friend of mine, my sister from another mister, has skin cancer.

Are you fucking kidding me? No, for real. What kind of horse shit is this? 

I’m sorry. But I really would like to go postal on the Big C right now ... like Bruce Lee kung fu style. 

I was at my friend’s house this weekend. As she laid on the couch, I could feel myself having anxiety, PTSD, or something like flashbacks. It was like having deja vu, except it was her in pain and misery, not me. We watched the movie “Sisters”, which by the way is like the third time I’ve seen that movie now. Still just as funny. I laughed so hard I peed a little. Then I freaked out wondering if I was having bladder issues. Because, you know, I once did; after my surgery. Most likely one of the other side effects from the radiation in my pelvic area is what they told me. I had to take medication for it. It’s better now. Thank God. But that didn’t stop me from worrying about it all weekend. 

It’s hard going through it. It’s hard watching people you love go through it. And it’s hard having been through it and knowing what your loved ones are dealing with, and still have yet to face. 

I suppose on the one hand, this is just more motivation for me to hurry up and whip this bitch for good, so that I can help take care of my friends. So that we can all grow old together and one day look back on this and laugh about the time when we all kicked cancer’s ass. 

Here’s to ALL the survivors out there. May we beat the odds and be more than a statistic! 

Live the life you love. 

Love the life you live. 

Don’t Fear the Reaper (I need more cowbell)

Fear is one of the strongest emotions you can feel. If utilized properly it can save your life. The fight or flight instinct comes from fear. You are more aware, alert, your senses are heightened, hypersensitive to the sights, sounds and smells around you. Your pulse quickens and your pupils dilate. Your body prepares for an advancing attack or to run from imminent danger. We are no so different than animals in the wild. We still have those fear sensors, but most of us aren’t having to hunt for our dinner or escape hungry wolves. But, in more subtle ways, fear serves a practical purpose. Fear of punishment is a deterrent for getting into trouble, fear of injury keeps us from engaging in foolhardy acts that we know or perceive to be dangerous.

It has a purpose. But if not reigned in, it can destroy you. Fear of rejection is why so many people are hesitant to express their emotions to someone they love. Fear of failure is the cause for many unfulfilled dreams. Fear of not fitting in, can keep you from shining brightly. Fear of dying can prevent you from fully living.

I’ve been living in fear for awhile now. Even more so within the last couple of months than perhaps in the last couple of years, if you can believe that. My anxiety level has been ranging from “okay, just breathe” to “holy fucking shit I’m going to have a full blown come apart!!!” to “just hand me the entire bottle”.

More and more, people tell me how good I look or how healthy I seem to be or that I’m finally getting back to my old self. It never fails that when someone tells me this, I feel my insides tense up. Outwardly I smile and say thank you; meanwhile my brain is screaming, “Shut up! The “cancer gods” will hear you!” This might sound ridiculous, and it probably does, but it’s true. It’s like knocking on wood. Or jinxing the situation. Superstition... If I feel too good or look too good, it will be taken from me.

Last week, or maybe the week before, I was at a friend’s house. We were grilling and drinking cold beverages. At one point, he asked me, “At what point do you finally accept it? Your situation?” He was referring to the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. This comes from the Kubler-Ross model of the emotional stages a person goes through concerning death and dying. And that ultimately, a person faced with the death of a loved one, or their own death, will experience all five of these emotions, though not necessarily in the order described above. My personal experience has been that you can live and relive all five emotions in non-linear form, with varying longevity; sometimes in a single day. So, when he asked me this, I told him honestly that I wasn’t sure I had reached acceptance. Maybe I never would. Some days are just better than others.

But then last night I found it; a new kind of peace. As I sat outside, trying to tune out the noise in my head, and “just breathe”, a thought occurred to me. I thought how ironic if I actually lived to be 93 (as a “psychic” in New Orleans once told me I would). And then I thought, and how shitty would it be to live to be 93, and look back on my life and realize I wasted even a single minute worrying about dying. No doctor is going to make me any such promises. No doctor can. But no doctor can make any of you any promises either. I woke up this morning and turned on the news. 30 or more people killed in a terrorist attack in Brussels. I guaran-damn-tee you none of those people while brushing their teeth this morning, thought, “Hmmm, I wonder if I will get killed on my commute to work today by a bomb?”

I talked to someone yesterday who has a family member that is a ten year cancer survivor. He said they told him once, no matter how long you go with no detectable disease, it’s always in the back of your mind. Will it come back? Will it be worse? Will it kill me? Will it be horrible? Will the people I love have to watch me suffer? Will they suffer because of it?

I know the struggle. I face it daily. I don't always overcome the fear, but I can work every day to lessen it, so that it doesn’t control me. That’s close enough to acceptance in my book. And after all, this is my damn book.

A month of Mondays

It’s been exactly one month since my last blog post. Stop yelling at me. I’ve been preoccupied. Just kidding. I doubt anyone lost any sleep over it. So what have I been up to? Well, let’s see. First of all, I DID drink that bottle of champagne with a few of my best friends. One year ago (yesterday) I was released from my stint in prison (also known as the hospital) where I was recovering from surgery. After twenty long days I was finally sent home, completely exhausted and anorexic. Now here I sit, a year later, over twenty pounds heavier and feeling just fine. Ah, the difference a year can make.

I’ve been working on a couple of career ideas I have, and still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. More importantly, I’ve been taking some time out for me to reflect, relax and rethink a few things. This was on the advice of my psychologist, who suggested I ease up on the self-imposed to do lists I create for myself and just enjoy this time off. After our session, I went three days without changing clothes. It was nice. But three days is enough of that.

To be honest, I’ve had a lot on my mind during the last month or so. After my last post, a friend of mine made the following comment:

A fact of life that I've accepted: HOPE is a wicked bitch. It's fine to know her, go shoe shopping with her, even have a drink with her occasionally but it's never a good idea to let her live in your house. I'm not suggesting that you give up hope (definitely don't), just keep her where she belongs. 

This is so true. And it’s something most people just don’t understand. Yes, I feel fine. Yes, I look healthy. And yes, it is possible that all of the cancer that took over my body and tried to kill me has been eradicated; never to return. It is also possible that there is still cancer there and it will still have to be dealt with, most likely with another round of high dose chemotherapy. I won’t know until at least April when they run more tests, if even then. Now what most people will say is to look at it from a positive point of view. Hey, might as well assume it’s gone and get back to living a normal life and move on until I find out differently. It makes sense. I mean why worry about something you have no control over anyway, right? And there is truth and wisdom to that. Worrying is only good for acquiring dark under eye circles and gray hair. Here’s the flip side to that. As my insightful friend pointed out hope is a good thing. Hope is what keeps us going on the bad days that we all have. We know (or hope) that no matter what is going on in our lives that things WILL be better. This too shall pass. BUT, as she also very eloquently pointed out, and something I know from first hand experience, is what it’s like to get your hopes up only to be disappointed by reality. It’s soul crushingly devastating. Which is why in a position like mine, you have to ride this fine line between not worrying and assuming the worst, and yet mentally preparing for what may in fact be coming down the road and however bad it may be. It’s mental survival. But it’s not easy. I go about my days, doing my best to enjoy the moments and create happiness where I can. I make vacation plans and plug away at different career interests so I can get back to work (and get paid) at some point. But there are times, when amidst the planning when I have to consider the possibility that if I have to do more chemo, then all my plans may go flying right out the window.

And survivor’s guilt. Oh, it’s real. Anyone with cancer wants to be cured. And no, I shouldn’t feel bad for feeling good. But if I do make it, then what about the ones who don’t? How is that fair? I’m certainly not special. But that’s life, and it’s not fair. It doesn’t have any rhyme or reason sometime. Bad things happen to good people, blah, blah, blah. You know. Still, it’s this kind of shit that will keep a person up at night. So, back to just enjoying the moment while it’s here. It’s honestly all you can really do. 

But let me tell you some good news. I have finally figured out how to tune my guitar. Turns out, there’s an app for that! Imagine that.... I am working on learning a few chords and maybe this time next year I will be able to play an actual song. I have made a teensy bit of progress on my book. Only teensy; however, now I’m caught up on a few other things I’ve had going, so should have more time now to devote to writing. I’m taking online real estate classes. I’ve been interested in the field since the company I worked for went belly up. I like the idea of not being tied to a desk and the flexible schedule it would allow. I’m also researching other career ideas and the idea of possibly going back to school if need be, perhaps something in the field of oncology. It seems appropriate. And I plan to start submitting writing samples to various publications in hopes of  finding a niche in the world of writing. 

I’ve been doing yoga more often these days. Always take time to stretch. Trust me. You will feel so much better for it. I’ve been looking into alternative cancer cures. I now incorporate turmeric and selenium and other antioxidants into my diet when I can, and have just recently purchased some CBD oil. I haven’t tried it yet, but I’m going to give it a shot. Oh, and I have been dating someone. We’ve been friends for forever, but only in the last few months has it moved into another category. I will blame him for some of my preoccupation and therefore lack of blog posts. But it’s been a good preoccupation. Today is his birthday. So, if you’re reading this, happy birthday!!! And if you’re not, you should be. 

I keep busy. For someone who doesn’t have a “real” job, I don't have a lot of free time. But for me, that’s a good thing. I only have one tattoo - the Libra scales. Life is about balance. And I can tell when my scales get tipped too far in any one direction; I start feeling out of sorts, and I have to shift it back the other way. That’s all I’m really doing at the moment. A delicate balancing act between work and play, family and friends, knowledge and wisdom, hope and reality. And I will continue writing. Even if I don’t get a post up every week, I will stay in touch. I know that whether I do or don't is not life altering for anyone. And there are days when I don’t, for whatever reason, most especially when I don’t feel I have anything worth sharing, like today, really. However, since I have started this blog, there have been a handful of people who have reached out to me and thanked me for writing these stories. Somehow it resonates with them, for some, it’s with their own battle with cancer or illness or any other of life’s struggles. And that gives me reason. 

So, until next time, remember: “You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.” 

Salut!

I bought a bottle of champagne several months ago while I was visiting friends in Birmingham, AL. It’s a nice rose champagne. I bought it with one intention; to open it the day my doctors tell me I am cancer free. It’s still sitting here. Unopened.

I met with my oncologist a couple of days ago. The two liver ablation procedures I had done were successful. There are no more spots on my liver. Everything looks good there. It’s the spots on my lungs that are cause for concern. The problem is, based on the latest PET/CT scan I had done, it would appear I have developed new spots. But maybe not. It may be that the previous CT scan didn’t catch them all. The other problem is they are too small to biopsy. To put it in laymen terms, they are baffled about what to do about it or what exactly they are. They are not growing or shrinking as would be expected for typical metastatic cancerous lesions. But then again, it seems there’s a high probability that’s exactly what they are. One option is to undergo another round of chemo and see how they react. Another option is to do nothing and wait to see if they present themselves in such a way that we know for sure what they are. The risk is of course that it could spread. My oncologist was very clear, however, that even if they do multiply or enlarge, the chemo treatment would do it’s job and eradicate all of it, whether it’s five spots or fifty. That’s assuming of course, they respond to the chemo. It seems they have not responded to the chemo or tumor starving drugs I was on previously. Based on whatever information she had, she determined there were certain drugs we could rule out. Which according to her is one of those double edged swords - on the one hand, it’s good to know that because it saves us from wasting time on drugs that aren’t going to work. The bad news is that it eliminates half the drugs available to me.

I can honestly say the last thing on earth I want to do is endure more chemo. In fact, I’m not entirely sure I can. I was pretty sure the last bout would kill me. And I am only now getting to the point where I feel good on a regular basis, physically speaking anyway, and not looking like I have one foot in the grave. The idea of being that sick again, and losing all the progress I have made, makes me want to sit in a corner and cry my eyes out. For days. I have chosen the let’s wait and see option. My oncologist is presenting my case at the next council meeting among other oncologists and surgeons to get their opinions, in the meantime, I am praying.

God does speak to me at times. Sunday night, knowing I had a week full of doctor appointments, I prayed and asked God for clarity and healing and as always, for help. And he answered. In the form of television, no less, starting with a marathon of Bear Grylls talking about survival in the wild, and a movie called The Martian. Good movie, by the way, if you haven’t seen it, and the entire theme of the movie is survival. Imagine that. And it all started to click. And while that might not sound like a divine message from heaven, you have to understand my mindset.

When I was first diagnosed, I could see an end in the future. I could foresee a day when all of this would be behind me, nothing but a memory. As hard as it was, I knew if I could just grit my teeth and deal with the pain, I could get through it. That thought kept me going on the really hard days, through radiation, and surgery, and chemo - through all of it. I thought one day, this would all be over. The kick in the stomach is that I’m not sure that’s the case anymore. Actually, I’m not sure that was necessarily ever the case; I just refused to believe it. My oncologist, God love her, has been dropping subtle hints for awhile now, using terms like “incurable” and phrases such as “this doesn’t change the prognosis” and “maintenance drugs”. But as we’ve already established, the mind is willfully stubborn at times. And so am I.

It’s as if I am just now grasping a new truth. That bottle may forever remain unopened. I’m not saying the cancer will eventually kill me. Granted, it’s true that it might. But I am gradually coming to a new realization, that there may very well be no “end". This is my new life. And as long as I’m living, I will have to fight for it. Which brings me to my new modus operandi: surviving. I have been in survival mode for so long now, I’m not sure I remember how to not be. And just when I start to think I may have this disease whipped, I get another dose of not-so-fast-my-dear. I met with a psychologist for the first time this past week as well. Of the hour long session, I would say I cried for about fifty minutes of it. It felt good. I’m seeing her again next week. And probably the week after if I have my way. In many ways I feel like I’m in limbo land. And in many ways I am. But I’m trying to survive another day, and hopefully for many more days after that. That’s the message I think God was sending me. It's not about beating cancer, but surviving it, every single day, for the rest of my life.  

So I have a new plan. I will be opening that bottle of champagne on January 26, 2016 on the one year anniversary of my surgery. It seems like as good a time as any. I may not have yet won the war, but I will celebrate all of the battles I can claim victory over. And there are many.

Sincerely,
Jennifer Dees Whitten
Cancer Survivor