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.
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Monday, November 2, 2015
Monday, October 19, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, October 12, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, October 5, 2015
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.
Monday, September 28, 2015
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
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
Monday, September 21, 2015
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
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
Monday, September 14, 2015
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.
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.
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