Monday, February 13, 2017


Universe, can you hear me??

I’ve had enough. I’m ready to stop stealing the thunder. Okay?


It started with my own cancer diagnosis in 2011. And then continued with my relapse in 2012. That was enough.

And then Brad, my love, got his own, unthinkable diagnosis this past October. That was more than enough.

And then he died. 101 days later, on January 22, 2017. Leaving me, the Thunder Stealer, a 33 year old widow.

A 33 year old, cancer surviving, widow.

I’ve had enough, Universe. I don’t want to steal any more thunder. Just leave me alone. Please.

It’s fucking enough.

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Defending Your Life

I can’t believe we are fucking back here again. This is not supposed to be our story. This shouldn’t be anyone’s story. 

This is not our story.

I’m at a loss for words, but I am not at a loss for feelings. Outrage. Sadness. Shock. Fear.

I am afraid.

This time I am not the patient. I am not the Thunder Stealer. This time, it is my love, my rock, my everything who was given the diagnosis. Although it is my life we are fighting for too. It is for my future. For our future. Right now we are fighting to keep the precious future we have spent over a decade building intact.

And I am fucking angry at how unfair life seems in this moment.

Honestly, part of me expected cancer to remerge at some point in our lives. I prepared for it. I braced myself for it. I braced Brad for it. But it was for me. Never for him.

I was never prepared for that.

I feel blindsided. Being on the other end of this diagnosis. Being the spouse watching her love go through the pain and fear and endless set of decisions required. The never-ending questioning. The poking and prodding. The looks. Oh, the looks.

I don’t know how to be the caregiver. The supporter. The spouse.

It is something that came so naturally to Brad when Little Hodgy suddenly appeared in our lives. He knew how to handle me. How to handle others. He knows how to balance being strong and being vulnerable. Knows when to laugh and when to cry. When to quietly reflect and when to bring others in. He just knows. Knows what to do. How to handle life. Even when you've been given a shitty hand. It’s because of these innate qualities that I know Brad will be able to cope and handle everything this diagnosis throws at him. At us.

I just hope that I can do the same.

This is not our story.

I find myself fluctuating between channeling my inner Thunder Stealer - full of courage and fight - and on the verge of a complete and total meltdown. Between feeling terrified and also feeling comfort in the vast amount of knowledge we have.

Because we’ve been here before (sort of). We researched. We learned. We changed our lives. We aren’t starting from scratch.

But this is different.

I knew how to handle my own illness. I took control and owned it as best I could. I used this blog as my virtual punching bag, uppercutting f-bombs all over the screen to help me deal.

But this is Brad. My Brad.

I don’t know how to own this. I can’t even say it out loud. I can barely type it.

Stage 4. Metastatic. Rare.

This is not our story.

And because I can’t say it, I’ll let Brad say it in his own words on his own blog, The Road Taken. And if you don't know Brad, reading his words will give you a glimpse of the man he is. Calm. Thoughtful. Strong. While I write an angry "f u" to the world, Brad's words pour out with grace and beauty. He is the zen yin to my angry yang.

Honestly, I was hoping this blog would fall down the google ranks and into oblivion. But here we are. Pulling The Thunder Stealer out of retirement as a way to once again process what life has thrown our way.

And as I continue to use this platform as my virtual punching bag, Brad will be handling this in a different way - in a very Brad way. In addition to writing about it on his own blog, he’ll also be podcasting about it (along wth myself and his best friend Jeremy) - and encouraging others to join in on the conversation. To talk about what it means to live life courageously. Something Brad did long before this diagnosis.

Having deep and meaningful discussions has always been an integral part of Brad and whether we wanted it to or not, the universe just gave us a whole new set of topics. So listen along over at Defending Your Life (website coming soon) as we laugh, cry, and get weird together on this journey.

This is our story. Just not forever.


Friday, October 3, 2014

Just Breathe.

When you get diagnosed with cancer, life feels like one big waiting game: Wait for the doctors. Wait for the results. Wait for the cancer to come back…

For three years I’ve waited for the moment I can breathe. For three years I’ve waited for today. 

Today is my two year anniversary of being in remission.

Cancer limbo is a strange place to be. You no longer have cancer but you can’t say you’re a survivor. You have to wait for year five for that declaration.

But two years and three months ago I had to choose my cancer path. Two years and three months ago I had to decide between high dose chemotherapy coupled with a full bone marrow transplant for a 60% cure rate or radiation for a 10% chance. Two years and three months ago I once again went against the advice of my doctor. Two years and three months ago I chose the 10% chance.

Two years, I was told. I would have to make it to two years of clean scans and then I could breathe.

And every day for the last two years I’ve held my breath and waited. For two years I’ve “lived” without really living. I’ve moved on, I told people. I’m no longer worried, I said. But those were lies. Or maybe those were hopes. Either way, every day, for two years I thought about today.

Today, I hit the jackpot.

Today, I can breathe.

Today, I will live.

Saturday, April 13, 2013

6 Months Free and Clear

Yesterday I received a phone call from my grandma informing me that I needed to update my blog with the results of my scan for all my "fans." Sometimes I forget that there are people out there who rely on other means of communication besides Facebook (my grandma, ironically is on Facebook. My 31 year old brother, however, is not).

So for all my fans out there who don't follow my every Facebook move, you should get on Facebook.

Also, my 6 month scan is all clear!

Although I expected (and hoped with every ounce of my being) that the scan would be clean, it's only been 6 months and there's always that little bit of "what if" that creeps in. I don't have any lumps in my neck (my go to cancer symptom), but I have suffered some fatigue and a dry cough -- both of which accompanied my initial diagnosis.

Scanxiety is common in the cancer world. Almost as common as a recurrence it seems. Blogs I read, people I know, once they've been handed the dreaded "C" card, they have a tough time giving it back. Whether you like it or not, for most people, the cancer card is harder to get rid of than an overbearing mother (kidding, kidding).

Momma Bear would say to let go of the fear and choose love (actually, she did say that. You can read all about it here).

But me, I say embrace the fear.

The reality is, I'll never completely let go. I can ignore it. I can acknowledge it. I can accept it. But I can't let go.

So again, I say embrace it.

That fear - the fear of getting sick, the fear of dying - helps me make better decisions for my life.

The first time I got a clean scan, I let go of the fear. I tried to ignore what I had been through and went back to my old life, bad habits and all. And as you know, Little Hodge came back.

This time, I  use that fear as a motivator to eat better, stress less, and live more. I certainly still make mistakes, but it's the fear that gets me back on track.

Rather than feeling guilty for being anxious or afraid, I say embrace it. Because anyone whose been sick will tell you, that the scanxiety - or anxiety - will never disappear.

Even with a clean scan. Which I have.

also kidding. mostly.

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Everyday I'm Hustlin'

Normally, I write long, thoughtful posts, telling you my dark inner feelings and all that mush. I try and be witty and smart and make you all laugh and cry within a single post. But it's early and I'm tired and I don't have much news other than the fact that today is my 6 month scan. Don't worry, despite my shortage of words this morning, I plan on rocking it.

(But just in case, cross your fingers for me).


Saturday, March 9, 2013

March 9

Today, is a bittersweet day for me.

I woke up to a calendar alert with the message "CANCER FREE" written in all caps and followed by an unnecessary amount of exclamation points.

A year ago I put this in my calendar as a recurring event (end date: Never.) - after receiving my first clean scan during treatments - as a reminder to celebrate the day I became cancer free (like I would actually need a reminder for this day…).

But as most of you know, that elation was short lived. Two months later, the cancer was back.

So now, today - on my first anniversary of being "cancer free" for the first time - is a day of mixed emotions. I'll always remember that day. Standing in the clinic alone (Momma Bear was on the phone in the car on, what felt like, the longest conversation of my life), I faced the nurses solo.

The one line summary of my scan: "No Evidence of Disease."

I'll always remember the excitement and relief I felt that day. After going through physical and emotional hell, I was strong enough to beat cancer.

For two months I was sure that was it. I temporarily lived free of fear as someone who had superhero powers. I honestly (and naively?) didn't think the cancer would come back. But as we know, the cancer did come back. And as someone who has now experienced relapse, I should have cherished those two worry-free months a little more. Because once you've experienced a recurrence, I don't know if you ever completely let go of the fear of the possibility that the cancer may return again.

So now today is a day that is supposed to be about joy and celebration but is instead a reminder of failure and pain. Little Hodgy stole this day, and my thunder, with a relapse.

But maybe a reminder of failure isn't a bad thing. It's a reminder that nothing in life is guaranteed. A reminder to cherish our good days. To live better and love harder. A reminder to celebrate our victories, even if they're short lived.

A reminder that in a world full of disappointment and fear, to let joy win.

So today, because of that reminder, I won't be bitter.


Wednesday, January 16, 2013

2012: It's Been Bitchin'

A couple months ago, in the midst of holiday madness, I made a very important decision.

I decided, with conviction and zeal, that 2013 is going to be my year.

I was tired of the cancer crap and everything that comes with it: the fatigue, the worry, the fear. So I made a decision. That next year, 2013, was going to be mine.

I was going to own it.

But before making 2013 my bitch, I had to get through my fist post-remission PET Scan since my recurrence last summer. It's hard to start the year off in warrior mode with a looming scan on the horizon. I tried not to fret too much about this one. After all, it's routine by now. I've done these scans so regularly for the last 14 months, it seems like my new norm.

But this scan is a big deal.

In the last year, I've been diagnosed and in remission, then diagnosed and again in remission. If the pattern were to hold true, it means it was time to be diagnosed again. The fact is, since first being told "you have cancer" I've never received two clean scans in a row.

And as much of a warrior as I pretend to be, that is a worrisome fact.

So yesterday, I went in for my first scan of the year. Trying to be more warrior than worrier, I took inspiration from one of cinema's greatest films: Cool Runnings. In an attempt to empower myself and spend more time wishing for the best rather than worrying about the worst, I took strength in repeatedly  replaying this scene in my head:

But even Cool Runnings can't completely get rid of the worry.

Luckily an email from my doctor can. Yesterday afternoon, in the middle of my fretting and only hours after my scan, my worrying was interrupted with this one line from my radiologist:

"PET scan is perfect!"


And while I'm sure the worrying won't be gone forever, last night I got a pass. I got a bonus night where I got to sleep free of the "what ifs" regarding today's appointment. Thank you, doc for rescuing me from the stress of the unknown for an extra 24 hours.

Must be because I am a bad-ass mother who don't take no crap from nobody. 2013, don't mess with me.

This year is mine.