tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41965163487523046752024-03-12T23:04:01.651-04:00The Thunder StealerBecause Cancer is such an Attention Whore.Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-77814143428789614222017-02-13T23:35:00.000-05:002017-02-13T23:35:33.678-05:00EnoughUniverse, can you hear me?? <br /><br />I’ve had enough. I’m ready to stop stealing the thunder. Okay? <br /><br />Seriously. <br /><br />It started with my own cancer diagnosis in 2011. And then continued with my relapse in 2012. That was enough. <br /><br />And then Brad, my love, got his own, unthinkable diagnosis this past October. That was more than enough. <br /><br />And then he died. 101 days later, on January 22, 2017. Leaving me, the Thunder Stealer, a 33 year old widow.<br />
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A 33 year old, cancer surviving, widow. <br /><br />I’ve had enough, Universe. I don’t want to steal any more thunder. Just leave me alone. Please. <br /><br />It’s fucking enough.<br />
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<br />Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-73429064187148722842016-10-25T09:25:00.001-04:002016-10-25T09:25:51.121-04:00Defending Your Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
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<i>This is not our story.</i><br />
<br />
I’m at a loss for words, but I am not at a loss for feelings. Outrage. Sadness. Shock. Fear.<br />
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I am afraid.<br />
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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 <i>our</i> future. Right now we are fighting to keep the precious future we have spent over a decade building intact.<br />
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And I am fucking angry at how unfair life seems in this moment.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I was never prepared for that.<br />
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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.<br />
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I don’t know how to be the caregiver. The supporter. The spouse.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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I just hope that I can do the same.<br />
<br />
<i>This is not our story.</i><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Because we’ve been here before (sort of). We researched. We learned. We changed our lives. We aren’t starting from scratch.<br />
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But this is different.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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But this is Brad. My Brad.<br />
<br />
I don’t know how to own this. I can’t even say it out loud. I can barely type it.<br />
<br />
Stage 4. Metastatic. Rare.<br />
<br />
<i>This is not our story.</i><br />
<br />
And because I can’t say it, I’ll let Brad say it in his own words on his own blog, <a href="http://the-road-taken.com/post/152044508074/defending-your-life" target="_blank">The Road Taken</a>. 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.<br />
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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. <br />
<br />
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 <a href="http://the-road-taken.com/" target="_blank">blog</a>, 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.<br />
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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 <a href="http://defendingyourlife.us/" target="_blank">Defending Your Life</a> (website coming soon) as we laugh, cry, and get weird together on this journey.<br />
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This is our story. Just not forever.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/WritersWire?ref=l2-shopheader-name" target="_blank">via</a></td></tr>
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<br />Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-70207986744129539502014-10-03T09:49:00.000-04:002014-10-03T10:46:20.255-04:00Just 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…<br />
<br />
For three years I’ve waited for the moment I can breathe. For three years I’ve waited for today. <br />
<br />
Today is my two year anniversary of being in remission. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
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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. <br />
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<i>Two years</i>, I was told. I would have to make it to two years of clean scans and then I could breathe. <br />
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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>I’ve moved on</i>, I told people. <i>I’m no longer worried</i>, I said. But those were lies. Or maybe those were hopes. Either way, every day, for two years I thought about today. <br />
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Today, I hit the <a href="http://stealingyourthunder.blogspot.com/2012/06/why-worry-when-you-can-panic.html" target="_blank">jackpot</a>.<br />
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Today, I can breathe. <br />
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Today, I will live.<br />
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<br />Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-61589547569203791492013-04-13T19:37:00.000-04:002013-04-13T19:37:12.158-04:006 Months Free and ClearYesterday 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). <br /><br />So for all my fans out there who don't follow my every Facebook move, you should get on Facebook.<br />
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Also, my 6 month scan is all clear!<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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). <br /><br />Momma Bear would say to let go of the fear and choose love (actually, she did say that. You can read all about it <a href="http://carpediemwellnessorg.blogspot.com/2013/04/normal-0-false-false-false-en-us-ja-x.html?spref=tw" target="_blank">here</a>). <br /><br />But me, I say embrace the fear. <br /><br />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.<br />
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So again, I say embrace it. <br />
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That fear - the fear of getting sick, the fear of dying - helps me make better decisions for my life. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />This time, I use that fear as a motivator to eat better, stress less, and <i>live</i> more. I certainly still make mistakes, but it's the fear that gets me back on track. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />Even with a clean scan. Which I have.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">also kidding. mostly.</td></tr>
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<br />Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-30406953224614141142013-04-10T07:11:00.000-04:002013-04-10T07:11:52.579-04:00Everyday 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. <br />
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(But just in case, cross your fingers for me).<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.paperjampress.com/products/everyday-im-hustlin" target="_blank">via</a></td></tr>
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<br />Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-24610568870332870392013-03-09T17:11:00.002-05:002013-03-09T17:13:04.826-05:00March 9Today, is a bittersweet day for me.<br />
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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. <br />
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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…).<br />
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But as most of you know, that elation was short lived. Two months later, the cancer was back. <br />
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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. <br />
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The one line summary of my scan: "No Evidence of Disease."<br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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A reminder that in a world full of disappointment and fear, to let joy win. <br />
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So today, because of that reminder, I won't be bitter. <br />
<br />
Sweet.Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-7301521278977123902013-01-16T09:58:00.000-05:002013-01-16T09:58:17.015-05:002012: It's Been Bitchin'A couple months ago, in the midst of holiday madness, I made a very important decision.<br /><br />I decided, with conviction and zeal, that 2013 is going to be my year. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />I was going to own it.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />But this scan is a big deal. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />And as much of a warrior as I pretend to be, <i>that</i> is a worrisome fact. <br /><br />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:<br /><br />
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<br />But even Cool Runnings can't completely get rid of the worry.<br />
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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:<br /><br />"PET scan is perfect!"<br />
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Perfect.<br />
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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. <br />
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Must be because I am a bad-ass mother who don't take no crap from nobody. 2013, don't mess with me.<br />
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This year is mine.<br />
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Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-37158557389941268522012-10-18T15:42:00.001-04:002012-10-18T15:42:40.707-04:00Go Team Thunder!Ten months ago, in <a href="http://stealingyourthunder.blogspot.com/2012/01/just-do-it.html" target="_blank">this post</a>, I announced that I had signed up to run a half marathon in this year's <a href="http://www.freepmarathon.com/" target="_blank">Detroit Free Press Marathon</a>.<br />
<br />A lot has changed in 10 months: I rejected conventional treatment, accepted alternative treatment, got rid of cancer, turned 29, got cancer again, rejected a bone marrow transplant, accepted radiation, celebrated my fourth (!) wedding anniversary, got rid of cancer again. <br /><br />Phew.<br /><br />So here we are, just days away from marathon day and no closer to being able to run 13.1 miles than I was in January.<br /><br />It's not that I didn't try. I really did. I set up a training schedule. I woke up early most mornings to get my runs in. I ran. A lot. But in the middle of this training, I started going through radiation, which in itself takes a toll on the body. <br /><br />But I was determined. <br /><br />So most mornings (with the help of friends), I would wake up and run before my 8am daily radiation treatments. The warrior came out. There was no way I was letting Cancer take this away from me. <br /><br />But about two weeks in, I started to notice a shortness of breath. Not only did running become harder, breathing became harder (a common side effect of having radiation so close to my chest and lungs). <br /><br />So I stopped running. I told myself it was temporary. That as soon as I was done with treatment, my lungs would improve and I would start up again.<br /><br />My condition didn't improve. Here I am, two months later, still unable to take a true full breath and expected to run 13 miles on Sunday. <br /><br />But, this will not be another thing cancer tries to take away from me. On Sunday, even if it takes me all day and I have to crawl across the finish line, I will complete my 13.1 miles. And luckily for me, I don't have to do it alone. Not only is The Hubby "running" with me, but my sister and a great friend are joining as well. We also have a team of friends coming to cheer us on throughout the day, decked out in Team Thunder shirts. It's pretty incredible to have friends that are willing to stand all day in a crowd of people, waiting to catch a glimpse of me as I <i>walk </i>a half marathon. That's love.<br /><br />Even though cancer may have slowed me down (literally), it will not stop me from finishing the race. After all, it's not just my ego on the line. As I mentioned before, I am also running in support of the <a href="http://www.wish.org/" target="_blank">Make-A-Wish Foundation</a>. And any foundation that strives to make a kid's experience with cancer a little brighter deserves our support and money. If any of you would like to support me by supporting the Make-A-Wish Foundation, please go to my <a href="https://fundraising.active.com/fundraiser/DanaMiles" target="_blank">fundraising page</a> and give whatever you are able to.<br />
<br />Again, thank you all for your constant support throughout my journey.<br /><br />See you at the finish line.<br /><br />Go Team Thunder!Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-79291279020027474402012-10-14T18:59:00.001-04:002012-10-14T18:59:47.967-04:00Breathe EasyLast week I got good news. Really good news. Last week, after 23 radiation treatments, I got a clean scan. This officially puts me (for the second time this year) in remission. <br /><br />But this time was different. I didn't run around yelling, "Suck it cancer!" This time, Mama Bear didn't cry when she heard the news. The Hubby, although ecstatic at the outcome, seemed more relieved than anything else.<br /><br />This time we understood that this news, although reason to celebrate, is only the first of many hurdles.<br /><br />Last time I got good news - the "you're cancer free" news - within a few months, it was back. And being told "you relapsed" is a prognosis that was, in some ways, worse than the initial diagnosis.<br /><br />Right now I am extremely grateful, thankful, and excited with the news, but also cautious. <br /><br />I was told by my oncologist that it was expected to get a clean first scan, but it is the next several that really matter. His exact words, "After two years, then you can breathe." <br /><br />Great. Thanks Doc.<br /><br />In the meantime, besides holding my breath, I'm trying to stay focused on living a healthy lifestyle by juicing, eating right, and doing regular yoga. I'm trying to not let the fears of my oncologist's words flood my thoughts. I'm more focused on the optimism of my radiologist who believes in the success of my treatment path.<br /><br />And most importantly, I'm trying to keep things in perspective. Rather than focusing on the uncertainty of the next scan, I'm constantly reminding myself that this holiday season (unlike last year) will be minus one Little Hodgy. I am constantly reminding myself that <i>I am in remission</i>.<br /><br />And even though the future is uncertain at the moment, I'm looking forward to the day when I'm allowed to <i>breathe</i>. Then, I'll take it all in and finally tell Cancer to "Suck It" for good.Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-47941410159909399132012-10-01T15:28:00.000-04:002012-10-01T15:28:30.454-04:00Waiting and WorryingI'm not sure I can top <a href="http://the-road-taken.com/post/32592360598/the-lapsed-relapse" target="_blank">today's post</a> from The Hubby as he perfectly sums up what we're going through with such eloquence, but I think it's important to voice my thoughts as well.<br /><br /><i>This fucking sucks.</i><br />
<br />
Here I am a year later and still waiting to see if I have cancer. This whole year has been one long waiting game.<br /><br />And not just waiting, but worrying. <br /><br />Waiting and worrying. <br /><br />This is not to say that I don't thoroughly enjoy my life in the middle of all this waiting and worrying. I do. But underneath every thought, word, and action is "do I still have cancer?"<br />
<br />
This constant thought gets really fucking old. <br />
<br />But tomorrow, I get my PET scan, which means by Wednesday, the waiting will be over.<br />
<br />
And hopefully, for fuck's sake, the worrying too.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNFCpG6BUX20GgudyL4meMg-Eauqguwqp8vkMcbGBTbRE9I7DdgVQ2hu7DG2K6zZjFgodeW4NFvnh2O3UFuFkNJPG0cVshi1t4srbL2CEX7krQSFjcK_nhhEgDruJzWDvjxtGFAFtPOcJL/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-10-01+at+3.26.22+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNFCpG6BUX20GgudyL4meMg-Eauqguwqp8vkMcbGBTbRE9I7DdgVQ2hu7DG2K6zZjFgodeW4NFvnh2O3UFuFkNJPG0cVshi1t4srbL2CEX7krQSFjcK_nhhEgDruJzWDvjxtGFAFtPOcJL/s320/Screen+Shot+2012-10-01+at+3.26.22+PM.png" width="304" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://ignitelight.tumblr.com/post/10155997190" target="_blank">via</a></td></tr>
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<br />Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-35283659178481439762012-09-08T07:23:00.000-04:002012-09-08T07:23:45.967-04:00Georgia On My Mind<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Yesterday I started a 5 day health detox at the <a href="http://www.livingfoodsinstitute.com/" target="_blank">Living Foods Institute</a> in Atlanta. It was one of the original places I researched back when I was first diagnosed and - in Mama Bear's loving panic - booked us tickets before Little Hodgy had even a single second to grow.<br />
<br />
As everyone knows, I ultimately went to a similar program in Arizona that I felt blended both natural and medicinal treatments, but leaving us with a credit to the program here in Atlanta.<br />
<br />
So far this program has been less than healing.<br />
<br />
When I think of healing, I think of the ocean and my toes buried in the sand. I think of music and dancing. I think of bike rides. I think of laughter with friends. And yes, sometimes healing means sitting on my deck with The Hubby enjoying a glass of wine.<br />
<br />
I do not think of healing as sitting in room ALL. DAY. LONG listening to a series of lectures.<br />
<br />
To be fair, I do have more knowledge than the average person when it comes to the alternative therapies. And I knew coming into this that I would have to listen again about the benefits of greens and wheatgrass and infrared saunas and all the other things I've already done. I just figured it would be spread over 5 days, in between actually getting therapies.<br />
<br />
So far, I haven't left my chair.<br />
<br />
Not very healing.<br />
<br />
I'm going into today with an open mind (naive perhaps) and hoping we actual do something besides listen.<br />
<br />
If not, this chair just might be the death of me.</span>Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-31183847784386623692012-08-24T15:37:00.000-04:002012-08-24T15:37:22.031-04:00Red, Red Go AwayWhen the doctors and nurses told me about the immediate side effects of radiation, no one mentioned the fact that I would start to look like the Batman character <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=batman+two+face&oe=utf-8&aq=t&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&client=firefox-a&um=1&ie=UTF-8&hl=en&tbm=isch&source=og&sa=N&tab=wi&ei=vdE3UPjhGq6FyQGEpoGgBA&biw=1186&bih=693&sei=wNE3UPgh6brIAbnRgKgI#um=1&hl=en&client=firefox-a&rls=org.mozilla:en-US%3Aofficial&tbm=isch&sa=1&q=batman+two+face&oq=batman+tw&gs_l=img.3.0.0l10.200.7430.4.8624.4.4.0.0.0.1.1217.2551.0j2j7-2.4.0...0.0...1c.DCm6fr3sOjE&pbx=1&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.r_cp.r_qf.&fp=295aef13f94f2f90&biw=1186&bih=693" target="_blank">Two Face</a>. <br />
<br />
Currently, from my chest to the bottom half of my face, my skin is raw, peely, and a range of blotchy shades of red, white, and tan. <br />
<br />
So not a good look.<br />
<br />
I know this is temporary and if it means Little Hodgy is gone for good, it's totally worth it, but I'd really rather not spend the final days of summer hibernating because I scare away all the children I come in contact with.<br />
<br />
I'll spare you pictures of what I currently look like, but here are a couple pics of the radiation room where I received my daily treatment:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRIjnkKW5wch38Bd-7bsnC-zCV9sNUjraLPhKsT5Vbhbx3rCsLSpLK6KWY_E8TBRsxj3bt1mAOKEYHqKjOYnRjeGwjndnavmj89PSxxIbcbYqetGg1yIYdbl-JMUwjKvUe7ygrX1lcbQzN/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-08-24+at+3.25.18+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRIjnkKW5wch38Bd-7bsnC-zCV9sNUjraLPhKsT5Vbhbx3rCsLSpLK6KWY_E8TBRsxj3bt1mAOKEYHqKjOYnRjeGwjndnavmj89PSxxIbcbYqetGg1yIYdbl-JMUwjKvUe7ygrX1lcbQzN/s320/Screen+Shot+2012-08-24+at+3.25.18+PM.png" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The evil machine that made me look like Two Face</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUiNCmoHugwxGPr_JiSGjQIwtYLefSNiwN9DGsjr93hz_O__iTJlJDo4c3VYwrhy1XUQAaw2pNx-BU8N0hGz30n2G4isYBtJkQU-YxwWsFISgLEvWp6svpqIPHoAHTn4DIW8TUWJpXKodH/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-08-24+at+3.25.25+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUiNCmoHugwxGPr_JiSGjQIwtYLefSNiwN9DGsjr93hz_O__iTJlJDo4c3VYwrhy1XUQAaw2pNx-BU8N0hGz30n2G4isYBtJkQU-YxwWsFISgLEvWp6svpqIPHoAHTn4DIW8TUWJpXKodH/s320/Screen+Shot+2012-08-24+at+3.25.25+PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, in the radiation machine </td></tr>
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Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-85752668185598447342012-08-17T15:48:00.000-04:002012-08-17T15:48:54.979-04:00Radiation, Check!Today, after 4 and a half weeks of treatment, was my last day of radiation. <br />
<br />
I have to say, the process wasn't terrible. I've been a little more tired than usual (but that's what afternoon naps are for), my throat has been extremely sore, and my skin looks like I fell asleep in the sun, but nothing too unmanageable. <br />
<br />
Like most things with cancer, it's the emotional toll that was the most taxing. Everyday for over four weeks I had to go sit in a waiting room with women more than twice my age. Not once did I ever see any patient under the age of 60. <br />
<br />
This, frankly, is a constant reminder that I shouldn't be dealing with this. <br />
<br />
What <i>should</i> I be doing? I <i>should</i> be finding my dream job. Or I <i>should</i> be traveling the world. Or, hell, I <i>should</i> be having babies (or at least another puppy). But early in this process I learned to give up on the idea of "shoulds".<br />
<br />
As we all know, life doesn't always obey our "shoulds." <br />
<br />
The mere fact that I had to start every day in a hospital took its own emotional toll. It's hard to move forward when your wake-up call is a daily dose of radiation. <br />
<br />
But today, I am finished. <br />
<br />
Now all I have to do is wait...<br />
<br />
And wait..<br />
<br />
And wait.<br />
<br />
What will inevitably feel like a lifetime (aka 6 weeks), is how long I have to wait to learn if the radiation was even successful. <br />
<br />
Everyone, keep your fingers crossed...<br />
<br />
Because you <b><i>should</i></b>!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsvrcYyPWjwlUWezAOCVctWaCKEJe66LXRblgx4d-WTu_S8EhMh6AsIak9LoTrOzkp2KK1cDHAp0MDylGnVXk678nQYMUUinH0IChO_lq5UoUdfmouMt1LZ2MpMOzSeAt9kiPsbsHgXgyo/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-08-17+at+3.45.53+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsvrcYyPWjwlUWezAOCVctWaCKEJe66LXRblgx4d-WTu_S8EhMh6AsIak9LoTrOzkp2KK1cDHAp0MDylGnVXk678nQYMUUinH0IChO_lq5UoUdfmouMt1LZ2MpMOzSeAt9kiPsbsHgXgyo/s320/Screen+Shot+2012-08-17+at+3.45.53+PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I certainly hope so!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-43419026676132955782012-08-15T19:15:00.000-04:002012-08-15T19:15:18.876-04:00The Difficult PatientIt's a strange feeling going through a treatment plan that no doctor completely agrees with. I disappointed the conventional docs when I chose to go to Arizona for IPT and I have now disappointed the alternative docs with my choice of radiation. Between my two choices, I have managed to alienate, in some way, every doctor I've spoken with. <br />
<br />
Sorry, docs.<br />
<br />
I'm not trying to be difficult (despite what my doctors might think). But cancer is tough. Some people die and some people live - regardless of the path chosen. <br />
<br />
Recently I read a book called "Love, Medicine and Miracles" by Bernie Siegel. I avoided reading this book for almost 9 months because, honestly, a book about love and miracles seemed a little too new age-y for someone who believes in the facts. I didn't want to read another book about "visualizing" or "finding my inner goddess" to rid myself of cancer. Plus Mamma Bear <i>really </i>wanted me to read it (I currently have four copies, all from her) and I guess that stubborn "parent pushes/child pushes back" relationship doesn't necessarily go away as we age.<br />
<br />
Eventually I realized that the book was written by an oncologist who decided to study (with facts!) the success stories of his patients; instead of studying why treatments were failing, he began to study why certain treatments, or more importantly, patients, were succeeding. (Siegel might want to consider changing the name of the book to "How Cancer Patients Succeed").<br />
<br />
If two people are given the same diagnosis, why does one live and the other die? Why do certain people defy the odds even when the odds are stacked against them? What makes a patient <i>thrive</i>?<br />
<br />
Siegel says there are three categories of patients. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">"About 15 to 20 percent of all patients unconsciously, or even consciously, wish to die. On some level, they welcome cancer or some other serious illness as a way to escape their problems through death or disease. These are the patients who show no signs of stress when they find out their diagnosis. <br />
<br />
In the middle of the spectrum of patients is the majority, about 60-70 percent. They are like actors auditioning for a part. They perform to satisfy the physician. They act the way they think the doctor wants them to act, hoping that then the doctor will do all the work and the medicine won't taste bad. They'll take their pills faithfully and show up for appointments. They'll do what they're told -- unless the doctor suggests radical changes in lifestyle -- but it never occurs to them to question the doctor's decision or strike out on their own by doing things for themselves that just "feel right." These are the people that, when given a choice, would rather be operated on than actively work to get well. <br />
<br />
At the other extreme are the 15 to 20 percent who are exceptional. They're not auditioning; they're being themselves. They refuse to play the victim. When acting out [the role of victim], patients cannot help themselves, for everything is being done <b>to</b> them…Exceptional patients refuse to be victims. They educate themselves and become specialists in their own care. They question the doctor because they want to understand their treatment and participate in it. They demand dignity, personhood, and control, no matter what the course of the disease." </span><br />
<br />
What's up now doc? <br />
<br />
Turns out I'm exceptional. And according to the book, the patients doctors deem most difficult end up doing the best over the course of their treatment. The difficult patients are the ones who <i>live</i>.<br />
<br />
So go ahead: call me difficult, stubborn, and controlling. <br />
<br />
The truth is, I've struggled a lot over the last 10 months over this idea of control. Who do I listen to? Who is the most knowledgeable? Do I trust my gut or theirs? Who has ulterior motives? Who sees me as Dana Frost, the person, not case number 347?<br />
<br />
But what I've realized is that none of these doctors have all the answers. In their own way, they all want to help me, and help get rid of the cancer. But patients die at the hands of the alternative doctors and they die at the hands of the conventional doctors. The reality is, there is no right answer (if there were, 30% of the world wouldn't be suffering from cancer). <br />
<br />
So, I'm stuck listening to myself. And as someone who was average at best in science class, and in no way an expert in the field of medicine, it can be quite a discomfort putting my opinions ahead of those of the doctors. And because of this, I am considered a difficult patient. I ask questions, I refuse treatments plans, and I change my mind - often. <br />
<br />
There are times I wish I was more of an average patient. It would certainly be easier to be one of the 60-70 percent of patients who never questioned and just listened. I can imagine the relief one feels when they are told what the decision is and they never have to think about whether or not it's the <i>right</i> decision. And I'm sure it's easier to play the role of the victim. To wallow in this terrible thing that happened to me. To give up any sort of control of the outcome. There are days I wish I could be more like that. Days where I could just give up control.<br />
<br />
But that's just not me. Besides, who wants to be an average patient anyway?<br />
<br />
Call me difficult. Call me demanding. Just don't call me average.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLJf8zwbwEMW4kg4dlKuy66j3ng2NCd4k9L_ADBvjN6or9FVyQ5U1nr1XY4LBNjS7tInSuukYwjOYcqltgEvo3FPXjyUfdJysfASfd5y25DD_QwqkQBZGWLSKOqtjSZs2gVERk-ZaKpg1T/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-08-15+at+6.30.45+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLJf8zwbwEMW4kg4dlKuy66j3ng2NCd4k9L_ADBvjN6or9FVyQ5U1nr1XY4LBNjS7tInSuukYwjOYcqltgEvo3FPXjyUfdJysfASfd5y25DD_QwqkQBZGWLSKOqtjSZs2gVERk-ZaKpg1T/s320/Screen+Shot+2012-08-15+at+6.30.45+PM.png" width="263" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span id="goog_709850074"></span><span id="goog_709850075"></span><br />
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</tbody></table><span id="goog_709850069"></span><span id="goog_709850070"></span>And whatever you do, don't call me a victim.Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-26297188063870495262012-07-18T13:35:00.000-04:002012-10-01T15:26:03.846-04:00May The Odds Be Ever In My Favor!Last week, I got my first tattoo.<br />
<br />
I've thought about the hypothetical tattoo for a long time -- what I would get, where it would be -- but I never imagined I would get <i>this</i> tattoo.<br />
<br />
Last week, I got a dot on my chest. That's it. A tiny little dot.<br />
<br />
If you ever watched Friends, then you might recall the episode where Phoebe decides to get a tattoo and then chickens out after the needle touches her, leaving her with one tiny dot. She went on to describe the tattoo as "the earth as seen from a great great distance." <br />
<br />
So like Phoebe, I got a tattoo of the earth as seen from a great great distance. Unlike Phoebe, I didn't end up with a freckle size tattoo because I chickened out at the sight of the needle.<br />
<br />
My tattoo, my freckle size dot, was not done by a tattoo artist, but by my radiologist.<br />
<br />
My tattoo is a marker for my radiation therapy, which I start today.<br />
<br />
After much soul searching, research, and second opinions, I finally settled on the decision. A difficult decision for a girl that always tries to come up with the right answer and is in a situation where there is no "right" answer.<br />
<br />
This time around, I didn't get the 85% survival talk. This time, I wasn't told I had the "easy" cancer. This time, I was simply told to make a decision and hope for the best. <br />
<br />
So that's what I'm doing. In a shitty situation, where the odds are no longer in my favor, I am hoping for the best with my decision.<br />
<br />
For the next 4 weeks, I will spend every morning getting radiation. Personally, I'd rather get my morning jolt from a cup of coffee than a set of laser beams, but honestly, I believe it's better than the alternatives.<br />
<br />
Come hell or high water, I'm determined to get rid of Little Hodgy.<br />
<br />
And maybe then, I can appreciate my worldly tattoo.Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-38660769452954246042012-07-02T22:47:00.000-04:002012-07-02T22:47:34.917-04:00Fill in the Blank.I'm having a hard time writing this time around. I feel defeated. I've started writing three different posts but can never find the words to finish.<br />
<br />
The first time I went through this, I took a risk and took control of my treatment plan. It was unique. It was revolutionary. It was __<i>___</i>____.<br />
<br />
I was called things like <i>Brave. </i><i>An Inspiration</i>. <i>A Warrior</i>.<br />
<br />
Honestly, I feel like a failure.<br />
<br />
The first time around I wanted to write. It was therapeutic. Not only was it my way of sharing my story with friends and family, but it became my way of digesting what I was going through. It was my way of coping.<br />
<br />
But now, it seems as if there are no words. <br />
<br />
Maybe it's tough because there was a "first time". When I was diagnosed with cancer, I didn't think it would be <i>for the first time</i>. I certainly never thought I'd have to deal with this a "second time."<br />
<br />
<i>And shit, please don't let there be a third time. </i><br />
<br />
This time, I'm tired of stealing the thunder.<br />
<br />
I think that maybe I'm at a loss for words because I'm at a loss of what to do. I've consulted with 6 different doctors and received as many different opinions. I'm grasping for someone (<i>anyone!)</i> to tell me what to do. I partially expect God to come to me in my sleep and proclaim, "<i>This</i> is the answer!"<br />
<br />
<i>This</i> has yet to happen.<br />
<br />
So for now, I'm being left to trust my gut and tell the world again what I’m going to do—what my decision will be…<i>this time</i>.<br />
<br />
But even my conviction – much like my words -- seems to be missing.<br />
<br />
So that decision, THE DECISION, my friends, is for another post at another time. <br />
<br />
A time when, hopefully, I can find my words.Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-18935086342234433222012-06-30T13:06:00.000-04:002012-06-30T13:06:57.171-04:00Huffington Post: The Things I Wish I Were Told When I Was Diagnosed With CancerJeff Tomczek is spot on in his article, <i>The Things I Wish I Were Told When I Was Diagnosed With Cancer</i>. When I read this article, I felt like Jeff went in my head and stole my thoughts. Nice work, Jeff. <br />
<br />
Read the article <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jeff-tomczek/cancer-advice_b_1628266.html" target="_blank">here.</a>Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-68564069484426160542012-06-16T10:43:00.000-04:002012-06-16T10:43:22.967-04:00Why Worry When You Can Panic?Here we go again. The researching, the questioning, the attempt to make a decision. <br />
<br />
I feel like I am back at square one. Back at the beginning. <br />
<br />
But I feel a surprising calm. A lack of panic. This is how I know this is not square one. I've been through this already. I've already tasted success. <br />
<br />
The Hubby once read a profound quote on a bathroom stall of a bar: "Why worry when you can panic?"<br />
<br />
He immediately thought of me. I am a worrier. I always have been. <br />
<br />
Right now, I have every reason to not only worry, but to panic. <br />
<i><br />
What if I make the wrong decision? What if people judge me? What if I lose my hair and am ugly? What if I get so sick I can't get out of bed? What if I never get rid of the Cancer? What if I die?</i><br />
<br />
But I am calm. I've already worried about all of those things. <br />
<br />
Right now, I want options.<br />
<br />
Last week I met with my oncologist in Detroit to hear his options. I rejected his option in the past and was nervous to hear what he had to say. <br />
<br />
Yes, I worried. <br />
<br />
<i>What if he hates me for seeing someone else? What if he refuses to treat me? What if he judges me and yells at me?</i><br />
<br />
After going over my scans (which is much better off than my original scan from November - no major tumor, just infected lymph nodes), he gave me two options:<br />
<br />
1) Radiation only. The cancer hasn't spread and is in the identical spot so there is a small chance (10%) that radiation alone will cure me. It's unlikely, but if it works, I will have "hit the jackpot" (his words, not mine). I would receive radiation every day for 2-3 weeks and hope for the best.<br />
<br />
2) High Dose Chemotherapy followed by a <a href="http://www.cumc.columbia.edu/dept/medicine/bonemarrow/bmtinfo.html" target="_blank">Bone Marrow Transplant</a>. This process involves using regular chemo to put me in remission, take out healthy bone marrow, freeze it and then give my chemo at such high doses that it kills EVERYTHING. It does so much destruction that my body can't recover on it's own. After this process, they put back my healthy marrow and hope it regrows in my body, creating a "healthy" environment. This is about a 5 month process requiring a 1-2 month stay in the hospital. This has a 60% chance of working. <br />
<br />
These options are not ideal. The best case he is giving me leaves me with a 60% cure rate. <br />
<br />
But oddly enough, I still don't panic. <br />
<br />
These statistics don't apply to me. These statistics are for people who did conventional chemo and it failed to work. These statistics are for people who never responded to the drugs. These statistics are for people whose cancer is so powerful not even blasting their body with drugs could get rid of it.<br />
<br />
There are no statistics for my situation. Most don't toe the line between alternative and conventional medicine - truly open to both and just wanting to find the best cure. Most people heavily lean in one direction or the other. The passion people feel about medicine is similar to the passion felt for politics. You pick your side and stick with it. Being stubbornly liberal, I understand that sentiment.<br />
<br />
But with medicine, I toe the line. Classic middle child syndrome, I guess. Indecisive and noncommittal. <br />
<br />
I'm not sure which treatment path I'll choose, but I do know that I'm not thrilled with the options presented to me. 60% cure rate plus a host of terrible side effects just doesn't seem good enough.<br />
<br />
My plan? Head to DC for a couple weeks to meet with everyone from chinese medicine doctors to oncologists at John Hopkins in hopes of finding a treatment plan I can get on board with.<br />
<br />
And in the meantime? I'll try not to panic.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUtPA1cF1A13237KeeXSP5zsl9gkZ8MDfv2DolP_9Vdo-bmNPw0voniTZo7hfk0iQw_iGmv40wsCkkVGkR2pJzdHtmAMrdHa-O9LEkYxBmvIk_6ohJLQg7dv4owW4_2ITLSM9HkdGr9Kth/s1600/Worrying+Is+Like+A+Rocking+Chair+-+It+Gives+You+Something+To+Do+But+Doesn%27t+Get+You+Anywhere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUtPA1cF1A13237KeeXSP5zsl9gkZ8MDfv2DolP_9Vdo-bmNPw0voniTZo7hfk0iQw_iGmv40wsCkkVGkR2pJzdHtmAMrdHa-O9LEkYxBmvIk_6ohJLQg7dv4owW4_2ITLSM9HkdGr9Kth/s320/Worrying+Is+Like+A+Rocking+Chair+-+It+Gives+You+Something+To+Do+But+Doesn%27t+Get+You+Anywhere.jpg" width="162" /></a></div>Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-12154862555520133452012-06-07T15:05:00.000-04:002012-06-07T15:05:10.054-04:00Recurring Thunder StealerWell, it looks like the universe has decided the Thunder Stealer is not quite ready for retirement. <br />
<br />
A couple weeks ago I found <i>another</i> lump in my neck. After several doctors’ appointments and a PET Scan, my suspicions were confirmed that Little Hodgy is in fact back. <br />
<br />
This, to put it mildly, is not what I had in mind for my summer time activities.<br />
<br />
So, because of the unique path I took in the first place, there is no specific protocol on how to proceed. I'll be spending the next couple week's meeting with different doctors and oncologists to decide on the best treatment plan for me. <br />
<br />
I could wax all poetic, but rest assured friends, I made Little Hodgy my bitch once before, I have no doubt I'll do it again.<br />
<br />
What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right??<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Cue cheesy, pop empowerment song...</i></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/Xn676-fLq7I?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-69022244755551192052012-05-07T19:10:00.000-04:002012-05-07T19:10:54.778-04:00Bills, Bills, BillsToday's mail: In addition to my usual J. Crew catalog and fashion magazines, I received a stack of medical bills. 28 to be exact. I stopped opening them after the third bill when I realized I was already in the quadruple digits. <br />
<br />
I knew some bills would continue to trickle in over the next several months, but I didn't expect 28. And I certainly didn't expect them all on the same day. <br />
<br />
Talk about ruining your Monday. <br />
<br />
While in Arizona, we were charged somewhere in the vicinity of $70,000 for my treatments. I just kind of expected that to cover everything. But as they say, and I am constantly learning, expectations are a bitch.<br />
<br />
Cancer is a bitch.<br />
<br />
Days like today, I feel stuck, like my life is at a standstill. I try so hard to put cancer behind me, but it's impossible. Evidence of it is literally showing up in piles in my mailbox.<br />
<br />
How can I move forward when I am constantly dealing with my past? How can I move forward when I am constantly fearful that my past will once again become my present?<br />
<br />
Like most of my peers, I should be saving to buy a house or planning a vacation or discussing whether or not I want kids. But how can I do that with mountains of debt and a medical history that refuses to be "history?"<br />
<br />
I've thought about selling my eggs to make money, but once you have to start checking the "cancer" box on medical history forms, your eggs are no longer attractive options. I've also thought about trying to win thousands of dollars on the nickel slots at the casino, but I've never really been lucky win it comes to gambling. The lottery? I'm <a href="http://www.deseretnews.com/top/542/15/Being-hit-by-an-asteroid-20-things-more-likely-to-happen-than-winning-the-Mega-Millions-lottery.html" target="_blank">35,000 times more likely</a> to be hit by an asteroid than win it. <br />
<br />
So how do you move forward and escape a cancerous past when a steady flow of bills constantly show up on your doorstep? As the Hubby's best friend said, "Move."<br />
<br />
That would certainly be easier than winning the lottery. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh87GmveU_xjinNEIBb85o6EqfQQjzfZZUxA4YC9MkVgkI6jhjRTLKaNHrM80dFk49ZoZBuuHR2eCeG97ydx9SZORmNo-L_j_ZS_MtXdh5si23nbZBGrzdX97pzOOZ7JjBmz4lRN9zX8Npg/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-05-07+at+7.08.52+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh87GmveU_xjinNEIBb85o6EqfQQjzfZZUxA4YC9MkVgkI6jhjRTLKaNHrM80dFk49ZoZBuuHR2eCeG97ydx9SZORmNo-L_j_ZS_MtXdh5si23nbZBGrzdX97pzOOZ7JjBmz4lRN9zX8Npg/s320/Screen+Shot+2012-05-07+at+7.08.52+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Update: The Hubby finished opening and adding up all 28 bills. The total? $8,563.47. Seriously, after spending $70,000 on treatments, how am still getting $8,563.47 dollars worth of bills…in a single day?<br />
<br />
Perhaps we should move after all. Or, just wait for that asteroid.Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-35535559043721921492012-04-24T17:08:00.000-04:002012-04-24T17:08:57.854-04:00So You Have Cancer: 10 Things to Do Now, Even if You're Not Warren BuffettThe Huffington Post gets sassy in this article on what to do if you are diagnosed with Cancer.<br />
<br />
Number 1: Blame Canada.<br />
<br />
Read the full article <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-solomon/cancer-advice_b_1447171.html" target="_blank">here</a>.Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-10046715345335211662012-04-16T16:43:00.002-04:002012-04-18T22:38:30.098-04:00Great ExpectationsOne month. That's how long I've been home. <br />
<br />
Turns out the process of returning home -- returning to "normal" -- isn't so easy. <br />
<br />
A big part of me thought I'd come home and things would be simple. I'd be done with the chemo. No more full days of therapy. I'd be home with The Hubby, sleeping in my own bed. Being home would be a breeze.<br />
<br />
Oh, the power of expectations. <br />
<br />
Being home is definitely not a breeze. <br />
<br />
Part of me thought I'd get a clean scan, come home, and Cancer would just kind of fade into the background. <br />
<br />
Honestly, over the last couple weeks, I haven't even wanted to write about cancer. Actually, I didn't even want to <i>think</i> about cancer. But a clean scan doesn't mean the cancer actually goes away, certainly not mentally and oftentimes, not physically. <br />
<br />
Not a day, no, an hour, goes by where I don't think about cancer. When I prepare my meals, when I try and convince my too lazy self to work out, when I think about my future, when I feel a cold coming on, when I'm having a completely unrelated conversation with a friend - Cancer is there for all of it.<br />
<br />
Not a day goes by where I don't feel my neck, just to make sure I don't have any swollen lymph nodes. <br />
<br />
I spent my first month home trying to forget about the cancer and just live my life. I celebrated my return with friends, watched a lot of bad daytime television, pretty much did what I could to get cancer to fade away. I still took my supplements, stuck to a vegan diet, got regular Vitamin C IV treatments and massages.<br />
<br />
It's not that I got home and fell off the "health" wagon, but I certainly didn't embrace it.<br />
<br />
I was pissed that I <i>had</i> to work out (so some days, I didn't). I was pissed that I <i>had</i> to juice in the morning (so I slacked on that too). I was pissed that Momma Bear would tell me she was having a tough time with the new lifestyle, but the reality is, she didn't <i>have</i> to live it (so I stopped returning her calls). <br />
<br />
Generally, I was just pissed. I felt like my life was no longer my choice. <br />
<br />
So I spent the last month on a roller coaster of emotions. I celebrated the results of my scan. I mourned the loss of my old life, the freedom of a worry free existence. I made poor decisions, which some days I could justify away and other days resulted in me wallowing in my own guilt of not being strong enough to make all the right choices. And some days, I was a bitch for no reason at all.<br />
<br />
I put in a lot of effort trying to live in denial of what I was going through. But cancer would inevitably sneak its way back into my thoughts, jerking me out of my blissful pause. <br />
<br />
Basically, I got home and put an enormous amount of pressure on myself to be perfect. I was going to make all the right decisions. Not only would I live a healthier life, but I was going to figure out how my experience would make me a better -- no, the <i>best</i> -- person!<br />
<br />
But now, not only did I have to make all of these lifestyle changes, I also had all of these unreal expectations to "figure it out."<br />
<br />
Life is short. Live life to the fullest. Carpe Fucking Diem. Every cliche you can think of added pressure to my every day.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1FHo1btGg-ILDwO9xRhM8ghtComQdB3meCycmGiZy1wI-IzfpZRDiryPvkZO-FVV2-D4NReGwjQeQPX0lVNXQ8b3MXIE1aeq0tsbXOZ4Shl0708D1joMx72bRt51i6Jb3hN1nrKJcJ11L/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-04-16+at+4.31.44+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1FHo1btGg-ILDwO9xRhM8ghtComQdB3meCycmGiZy1wI-IzfpZRDiryPvkZO-FVV2-D4NReGwjQeQPX0lVNXQ8b3MXIE1aeq0tsbXOZ4Shl0708D1joMx72bRt51i6Jb3hN1nrKJcJ11L/s320/Screen+Shot+2012-04-16+at+4.31.44+PM.png" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://inspiredlimitlessly.tumblr.com/post/14312208169" target="_blank">via</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
When I didn't come up with answers, I felt like a failure.<br />
<br />
Even on days when I made all the right decisions (I juiced, exercised, took supplements, got 8 hours of sleep, ate a strictly raw/vegan diet), I still didn't have answers to the bigger questions: What should I do with my life? How has this experience changed me? What am I doing to pay it forward? What are my passions?<br />
<br />
So even on my best days, I still felt inadequate. I still felt like a failure.<br />
<br />
You hear about people who go through a traumatic experience or get a glimpse of death and they are immediately <i>changed</i>. Just like that. Their past no longer matters because they have now seen the light! They now realize the fickleness of life and wouldn't dare waste a moment of it! So they just move forward and start making all the right choices. These people make change seem so easy. These people would be extremely disappointed in my daytime television habit. <i>Why watch TV when you could be out bettering yourself <b>and</b> those around you??</i> (I have since come to the conclusion that these people are either a) fictional people in romantic comedies or b) liars).<br />
<br />
Because of these crazy expectations, I spent the last month trying to look forward and had a hard time not looking back. Actually, I felt like I was being dragged forward, kicking and screaming, as I watched my past life slip further and further away.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKaE6EW4LUO9z7A_1nG_IAdMGzfoljbmZrryokbigYTltW2hNvpyfce7m_9nvy7S4iLl74l7q4J3sfJq_mjVVhP2IbUulNHRDOoADGbzJQlanenpryV06b77U-KweclVsHVbs4yGZfXjBF/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-04-16+at+4.10.04+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKaE6EW4LUO9z7A_1nG_IAdMGzfoljbmZrryokbigYTltW2hNvpyfce7m_9nvy7S4iLl74l7q4J3sfJq_mjVVhP2IbUulNHRDOoADGbzJQlanenpryV06b77U-KweclVsHVbs4yGZfXjBF/s320/Screen+Shot+2012-04-16+at+4.10.04+PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://ffffound.com/image/46b13c699043066390c3ab52f578532d2660fb56" target="_blank">via</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
My life had changed and I didn't have time to decide if I was ready for, or even wanted, that change. And that loss of control was infuriating. <br />
<br />
Until it wasn't. <br />
<br />
I'd like to say that I had some huge life altering realization, that I became one of <i>those</i> people. But honestly, I was just sick of wallowing and feeling bad over ridiculous things like missing BBQ and cheap beer.<br />
<br />
I also realized that being pissed about what I was going through wasn't making my life any better. Actually, it was making me miserable (and although he probably wouldn't admit it, The Hubby too).<br />
<br />
I had a clean scan, my life was <i>supposed</i> to be better, not worse. <br />
<br />
I finally got to a point where I decided to make the right decisions, not because I'm in remission from cancer and <i>have</i> to, but because I want to live a better, fuller, healthier life (feel free to roll your eyes at my over-the-top, cliched optimism -- maybe I am becoming one of <i>those</i> people). <br />
<br />
I'd like to think that I would have ultimately come to the same conclusions about my life whether I got cancer or not, simply because it's the smart way to live. We all should be more aware of what we put in our bodies, try to stay in shape, and appreciate what we have in our lives.<br />
<br />
I'd like to think I'm smart enough that I would have gotten there on my own.<br />
<br />
But if nothing else, I will give cancer the credit for getting me there faster, even if I did start out kicking and screaming. As for the other big questions, I just have to be more patient with myself.<br />
<br />
For now, let’s stick to taking one giant life-altering leap at a time. <br />
<div class="yj6qo ajU"><div class="ajR" data-tooltip="Show trimmed content" id=":xk" role="button" tabindex="0"><img class="ajT" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/images/cleardot.gif" /></div></div>Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-3689066354992172742012-04-04T09:03:00.000-04:002012-04-04T09:03:31.502-04:00L-I-V-I-NToday is my 29th birthday. <br />
<br />
Exactly 4 months ago, I was supposed to start my conventional chemotherapy treatment. I would receive 8 doses of the drugs and end my last chemo treatment today, on my birthday. <br />
<br />
Poetic, huh?<br />
<br />
As we all know, I didn't go the conventional route. <br />
<br />
In half the time and a tenth of the drugs, I had a clean scan.<br />
<br />
Now that's a reason to celebrate. <br />
<br />
So today, instead of being hooked up to IVs and feeling sick, I'm going to go out and shoot some guns, get a massage with The Hubby, and celebrate life.<br />
<br />
Today, I'm living. <br />
<br />
Or as Matthew McConaughey says - L-I-V-I-N.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><object width="320" height="266" class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://2.gvt0.com/vi/Ls_8cFgBUj4/0.jpg"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Ls_8cFgBUj4&fs=1&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Ls_8cFgBUj4&fs=1&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Don't worry Momma Bear, I'm not gonna celebrate by banging chicks and smoking pot)</span></div>Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-91012328280410220562012-03-16T10:12:00.000-04:002012-03-16T10:12:55.460-04:00Homeward Bound<div style="text-align: center;">Today, I'm headed home! I expect nothing less than this reaction from The Puppy when I see him:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhENsTDgR91YymY5HWLCu4cH8lgLPvwuvzb1ZCMVgqp1Elbo5RLS8upkh36pPdhC8_dmwRa7Wk0OURrQF5vIxxulWLVaBi1oS8dyrTa4qzVoLNhuV9DmoZ9h0S_uJf7glizmyAnhTv7Ru_5/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-02-23+at+6.18.08+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhENsTDgR91YymY5HWLCu4cH8lgLPvwuvzb1ZCMVgqp1Elbo5RLS8upkh36pPdhC8_dmwRa7Wk0OURrQF5vIxxulWLVaBi1oS8dyrTa4qzVoLNhuV9DmoZ9h0S_uJf7glizmyAnhTv7Ru_5/s320/Screen+Shot+2012-02-23+at+6.18.08+PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happiness!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;">I'd also like to send a special shout out to <a href="http://www.caninetofivedetroit.com/" target="_blank">Canine to Five</a>, The Puppy's surrogate home while I was away! Thanks for all that you guys do!</div>Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4196516348752304675.post-91687752868416076512012-03-15T09:56:00.000-04:002012-03-15T09:56:59.216-04:00It's Always Darkest Before the DawnPicc line is out of my arm (FREEDOM!), I'm cancer free, and I'm heading home tomorrow. Shake it out.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/Np9rZM93R8w?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Closet Confessionalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04251003965907545146noreply@blogger.com0