Just had to catch my breath.

When I was a kid one of my responsibilities every Saturday was to clean the bathrooms in the house. I started doing this when I was about 8 years old, and so small I had to use a stepladder to reach the counter. I would climb the steps to the counter, then stand on the counter so I could clean the mirrors all the way up to the top.

I remember one particular time when I was cleaning the bathroom, standing on the counter - when my brother came up and pinched me on the leg. I must've been lost deep in thought because it scared me and I went sprawling on the counter. My brother found this rather funny because that's what big brothers do. It knocked the wind out of me though, and I didn't even yell at him or anything because I was so startled. After a while I took a deep breath, climbed back up - and finished my chore.

I had a neuro-interventional ultrasound recently, and it showed a new nodule in the left thyroid bed. It is not in a place that can be biopsied.

Hearing the news felt a little like falling on the counter.

I've evaluated my options. My type of cancer is slow growing and has good prognosis. My tumor markers are still good. My TSH level is acceptable. I'm just going to wait it out.

But the nodule wasn't there 4 months ago. It shouldn't be there now.

Now that I've caught my breath I'll just get back to work.

The Roller Coaster

It was one year ago today that I had surgery to remove cancer from my body. The emotion of this day caught me by surprise, and I spent most of my off time today trying to figure out why.

This past year has been a year of uncertainty, of gratitude, of worry, of relief, of...I don't know. To me the whole thing seems like it's a big ol' Six Flags Over Texas Judge Roy Scream Roller Coaster ride.

The Judge Roy Scream was a famous old-fashioned wooden roller coaster. It was a huge thrill that shook you, rattled you, tossed you around high and low, fast and slow, until at last you rolled laughing and screaming back into the starting gate. It was really something.

That's a fairly accurate description of this past year.

But on this day, my one year anniversary of the beginning of the rest my life, there is one absolute.

Today, I am grateful.

I am grateful to God that He is allowing me to continue on the road to health.

I am grateful for you, my husband. You are my rock... my anchor. There are no words to adequately express how I feel about you and your immeasurable love and support, so I won't even try. I hope you know.

To all of my friends who have offered prayers, sent good thoughts and healing vibes - thank you. I appreciate you. You have been my strength when I have none.

and this...
has been quite a ride.

the day the earth stood still.

One year ago today... I was told I had cancer.

It's the "best" kind of cancer to get they said. It's a very treatable type of cancer, I was told. But it was still cancer.

I have been blessed with an excellent outcome...
and it still changed my life.

Once you hear those words nothing ever really seems the same again. Every time you have an ache or pain you think its more than a simple ache or pain. You never stop asking what if? You always wonder if the next scan will reveal something new. You never stop wondering.

You never stop thinking.

I am trying though. I am working on not assuming the worst, and I am trying to celebrate each time the doctor says "so far so good." I am working on it. Really.

Mostly though, this past year I've learned that I can move forward even though I don't know how stable the future is. I can enjoy the fact that I have a future. I don't know what it holds, but for that matter, neither does anyone else.

Laugh long and prosper.

I have a theory on healing.

Healing is multidimensional. It's a process that involves varying degrees of physical, spiritual, and emotional repair work. But it is my belief that true healing is also in the manner in which it is approached. Now, I am realistic and know that all wounds will not heal. We don't choose to be ill, but we can choose how we make the journey.

For me, healing begins with humor. Does it mean I have to feel good? I don't think so. How I feel physically doesn't really matter. What matters is how I choose to interact with the healing process.

I choose to laugh.

Humor pulls me out of whatever dark place I am in. When I look around, I mean really look - I find that most things have a funny side to them. Sometimes it isn't proper to laugh out loud, so I don't. I try to be respectful of others feelings, but occasionally it slips out anyway. I've always been this way to a certain extent, but one thing my cancer experience has taught me is that it's okay to laugh about being sick. In fact, I believe it's essential to laugh.

When we first learned of my diagnosis, my husband and I agreed that one of his primary responsibilities in this adventure was to make me laugh when I didn't feel like it. He has performed magnificently in this task, and still does.

On the morning of my surgery to remove my cancerous thyroid, I was terrified. My wonderful husband kept trying to get me to smile all the way up until they gave me the happy drugs. When the moment finally came for that last kiss before I was wheeled into surgery, I told my husband he had my permission to marry Laura San Giacomo if I didn't make it back. The nurses might not have laughed, but I thought it was funny. Yeah, it was really cheesy, but it made sense to me at the time. Happy drugs can do that.

I love funny stuff. Some of my favorite movies are really goofy movies like Galaxy Quest, Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, and Bubba Ho-Tep. I call them "don't-make-me-think" movies. I also really like cheesy stuff. The cheesier the better. I've watched movies like Love Actually and Unsinkable Molly Brown so many times I've worn out the DVD. If you combine all these movies into a TV Series you get the wonderful and campy Star Trek.

I have always been a fan of Star Trek, but I'm definitely not a "Trekkie." I have a friend that writes the star date on messages he sends out, so I imagine he might fit the label. But really, how can anyone not love the relationship between the main characters? Kirk, McCoy, and Spock represent all of us. (It's okay, you can admit it. I know you have found yourself identifying with one of them in the shows. We all have. No one will know but us.)

This is a public service announcement: Don't read this next part if you have a sensitive stomach. You will be advised when you can safely rejoin the blog.

While I was in the hospital right after my surgery I started feeling really sick in the middle of the night and knew that I was not going to (ahem) retain my dinner. I called the nurse. That's when it happened. I giggled. Through my nauseous, drug-induced post-op fog I realized that my dinner had been strawberry Jello and a red Popsicle. I had ordered orange, but that isn't what they brought me, and I knew when it resurfaced it wasn't going to look good to the nurse.

There ended up not being enough time for me to tell the nurse about my dinner. Even though the nurse responded fast, it was still too late.

Oops.

The nurse showed up and saw the awful red mess on the white blanket. Then there were two. The second nurse came into the room and the two of them kicked into efficient, nursely activity. And then there were three. Each nurse seemed more important that the last.

I giggled. I don't think they found it amusing, but I did. I kept trying to tell them about the Popsicle but they were seriously focused. I kept barfing and telling them the red was just jello, and they kept being helpful - and oh so concerned. After what seemed like an eternity, I remember hearing one of them saying "Oh, good. It's getting clear now."

I drifted back to sleep with a smile on my face.

Those nurses were wonderful. They weren't going to let me be alone until they knew I was okay. They were flat out amazing. But, now that I look back on it, I probably should have at least attempted to restrain myself. I just know that when the nurses left the room they discussed whether or not I was getting too much pain medication.

Okay, you squeamish types can start reading again now.

Looking back on the whole adventure I have to wonder... how would this scene have played out on Star Trek? Probably something like this:

Spock: "Fascinating."

Kirk: "Do something Bones!"

McCoy: "I'm losing her, Jim!"

Spock: "It's proving to be an inconvenience, but it is manageable."

McCoy: "Jim, she was decontaminated, she's been medically checked, we've run every test we know for everything that we know... we're doing everything that's possible."

Kirk: "Well that's not good enough, Bones. I want the impossible checked out, too."

McCoy: "In this galaxy, there's a mathematical probability of three million earth-type planets. And in all the universe, three million million galaxies like this. And, in all of that... and perhaps more, only one of each of us. We won't let them destroy the one named Georganne."

Kirk: (softly) "I'll never lose you. Never"

McCoy: "She's coming around, Jim! On pure speculation, just an educated guess, I'd say that woman is alive. By golly, Jim... I'm beginning to think I can cure a rainy day!"

Spock: "I'll never understand the medical mind."

Kirk: "Well, gentlemen, we all have to take a chance, especially if one is all you have. Resume your stations."

That's the way it will play in reruns from here on out. It's much better than the original.

Cocoon

This past Wednesday I celebrated the good news of a clean scan and clear tumor markers. The same day a friend of mine got a phone call from his doctor who told him "You have cancer."

It makes me sad.
It makes me angry.
No.
Not angry.

Pissed off.

I HATE THIS DISEASE!!!

But in spite of my hatred I have much to celebrate.

I am happy that my first set of tests after my surgery are clean. I am very glad. We can hope that the thyroid cancer is gone forever. It's not over yet though, because my doctor has scheduled further tests on my throat and lungs due to unresolved medical issues. But, for now I am assuming that everything will be just fine.

A former boss of mine whom I greatly admired (who also happened to be a pilot and Vietnam Veteran) once told me "never assume anything." That's probably good advice for someone flying through enemy territory. But I really need to assume this right now. For me it's a matter of self-preservation. Hmm. I guess it was for him, too. Maybe I need to re-think this?

Anyway, back to my friend who recently heard those three words that turn your world inside-out. He is one of the people in my circle of support that sent prayers and positive thoughts when I needed it most. Trust me, those prayers and thoughts made a huge difference when I was first in the fight.

When he told me he had cancer my heart hurt. I hurt for him, I hurt with him, I hurt for those he loves, and I hurt for those who love him. It's a disease that profoundly affects everyone in your life. It just isn't fair.

He asked me for advice. My first thought, and what I told him was go to the place where I went for treatment. After all, if it worked for me... But that's not what I really wanted to tell him. It's just all I could think of at the time.

But I do have advice for you, my friend. Now I know what I want to share with you.

First, allow yourself to cry. You have to grieve for what is lost before you can move on. I don't have to explain this because you know what I mean.

Next, wrap yourself in a cocoon. Allow a blanket of trust to completely envelope you.

Trust in your team of physicians. Trust them in your treatment plan, and listen to them.

Trust in the one you love. This person has been put in your life for a reason. When you can't hold on any more know that you don't have to - because your love won't let go of you.

Trust in those that care about you. They may not know what to say or how to say it, but you will be able to feel their love and support when you can't feel anything else.

Trust in yourself. Listen to your body, listen to your heart - and be your own advocate. You know you better than anyone. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise.

Give yourself permission to be sick. You don't have to pretend to be okay, because you're not. It is okay to feel the way you feel.

But most of all, allow your cocoon to keep you safe as long as you need it. You will know when you can start to unfold your wings again.

Will you be the same as before? No. You will have to find your new you. You will have to find a new normal. I know this, because I am still trying to figure out what this is. I am just beginning to emerge again. Am I still scared of life on the outside? Absolutely. In fact, I am just one step above terrified.

But I do know one thing with certainty. While I am learning to venture outside my cocoon again, I know that it's there every time I need to crawl back in.

For you my friend, I wish you well. I am but a tiny thread in the silk that will surround you, but I am a part of your cocoon.

Peace.

At the edge of the world, his journey begins.

Did you know that one of the three volleyballs used as "Wilson" in the film Cast Away was sold in an auction for $18,400? That's a bunch of money. There's a lot of interesting trivia associated with that movie. Sometime you ought to look it up on IMDB.

I love the movie Cast Away and have watched it multiple times, not only for Tom Hanks' phenomenal acting but because it is a powerful story of survival. I think we all possess the same ability - it's just that we are called on to use it in different degrees.

I also love the relationship between Hank's character Chuck Nolan and the volleyball, Wilson. It is a humorous yet poignant portrayal of our need for a companion. We all need someone to keep us grounded.

The one scene that gets to me every time is near the end of the movie when he finally leaves the island on a raft. Whether he finds salvation or not, Chuck knows when he pushes away from the shore that he is at the end of his journey. He has prepared for the long ride to the best of his ability, and as he sets sail he tells Wilson "Don't worry Wilson, I'll do all the paddling. You just hang on." After a storm nearly destroys the raft, Chuck wakes up to see Wilson bobbing in the distance. It's hard to watch Chuck's anguish as his only link to the real world drifts away.

There are a lot of similarities between having cancer and being stranded on an uninhabitable island. You go there alone, you know fear, experience pain, get angry, fight despair, and out of necessity learn survival techniques. People with forms of cancer much worse than mine are the supreme survivors.

But the real story isn't about the island. It's about the raft. Cancer leaves no choice but to build a raft and start the crossing. There is one big difference between me and the movie, though. My link to the real world is the one who stays on the raft. When I let go and start drifting my husband pulls me back and says "Don't worry, I'll do all the paddling. You just hang on."

I am blessed to know that he won't let me float away.

Feelings, nothing more than feelings...

One of the funniest television moments I've ever seen was in a TV show I rarely watched.

It was called "Mama's Family," with Carol Burnett, and I just so happened to be channel surfing the night "the moment" was on. Ms. Burnett's character (Eunice) appeared on The Gong Show hoping to finally be discovered with her rendition of the song Feelings by Albert Morris. I remember laughing until I cried when I saw that episode. Her vocals were exquisitely bad. Carol Burnett performance was sheer perfection as a comedienne.

Today I feel like I have cancer. No, I don't feel sick or depressed. I just feel yucky. I saw my doctor a couple of weeks ago, and told him about this. He said it's not in my head, and that he has had other patients report the same "feeling." It just feels, well - wrong. The doctor gave me two new meds, and said sometimes the different combination helps. It seems to be helping, but maybe it is just wishful thinking. Hopefully it really will work. I don't like feeling cancery.