Strong. Fighting. Surviving.

I just started one of my favorite movies, Finding Nemo. This movie is guaranteed to lift me out of any funk. Dory, Crush, Marlin, and Gill are part of my official comic relief team. I know that when I call on them, they will rally around me and boost my mood. (You know for a clownfish, he really isn’t that funny.)

Okay, so what’s put me in a funk today?

A very small comment made by a very small person. (Hey. You guys made me ink.)

I was reading message boards this morning about Kris Carr’s TV special, Crazy Sexy Cancer. (You so totally rock, Squirt!) A few people didn’t like the title, but, for the most part, everyone loved it. With one exception. This person wrote ‘All I can say after seeing this show is…some people deserve cancer and everything that goes with it.’

Ouch, that hurt. To think that Kris, or any of us, did something to deserve this disease makes my insides ache. I feel ill. (Hey, no hurling on the shell, dude, ok? Just waxed it.)

What on earth did I do to deserve this?

Admittedly, I’m not a saint and I’m sure it doesn’t help that I’m a Republican, but I can’t think of anything I’ve done to warrant cancer as a punishment. If you added up all of my transgressions, I would like to think that I’d fall somewhere in between indigestion and sinus infection area. (To the top of Mount Wanna-hock-a-loogie.)

I hate the fact that I’m letting this person’s comment affect me so deeply. It’s not like me to let one thoughtless statement get me down, but I can’t understand how he could watch Kris’ story and feel that she deserved cancer. To add to the confusion is the fact that this person is a cancer survivor. What did he do to deserve it? Does he think he’s innocent, one of the undeserved few?

Alternatively, when I was growing up, my mom would say that getting sick was a ploy to get attention. Could that really be true? Did my subconscious spur the growth of PC because of a need for attention? (Hold my fin, hold my fin!)

I don’t know why I have PC, but I simply can’t accept this rational either. What I can accept is that I was given PC for a reason and I need to find that reason…fast. Until I discover it, I’ll just keep writing and enjoying my life, family and friends. (We’re cheating death now, that’s what we’re doing, and we’re having fun at the same time.)

So the movie just ended, Nemo was found, and all is right with the underwater world again. As Dory and Marlin sang while navigating through the deadly jellyfish, I’ll (just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming, swimming.)

Me dancing. It’s not a pretty sight and one that doesn‘t happen very often, at least not in public. In college, though, it became a regular occurrence. Fueled by a few Hairy Buffaloes, my girlfriends and I shamelessly humpty-humped. We were goofballs, making fun of ourselves and everyone around us…until Lisa started to dance. There was no denying it - the girl knew how to shake it and loved doing it. We all knew she’d end up on stage and just hoped that the stage didn’t feature a brass pole (I kid, of course).

Fast forward ten years.

There I am, power-walking on my treadmill watching CMT. I suddenly drop my water bottle and fumble for the pause button on the remote. I was sure of it…that was Lisa, the Chrome girl. A quick Google search confirmed it. She had found her niche dancing in country music videos and starred in several before becoming a video producer.

I recently talked to a girlfriend (one of the aforementioned Humpty-Humpers) and learned she is moving to the west coast to help her husband pursue his dream of acting. This is nothing short of impressive, especially when you consider the fact that they just had a baby. Just like Lisa, my friend’s husband is following his dream. I‘m in awe. Not only did these people find their passion, but they also had the guts to pursue them.

I think the point of my story is obvious. Call me Velveeta, but I can’t emphasize enough the importance of realizing your dreams today, not tomorrow. I spent a lifetime thinking and planning for tomorrow, a tomorrow that I may not see. I think you get the idea, so I won’t belabor the point. Jump out of that plane, go to Italy, or become a Chrome dancer…now!

I think Eminem summed it up nicely –

You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow.
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo.

Even though cancer is a part of my body, it isn’t mine. I didn’t wait in line for it like an amusement park ride. I didn’t sign any contract like a mortgage or car loan. And I certainly don’t remember asking Santa for it. It’s not mine, and, with the exception of this particular sentence, you will never hear me say ‘my cancer.’ That phrase connotes ownership and a sense of possession that I just can’t accept, but there are a lot of people out there who use it.

I’ve logged a lot of time lately looking at other cancer-related Web sites and blogs. There are so many courageous people who have put their stories out there and I am truly uplifted by their bravery and determination. My quest, beyond just educating myself, has been to find an appropriate name for this illness. I made a list consisting of other names I’ve found, but none of them have resonated with me.

I’ve seen SOB, b-i-otch, stupid kancer, and (my favorite) yellow-belly-lily-livered sapsucker.

Truth be told, I’ve struggled with this ever since I was diagnosed. Obviously, I don’t like using ‘my’ and I’m not too fond of using ‘the’ either. Saying ‘the cancer’ gives it a menacing quality and conjures up the image of the bad guy from the movie Scream. I tried calling it ‘the bastard,’ but that didn’t feel or sound right. Inspired by the Dixie Chicks song, I tried out ‘Earl.’ But I didn’t want to send any bad vibes to the Earls of the world.

For lack of anything more fitting or creative, I’ve been using PC, short for pancreatic cancer.

Now that I think about it, I actually like it. I’m reminded of the Mac commercials. Mac is cool, hip, funny, and smarter than PC. PC is slow, dim-witted, not to mention overweight, balding (no offense to the actor) and poorly dressed.

So I think I’ll stick with PC and, as an added bonus I think I just solved my Mike Tyson issue.

Almost everything in life is done in stages. This not so insightful thought occurred to me today during my pedicure. I’m well versed in the pedicure ritual. Pick your color (today’s selection was ‘I don‘t do dishes‘ red), sit, soak, and smile. Nestled in the enjoyable routine is the dreaded pumice stone. For those not familiar with pedicures, the pumice stone is used to smooth out any rough spots. Basically it’s vigorously rubbed on the sides and bottom of your feet and comes dangerous close to crossing the line from pleasure to torture. Being born with an enlarged funny bone, I despise the pumice stone. It reminds me of the days when my brother would sit on me and tickle me until I almost wet myself. I endure this step in the pedicure process because I know the end result is worth it.

As I gripped the armrests, bracing myself for the inevitable, it dawned on me that I skipped a torturous, yet necessary step in the cancer journey. I thought I had hit them all. I spent a lifetime in denial, camped out in depression, and even served time in bargaining.

But I think I missed one of the earliest and most important stages, anger. There was no screaming, breaking things, or punching pillows.

I read a lot after being diagnosed and everything said that, in order to heal, I had to be at peace with cancer and my diagnosis. I immediately did everything I could to get there. I immersed myself in meditation and yoga determined to find this mystical place of peace. I convinced my family, friends, and myself that I was indeed at peace. I planted both feet solidly in acceptance and tried desperately to grow roots.

After nine months of brooding, anger finally decided that it had had enough. It was tired of hearing me say ‘I’m fine’ to everyone who asked and choose last night to make it’s appearance. There’s a part of me that regrets publishing last night’s blog because of the worry it caused, but I think it is important to see that this journey isn’t as easy as green purses and rainbows.

I don‘t know if anger is finished with me yet. I ignored it for so long that I have a feeling it may be back, but next time I don‘t think it will be quite as strong. I learned that I don’t have both feet in acceptance just yet and still have some work to do. I know spending some quality time with anger will be difficult, but like the pumice stone, I know it will be worth it in the long run.

My laptop couldn’t boot up fast enough and my fingers can’t keep up with the flow of my thoughts. This is pouring out of me and I’m going to fight my normal desire to censor or wordsmith it. I don’t know how this is going to come out, so I’ll apologize in advance if it’s rough or unorganized.

I felt something tonight that I have never felt before. Rage. I don’t know how it happened, it crept up on me so fast, without warning. Today ended like almost any other Friday. I was in a good mood as I left the office. I got into the GTO and put on some music. Maybe it was the music, a mix of AC/DC, Eminem, and Guns and Roses. Driving along 270, I was fine; trying to figure out dinner, weekend plans, etc. The feeling started to grow inside me and the GTO started going faster in direct proportion to it. I moved over to the HOV lane, without the usual accompanying guilt. I felt my body grow hotter, despite the fact that the AC was on full blast.

Please understand that this feeling wasn’t directed at anyone or anything in particular. There wasn’t anything that happened today or this week that prompted it.

Rage is reserved for teenagers and rock stars. People who ride horses do not feel rage. People who garden and subscribe to Southern Living just don’t feel rage, but there I was consumed by this overwhelming emotion.

I made it to Boyds in record time, but didn’t turn into my house. I knew I had to drive this out of me, literally and figuratively. I’ve always enjoyed pushing myself, testing the limits, but this was beyond anything I’ve done before and I didn‘t care about the consequences. Consumed, I drove around the country roads of Poolesville pushing the car and myself. On Route 28, I reached 90mph in fourth gear and kept accelerating. I struggled against steering wheel as I flew around the curves on Peachtree Road at 60mph.

I didn’t think, I just drove. I didn’t recognize myself during this time and didn’t try to understand what was compelling the rage.

I eventually came to my senses on Bucklodge Road when I passed a white cross on the side of the road. We all know why these crosses are sprinkled along the road. This particular cross is relatively new - in fact, the tire tracks are still look fresh. Guilt washed over me and I felt foolish for being so irresponsible. I pulled over, changed the CD, and drove under the speed limit the entire way home.

I’m struggling with how to end this story, I don’t have a cute pun or upbeat sentiment this time.
Simply put, I am just so thankful to be alive.

I love my oncologist. In fact, I think I’ve developed a little bit of a crush on him. He’s incredibly smart, compassionate, and a gifted photographer. Usually he’s very cautious with his words and knows how much (or how little) information I can handle. I don’t know if I would be here today if he had told me upfront the extent of the tumors. He keeps me focused on remission and still refuses to talk about my chances, time estimates, etc.

During a recent meeting, however, he used a boxing analogy to describe the cancer and my fight. This analogy has haunted me ever since, keeping me up at night. The cancer, he said, is like Mike Tyson, Iron Mike Tyson, “The Baddest Man on the Planet.”

My doctor explained that partial remission is the same as knocking Mike down, and while the count is going, he‘s not out yet. There’s a good chance that he’s going to get back up and start fighting again.

Between you and me, I really could have done without the mental image of having Mike Tyson (face tattoo and all) threatening my body. In fact, it’s absolutely terrifying. He’s uncontrollable and untouchable, a category five hurricane approaching my shoreline.

I’ve been using visualization to picture Mike getting smaller and smaller, just like my tumors. Maybe I should start calling him lil’ Mikey. Eventually, I hope to get him small enough to flush down the toilet, but until then, I’ll just stay on my toes, bobbing and weaving, hoping that the count to ten is a fast one. Oh, and I plan to tell my doctor that he may want to rethink using that analogy with any other patients.

I went through a period I call my ‘What’s the point?’ phase. For the five months following my diagnosis, I couldn’t spend any money on myself because, to be blunt, it felt like a waste. According to the experts, I wouldn’t be around long enough to enjoy a new pair of summer sandals so why bother spending the money?

Me, not shopping. This was very foreign concept. Tim gave me carte blanche on his Amex, but I aimlessly wandered the stores, and eventually left, empty-handed…the entire time thinking ‘What’s the point?’

Unfortunately, the ‘What’s the point’ phase wasn’t limited to just shopping. I didn’t see the point behind a lot of things. I went through the motions at work, sitting in meetings, not caring about the discussion topic. The controversy over cube sizes in the new office seemed ridiculous and meaningless. Statistically speaking, I wouldn’t have the opportunity to sit in one of the new cubes, and yet I had to spend my time listening to coworkers discuss the issue. Living for the short term is extremely difficult and is made even more challenging when you’re surrounded by people who are (by no fault of their own) living for the long term. Try planning a family cruise for the spring when you aren’t convinced you’ll make it through the holidays.

And then came my green purse.

I fell in love as soon as I saw it. Simple and stylish, I knew it was going home with me. My desire for the green purse immediately put an end to my ‘What’s the point’ phase. It was as if I found my future in the bottom of the purse, hidden under the paper stuffing. I felt immediate relief and, with my green purse on my shoulder, knew I could think about the future again.

It’s not always easy and I’m often caught off guard when forced to think about the future. Signing a two year contract for my new phone brought me to tears as did receiving a meeting request for October. But I know to expect these moments and try to maneuver through them as best I can.

Thanks to my green purse, I have my future back, but sorry, try as I might, I still don’t care about the size of the office cubes.

Eek. It’s not much of a word, but I can’t stop thinking about it.

I’m collecting copies of my medical records (scans, reports, etc) for an upcoming appointment at Johns Hopkins. I tried to avoid reading them, but finally caved in a few days ago. I’ve been obsessing about the word eek ever since. It looks very innocent, only three letters, kind of cute, really. It’s the noise a cartoon elephant makes when a mouse scurries across the floor.

So, why should the word eek give me so much grief? In looking through my medical records, I saw a lot of words and phrases that were bigger and scarier. The results of my first PET scan included words like:

-para-aortic adenopathy
-confluent ground glass opacification (huh?)
-too numerous to count
-satellite hypodensities

I understand a few of them, and, yes, they are worrisome, but they don’t compare to eek. You see, eek is the word my oncologist chose to use in a letter to my primary care physician when I was first diagnosed.

“We will try to eek out a remission.”

After years of medical training and practice, my doctor decided that eek was the most appropriate word for my situation. There is no strength or determination in eek, certainly no confidence. There is a hint of hope, but not much. Funny, but I can’t think of a word that is more opposite to how I’m feeling today.

That letter was dated January 13th and, over the past eight months, I’ve eeked myself into partial remission and plan to keep eeking until I’m in full remission. Then I plan to eek myself to the Caribbean for a nice long vacation.

I have done a lot of things in my life for a lot of different reasons. I ran the Marine Corps Marathon to test my endurance, hiked the Grand Canyon to test my mental and physical stamina, and went skydiving to feel the rush of adrenaline. I’ve even done a few things (that shall remain nameless) just to be a little rebellious. I always felt there had to be a reason, a justification for spending time, money, and energy on the activity. In all my life, it never occurred to me that ‘because I can’ was justification enough.

I was recently asked why I’m still working, going to the gym, or even brushing my teeth (ick!). I couldn’t think of a better reason than because I can. I’m energetic despite going through my fourth round of chemo (or is it fifth?), and, because of that, I feel an obligation to try to live my normal life. I see so many people at chemo who are struggling to eat, sleep, or simply breath. I don’t know why I feel so good, why I have this energy, but I refuse to take it for granted.

So, I go to work, I go swimming, and I brush my teeth…because I can.