Strong. Fighting. Surviving.

I was sitting at a stoplight and she walked right in front of my bumper. She looked tired and drained, relieved that Monday was finally over. I tried to envision her job and pictured her as a receptionist (I was a receptionist for about three months and hated every minute of it). I thought about her sitting at her desk for eight hours, transferring calls, pointing people to the bathroom, and signing for packages. I wondered if she liked her job or if she too had nightmares of ringing telephones.

I’ve never claimed to be a very observant person, and it took some time before I realized I was sitting by the entrance to the National Institutes of Health. Perhaps this woman was a receptionist for NIH, the powerhouse of cancer research.

Was this woman the receptionist who pleasantly answered the phone when I called looking for nutritional information? Or was she the person who snapped at me when I was inquiring about the labyrinth in their Clinical Research Center (very cool…check it out)?

I wondered if the receptionist understood how important she is to me. For that matter, do any of the NIH workers know how much influence they have on my life? Do they understand that when they take a sick day to play golf, my life is potentially shortened by a day? My survival is dependent upon their work ethic and I just hope they don’t procrastinate as much as I do.

She may think she’s just a receptionist, but she’s not. She’s the voice of help and hope…and I think I now I understand why she looks so tired.

(Okay, so I’m recycling something I wrote for PanCAN’s Web site. I’m just so tickled to see it on their site.)

Devastating.
One word to describe the overwhelming realization that PanCAN’s Survivor and Caregiver Network did not contain any volunteers who had metastases in all the same locations as I. I spent hours reading and rereading the inspirational stories for someone with a similar story. I checked daily, hoping to find that one person. I was, however, thrilled to talk to two incredible stage IV survivors in the Survivor and Caregiver Network and maintained the hope that I would one day be able to serve a resource for others.

Partial Remission.
Two words to describe my current status after eight months of treatment. The tumors, once ‘too numerous to count,’ are retreating. My liver and lymph nodes, clean. The tumors on my lungs and pancreas, shrinking. I allow myself to take comfort in this victory, knowing and understanding how fortunate I am to be alive.

Owning my Life.
Three words that describe me. I quickly realized it’s not about ‘finding a balance’ between my life and the tumors. It’s about throwing everything I love, everything wonderful in life, at cancer. Recognizing my fear and anger, and still finding the strength within to seek out my dreams. Squeezing as much life as possible in between blood work, appointments, treatment, and scans. Trying to live, laugh and love more than lament.

I am strong. I am fighting. I am surviving.
Nine words that have kept me alive.

My story isn’t about pancreatic cancer. It’s about living.

As far as colors go, purple is okay. I’ve always preferred green and think that Barney is partially to blame for my discrimination against purple. Many months ago I received a purple bracelet in the mail. I didn’t think much about it and threw it in one of our various junk drawers. After all, if I don’t like purple, why would I wear a purple bracelet?

Over these past few months, my opinion of the color purple has changed. I’ve come to realize that it’s a vivacious color, full of life and energy. It’s a very special color bracelet, one that you don’t see very often because so few people have the courage to wear it. There is a certain sense of pride that comes from wearing purple. The purple community is small, stubborn, and ever hopeful. We’re that proverbial junkyard dog, scrappy and feisty, not going down without a fight.

Last week I was told that there was a chance that I could wear a pink, not purple, bracelet. I was ecstatic at the very thought of changing colors. Pink is everywhere. Celebrities have embraced pink and subsequently funds have poured into pink research. People have walked miles to help the pink community and I was thrilled that I might actually benefit from their pounding feet.

That was last week…

A few tests (and sleepless nights) later, I was told that purple is still probably my best color, but they want me to keep a pink bracelet around just in case. Wearing both colors is apparently the best approach for me right now. Sadly, most people don’t wear purple for very long, three to four months is the average. I‘m still workin’ my purple bracelet and will keep it up for as long as I can. At least I know that I can always pull out my pink bracelet if my purple one gets lost.

If yellow and blue make green, what does purple and pink make?

More hope.

It’s not a suggestion or a request. It’s firm, yet gentle and leaves no room for doubt.

I’ve spent hours concentrating on it, coaxing it into existence. It’s with me wherever I go. I see it when I’m stuck in traffic or in a long meeting. Like a scrolling screen saver, it slowly creeps across my mind, repeating in an endless loop.

When meditating, I visualize it slowly dropping into a puddle of water. The resulting ripples run through my body and gives me strength. During treatment, I see the word floating in the IV bag, going through the needle and into my arm. My blood swiftly carries it to my heart and my heart readily pumps it to my awaiting organs.

My mind has an intimate connection with the word and understands its significance. My body feels the word pulsing through it and strives to make it a realization. Mind and body in sync, working to reach a shared goal.

It’s my mantra, my theme song, my dream.

Heal.

A humble and heartfelt hi to everyone. Humble because, as you will quickly learn, this is my shameless plea for money. Heartfelt because that’s how I seem to be living my life these days.