Strong. Fighting. Surviving.

He’s been through a lot with me. I strangled him when I had a panic attack during my liver biopsy. I woke up from my endoscopy to find that he had been given a smiley face band-aid. Four CT scans, numerous PET scans, two endoscopies, one colonoscopy - he’s been with me through them all.

I seriously considered changing his name after I heard the words ‘pancreatic cancer.’ Jinx or Curse seemed more appropriate. I didn’t have the heart to go through with it and, looking at him sitting on the packing crates, I know that he is indeed Lucky.

Let me rewind a few months. It’s December 18th and I’m sitting in a meeting about the new office building. Someone is complaining about the cube size. Someone else is concerned about having a longer commute. For ninety excruciating minutes I sat there quietly, dumbfounded by the fact that, in all likelihood, I wouldn’t be alive to pack up my desk and move to the new building. I was a cancer newbie, still digesting my diagnosis. Someone said the move was only eleven months away - a lifetime away to me.

So here we are, November 29th (almost a year later!) and Lucky is helping me pack up my cube. I actually put him inside a crate, next to my stapler. When I started to close the lid, he looked up at me in disbelief. His eyes said it all. How could I possibly treat him like an ordinary desk accessory when he helped me get through the roughest months of my life? As you can see, I decided to that he was too precious to be packed away.

The point of my story is simply this:
My coworkers are thrilled about the new building, but I know their excitement doesn’t compare to the pure joy that I feel when I think about it. Lucky and I have been through a lot this year and I know he’s going to be happy in his new home.

The Chemo Shuffle is very similar to line dancing. The steps are generally the same for everyone, but there are slight variations that make each person’s dance unique. Being a purist at heart, I chose to keep my version of The Chemo Shuffle very simple. It goes something like this:

1. Sign in, grab a cookie.
2. Scope out a good chair.
3. Give a blood sample, ask for Daffy Duck band-aid.
4. Get hooked up, eat cookie, drink Naked juice.
5. Marinate, listen to some tunes.
6. Head home, have another cookie.

What was once a simple (and somewhat enjoyable) dance has become complicated and I’m having trouble keeping up with the music. The problem is that I’m missing a dance partner, my platelets. They’ve been MIA recently and I’ve had to sit out the last two dances because of their absence. I can’t dance without them and I’m nervous that they’ll stand me up yet again.

Tomorrow’s Chemo Shuffle will be the same as always, but there will be a new twist - a two-step combination of worry and anxiety.

Do you know why I love putting? In general, most people suck at it. It requires patience, practice, and perseverance - a combination that is difficult to sustain for an entire round. No one expects you to be good at putting. I don’t have high expectations when I walk onto the green and I’m usually lucky if I finish a hole with only three putts. The best part of putting has to be the little happy dance people do after sinking a long one.

Fighting cancer is very similar to putting. The bar is set pretty low and any victory, no matter what size, is worthy of a happy dance.

I wasn’t allowed to have my treatment last Wednesday because my platelets were too low. It didn’t come as a surprise because I had very little energy last week. In fact, I almost passed out on the elevator ride up to the juicing room. I’ve only been denied treatment once before, but regardless, I can’t help feeling disappointed when my body doesn’t cooperate.

It took some convincing, but my doctor agreed to let me try again on Monday. He’d prefer that I took another week off, but I didn’t like that idea. While I’m feeling much better than last week, I’m still nervous and fearful that I’ll be turned down again.

Hopefully my blood-work looks good tomorrow and I’ll receive treatment. Sure, it’ll be a small victory, but like a good putt, will still deserve a little happy dance.

(artwork: Ned Sonntag, 2005)

We all have milestones in our lives - birthdays, anniversaries, whatever - dates we celebrate every year. Today is one of those milestones. Eight years ago today, I married my husband. We celebrated with a nice dinner out - I actually had wine! Unfortunately, the house is now quiet and I’m left with only my insomnia, laptop, and the sound of my laundry being tossed around in the dryer.

It occurred to me tonight that I’ve started to dread milestones because I can’t help wondering whether I‘ll be around to celebrate it again next year. Honestly, I’ve been doing this ever since I was diagnosed. What if this is my last winter? What if this is my last spring? Summer? Fall? And now I’m back to winter again. I’m tossed around and around, just like the laundry in my dryer.

To me, it’s important to think this way occasionally because it makes you appreciate your life at that given moment, but this is getting ridiculous. I just switched my closets from my summer to winter clothes and couldn’t help wondering if I’d be around next July to wear my favorite sundress again.

What’s next? Will this be the last time I replace the toilet paper roll?

When you think about it, this particular train of thought isn’t unique to cancer patients. Anyone could start the dryer and wonder if it will be their last load. Unless you win the lottery, my guess is no - you will have many, many loads of laundry in your future.

I’m tired of thinking what if this is my last <insert milestone here>. I’m tired of being tossed around in the dryer, but I can’t seem to open the door and climb out. Maybe I need to learn how to enjoy my time on the fluff cycle. Really, who doesn’t love the feel of warm laundry or the smell of dryer sheets? If this is to be my new home, maybe I need to embrace the lint filter and make friends with the mismatched socks.

There are so many things to love about Halloween - candy, costumes, jack-o-lanterns, more candy - we all have our reasons. This year, while stumbling through our local haunted forest, it occurred to me why I love Halloween. While the mutilated bodies terrified me, I couldn’t help thinking how nice (almost refreshing) it was to be scared by something I knew wouldn’t kill me. Admittedly, I was petrified while being chased by a masked man with a chainsaw, but I knew I wasn’t in any real danger.

At one point, we had to pass through a dark tunnel with bodies hanging from the ceiling. My legs, already wobbly, refused to move. My husband was behind me, encouraging me to go in by myself. Surely if I had the strength to face cancer, I was strong enough to go through the tunnel by myself. I’m not exactly sure what happened next - the strobe light was very disorienting and there were ghoulish faces coming at me from every direction. I think the analogy is obvious, but sufficed to say that I feel a little braver for having made it through the tunnel, even though I covered my eyes for most of it.

The rest of the haunted forest was a blast - I tripped countless times, completely fell down once, and screamed until I became hoarse (I found out that screaming can be very therapeutic). The best part of all was the fact that I was physically and emotionally drained afterwards and slept soundly for the first time in months. Perhaps I should add some horror movies to my Netflix queue. Any recommendations?