Strong. Fighting. Surviving.

You’ve seen her shopping for kitten heels in the mall or carefully selecting red peppers in the grocery store. She’s the woman who steps onto the elevator and is able to ignore the whispers and awkward glances. She’s the person who openly embraces the changes to her body and welcomes any opportunity to discuss her new life. She radiates hope, courage, and life.

You should see the way she walks into the treatment room. She’s confident, composed, and even a little defiant. The cancer tried to take her hair, but she stayed in control by shaving her head. She celebrated her hair loss with an armful of new hats and scarves. Sometimes, when she looks in the mirror, she sees a stranger - a person with cancer, pale and bald. She feels strong and vivacious, despite her appearance. Whatever you do, don’t feel sorry for her. She doesn’t want or need your sympathy. She’s proud of who she is and all that she has accomplished. More importantly, she understands that cancer has given her the opportunity (or the motivation) to become the person she always wanted to be.

Make no mistake, she’s not me…not yet at least.

Usually a doctor recommends a port-o-cath as soon as a patient is diagnosed, but that didn’t happen to me. It took an epiphany. The fact that my doctor didn’t mention it reinforces the scary statistics that are attached to stage IV pancreatic cancer. Of course, I could have asked my doctor about it. That would have been the smart thing to do, but something was holding me back. I wasn’t being stubborn or vain. Frankly, I was afraid to acknowledge that I would have cancer long term. There was something about getting a port that made the cancer feel permanent. It’s absurd, I know, but that’s essentially what a port meant to me.

Well, after a year of weekly blood work and treatments, I had my epiphany. I finally realized that having a port didn’t mean that I was giving up my hope for remission. It meant that I was finally able to look at my diagnosis and accept that I’m in it for the long haul.

Living long term, with or without cancer, is my goal and it’s about time I start making decisions with that goal in mind. Epiphany aside, this is a huge step for me and I almost feel a little bit more grown up for having made it.

Growing up in the pond was often treacherous, but we stuck together. Occasionally a friend would be injured or sad and we’d hang a ‘No Wake’ sign on her lily pad to tell everyone to hop quietly.

I just finished making a ‘No Wake’ sign for Kate. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but these past few weeks have been a bit tough. She spent a few days in the hospital attached to an IV pole. And then, just when she was getting back to her normal self, she received some nasty test results. Her liver stopped responding to the treatment and, while everything else remained stable, she was told it was time to try a different treatment. This news sent Kate into a tailspin. She didn’t want eat, sleep, or even watch her favorite Matt Damon movie.

I was really worried about her last week, but then I read her recent blog post. It sounds like she’s okay with the various side effects that may accompany her new treatment and is ready to face this new challenge. She felt really bad for going into hiding and apologized for not returning my calls or emails. Needless to say, I was relieved to read that she’s back to her normal stubborn self. But, just to be on the safe side, please observe the ‘No Wake’ sign.

P.S.: Check out this incredibly moving post from NPR’s Leroy Sievers. ‘It all comes down to strength’ (but a little Lucky doesn’t hurt either).

Enough time to hear the news that I need a new treatment.

Enough time to feel the crushing blow of disappointment that my body isn’t cooperating.

Enough time to accept the fact that the cancerous activity in my liver has resumed.

Enough time to feel despair and anguish.

Enough time to get a quirky new hairstyle before my hair falls out.

Enough time to get a new pedicure (color: Room Service).

Enough time to go shopping for some new hats.

Enough time to enjoy a glass of wine and a Christmas cookie.

Enough time to stop feeling sorry for myself and enough time to identify my new mantra:
Bring it on, bitch!

I was drafting a story in my mind to commemorate my one year anniversary. Using the iconic roast turkey from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, I would describe the very moment when I learned that I had cancer. The story would capture the feeling of becoming that turkey: normal on the outside, but decayed on the inside. The story would move into how I worked to get past this mental image - using visualization to pump blood back into my organs, yoga to sweep out the cobwebs and dust. Then the story would end on an upbeat note about how I no longer felt like the Griswold’s turkey, but a living, breathing human being.

That was the plan until I found myself in the hospital for five nights. I greatly admire anyone who can do anything creative while hospitalized. For me, the beige walls and linoleum floors were a creative vacuum. I could read emails, but couldn’t compose a response. Text messaging proved challenging. Aside from taking a few pictures, I spent the time in bed, listening to music and thinking about how I should be doing something more productive with my time.

The only reason I’m able writing this is because I just learned that I can finally go home. My platelets are still extremely low and, unless they make a huge comeback, I probably won’t be able to have my treatment next week. I had to stop taking Xeloda (chemo pill) and that was a hard blow. But, if I learned anything from this whole ordeal, it’s that my body is always talking to me, telling me how it feels, I just need to turn up the volume.

So, not quite the anniversary story I had in mind, but that’s the way it goes. Ciao!