Strong. Fighting. Surviving.

Same day service is great when it comes to things like dry cleaning or shoe repair. It’s not so great when it comes to test results. I learned early on that no news is definitely good news. The more time that passes in between taking a test and receiving the results, the better. While being diagnosed, I would sometimes get “the call” within a matter of hours.

Of course, there are other aspects to my theory. In my experience, typically

• if a nurse calls on behalf of the doctor, then it’s good news.
• if the doctor makes the call in person, it’s bad news.
• if the doctor calls and won’t go into details over the phone, then it’s very bad news.
• if the doctor calls your emergency contact person before calling you, then it’s very, very bad news.
• and finally, if the doctor calls on Christmas Eve while at Dulles airport, waiting to board his flight to the Caribbean, then you know you’re in serious trouble.

I had another MRI this afternoon and I know that if my phone rings tomorrow morning or early afternoon, there’s a good chance that I have something very scary growing on my spine. According to my calculations, if my doctor doesn’t call by Wednesday afternoon, then I might be okay.

So I’m sitting here, staring at my phone, hoping it doesn’t ring. In fact, I hope it doesn’t ring until late Friday afternoon. When I answer it, I hope it’s the nurse calling and she’s at happy hour, drinking a margarita.

I’ll be honest, I’ve had a rough week and it’s not over yet. I spent most of the week in the hospital with unexplained stomach and back pain. As I sit here, I’m no longer able to hide my fear and anxiety. It could be anything - arthritis, fluid build-up, scar tissue - but I won’t find out more until tomorrow.

I’ve been crying so much this afternoon that I think I’m at risk of dehydration, so I’ve decided to try a different approach. Taking a cue from one of my favorite bloggers, Obsessed With Life, I’m going to focus my attention on the positive things that happened this week. Here’s just a sampling:

First and foremost - I’m so grateful to the Thaxton clan for coming to our rescue last Saturday. For those who don’t know, Tim’s family invaded our house and spent the entire day doing housework. They pulled and trimmed shrubs, scrubbed windows, power-washed siding, organized and cleaned our garage - the list goes on and on…they basically did an entire summer’s worth of work in one day. A huge thank you goes to Rod, Kim, Kari, David, Daniel, Monti, Pam, Todd, Sydney, Sammi, and Ed. You guys rock!

I’m grateful to the wonderful nurses and doctors who helped me this week.

I’m so happy to come home to Tim, Remy, Charlie, and their unconditional love.

I’m thankful that the weather is warming up and that my kayak is on sale this week.

And, last, but not least, I’m very grateful for this Blue Moon Belgian White beer…cheers!

I need your help. The other day someone asked me a question that left me stumped. It’s certainly not the first time I’ve been asked this question, but yet I have no idea how to answer it. The question is ‘How long do I have to do chemo?’ 

Some people actually know how many chemo treatments they need. That’s a completely foreign concept for me. Like most people diagnosed in stage IV, I have no idea how many treatments I’ll need before I’m in remission. So I decided to compile a list of possible answers to prepare myself for the next time I’m faced with this question.

Possible answers include:

…until Britney Spears is sane.
…until my port-o-cath is paid off.
…until Brad and Angela stop adopting kids.
…until my friends organize an intervention. 
…until the Lions win the Super Bowl.
…until Oprah is broke.
…until my doctor calls me Kate instead of Kathryn.
…until FOX cancels American Idol.

and, in all seriousness:
…until I kick the crap out of this cancer.

Assignment #1: listen to Matchbox Twenty’s song, 3am.

If you’re like me, you’re drawn to this song for it’s passion and honest account of a couple’s relationship during a difficult period in time. Like a good story-teller, the singer presents us with a difficult memory that is only slightly altered by the passage of time. Originally, I thought this song was about lost love, a woman feeling lonely and despondent in the middle of the night because her husband, boyfriend, whatever, has left her alone.

Assignment #2: Read below

Lead singer Rob Thomas wrote this song about the time he spent caring for his mother when she was going through chemotherapy. He was 12-years old when she was first diagnosed and given a mere six months to live. By the time he reached 17-years old, she was in remission and he was able to move on with live his life. This song, one of their first big hits, emphasizes the impact that his mother’s cancer had on his life.

This little bit of information drastically changed how I thought about the song. The lovers’ quarrel was replaced by the pervasive knowledge and accepance of one’s own mortality. She wasn’t despondent bacause of a lost lover, but rather because of her lost life. Below are a few of the lyris and my thoughts on how they relate to the cancer journey. Please note that these are only my thoughts and should be taken as such.

She says it’s cold outside and she hands me my raincoat
She’s always worried about things like that

Despite cancer, she’s first and foremost a mother and clings to her motherhood tendencies as a way of seeking normalcy during a turbulent period in her life.

And she only sleeps when it’s raining
And she screams and her voice is straining.

Rain, the recurrent theme, brings his mother comfort, a cleansing of her body and mind; however, it’s not enough to completely dampen her fear

She says baby
It’s 3 am I must be lonely
When she says baby
Well I can’t help but be scared of it all sometimes
Says the rain’s gonna wash away I believe it

She’s lonely, finding the early morning hours especially isolating, and turns to her young son for companionship and support. She believes that rain has the power to heal her and, despite being full of fear, believes her.

She’s got a little bit of something, God it’s better than nothing
And in her color portrait world she believes that she’s got it all.

Despite her struggle, she clings to a small piece of hope and feels fortunate to be surrounded by her family and friends.

She swears the moon don’t hang quite as high as it used to
And she only sleeps when it’s raining
And she screams and her voice is straining.

As sure as there are moments of optimism and hope, there also those of despair and fear. Nothing, not even the moon, looks the same to her.

And the clock on the wall has been stuck at three for days, and days
She thinks that happiness is a mat that sits on her doorway
But outside, it’s stopped raining.

His mother is held hostage by time and plagued by its slow passage, but despite it all, she tries hard to maintain an optimistic facade for others. In the final line, the singer notes that the comforting rain has stopped, leaving us wondering about his mother’s fate.

I was sitting on the marble bar at the beautiful Pazo Restaurant in Baltimore, MD. I grabbed another glass of champagne, shared a toast with my two new friends, and sang along to Leaving Las Vegas.

I met nine other cancer survivors that night. We compared port scars, shared bald stories, and debated about who will win American Idol. We representated all types of cancers - lymphoma, brain, breast, but cancer wasn’t the only thing we had in common. We were all under the age of 40. We don’t fit in pediatrics or geriatrics and, because of this, doctors aren’t exactly sure how to handle us.

We got all dolled up, hit the town of Baltimore, and partied late into the night. Okay, so it was 10pm, but that’s late for me these days. I could spend the next hour telling you about the event - the food, the people, the music. You’d probably think that the highlight of the evening was when I got to meet and chat with Sheryl Crow on her tour bus. While that was very cool and certainly something I’ll remember for the rest of my life, it wasn’t the highlight of the night.

The event, One Night, One Fight, was sponsored by the Ulman Cancer Fund. They are one of the few organizations dedicated to supporting the needs of young adults with cancer. There are only a handful of such organizations -I’m Too Young For This! Cancer Foundation and Planet Cancer are two others. They realized that there was an entire population of cancer patients who were slipping through the cracks simply because we weren’t the right age when we were diagnosed. Everything they do is geared for people my age. Instead of depressing support groups, they have happy hours, bowling nights, and incredible concerts.

It’s no surprise that I wish that this would all go away, that somehow I could magically be normal again. In fact, I’ve had a few meltdowns where that’s all I’ve said - I just want to be normal again. I want to experience the usual ups and downs of a typical 35-year old.  Be able to make dinner plans without a caveat that it depends on how I’m feeling. Never having to worry about my CA 19-9, platelet levels, or oxygen diffusion rates again.

So, there I was, still sitting on the bar. Sheryl Crow started to play the few bars of Strong Enough, one of my favorites. I immediately recognized it and started to sing along. I looked around at the audience and realized that I actually felt like I belonged here. I felt like I fit in and had finally found a home in the cancer community. More than that, really, I felt normal for the first time in fifteen months. I felt young, energetic, and healthy (and a little tipsy). For most of the night, I was just one of the crowd, enjoying good cocktails and great conversation.

Meeting Sheryl Crow was an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I thank the Ulman Cancer Fund for making that happen, but I feel indebted to them for giving me more than that…for letting me feel like one of the crowd, even if it was just for one night.

I was religious about it. I rarely missed it. I went as often as was allowed. Now I know why…

I began donating blood about fifteen years ago. I was addicted as soon as they marked ‘PEDS’ on my donation bag. Just knowing that my blood was going to pediatrics made it worth the multiple needle pricks, the stale cookies, and the light-headiness. But never in those fifteen years did I think that I would actually need blood myself.

On Friday, I found myself on the receiving end of the needle. I received two bags of blood along with yet another bag of platelets.

I’ve had a few platelet transfusions, but it never really occurred to me that the platelets came from someone else. There was something about seeing the blood flowing IN instead of OUT that got me thinking about donations and I actually started to feel a bit guilty. Not only have I stopped donating, but now I’m depleting from the blood bank’s inventory. Since I’m not able to donate anymore, I thought I would try to get a few people to take my place, pinch hit for me. I need two people to donate to at least break even, but it would be great if we could do more than just break even. So, here’s my argument for why you should consider donating blood on a regular basis.

Giving blood is such a simple process, but there are so many excuses for not donating.

I’m petrified of needles.
Who isn’t?

I get light-headed and dizzy.
Who doesn’t?

I don’t have time.
Nice manicure.

I’m not going to harass you if you read this post and still decide that giving blood isn’t for you. I’m not pointing any fingers, but hope that you’ll seriously rethink your reason for not donating.

Think about a loved one, friend or family member, and imagine that this person needs blood, desperately. Would you overcome your fear, deal with your dizziness, or rearrange your schedule to help this person? Of course. Is the reason that’s holding you back more important than this loved one? Probably not.

Read a few stories about actual people who needed and received blood transfusions. The infusion room was full of people of all ages and ethnicities, all receiving blood. Their stories are all different, but they all have one thing in common. They’re all a loved one to someone.

Learn about donating – The American Red Cross

Kate asked me to hop in to say a few words while she’s getting over this week’s chemo treatment. She’s fine, by the way - tired from the meds, but they’ve kept her from being green this time around. That makes me happy - she’s strong, but everybody needs a little break in their favor every now and again. After all, we all know that life’s about ups and downs, but sometimes it feels like there are more downs than ups.

That fact got me to thinking about the first time I met Kate, which feels like ages ago now. I was kinda thrown into the mix at a point when she knew something was wrong, but wasn’t quite positive as to what it was. After her diagnosis, I have to admit that I wasn’t completely sure what to do or how to act. I felt pretty helpless.

Now, I know I’m not the only frog to have felt that way, so I thought I might write about a few things that I’ve learned through conversations with Kate.Obviously, these apply to Kate, and certainly aren’t universal truths. But they’re a good starting point, and hopefully they’ll help other people who are friends or family of someone diagnosed with cancer. We can call them “Lucky’s Rules” and here are the first five.

1. It’s okay to talk about cancer.
In a lecture, Randy Pausch called it “the elephant in the room,” and he’s right. To avoid talking about it is to pretend it isn’t there, and that certainly isn’t the case. You don’t have to be apologetic when you bring it up - it’s not your fault. If there are things you don’t understand, or want to know, ask. Within reason, of course.

2. …but not all the time.
Nobody likes to talk about any *one* thing all the time. And while cancer is a big part of Kate’s life, it’s hardly the only part. And I don’t see it as the part that defines her, at least not by itself. For example, she still likes the Red Wings and Lions… a bit too much.

3. There are some things you should think about before trying to express.
Sometimes the things we say that are intended to convey comfort actually have the opposite effect. Below are a few well-meaning sentiments that, at least for this frog, might not be the best things to say, just because you don’t know how they’ll be taken.

• “These things happen for a reason”
• “It’s part of God’s plan”
• “I’m sure it will all be okay”

4. Sometimes you don’t have to say anything.
We all know the importance of listening. And listening isn’t the hard part for me - *just* listening is the hard part. I’m a guy frog, and we guy frogs always want to fix things and respond. But sometimes just being there and being comfortable with being quiet is all it takes. Winnie the Pooh got it right:”Don’t underestimate the value of … just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear…”

5. There is something you can do, so quit asking and do it.
Whenever I asked Kate if there was something I could do, she just politely declined and said that she appreciated the offer. I realized after a while that it’s pretty hard for most people to (a) accept offers of help, and (b) think about what might be most helpful, especially if they’re just trying to assimilate a new diagnosis. So instead of asking, just do: cook and deliver some dinners, show up and cut the grass or rake the leaves, clean the house and run the sweeper, just do. And don’t make a big deal out of it.Well, Kate’s going to be surprised when she wakes up to see how much virtual space I’ve taken over on her blog. So I’ll leave it at this for now, but not before asking you to post in the comments your own rules that might be helpful to others.I gotta bounce - Kate’s waking up and wants a pop-tart.

Some things are simply too difficult to write about using cute little analogies. This is a stream of consciousness, brought on by a very rough week and accentuated by a few sleepless nights. This is undoubtedly the most candid and personal post I’ve ever written. No word-smithing here, just spell check and my honest thoughts.

I was disappointed to learn that I couldn’t have treatment on Wednesday - low platelets again. My oncologist suspects that this is in part due to the fact that my monthly visitor won’t go away. So I was referred to my girlie doctor to figure out how to remedy the situation. He gave me two options. The first is temporary - a shot in the arm every three months. The second is permanent - routine surgery. Here’s the kicker: the ‘temporary’ solution may in fact turn out to be permanent. It could send me sliding into menopause at the age of 35. My only legacy: a dog, a cat, and a couple of overweight horses.

When you’re first diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer and given just a few months to live, there are some things that simply aren’t on your radar screen. Fertility is one of them. Sure, many cancer patients take precautionary steps in the hope of one day having a family. It was clear to me that the issue was never put on the table, never discussed, because I didn’t have a ‘one day’ in my future.

So, I had a decision to make and the doctor wanted that decision immediately. Temporary or permanent. But laying there, staring at a hideous mobile, I knew I was far from making that decision. I also knew that I needed to get the hell out of there.

I spent the next hour walking around a bookstore, weighing my options. I thought I had accepted the fact that I would never be a mother - I mean I’ve had more than a year to get over it - but my thoughts turned to all of things that I would be missing. I’d never get to spend nine months watching my tummy (and my ass) grow. I’d never get to feel embarrassed when unwrapping a breast pump. And I’d never get to complain to coworkers about the woes of teething.

The more I thought about the decision, the heavier it got. I wasn’t just making a decision about babies, I was deciding how I saw my future. Was I ready to take pregnancy out of the equation even though it remained one of my dreams?

A smarter person would’ve probably gone for the permanent option, but something inside me said that I wasn’t ready to give up just yet. Taking the permanent route almost seemed like I was guaranteeing that I would never have my ‘one day.’ Regardless of whether or not a pregnancy is in my future, I don’t ever want to take away the potential of it and if that means getting a shot every three months, then so be it.

So, after all that, I just hope my platelets appreciate the stress and anxiety they’ve caused me and maybe they’ll feel guilty enough to make an appearance next week.

Tim and I exchanged puzzled looks and the doctor, sensing our confusion, repeated the question. ‘What did you do?‘ At first I thought it was rhetorical - as in what did I do to get cancer - but then I realized he was asking a fairly routine question. Looking back at it, the question itself wasn’t that confusing, it was the tense. There I was, wrapped in one of those Tyvek envelops they call a gown, glaring at the doctor because he used the past tense.

It wasn’t the doctor’s fault. I know most people in my position would quit their jobs, travel the world, blah, blah, blah…but, I was rather annoyed that he made the assumption that I wasn’t working anymore. I wonder what other assumptions people have made about me, or about cancer patients in general.

I’ve seen my fair share of assumptions and, after searching online, found that I’m not alone. I understand how easy it is to make assumptions and, before I was diagnosed, I was guilty of making a few myself when it came to cancer patients. So, in an effort to help all you non-carcinoma folks out there, I thought I’d start a list of assumptions that I’ve either experienced or observed over the past year. Just remember - When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me.

1. Type of cancer: A lot of people assume I have breast cancer - I guess that’s because I have breasts. I get that a few times a week and still have yet to come up with a witty response (any suggestions?).
2. Depression: Despite the stockpile of anxiety meds, I don’t think I’m depressed. I have the occasional meltdown, but for the most part, I think I’m in a good place. Maybe that’s the denial talking.
3. Pity Compliment: I despise pity compliments. ‘At least you look cute in hats.‘ Thanks, but I looked cuter with hair. Just a bit of advice, try to avoid using ‘at least‘ when giving a compliment.
4. Gifts: Don’t assume that presents need to be more profound or meaningful because I have cancer. I still love chocolate and jewelry.
5. Hair loss: I went a year without losing my hair. Don’t make the assumption that someone wearing a ‘F*ck Cancer’ shirt doesn’t have the right to wear it because she has a full head of hair.
6. Restaurants: Please don’t make me pick the restaurant because you think I have an aversion to a certain food. I hated making the restaurant choice before cancer, and I still hate it. I’ll let you know if something doesn’t sound good.
7. Cancer Questions: Don’t assume that I don’t want to talk about cancer. If you’re comfortable talking about it, then so am I. Talking about it actually provides some sense of comfort for me, so don’t be bashful - if you have any questions, just ask me.

Please note - While based in truth, these are meant to be light-hearted. Please don’t take any of them personally - they aren’t based on any one situation.

How do you define your future? Are you a fiscally-minded person who sees life neatly divided into quarters? Or do you pay homage to the European philosophy that life is made up of a series of mini-holidays? Are you able to look into the future and clearly see yourself with your spouse, two kids, and a golden retriever?

Truth be told, I’ve never had a clear picture of my future. There were too many possibilities and, like shopping at a discount store, nothing seemed to fit right. My future has always been more like a mirage in a desert - a blurry image of a woman surrounded by family, friends, and a barn full of horses. Now that cancer is part of my life, the mirage is even cloudier and includes countless traps.

I recently read a blog by a cancer survivor who wrote about her daily errands and almost forgot to include the news of her recent clean scan. I hope to one day reach the point where I can accidentally forget to report my results. Go grocery shopping instead of making of dozens of phone calls. I’m trapped into thinking that my life will be over if I get bad test results. Of course I know this isn’t true, but still it’s virtually impossible for me to plan anything until after I receive the results. I spend weeks saying ‘we’ll see’ or ‘I’ll let you know’ when invited out by friends. Forget about trying to plan a vacation.

I can accept the fact that my calendar is heavily influenced by my treatments, but I can’t accept the fact that my future is trapped by test results, or more accurately, the possibility of bad results.

It may be blurry, but my mirage is still out there. The question is will I ever be able to see my future if I’m trapped by my test results?