The Gift

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I tire of hearing so many worry about their deaths.
Fearing the inevitable.
Distressed by the passing of time.
We all die.
It is the way of things.
We cannot wrest destiny of this one single truth.
There is no avoidance of the inexorable passage of life.
We all die.
No matter who we are.
No matter where we breathe.
No matter the size of our bank account.
We all die.
Death is our last point of consciousness within the cycle of life, as far as we know.
The great equalizer.
I prefer to choose life.
To take charge of living my life.
Nurturing the quality and impact that my one life can have.
I prefer to not grasp, barter or negotiate for time unearned.
By embracing the inescapable,
I have found that I am thankfully reminded of the urgency of living.
This is the gift of mortality, of ineluctable death.

Special Delivery

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My 12 year old and I have a long standing evening ritual. We read novels together before lights-out. As he is 12, this is not too be misunderstood as "bedtime stories"! (I am asked to always clarify the distinction.) We really do read novels. We've covered a wide-range from Treasure Island and Moby Dick, to various books by Artemis Fowl, Rick Riordan, and Terry Pratchett.

Last night, as we settling in to continue reading Going Postal by Sir Terry Pratchett, Son noticed that I have difficulty reclining. My breathing becomes more labored, I wince, and am subject to dry coughing bouts.

"Mom...why are you always in pain?"  He asks while nestling closer to me.

"I am old and decrepit."

"No, really...why?"  He starts tucking me in gently.

"Because I am really ancient and worn."

"No, really...you always seem to be in pain! How come?"  His head is on my shoulder now.

"I really don't know Goober. I don't have a good answer."

"Find out okay. I want you to be around for at least another 25 years. I would ask for 35 years, but you really are pretty old already!"  He throws a total "Goober-Face" at me.

"Well, I want to be around long enough to see whether you go bald or grey first, so 25 years should be long enough!" 

He proceeds to shark-attack me . . .25 years . . . you got it Goober!

Holding My Breath

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Each Cancerversary I have marked the day. With a post. With a "woohoo!" With shock and dismay. Each time July comes around I start with a feeling of dread. My stage III diagnosis came on a July 8. My re-staging to stage IV mets came on a July 11. This July is four (4) years.

I have no "woohoos" to send up as yet. To be candid, the thin veil of dread that blankets me at the moment, psychically, is as palpable as the 115 degree temps with the 45% humidity we are currently experiencing.

I have my 3 month follow up with the Onc this Friday, July 12.

When I started to lose weight back in April / May, I started to try and pound denser calories. The pericarditis, however, makes it uncomfortable to eat. Today, I am still struggling to flirt with the 100lb mark. I know I sound like a bee-atch complaining about weight -- but its not like I am looking hot in a bikini, mini or skinny jeans!

The chest pains and breathing are becoming more of a challenge, again. (That's the good news.) Although, this time now my entire rib cage feels like it is splintering. Its worse in the morning, when I try to exercise, and when I lay down. Other than that, its tolerable. I am still trying to track down a better cardiologist - one that is not so anxious to discharge me with a treatment plan of hospice.

Then, there is the broken foot. More than six months and still has not healed. I got so tired of indulging burning pain with flats that I rebelled and went back to my killer high heels for the court room. The pain is constant regardless, so why the hell not sport the power-heels. (Note...no power heels with bikinis or minis - but yes with the skinny jeans!)

Then there is the persistent nodule in my neck. Its been there for the last 2+ months. Most likely nothing, right?

So, here I sit on the cusp of my two Cancerversaries, wondering how this July is going to play out. In 2009 two medical oncologists, one surgical oncologist, and one radiation oncologist told me I had only a 4% chance of a five (5) year survival rate. I so need to prove them wrong. Need at least one more July in my life-book.

Holding my breath, with cautious optimism . . .

Random Wednesday

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I am in that state again where I am a "human-doing" rather than a "human-being."

 

It's What Makes You Special, Mom!

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I will share a not-so-well kept secret. I have been under a great deal of stress lately.

Well, truth be told, I live in a perpetual state-of-stress. Okay, truth be truly told, I am a type AAA+++ personality. But, shhhh, that's a secret.

My stress levels fluctuate, however. I can go from mundane-daily-stress levels, to spiking to over-the-top-my-head-is-going-to-explode levels of stress (and back down again) within a matter of hours. It all depends on what goes into the hopper: a client in a gotta-save-me-now mode; battling within a judicial system that has forgotten that what's right and what's legal should not be polarizing concepts; a progeny who is having the worst day/hour/moment ever; a life/business partner fretting or sustaining yet another injury; or being stalked by a hospice director.

My stress over-flowed this morning. I won't bore you with the details. Suffice to say that I surpassed the brim of my personal carafe and ranted a bit, both internally and externally.

Included in the in-my-head rant was the following litany:

DMSO is supposed to exude a wonky smell for 24 hours and dissipate....WHY then, when I had a DMSO infusion I did not start to emit eau de sushi until 18 hours after, and still am 48 hours later?!

Why, when I am a functioning person working through and living with METS do I have a hospice worker stalking me?!

How is it that my oncologist gets testy when I push to have (what I think) a legitimate dichotomy addressed?! (I.e., summer 2011 pet scan identifies a reactive tumor, which is then biopsied and determined to be malignant; fall 2011 pet scan clears me of said reactive tumor ... saying that it appears I am responding to treatment; and early fall 2012 pet scan identifies same reactive tumor, and now says..."since tumor has not changed in size since summer 2011 must not be malignant." But, it was biopsied, and was gone, and then came back (and not biopsied)?)

Why can I not find an oncologist who will personally review my scans and form an independent opinion? (R.O. is my third onc.)

And then there is always the "David Byrne" question: "How did I get here?"

One of my progeny, who had a front-row seat to my over-flowing carafe, and with whom I shared that I am so tired of not being "normal," just patted me on my leg, sighed, then giggled and said, sagely..."but mommy, that is what makes you so special."

I laughed out loud. My carafe, again, was tolerable.