When Life Doesn’t Cooperate

The news isn’t good.  My cancer continues to grow (it’s nice to know I can grow something).  I had my CT scan yesterday and got the news from Lovely Liz around 2:20 pm (funny how you remember those things).  Strangely, she was a bit upbeat, like it’s time to get moving now.  We’ve played around long enough.

Now I was sure that my cancer had shrunk.  I would have bet money on it.  I think Pete Rose would have taken that bet.  But life didn’t cooperate.  I don’t feel bad, except for the persistent nausea from the cisplatin.  I’m not even that tired.  It’s strange, but a good strange.  I know God is in control, no matter what comes next.

It’s not that I didn’t cry, I did.  But not because I’m sad, because I’m really not.  Pissed off is more like it.  Pissed that I feel like I’ve wasted 12 weeks of treatment.  Pissed that my kids have to continue to go through this.  Pissed that I’ve got at least 24 more weeks of treatment and that will seriously cut into my planned vacation time.  Pissed that my dad is not personally here to share this experience.  I think my anger is being properly directed rather than being flung at the wall like taking a handful of darts and flinging them, hoping for the best.

Dr. Determined (I like this better than Dr. Downer) immediately went into full fight mode.  Lovely Liz told me he skipped over the next couple of drugs in line.  I imagine these drugs standing in line like tin soldiers waiting for their chance to be called up and Dr. D decides to call in the Navy Seals instead.  And I’ve got to say, I LOVE the name of this new drug.  It makes me smile every time I say it – Topotecan (pronounced toe-poe-tee-can).  Isn’t that just be best name for a killer drug.  Sounds so innocent.

Topotecan is from the Asian Happy Tree and is part of the Hyacinth family.  It has a single minded mission – to destroy the DNA of cancer cells as they replicate.  I imagine the double helix model with its red, blue, yellow and green ends twisting hoping to create more, when this little tiki guy comes in with his mask and rattle (think crazy witch doctor from Scooby-Doo and you’ve got my mental image) untwists the helix and starts pulling the ends of the DNA.  The helix collapses.  The witch doctor does another crazy dance and moves on to the next one.  You can’t help but laugh or smile with this drug.

There are some positives.  While my bone marrow will continue to take a hit and fatigue will be a greater monster, nausea may become a thing of the past.  I am so nauseated today that this sounds like the best trade ever.  It’s also done in 4 week cycles.  I get an infusion every Wednesday for 3 weeks, then I get a week off.  The infusion lasts about 2 hours, so I’ll only be at the hospital for 3 hours or so.  As I’ve asked so many, “What will I do with my Wednesday afternoons?”  Seriously, I’ve always had all day infusions.  This is great! To celebrate, I’m getting a new haircut tomorrow.  Well, actually I’m getting the haircut because my hair has lost its curl and is flat and thin, but it sounds better to say I’m celebrating.

God has promised me healing.  I heard Him say it and He NEVER talks to me audibly so this is a promise I cling to.  My husband and I ask only for shrinking tumors and that they become stable.  We can live with stable.  We can live with smaller.  Maybe this is why I’m just not all that worried.  As I explained to my Ultimate Bengal Fan, Dr. Determined’s job is to find the right drug, mine is to fight and not give up and God’s is to do the rest.  Since God has the biggest job, who am I to stand in His way?

Please don’t feel sorry for us.  We don’t.  Pity doesn’t make anyone feel better.  If anything, we are more determined than ever to fight as a family.  The boys are looking forward to a more nausea free mom and Hubby hopes his cooking days are quickly coming to an end.  I am looking forward to Wednesday afternoons.  And God has all this in His Hands.  Life may not be great, but it’s good.  I feel good.  Other than the nausea, better than I have in weeks.

Bring on the Topotecan and smile.  God has work to do.

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Dealing with the Unexpected

Cancer is all about dealing with the unexpected. Let’s face it. No one expects to get cancer, yet it happens. And if you’re in the wrong end of the line, you’ll deal with it multiple times. I could write volumes on why cancer is an awful Beast that God needs to eradicate with a sweep of His mighty sword, but that’s been done. Sometimes it’s the unexpected that arises during cancer that makes you step back and think about why God is asking me to walk this particular path (and trust me, I ask A LOT). I try not to whine the whole “poor me” scenario since Coach Cathy has a strict limit on the number of pity parties I’m allowed to have, so I try to find those little nuggets of gold among the silt of the river. Sometimes you really have to look. Other times they come right up and smack you along side the head.

Christmas always brings unexpected blessings. This year, we were all nearly asleep around 10:15 when our doorbell rang. Hubby went to the door and found a large gift bag with a huge jar in it. The jar was a Christmas Jar and filled with money. Coins and paper up to the top. We were floored. An anonymous note accompanied the jar along with the book Christmas Jars. I’ve started the book and cried through the first 4 chapters. I also find myself crying at the thought of so many people wanting to bless my family this season. I can’t imagine who pulled this together and why everyone who donated felt led to give to us. I wonder if Mary felt a bit like this that first Christmas. Imagine all these strangers coming up to a cave bringing gifts for your baby. You know who your baby is, but still, he is a baby. I’m not sure she looked as serene as the nativity scenes and paintings make her out to be. After all, she had just given birth! She and Joseph had to be blown away by the sheer volume of blessings their baby boy was receiving.

We went to church Christmas Eve. I decided to go, despite feeling nauseated. I love the candlelight service and singing “Silent Night”. While that was moving enough, I was blown away by the sheer number of people who approached me and asked how I was and that they were praying for me. Some I know, most I didn’t. By the time I got to Pastor Brian, I was crying. As I hugged him, I was trying desperately not to use the shoulder of his shirt as a tissue. I didn’t want him to make a bad impression on those who only come to church on Christmas. When another person brought a plate of cookies just for my sons because she thought I wouldn’t feel up to making cookies for them, that was my breaking point. I cried through the whole service. It’s probably a good thing Momma Renie and Papa Dan weren’t there. I would have found Dan and cried like a baby since he reminds me of my own dad. Since he’s the head usher, that would have made collecting the offering a bit interesting with him walking down an aisle and me clinging to him like some sort of weird snake.

On Christmas, I opened my gifts from Sista Sue. She gave me an Angel of Hope. I think this is for both of us. She is reminding me to always have hope, while she remains hopeful that this cancer will be eradicated from my body. The Dammit Doll is much more practical. When you get mad or stressed, you’re supposed to slam it against the wall saying, “Dammit, Dammit, Dammit.” It’s going to chemo with me. I can’t think of any place more appropriate. I may even share it with a couple of the other regulars I know. Chemo patients are a strange lot, but we always stick together.

Last night, I reflected on my blessings. Yes, I have an incredible family, an amazing posse and friends who support all of us. But it’s more than that. I think God brought these particular blessings to me at this particular time to show me that while chemo sucks, it can be conquered. I have a choice to make this week, continue with my present course of treatment for one more cycle or switch to a new drug. Hubby and I believe that doing one more cycle of this cocktail will finally show significant results. My body is slow to respond to most drugs and the trauma of the DVT’s and liver biopsy, along with stress, make it more difficult. We’ve prayed about it and God hasn’t said not to, so we feel we should give these meds one more shot. A CT is tentatively scheduled for the end of January.

These are never easy decisions. My platelets and hemoglobin are at an all time low meaning I’m tired and cold all the time. El Nino is giving us a very mild winter, but, unlike our neighbors, we use heat because I’m always cold. My kids run around in shorts and T-shirts and I’m wrapped up in fleece blankets. But platelets can be transfused and eventually, I do get warm. Staying the course is the mantra of the day and I try to stick with it.

Embrace the unexpected and celebrate your blessings. Life has no guarantees, that’s why today is called the present. May 2016 bring you health, happiness, peace and a cure for cancer.

Every Girl Needs a Posse

With Thanksgiving being so close, I did what most people do. I began to count my blessings. Of course, I count my wonderful husband, amazing sons and devoted Mom among my greatest blessings, but I also began to think about that core group that keeps me going. These are the people who link arms to keep Satan away and provide me with the strength to keep putting one foot in front on the other. It occurs to me that every girl (and guy for that matter) needs a posse.

Back in the old West, the sheriff rounded up the most trusted citizens to help him catch cattle rustlers, bank thieves and other nefarious neer-do-wells to maintain law and order. These men were duly deputized to hold up the law and do everything they could to ensure that justice and order were kept. In the same way, my posse does everything it can to ensure my life has some semblance of order and they support me just like the posse supported the sheriff.

At this time of giving thanks, I’d like to give a shout out to my own posse and publicly acknowledge their ongoing love and support no matter the season.

Despite being at Learning Tree together for eight years, it wasn’t until three years ago that Coach Cathy and I truly became acquainted. Shortly before my hysterectomy, she introduced herself and explained she’d had one a few years before and was a breast cancer survivor. After my surgery, she checked in with me and once it was determined that I did have cancer, I asked her to be my “Coach.” She agreed and became the person I called when my scalp itched before my hair fell out. I cried on her shoulder when I felt like I’d been scraped off the bottom of a boot. I rejoiced with her every time my tumor marker went down. She was my cheerleader and never let me feel too sorry for myself.

As I face my second battle with cancer, Cathy has moved from “Coach” to Chief Cheerleader. During the long weeks of continual testing following my diagnosis, she let me cry on her shoulder with astounding regularity. However, one Monday at co-op, she quickly announced that we were done crying. It was time to laugh. And I’ve followed her advice ever since, even to the point of dressing up my IV pole as “IVan Polesky,” complete with a dapper hat. We have eaten vanilla pudding out of a mayonnaise jar and made jokes about cancer. She is the first to stop a pity party since a party only truly exists if there are margaritas involved. I love Cathy and am eternally grateful that God placed her in my life. It’s so much fun to have a friend who can look at you and say, “Cancer sucks,” and knows it’s true.

If Cathy is my cheerleader, Mamma Renie is my “second mom.” She is the first to tell me on Sunday morning if I look too tired or if I’m looking fabulous. She and her husband Dan are surrogate grandparents to the Ultimate Bengal Fan and the B-Man. I never worry about them with Momma Renie. They spoil them more than their own grandmothers. Renie is often at our home at 6:30 on a Wednesday morning to send hubby and I off with hugs and greet the boys with a smile on chemo days. Renie is another cancer survivor and when I look at her and say, “I don’t feel good,” (imagine this with a 4-year old whine in my voice), she gives me a hug and lets me cry knowing that I really don’t feel good and there’s not much that can be done about it. I value her wisdom in my battle. When I complained about having metal mouth (a metallic taste that some chemotherapy drugs cause), she immediately recommended Skyline Chili. It works. I tried it today. Two chili cheese sandwiches and a sweet tea cured metal mouth for a couple of hours. It’s true kids. Your elders really do know what they’re talking about. I’m thankful for my second Mom who knows what I need to feel better.

While the boys love hanging with Renie and Dan, the also love being with their second family, the Finke’s, which are led by my good friend “Second Mom Kelley.” Kelley truly is their second mom. They walk in and and make themselves right at home, which gives me peace of mind. Not only does Kelley create a nurturing environment for them, she also gets them to do their schoolwork. She’s been at this homeschool thing so much longer than I have, she even has B-man’s evasive tactics figured out (I doubt there’s anything she hasn’t seen). The other day at co-op, we were talking about arranging rides to a basketball tournament and I began crying. I feel like I am asking too much of my friends. She explained that this is what friends do. They figure out a need and respond to it. She is a true friend, sister in Christ and another mom to my boys. I am constantly amazed that God brought her as a friend, not only to me, but as someone my children could feel safe with and love.

If you’re lucky, you have at least one friend you’ve been connected to at the hip – literally. While we’re not connected physically any longer, my “Sister Sue” is as much as part of my life as a real sister. When I was in college, we were together all the time. If we weren’t, people asked why. I can’t tell you how much Wendy’s we ate. Fortunately, our tastes have improved and we prefer places like “The Cheesecake Factory,” for sharing meals.

Like a true sister, she cries with me, loves me, shares my deepest fears and never judges me. She loves my kids as if they were her own nephews (and I am honored to be Aunt Shelli to Matt, Sarah and Kate, whom I love like my own children). No one understands my frustration, fears or puts up with my foolishness like my sister. And when I go to the dark places, she tells me she doesn’t have time for my crap and to knock it off. Only a sister can do that and I love her for it.

The person pictured above is as important as any of these other women. She is my “Angel in Blue” and I can honestly say that she is truly a gift from God. God knew I’d need someone a bit crazy, but loaded with love and compassion to poison me on a regular basis. Sharon Sanker is that person. I remember when I met her. She told me we were in this together. When I recurred, she told me we were beating this together; period, end of discussion. While all the nurses at the Cancer Institute are incredible, Sharon is special. She loves IVan and liked my idea of giving him a twin sister IVy (complete with my old wig). My hubby bought me a laughing Snoopy for chemo (shake him and he laughs). Sharon and I shake him throughout my infusions, not only to “Laugh in the face of chemo,” but just to lighten the mood. Let’s face it, chemo is serious. I can’t handle too much serious when I’m being poisoned. Sharon lets me be silly, as silly as I need to be. And when it’s time to cry, she hugs me and tells me it’s all going to be okay. Then she tells me to wipe my eyes and start kicking butt.

These amazing women all play an incredible role in my life. While they let me blubber a bit, they mostly kick me in the pants and tell me to kick cancer’s ass and show it who’s boss (well, not Kelley in those words, but she does say something more gentle that makes the same statement).

There’s a “saying” that goes God doesn’t give you more than you can carry. He doesn’t. When it seems like to much, He gives you a really great posse to help carry the load. So when I give thanks on Thursday, I will be thanking God for Cathy, Renie, Kelley, Sue and Sharon. The load is so much easier to carry when your posse has your back.

Time for Plan B

Yesterday I went to get my second infusion of my new cocktail (shaken, not stirred). Labs were good, premeds good and Gemzar (the first part of my cocktail) good. Then came the fun, I started on my desensitizing doses of carboplatin. Carboplatin, while extremely toxic to ovarian cancer, is also toxic to the body. So they give it to you in small, incremental doses to avoid an allergic reaction. For some people this works, but for others not so much.

Unfortunately, I ended up in the “not so much” group yesterday. Despite all the precautions, I ended up with a severe allergic reaction yesterday. Now, I’ve had allergies my whole life, with asthma to boot if I get around too much mold, so an allergic reaction for me isn’t a huge deal. But when I start with an asthma attack, intense itching and a body that suddenly is the shade of a just picked vine ripened roma tomato, there’s a problem Houston. Fortunately, my Angel in Blue was right there and started pumping me full of Benadryl, Prednasolone and a whole host of other drugs to offset the reaction. The Lovely Liz even had to call Dr. Downer in surgery to be sure they’d thought of everything. In the end, I was finally able to go home. Exhausted from the Benadryl and Atarax, but racing from all the steroids. Life can be grand at times.

Just a side note, if you get too much Benadryl, your legs will twitch – BAD. It lasts about two hours and it’s not fun – at least for you. My hubby and the nurses enjoyed the show.

So today I’m in flux. It’s a bad place to be. The Lovely Liz called to check on me this morning and assured me that she will be working with Dr. Downer to get a Plan B in place. She’s hoping to be able to call my Angel in Blue next week to give her the plan so she can review it with me. I tend to take things better from my Angel than anyone else. Maybe because I trust her more than anyone else. She NEVER lets me down even when down is the only place I have to go.

I’m worried about the next drug. What will it do to me? Truth be told, I think I can handle anything except losing my hair. How vain is that? I like the way my hair looks now. I don’t like the way I look bald. One of the drugs on the agenda is called Doxil. While I would get to keep my hair, I would get other lovely side effects like mouth sores (we’re talking liquid diet here), rashes and peeling skin. Sounds lovely, huh. Wondering if this is a valid trade for killing ovarian cancer, my life for the cancer’s.

I’ve come to realize that cancer doesn’t kill people. It’s the chemo, or rather it’s side effects. Nerves are damaged, kidneys fail, hearts become less effective, asthma gets worse, blood becomes anemic. It sucks! While I really want to believe that the chemo will put this cancer back into remission and I will be happy dancing with NED again. However, what’s the collateral damage to my body and my family? I dream of watching my boys grow into strong young men and become parents themselves. I want to walk with my husband well into our 80’s. I used to take that for granted. Now I can’t.

So while I wait for Dr. Downer to create his new cocktail (again, shaken not stirred), I will spend time with my family. I will play with my kids as much as my body will allow (Gemzar makes you very tired), I will date my hubby, I will enjoy co-op, I will visit with friends, I will be creative, and I will try to find something that I find hilarious every single day. Mostly, I will do my very best to trust that God has me tight in His hands. Early today, I posted on Facebook that I felt like I was dangling from His fingertips, just barely able to hold on. I will trust that He has all ready put the Plan B in front of Dr. Downer. I will trust that what little Gemzar I’ve had is killing cancer cells, even if it’s just a few of them.

Plan B wasn’t on my radar. Now I have to rearrange my life to accommodate something I don’t know yet. Until then I will do what I have to do; put one foot in front of the other and just go with the flow. And while I’m at it, I’ll make the most of the moments. And maybe just start that book.

What’s Your Color?

I promised myself I wouldn’t go there this year, yet here I am. I told myself I have to immerse myself in my own battle and not try to fight any others. Yet, here I am. I know I’m too tired to really fight effectively, but I will try. Someone has to.

In case you haven’t noticed, it’s Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Despite the brilliant reds, oranges, yellows and tans of the leaves and the gorgeous sunsets, all I see is pink. Bubble gum, Pepto-Bismol pink. The Ultimate Bengal Fan commented the other day that orange and pink should not be worn together, and this is the kid who would wear stripes and plaids.

It seems that cancer has been boiled down to a color. What color is your cancer? Are you pink, blue, teal, yellow, purple, green, white or some combination thereof. Are you saving the ta-tas or some other body part? A fellow teal sister on a Facebook group I’m a part of commented on the tasteless “Go Braless” campaign to promote breast cancer awareness. She thought we should go commando to bring awareness to gynecologic cancers. Actually, guys could join in with this as well. Prostate and testicular cancer are below the belt as well.

I think the people who come up with these “campaigns” mean well, but they don’t think things through. When you’re fighting for your life, you aren’t thinking pink, teal, purple or any other color. You’re trying to figure out when you can take your next anti-nausea pill. You’re trying to decide how you can hide the overwhelming fatigue from your family so they don’t worry. Some days you wonder how you’re going to haul your butt out of bed to go to the bathroom, then you hear some perky AM news host talk about how they’re painting the town pink with bras. Hey, I would gladly go braless, but as a former boss of mine used to say “You’ll take your eye out ” (I’m rather well endowed).

I’m tired of hearing about moms who have breast cancer and take care of their families. Lots of people with cancer go through therapy and take care of their families and never receive one bit of recognition. I certainly don’t blog about my journey for the recognition. Truth is that the vast majority of cancer patients deal with their families and some have to work to keep their insurance or a roof over their head. Those are the real heroes. The ones that go through treatment and keep life going. They should get a gold crown. They deserve the recognition. Not that the mom with breast cancer doesn’t – she does. She’s doing the toughest job imaginable while fighting cancer. She just shouldn’t be singled out when there are so many others who do the exact same thing.

Cancer isn’t a color. It’s a wretched disease that destroys your body, mind and spirit and leaves families shattered. If you’re lucky, like I am, you have an incredible support system that holds you close when you can’t do it on your own. I have a God who is immensely powerful to save and holds me close. I have friends who will gladly stay with my children so I can get my infusions. Yesterday I discovered that I am in need of fluids on the weeks I don’t get chemo. This means a 90 minute infusion of saline, along with some extra steroid and anti-nausea meds. My quick 45 minute trip has turned into a “3 hour tour.” Fortunately, the 3 hours I spend affords me a few days of actually feeling good before I descend back into the depths of feeling lousy.

It just seems wrong to try to limit cancer to a color. It’s as if tying a deadly disease to a color makes it less threatening. How can something pink or blue or yellow take lives every day? I guess it’s like a tiger in the wild. They are majestic to look at, but I certainly don’t want to meet one up close.

Fortunately, we’re about halfway through the “pink month.” Then we can get on with life again. Until then, I will politely decline when asked if I want to give to a another “pink ribbon” charity. I will explain that pink doesn’t represent all women’s cancers. And I will laugh at the lack of color coordination on the part of the NFL. Pink shoes with football uniforms just doesn’t do it for me. And don’t even get me started on how much of what’s raised actually goes to patients. That’s for another rant on another day.

The color of cancer is reflected in the eyes of every patient, male or female. It’s reflected in the color of their skin since cancer is an equal opportunity destroyer of lives. Cancer is the plague of the 21st century. The only color I want associated with it is whatever color the cure is. Then, I will proudly wear the color of cancer. The color that caused it’s demise.

Limbo Land

Life has been a mix of whirlwind and waiting these last few weeks.  It’s been a whirlwind in that it was only a month ago when the blood clots in my legs began to endanger my life.  It was those same clots, however, that triggered the alarm that the Beast had returned.  Since my last post, I have undergone a liver biopsy (not the worst thing, but definitely not for the faint of heart) and an MRI of my brain (which showed nothing).  Both were more of a CYA thing for Dr. Downer, but definitely raised my stress level beyond anything I’ve experienced in my life to date.

The liver biopsy was to confirm that the cancer was, in fact, ovarian cancer.  I couldn’t imagine God allowing me to go through another type of cancer, but hey, it’s the oncologist’s party not mine.  The recovery took longer than the actual procedure (20 minutes versus 4 hours in recovery then two days of being a couch potato diva).  The pathologist said the biopsy was a perfect match to my previous one taken at my hysterectomy.  I’m always glad to oblige a doctor.  Makes both our lives easier. So once we had that, Dr. Downer confirmed his treatment plan with one caveat.  Get an MRI of my brain on the very, very, VERY low risk outside chance the cancer went too far north.

If you’ve ever had an MRI, you know those tubes aren’t huge.  Having a plate over your face and not being able to see out can be distressing.  Fortunately, the tech put a washcloth over my eyes so when I opened them (despite my hubby’s urging not to) I couldn’t see how I was crammed into the tube like a sardine.  Thirty minutes later, including the contrast IV, I was done and happily returning to my regularly scheduled programming.  A few hours later, the Lovely Liz called to tell me I had nothing but a brain in my head.  Good to know the brain is there.  Now I’ve been given the green light.  Let the poisoning commence!

I will say that I’m completely tapped out.  Coach Cathy and I were talking yesterday and I told her I was way overdue for the massive breakdown cry that should have come by now.  I have shed tears, but mostly because I feel like a lousy Mom because my kids are having to face the fear of losing Mom for a second time in three years.  I feel like an awful wife since Hubby has to deal with the worse and sickness part of our wedding vows rather than the better and health.  I feel like a moocher friend since I am always asking people to take the kids, go with me to appointments, pray for me and my family, and all the other stuff that goes along with being a cancer patient.  But right now I’m so tired I can’t even sleep.  I can’t focus.  My tank just ran completely out.  The last fumes are gone.

Yet tomorrow I will walk into Good Samaritan Hospital yet again.  I will go to the 4th floor to the Cancer Institute and begin bonding with my Angel in Blue again.  We will go through the labs, the premeds, then begin the hours long infusion process.  At least I know what to bring this time.  My laptop (for Netflix and Hulu), my grown up coloring books and nice pencils (no kid stuff for me) and some cross stitch.  Also my Lovenox injection, some Tylenol and the blanket my wonderful Mother-in-Law sewed up for me.  The look is casual.  PJ pants and a T-shirt with funky socks.  No make-up, but I generally do my hair (hey, when you haven’t had it, you tend to want to take care of it).  Oh and let’s not forget the wonderful lunch fresh from the hospital cafeteria.  Tomorrow is 1 of 12 infusions.  After I complete the first six, I have a scan to ensure the poison is doing more than killing off white blood cells and platelets.  If the scan looks good, then we go for 6 more infusions.  I’ll end in mid-March – again.  Actually, it will be very close to the end of my first chemo which was March 15, 2013.

I’m ready to say goodbye to Limbo Land and move on with life.  Today, though, is for hanging with my boys and having fun. It’s probably the last time I may actually feel good (relatively speaking since I’ve been so hyped up and overstressed the last few weeks) in quite a while so I need to enjoy it.  It’s about living in this moment and not the moments to come.  It’s about loving and living and embracing all that’s good in life.  Because even when it’s bad, there’s always something good in life.  Limbo land makes you appreciate that.  It makes you realize it’s the journey, not the destination.  It’s time to move on.

Back Into the Deep

I

Have

Cancer

Again

And

I’m

Mad.

There I said it.  Still a survivor, but no longer in remission.  I am once again a prisoner of Dr. Downer.  My children are once again living in fear of losing their Mom.  My husband is once again playing Dad, Mom and chief cheerleader.  My mom has to go to the places no mom wants to go.  People cry, rail and scream.  Friends who’ve battled the beast deal with survivor guilt.  Yet, life goes on.

My cancer was found because I developed blood clots in my legs.  Apparently, some cancer survivors manifest a recurrence with blood clots if they have a history of them.  Being the over the top achiever that I am, I developed several clots which caused both legs to swell.  One swelled to the point of being non weight bearing and resembling a hoof more than a foot.  Every blood test pointed to everything being normal, except the clots were there.  When I went for a CT scan, I knew the cancer was back.  Don’t know how, I just knew.  Getting the news was a bit anti-climatic except that I was unable to get out of bed to take my walk (I was on bed rest).  There are several tiny (we’re talking millimeter) spots in the abdomen, lungs and liver.  Everybody wants to come to the party.

Before I go further, I know you all feel bad, but please understand I have more clarity at this moment than I’ve had for a long time.  Perhaps I’ve known that a recurrence was on the horizon on some level and now that it’s here I’m ready.  The kids are scared, but will be alright.  I’m alright.  Heck, no taxol this time.  I will have hair during chemo and we all know it’s all about the hair. In fact, I’m having teal streaks put in on Tuesday.

What it is about is living life and doing what God has planned for me.  This journey will be chronicled, just like the last one.  It WILL become a book.  In fact, I plan to look into starting to put it together soon and work on it while I’m getting chemo (chemo is BORING).  My beloved laptop will be my best friend as I once again enjoy the poisoning that only cancer can provide.

Okay, I have to say this.  Why is it called a chemo cocktail?  When i think of cocktails, I think of James Bond and having a good time, maybe a party.  Well, you do experience chemo with about 20 other people (not a bad size party) and it does come with a hangover, but that’s pushing it.  It’s certainly not a good time.  And while cocktails are expensive, chemo takes it to the extreme.

Ovarian cancer chemo incorporates platinum.  Does my cancer really need bling?  I know I have good taste, but does my cancer need to have such good taste too?  If I had bad taste, would it prefer lead?

So, here we go folks.  Everyone back into the pool.  I hope you’ll at least dip your toes in and read my musings.  I promise to keep the wit sharp, the story honest and give you a mix of laughter and tears.  I’m not going anywhere.  I have a lot of work to do.  I can still see myself on a stage making women laugh about the joys of bladder leakage, chemo fog and hot flashes.  I want to see cancer cured in my lifetime, so I’m sure I need to be here for at least 30 more years.  We all know how quickly the government works.  Better make that 50 more years.

Life’s a journey – enjoy the trip!