As 2004 is almost ending, a world-wide event has proven that no matter what our personal tragedies, there is always room for something greater in devastation than we could possibly imagine. I have no words to write about what I've gone through or am going through or anything like that at the moment. All my thoughts and prayers are halfway around the world, hoping that those areas devastated by the tidal wave and earthquake will be able to receive the aid they need in order to get through this horrific ordeal.

I donated to OXfam america (an organization that I'm familiar with after working with Amnesty International UK and also doesn't make me question like the Red Cross). If you want to donate to the relief effort, please go to networkforgood.org to see a list. I'd suggest going directly to the charity though. . I'm not big on solicitation but for this I'll definitely have to make the exception.

Merry Christmas! It seems to get shorter every year--I think when I was little the season seemed endless. But it's still nice. This holiday was no exception; I must say it was leaps and bounds better than the last one--no oxygen tubes! Which as we all know, sets the stage for a very merry holiday! No, seriously, I had a lot to be grateful for this holiday season and well, I can't really complain (I'll save that for the off nights). It's been a very up and down season but at the same time, it's always more up than down. I actually went to Midnight Mass. I felt that since so many people put me in their prayer circles and lit candles, that I should go and pay homage. And the priest had a very nice sermon about how this season is always about looking forward. And how it represents hope, renewal and promise. And I know that with each passing day, I am closer to believing in those three things. And being around friends and family and good food, it makes you really feel as if anything is possible. So no truly valuable insights or gripes. I think for at least the next week, I'm just going to believe that there's much more that I can be, and wish for and know how much I am truly blessed.

Merry Christmas! Happy Christmakuh or whatever it is you celebrate!!!!

So there is a unique lesson that I've learned over the past couple weeks. No one really cares that you were sick. No, no, I need to amend that. That's not a fair statement. Some people simply do not care; not in an evil way, that's not what I mean. They do not care that you've been through hell and that you simply deserve better than what they can give you. Do I sound bitter? Sorry, it's just that for some reason I'll be honest--I thought that being a "survivor" kind of gave me the status of: you know she's been through enough, I really don't want to screw with that. But at the end of the day, well, we're all only human. And any time you put yourself out there--in any regard work, friends, romantically--you're still going to be on the same playing field as everyone else. Just because you have a port scar, doesn't mean that you can't get hurt. I honestly think that at 25 I've been through enough. I've buried two best friends, saw the Twin Towers collapse and had to walk through the rubble, and got through my own serious illness. I just want it not to be so hard. I don't need anymore life experience.

Last year, as we all know I was bald except for a few stray wisps. I got a very expensive wig, that I never wore except on two occasions. One was for a photo. I had on my very expensive wig and my brother put on the wig I had received from the American Cancer Society which honestly looked like, I’m not sure how to put this nicely, but that if you were going to have a crack-whore character in a movie, she’s wear it. Anyway, my brother and I posed for a photo, which my mother put on a Christmas card. Yes, that was our Christmas card that year. However, do you know what my mother forgot last holiday season? To put my name on the Christmas card. So there’s a picture of me and my brother and it says, “Happy Holidays from (insert mom), (insert dad), (insert brother #1) and (insert brother #2)” and no Terri. I know she felt very bad and I was laughing because it was like, uh, are you preparing for something? Because one year we got a card from our parents friends which was the three of them, plus the headstone of their father. Which the sentiment was nice, but it was kind of morbid to have it on your fridge.

Today it is absolutely freezing out. Bitter, bitter cold. What the hell? A few days ago it was so nice out. I was saying to someone how it was a mild winter, and then today I’m bundled up like Yukon Cornelius, rocking my black snow boots (not Uggs or anything that resembles them—these are in fact quite functional) and thanking that I had the wits about me to replace the scarf and gloves that I had lost two weekends ago. Cause, damn! And I love all my coworkers who are exercising their right to not come in and be like, "I'm working from home" simply because it's too cold for them to travel in. Yes, I'll admit it, I've done it when it's been really rainy. So rainy in fact, that I could not cross the street. However, I feel that in this day and age, we will not call out for being sick, but it's much better to call in for the weather. That's awesome. Let's show up at the office, nauseus and feverish and coughing and sneezing and show how dedicated we are to our jobs. And let's not mind the fact that there are about 30 people that we're coming into contact with and who now we're gettng sick, because we're dedicated! Stay home, rest properly, not infect the whole office--NEVER! It's all about dedication to spreadsheets! Give me a freakin break. And right about this time last year is when I had the PCP and it wasn’t this cold, and can I tell you—thank god, or else I’d probably be dead.

Speaking of being dead; yeah, I’m not always good at the segue. I’m working on it though. It was nice to talk to the ex this weekend, as I’ve mentioned below, because I’m a sucker for compliments and also it’s nice that when your 15-year-old boyfriend (who has grown up quite nicely) still thinks your cute. Hee. Blushing right now! Anyway, we were talking about our experiences (his in the war) and he told me how a missile landed right by his camp and somehow didn’t go off. He tells me that he doesn’t know the chances of that, but for some reason the man upstairs wanted him to have a second chance. I think a lot of us feel that way in our lives. Because there’s so many opportunities for us to be graduation photo on the front page of the Daily News, and yet somehow a little to the left, ten seconds late or completely missing the bus, makes all the difference. It’s an odd thing to ponder.

So it's bound to happen--the ex-boyfriend run ins. Sometimes they can be good. Sometimes they can be horrifically embarrasing. Sometimes you aren't even there. Well, for the first and the last related to my cancer-survival experience.

This weekend seemed to be blast from the past time. I have the remarkable ability of recall. I can remember names, faces and events (even with the chemo-fog) pretty well. So here I am, not drinking per my mantra of last week (btw, more below), and across my line of vision are these two birthmarks on the side of a guy's face. Don't ask how I remembered this but I was like, "Hey!" He turned around, and yes it was my high school (the early years) boyfriend. He didn't recognize me at first--oh I should explain what I looked like on this outing. I was dressed well enough, but I had decided to not wash my hair (sexy I know) and throw it back in a headband and I was too tired to put on my contacts and makeup, so I was completely without makeup and wearing my glasses (hot, I know). Yes, it is true, you will always run into people when you look absolutely like you are in your living room on a Sunday, eating a bagel and watching football. Needless to say, he looked really really good. Damn! Anyway, we chatted for a while, and he says, "So, I heard you were a little sick" and I know he knows that I wasn't a little sick, but he obviously wanted to bring it up and he's never been a master wordsmith. Anyway, I replied, "Yes, I had that whole cancer thing, but I'm fine now. Don't I look fine? I mean, in general, not tonite, because I really don't look all that great tonight," and he started laughing at my babbling and he was like, you look great Terri. Short hair is really becoming on you. And yes, I melted. It was nice to see him and to chat with him and it was just the pick-me-up I needed to feel more like myself. Particularly, after well, see below paragraph.

Anyway, so me and my mom chat all the time about stuff. It's honestly what happens when you're joined to the hip with someone. When she had to help me through some really embarrasing nights, and then all that time in the hospital and the chemo room--I mean, you might as well talk because there's a lot of hours to fill up. Anyway, I call her the next day to tell her who I ran into. And she counters with, "OH, I forgot to tell you I ran into J. on Friday night in Pathmark". I was like, WHAT? It's already Sunday--that warrants an immediate update! She told me that he walked by her, and he lost weight since we dated (swearing he reminds her of Nick Lachey. I don't know, I don't trust that comparison. And if he does--it doesn't make me feel any better). So he walks by, she's like, hmmm, I think that's him and she decides to follow him and say hi. Don't ask--we dated like 7 years ago (high school--the later years and into college). So she's like, hi, there it's me, Terri's mom, yadda yadda yadda. He's all like, "Oh, how is she?" and my mother proceeds to say this, "Well, she's a year in remission" and he was like, "Wait, what?" And then my mother didn't know what to say next. She had believed, for some reason, that everyone knew what had happened. I had to remind her that people do have lives, and since there wasn't a billboard up, that people might not know. So she throws him for a loop, and he basically doesn't know what to say and can I tell you--awkward. So he then introduces her to his fiance. He is marrying the girl that he dated after we broke up. Which is very strange to me. I'm pretty sure she followed up with a quick synopsis of my job, my brothers and all that stuff, but I could not imagine what that is like. The girl you had a horrible break up withs mother (it was like a bitter divorce) tracks you down in a supermarket and you try to make polite conversation only to find out she had cancer. Ugh. But still--makes a great story.

I'm having a lot of trouble sleeping. Right now, I'm all cozy in my bed, and I can hear the wind whipping against the trees which is throwing them into my windows. Earlier today I saw the backyard cats, all snuggled up together and sleeping. And now, I can't get the vision of them alone and cold and with this weather the way it is. It's honestly making me so upset, that I'm having a hard time getting to bed.

Because I always think of how much I have. Maybe in comparison to some people, I don't have that much. But honestly--I have a good job, a nice apartment, nice clothes, spending cash, great friends and family. I also have my health, which is something that I put at the top of the list. This season is so hard, because I think of those that don't have what I have. I struggle with that notion; like I could be doing more but at the same time, I'm not sure what that is. I couldn't really take the cats in and I'm not sure if I should have something built in the backyard for them, because then it might just house fleas and vermin and I might be doing a disservice. But this "cycle of life" thing is really hard to accept. Why there are those who are out there suffering--either from illness, or poverty or abuse--and I'm not. What lucky straw did I get to pull out in order to be here and be so well taken care of?

I'm not attempting to be a constant downer. I had hoped that with each revelation about the difficulties of simply existing, never mind being a cancer survivor (or survivor of any life-altering event) that I had infused a bit of humor into the struggle. I was watching the O.C. tonite, yes, I love that show, and Seth (the boy that beat my brother out for the part so we're not to mention the name of the show in front of him, even if him and Adam are friends) was consoling Lindsay. I could tell you about what but then this becomes a whole recap of who is who and what is going on and that's not going to really help. Anyway, he says that they joke after traumatic events, or even during traumatic events, and even though she looks skeptical at the time, she catches on and throws one in herself. I would hope that I do the same here, and in my life. My friend accuses me always of being self-pitying, I prefer witty with a side of self-deprecating. I know the limitations of a situation and it's hard to be honest in a forum when you don't know who's reading it and what they're thoughts of you are. I'm always concerned about how people view me, what they think of me, and how I come across. So being here behind words doesn't really help to gauge the reaction of those who may or may not be looking this over in either agreement or snide giggles. I guess that's the chance we all take when we agree to be honest about what goes on. And I guess that's the chance that I'm taking when I decided to not just write about my illness in and of itself. That will always be the safer route because most people won't mock cancer patients. But when you choose to be honest about life after treatment, or life in general, you open yourself up so much more. And I find that here I am, making jokes about the fact that at this point in time, I'm so confused, so lost, so searching and at times, so lonely. Lonely because I feel that every action needs to be reasoned and explained. I'm always concerned about the deeper meaning behind each choice I make. It makes you guarded; and when you let down your guard and become vulnerable, even for a minute, you're more likely to freak out obsess. It's so much easier to be closed off, to not tell anyone what this is like, but then that's only because no one can know of the embarrasment or the questions or anything that can't be tied up with a pretty bow.

I'm not going to say I have any answers. It's obvious from reading through this I don't. I am struggling with my new life. I hadn't ever thought that I didn't have to leave home or move across the country in order to start over again. Although now, I feel that it's exactly what I'm doing. I'm reestablishing things that most people my age have already done. They've navigated the unsure world of where I'm at just now, and whether or not they've actually come to any conclusions, they at least know somewhat of where they're going. A lot of my friends can't understand my constant overanlyzing or seemingly strange behavior. Who cares if you got drunk? You had a good time! Who cares if your boss yelled at you? They'll forget about it tomorrow! Who cares if your bank account isn't all that high? You're only 25 and single! I know how to handle the big stuff, the actual life crisis. It's the little stuff, this everyday stuff, that I just can't seem to get a handle on.

Oh wow. So you write something and then before you can hit the delete key, it's published. It's out there, and you can read over and over again about your a. lack of dating skills and b. fear of death. Nice. But I'd be going against the rules I set out for myself when I started this whole thing if I deleted what I wrote. So I'm stuck with the whole world (or the handful of people who read this) knowing how lame I truly am. But in the new spirit of "LIG" (let it go), I will and allow for the fact that I am not as cool or as detached or as together, I might have wanted to appear to the world at large--and in that instance I might not have been fooling anyone anyway, so it's really not that much of a loss, right? Okay, moving on.

But I guess that's what this is all about--fear. Our fear of being human. We always are consumed with it, even if we try not to act like it. Yes, I am very scared of dying. Of being the friend that has left the group, to be talked about in the past tense, and after a week of intense crying to be an afterthought on holidays, and anniversaries of birthdays and deathdays. The moments in between where you may have been a thought in someone's head when you were alive, you no longer are. You're no longer an active participant in anyone's life, and because you're alive to know you're going to be forgotten when you're gone, it's a scary thought. Not that I think about this all the time, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't cross my mind on more than one occasion.

Okay, more fear. The fear of actually caring. I feel that I have this pattern of having guys fall really hard for me, only to then have them turn around and coldly leave. Often with no explanation. So, I'm always left with the "what did I do wrong" "what can I do differently" and "what the hell is wrong with me." I'm tired of all this. It's so exhausting to be in a relationship, to fall for someone and then to have them decide to move on (regardless of the fact that this is normal and human and how life actually progresses). See because caring can lead to getting hurt, and I am just done with getting hurt. I'm done with not knowing what to say when, what to do when, worrying about if I'm too aggressive, too shy, saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing and all that other stuff that comes with it. I'm done with getting hurt and disappointed, because I feel as if I have enough to last me a lifetime. But I guess you can't be in a relationship, or a semi-relationship, or a casual hookup that takes place at 4 a.m. drunk and tired, without the possibility of getting hurt. So, quite a dilemma. I hate monday morning quarterbacking about my weekend and where it went wrong, but I guess it's better than recapping all the t.v. shows I watched. I don't know which I'm more afraid of--dying alone or analyzing alone.

I've mentioned that I'm horrible at dating, right? I can't read signals--good and bad--and like most things in my life, I tend to make a mess out of any and all potential boyfriends. I think that I also have this problem that I'm trying so hard to erase last year in the end, I wind up making an idiot out of myself. And in my lame attempts at being 25, I find myself constantly questioning every single decision that I make. And I have a hard time dealing with my mistakes. I feel that everything should be better, I should be more enlightened, and yet, I can't seem to get my life back on track, where it was. When I was completely confident in a career, when I had no problems meeting guys, when the world seemed like it was full of endless possibilities. Now, I feel like I'm pressed up against the starting block, waiting for the gun to go off, so I can make the mad dash before it's all over. I'm petrified of dying young. I'm so scared of not having lived, that I make rash and stupid decisions.

When it comes down to it, I guess, I never really admitted my ultimate fear of my untimely death. We had to do a visualizing exercise over the week at a leadership and we had to see ourselves in a year. Okay, why did I see a headstone? Is that not fucked up. I think that's unbelievably depressing. What am I thinking? It's not as if I've been given just a year to live. But here I am, scared of getting to close to anyone in case I do die; and then scared of not getting close to anyone in case I do die. I really am a headcase. I have serious issues.

On November 13th, I received an email from my friend Lindsay, which told me how she got my call but that she was really not feeling well and things aren't going well for her at all. She wasn't in the mood to really talk about it or write about it.

"All I have to say is--you are so lucky that things went smoothly for you. I would give anything to be in your shoes. I will try to give you a call back when I am feeling better or when I actually have good news."

I cried over this email for about an hour. I was sad that she was not feeling well, sad that talking to me wouldn’t make her feel better. I knew she was dying and I wanted to help her, but I wasn’t sure how I could. So I went to the store and stocked up on DVDs, an angora hat, Skittles lip gloss, a care bear canteen & key chain, a book on tape, a quick read that I really enjoyed, some other stuff that I’m forgetting right now. I packed up a box and sent it out. A week before she died, Lindsay sent me a Thank You note that she’d call when she was in better spirits. Seeing as how this box cheered her up, I went out and bough a bunch of new stuff—Christmas pajamas, fun tee-shirts, a conch shell that I had from my trip to Key West. I was waiting for a box of makeup from my friend Karen, so I didn’t get a chance to send the box out yet. It’s sitting on my windowsill. I guess in retrospect it’s a blessing that I didn’t get a chance to send it out. Because that would’ve been awkward for her parents to receive; but it also sits there and makes me feel sad and angry and guilty. Sad that she’s gone; angry that she’s gone and guilty that that box represented my efforts to make not just her feel better—but myself feel better. It was selfish really. Sending those gifts made me feel less like I couldn’t do anything and more that I was a good friend. It was as much for her as it was for me, prompted by that email that I was “lucky that things went smoothly for {me}.” When in fact they did. I’m here. I can write this all down. I am still alive to feel guilty about it all.

It also makes me cry that she probably felt so alone. I know that a lot of her friends had dropped out of her life. We make excuses for people, talking about how hard it is to be around people that are sick and we’re asked to forgive them. I call bullshit. I do not care how busy you are or how hard it is to be around a sick person, you just do it. A lot of this girl’s friends just stopped calling. And at the end, because I had gotten better, she probably found it hard to talk to me. And I mean, god, how is that fair? You don’t get to say you’re sorry when the person is gone. And she was so sweet and I know she didn’t tell her friends how they made her feel. She didn’t get a chance to stop and say, “You know, I really need you at this point in my life.” And we all do it. We all forget and we figure we have time to make it up. A year later attempts to visit do not make up for the fact that when that person was sick, and alone, and scared that we weren’t there. It makes me so angry. Especially at this time of year. Look, we are human and when horrible things happen, you know what, we’re not going to stop worrying about our hair, our weight, work, or any of that petty stuff. It’s always going to be there and it doesn’t make us any less of people because it upsets us. It’s life. But it really is time to appreciate the people in our lives. And to appreciate the value of life. To stop wasting it on past hurts and realize that there are so many people out there that need us. By being in a holding pattern and dwelling on loss, we forget those that are out there now, and we become skeletons of our formal selves. Maybe I did everything I could—I called, I emailed, I sent gifts, I attempted to visit (usually thwarted by a medical emergency) and maybe I didn’t, I probably could’ve listened more, complained less, just been a better friend. Maybe I will never get over the thought that my friend died questioning: “why this had to happen? And why are all those people who didn’t even call me on a regular basis going to be crying over me now?”

Why does it always take a person to be gone before we celebrate their life? Why do we always think that tomorrow is the day we’ll get the time? Who are we kidding? There will never be enough time, but there are always those seconds that it takes to jot down a quick “hey there.” I know I’ve ranted on this before, but it’s one of those things that I think I can never get through enough, even to myself.

So in honor of my friend, I want everyone that reads this to send out a note to everyone that they consider as their friend. Not a mass email—individual notes that say hi, how are you and what have you been up to. Send a regular card, or a holiday card with a personalized note. If you’re peeps don’t have email, then call while you’re commuting or if you have five minutes at your desk. If you have to leave a message, hey that counts too. If you can get everyone together not for someone’s birthday or the holidays but just because. I’m donating the gifts that I got for her to the hospital; not just the cancer unit but if there’s anyone there that’s in that “in-between” age because they often get left out. Usually there are tons of gifts for kids but everyone older gets a bit shafted. Let’s make sure that as many people as we can don’t feel alone because those extra five minutes might mean the world to someone who’s searching for a reason to face the day.

My friend Lindsay died on Weds. Her mother called me tonight. Lindsay was a 21, and was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma three months after me. We never met in person--instead we were Lymphoma buddies, trading emails and hours long discussions on the phone. She was a fantastic person--so fun, so positive, so full of life. We'd gossip and commiserate about stuff and talk about basically everything. She made me want to be a better person about this because she never complained, not once, and then I got an email about how things weren't going well and that she'd call me once things got better, but I never heard from her. well, actually, I sent a care package with DVDs, and care bear stuff, and flavored Skittles lip gloss and two weeks ago I got a thankyou note. So last weekend I bought a bunch of new stuff for her, shirts and christmas pajamas, fun stuff because I thought... I don't know. She deserves much more than I can write here. There are some people who profoundly touch your life. That just you can't believe that they exist--they are so nice and kind incredible people and you strive just to be good enough to know them. I was blessed that Linsday was in my life as my friend. And I so devastated that this world will not know more of her. And my prayers go out to her parents and her brother, and anyone who was lucky enough to know her. I really just don't think I can say anything else that will truly do my sadness justice at this loss of such a unique and wonderful person.

So Lindsay:

I will really really miss you.

Terri

I'm still waiting for my epiphany. I believe I deserve it. So that in some way I can take what almost dying really means and apply it to not caring about petty ridiculousness that accompanies trying to nagivate my way through life. Alas, I can not. I am just a silly girl who waits for a boy to call her, as she also waits for the receptionist at her doctor's office to get back to her with a PET Scan appointment. Is that warped? That in the same moment of waiting for an "All-clear" I'm waitin for a date request? Ugh. I'm frightened for myself. I used to be hyper-aware, above the stupidity but now since I've been locked up for so long I've turned into a parody of the catholic school girl who gets to go to college (and no, I don't mean that in the utterly trashy way it can be interpreted. I mean it on a much more basic, clean, sadly chaste level). I think I've written that I my tolerance has gone down (and if one more person says, "Well that makes you a cheap date" I'm gonna clock 'em) and it has. It's gone back up, but I also take longer to recover from a night out of a rolicking THREE BEERS! Yes, I am actually sick for two days, ill to the point that I'm reminded of a horrible instance in college when I got completely loaded on my 20th birthday only to be picked up by my parents the next day to go to my grandmother's funeral. Yeah, I was really sick then--and that's not a story i'm all too proud of. And I get chatty when I drink; yikes, very very chatty. I don't shut up. And well, I have to say, I'm that girl that just loves everybody! Wahoo! Not in a sloppy, gross way, just in a "I'm so happy to be here way" but still, I can't seem to live that down. So here's the thing--don't I get to beat cancer and have a knight in shining armor? So that I can not find myself talking incessantly to boys who might be looking for the nearest exit and shaking my hips to My Goodies? Do I not deserve to be above all that? Have I not suffered enough humilation--what with the baldness, the weight gain, the request to pee in a bucket (accompanied by the curtains for doors and HDTV of me in various states of embarrasment), the puking, the constipation (and my mother constantly asking if I've taken my stool softener--at inappropriate times), the parties I missed, the devestation and the constant state of panic? Come on fates, give me something--not just a non-seized engine. What is the state of customer service these days?

OK, yes two posts, one day, but I've got a lot to say (and geez, that rhymed). Anyway, another discussion with my brother's friend led him to say, "I don't know what to say when people recognize me and come up and talk to me. Usually, I just say thank-you. That's something they don't teach you in drama school. There's no handbook for it." To which, I laughed because he was definately baffled by the whole concept and then I got to thinking--a handbook. yes, that would be nice. People complain about there not being a handbook for raising children, but yet there are so many on amazon. For this, this survivorship/patientship when you're in your twenties, there truly is no handbook.

Let's take dating. Let's look at that bestseller, He's Just Not that Into You. Why is this book flying off the shelves? Instead of deciding that we should decipher all those crazy signals that the men give off, let's just put it simply: Everything would be a whole lot easier if someone would just tell the truth. And that is why game playing for me, at this stage of my life, is off the table. I know that with dating comes the inherent cat and mouse, will he, won't she, but geez, I just don't have the time or the energy to expend. Seriously, I know some people will counter and say, "No one does" and I'll agree. The whole lying pieceof the dating jungle. But here's this--do you know what it's like to have your doctor look you in the eye and tell you she's 100% sure you'll live and then like a year later you find out from your slightly tipsy mother that this wasn't the case. That the doctor, in fact, thought you might not live at all? Ahhh, but no, please tell me you really think I'm great and can't wait to see me again. Because, really, I want to spend my time wondering what I did wrong for you not to wave back to me at the bar, and not at all concern myself with the nagging pain in my back. It's a matter of courtesy. People think that lies will soften the blow, when they just enhance the delusion. Tell me you really don't think you want to get together after this--I'll be pissed but I won't wonder. I HAVE TO SPEND THE NEXT FIVE YEARS WONDERING IF I'M GOING TO DIE I DO NOT WANT TO SPEND EVEN FIVE MINUTES WONDERING IF YOU'RE GOING TO CALL ME BACK! Goodness, serioulsy that's the book that should be on the shelves: all those who are dating, and or married, please stop fucking lying to each other and be honest. Stop staying in relationships just in order to be with someone, and/or not die alone. Don't tell me you love me if you don't. Don't be with me, if you dread the sight of my face. I need to be able to live life to the fullest, and when we lie to each other--all in the name of caring, then we're not doing anyone any favors! And it shouldn't take a life altering event to make us act better.

Back to the other sides of dating. I don't want pity. I also don't know when it is appropriate to tell someone and should I be angry if it scares them off? I had friends for years who drifted away, can I blame someone who just wanted to hang out for having some apprehension? I met this guy once who told me he dated a girl with cancer, I think she had leukemia and she kept relapsing. I asked him, "Is it hard to date someone with cancer?" And he grabbed my shoulders and looked me in the eyes and said, "No. It is not hard to date someone with cancer. Geez, why do you guys think that--she said the same thing. Anyone who makes it about them isn't worth it in the first place." But at the same time, I know it's hard. I know that it's not easy to be on the other side of the mirror. I would love to just date for the fun of dating, but I know that most guys see the baggage behind me and wonder if getting involved with me immediately means a committment.

I have this huge scar over my right breast and it makes me very self-conscious. I've started to wear spaghetti straps because I'm trying to be like, "HERE I AM" but at the same time, I am wearing a blazer over said top. I can't really drink anymore, and I hate that the only line any guy can use is "Can I buy you a drink" and if I say "No, I really don't drink" they get insulted and/or feel that they have to push said drink on me...note to all those that do that: you will not get any more charming the drunker I get and I will not sleep with you no matter how many Amstel Lights I have. I can't be around cigarette smoke, so when we're walking from bar to bar, sometimes my friends have seriously guilty faces about smoking and want to walk next to me and tell me how sorry they are and then I feel bad because I don't want them to feel bad and not want to be around me, and even this sentence is making me dizzy so imagine how I feel after a shot of Soco and Lime! Dating is hard in general; there's so much PR that we do. I'm petrified of becoming emotionally invested in anyone--I'm afraid that the minute I'm happy the sky will fall.

I was talking to a friend of my brother's last night, who's an actor, and he said that the one thing that is true among all people is that they all want to be special. And that's completley true. So when I was reading a review of a book in the New York Times of the Book, "Janet and Me" I was very taken with a line from the reviewer, Joyce Johnson: "''A Story of Love and Loss''? How often have we heard that one? As if all human tragedy is becoming Oprahized, memoirs of disease and dysfunction endlessly appear on publishers' lists. Personally, I refuse to equate memoir writing with therapy; nor do I believe that it rewards one with transcendence." As an aside, she does say that the book got to her.

"How often have we heard that one?" So many times because it's not simply a story of a single couple's struggle with cancer but it's now become part of the human condition. We all want to believe that our struggles are unique while at the same time searching for the commonalities so that we have someone to relate to. Though the treatments and the side effects can be pretty much standard, there are still so many ways, that each diagnosis, each day, each "dealing with it" is different. There are some of us who are blessed to have the chemo work; others who stare at their collapsed veins wondering why if they were willing to poison their bodies to get better that the sacrifice wouldn't be enough to get well. Some who pick up and move on; some who can never seem to shake the trauma of being diagnosed. Some who seem to have found every single good person on this planet to be their friend or relative and are constantly surrounded by love and support; some who find themselves lost and alone. Some of us can walk around and proudly wear our survival in a yellow band around our wrists; and there are others who are ashamed, feeling that this has tarnished who they are and hide their disease like a bad test grade. I don't think that anyone diagnosed with cancer is lucky, there are just different degrees of unluckiness. No that's not pessimism--that's just well, realism.

Ms. Johnson gives a quick thought about transcendence, and her lack of regard for this being valid. This notion that being sick somehow gives you a new vision into the world at large. Ha! As if that's at all true. Movies would love for us to believe that due to the fact that we've become afflicted with something horrible we will be rewarded with some type of knowledge the rest of our brethren don't have (cue the Lifetime music). But well, it's probably more along these lines. Shall I remind everyone of a very memorable quote by the hilarious Bill Murray in Caddyshack:

So I jump ship in Hong Kong and make my way over to Tibet, and I get on as a looper at a course over in the Himalayas. A looper, you know, a caddy, a looper, a jock. So, I tell them I'm a pro jock, and who do you think they give me? The Dalai Lama, himself. Twelfth son of the Lama. The flowing robes, the grace, bald... striking. So, I'm on the first tee with him. I give him the driver. He hauls off and whacks one - big hitter, the Lama - long, into a ten-thousand foot crevasse, right at the base of this glacier. Do you know what the Lama says? Gunga galunga... gunga, gunga-galunga. So we finish the eighteenth and he's gonna stiff me. And I say, "Hey, Lama, hey, how about a little something, you know, for the effort, you know." And he says, "Oh, uh, there won't be any money, but when you die, on your deathbed, you will receive total consciousness." So I got that goin' for me, which is nice.

Unfortunately for this reviewer, who may feel that the stories that get to the heart of the human condition can only be told by those great writers who can weave a fiction tale around words and schemes that the "ordinary" person is far too well, ordinary to convey, human tragedy has become Oprahized. Not because it's just than any old hack can write something about their life, but because disease and dysfunction has become so prevalent. We search for the discrepancies that give us the stories but they top the best seller lists because everyone has been touched. Or if the story is far to terrible to even imagine happening (i.e. Augusten Burroughs) then people will say "that boy was far more unlucky than me" but at least he got to write a bestselling novel about it. When you're fighting for your life, or fighting to die with dignity, you are not thinking that there is some critic out there who is going to call your specific story banal. Because when it's your struggle, your fight, your body writhing in pain, there is nothing that ordinary about it.

Okay, I decided to put away about 10% of my salary into my 401 (K). Here's the thing--planning for retirement is a good and positive thing. However, and this doesn't mean I'm not optimistic about a long and happy life, but I wonder if putting that money away into something that I won't technically be able to touch for another five years, is such a good thing. Should I be keeping the money in savings, and use it for a trip? Or should I take advantage of being able to live on a lower salary and take comfort that the money is being put away for the future? I'm very undecided on this.

Hmmm, so I don’t know if I’ve given any quick tips/hints out to all those who are going through the chemo/radiation suckiness. But, here goes some:

1. For avoiding mouth sores during chemo: Definitely get the Hurricane Solution off the bat. Then try to rinse your mouth with Ulcer-Ease (you can get it at CVS) after every meal. Suck on sugar-free lemon candies. Also—I got one of those Oral-B oscillating toothbrushes with soft bristles and I had no teeth problems. DO NOT USE anything Listerine.
2. Taking Prednasone: try taking it with Yoo-Hoo. It definitely cuts the taste.
3. Yogurt has a lot of potassium. Try the Yoplait Whips since it has a fluffy consistency and is easier to eat than the other yogurts.
4. Also with yogurt—smoothies! Get a large bag of frozen fruit (since you can’t have regular fruit). 1 cup of orange/apple/grape juice in a blender. I like the Kirkland yogurts, but any swiss style yogurt will work. Put a handful of fruit in (being sure to wash your hands first) and it’s a really good way to get something down that’s healthy and that you need to be eating.
5. Big fan of Zofran for nausea. Also, peppermint tea is good for settling your stomach.
6. A lot of people aren’t fans of the Aquaphor for radiation. I liked either the Udder Cream or the Dream Cream by Lush (www.lushcanda.com). Also, the Aveeno Baby Oatmeal cream for cradle cap did wonders on the back of my neck.
7. Rosebud Lip Salve ($5 at sephora) helped my lips a lot. I still wind up with dry lips.
8. For drinking water—I really suggest investing in a water bottle to carry around. I had a Spongebob one, but hey to each their own!
9. I used Johnson’s Baby Shampoo on my bald head. I also occasionally put some conditioner to keep it from drying out.
10. If you are running out of eyelashes, line your lid and put on a thickening dark colored mascara on—be very wary of spider lashes though because when they clump together and you don’t have that many it looks soooooooo much worse. No eyelashes—they sell them pretty cheap at the drug store.
11. If you find you’re running out of eyebrows—you can definitely draw them in. I’d recommend using an actual kit because they’ve got all the tools, the powders, and what not and you can still use it to sculpt as they come back in.
12. I used the Dove clothes or foaming cleansers when my skin was really sensitive.
13. I know I sound like an advertisement but Paula Dorf blush in Candy Apple gives the appearance of healthy cheeks. It really rocks. Also if you want to put on makeup use a tinted moisturizer—not a foundation, a bronzer and the blush. Under-eye cream and concealer works wonders, I kid you not. Definitely liked the Bobbi Brown stuff. It’s expensive but it kept me from looking sallow. I didn’t want to go to work looking sick and well, I would spend hours in front of the mirror doing my makeup until I came up with a quick and easy routine.
14. Sennacot (I think that’s how you spell it) and Coalasce each night before you go to bed will really help with all that stuff you might not want to talk about.
15. Be wary of buying any new perfumes—the best bet is to have people get you little samples of stuff that are very light scents or use scented moisturizing creams from Bath and Body works. They’re cheap enough that if you wind up realizing you hate them, you can just throw them away and not feel too bad.
16. You're pretty much not supposed to take any supplements, except for a multi-vitamin. please ask before you take anything. Ask about any and all preventative antibiotics as well.
17. I walked around with my hand wipes at work and the Bath and Body Works Anti-bacterial hand thing. I hardly ever got a cold.
18. Ask the doc which items to always have on hand, in terms of over the counter meds whether it be Robitussin or tylenol or Claritin. No one wants to be running around late looking for all this stuff. Definately invest in a humidifier.

So that last entry was a bit of a downer, eh? I'm working on moving out of that darker stuff, even though cancer (past or present) doesn't really elicit many jokes. However, I do believe that there is humor to be found.

For instance, I went to my first real family party this past Saturday. Have I announced that my brother is an actor? Well, he is. He's very good and is getting quite a career going. He's been on Broadway (as a lead), off-Broadway, and t.v. Oh and a film on PAX. Anyway, we go to this party and here's the awkward part. There are some family members who really dropped off the face of the earth. I haven't heard from them since around January. So I think that when I show up, I definately throw them for a loop and they're all like, yeah, sorry I didn't call or send you a birthday card. But um, here's some cash! Don't be mad. And I'm like--alright. Money will buy me some new stuff to make me happy. Heh. Like one time I was in Sephora with my mother, and we ran into my father's best friend wife. Anyway, so she's there and gets so frazzled about seeing me. I'm trying to say hello and that I'm doing fine, just looking at some stuff and she's seriously gunning for the exit. Recognizing that I don't want to be the girl that makes everyone freakin' uncomfortable, I say "Oh, I really need to get some moisturzer" and walk away. She runs out and then runs back in and hands me $40. Here's the evil part--I was pretty much like, no no thanks this is fine but secrety was like, yay I don't have to pay for the moisturizer! Wahoo! But no, I don't like to take advantage of people's guilt. It's not good karma. And do I need all the good karma I can muster up. Those who are saintly can pass some on. Don't be selfish.

And here is when you know you've been talked about. I'm being introduced to my aunt and uncle's friends and here is how it goes:

Aunt/Uncle: Here is my niece and nephew
Friend: Oh, hello!
Aunt/Uncle: This is Terri.
Friend: Oh. OH! (head tilt) How are you? (Internal Monologue: Hey, she's alive! How come she doesn't look like those people on t.v. all pale and shadow-eyed.)
Anut/Uncle: And this is John.
Friend: (internal monologue: oh thank god. not sick. wait. famous!) HELLO. You're the actor.
Push Terri out of the way, clamp John on back and say: So what was it like to get naked with Lorraine Bracco (internal monologue: sigh of relief. naked women--definately much better than talking to sick girl about dying. Yikes--good thing they've got more than one kid or that would've been awkward).


So, um, yeah. That moment of recongition with their friends is always bizarre because you can tell that they just don't know what to say and fear that I'm going to be like, "Happy to be here for another day." or rant on about something having to do with appreciating life. Sorry, not going to do it. Most likely I'll bitch about the season the Giants are having. Or the excellent-ness of Desparate Housewives. I still know how to have regular conversation. Pick a topic, I definately have an opinion. Just steer away from politics--because on that you may not want to hear my loud, and lengthy opinion.

Anytime I talk about my illness, I hear myself get slightly self-pitying, slightly whiny, slightly angry. I hear the words tumble out of my mouth, the things I tried so hard not to say when I was actually going through chemo. Part of me wonders if I would be more at peace with it all had I allowed myself not to be so "even" during that time. Because suddenly I feel guilty for being okay, for being alive and complaining about what I went through. Comparatively I'm lucky. I'm here, I can walk around, I can do things. In one year I went from being fine, to being sick, to being fine again. Those with long, protracted illnesses would surely envy my struggle because it was relatively short and pain-free. So who am I to lament about any of it? And what do I have to contribute by writing about it? Do I sound spoiled? I feel spoiled. I am so confused because I am supposed to feel grateful, which I am, and then I still sometimes feel robbed, which I supposed I was, but maybe I'm just supposed to move on to acceptance at this point. Just accept it and realize that there are those who are much worse off than me. I should wear my luck like a charm, and feel blessed and just contented. Maybe I spend so much time pondering the whys and the hurts, that I'm lost in them and alienating those who want to scream at me "Shut up Shut up! This is now my pain, my struggle, my hurt."

When do we get to own our pain? When there's no hope? When we're in the land of those with completely perfect lives and no one can say, "well, no, see in the competition of whose life sucks more, I win". And when do we become jealous of someone else's struggle just because ours is so much worse? What kind of fucked up logic is that? "Yes Paul, I know you don't have a left leg, but I don't have either of my legs so clearly..." I get angry at the lack of understanding of my friends who stare blankly like, oh...but then I get angry that I didn't have a harder time because I feel like a punk for even bitching about whatever it is that bothers me. It's almost as if this warped part of me wishes that I had it worse--if my tumors didn't respond, if I wound up in the hospital 4 times instead of 2, if I don't know, something anything. Then I would feel right in my occasional sadness, the twinges of anger, and I wouldn't sound ungrateful. Because maturity is about perspective and while I think that I've gained a lot of it, maybe I haven't gained quite enough. I think of those children who've been in and out of hospitals since they were babies; young men and women who have no clue when this is going to be over; the women who find out the cancer has spread and have whole families to leave behind. I think of them and feel sick and sad that I even write this all down because who I am to feel any sense of regret or pity? Who am I?

It's been a month. I've taken off a month in order to try to separate the "Cancer-Self" from the "True-Self". You can ask me how that worked and I'd have to be honest and say, well, not that great.

See, I read an article recently where this woman spoke about not wanting to be part of the "sorority" of breast cancer; how she didn't want to be a survivor, she just wanted to be. I thought, yes that's a fantastic idea. I want that to. So, I went about my days reflecting and politely not discussing my disease. That was until:

Until there was a Lifetime Movie where the woman gets cancer and is considered a saint by all that knew her. And then she died.
Until there was a CSI episode about this boy with Leukemia and his sister who was his donor on almost everything from bone marrow to a kidney.
Until there I was, reading a book called Hit Reply , an innocuous enough novel until one of the characters gets Hodgkins Lymphoma, which according to the author is a great relief since this is the good one. The other one, ahem with the Non-has no hope. Gee, thanks for the mindless entertainment!
Until I realized that this election wouldn't focus on the ever deteoriating environment and I found out that due to a toxic landfill by my childhood home, I probably got this disease
Until I realized that I would always have to make sure I was employed or else without insurance, and a health care plan that helped those without employment, I'd be screwed
Until I saw my brother's play, and a central character was dealing with the loss of his partner
Until Elizabeth Edwards was diagnosed with breast cancer. Until it was revealed that Melissa Etheridge had breast cancer. And Edie Falco.


So there it is. There is no denying that it is integral part of who I am. A forever part of who I am. It's one of those life experiences you can't just shrug off because you don't want it anymore. It's shaped who I've become. And while I may lament of how I wish I could go back. Go back to those moments when I didn't know, but I can't. But now it's time to move forward on the living piece as opposed to just surviving. Because it doesn't go away; I just need to learn how to let it stay.

There are things worse than cancer. Seriously. For instance, I have been put into collection by one of the hospitals I have received treatment at. However, no one can tell me specifically why. The hospital tells me that my bill has been paid in full. They can not find any outstanding invoices or what not and yet, I am getting letters from MCS telling me I owe money. And they can't tell me for what. In fact, I was instructed to "show proof of payment" and I couldn't make them understand that the amounts that they are asking for do not show up anywhere, so I don't know what I'm providing proof of payment for. It's like talking to myself.

Or how about the PET scan place that billed the wrong insurance. This is the greatest. I get a letter of denial from Aetna, and I'm like, Aetna, that's not my insurance. I call up the place and sure enough they say this: "Oh, yes, it would seem that we did have your correct insurance, however, someone here didn't put it in correctly. SO YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO CALL THIS NUMBER AND GET IT STRAIGHTENED OUT. But not until Monday, since it's past five and they're gone." This was their patient relations person. Admitting, that they're the one that screwed up and yet, I still have to resolve it. Un-freakin-believable. I spend half my day doing other people's jobs and resolving mis-information. It's not a joke. People are like, why do you get so upset and I'm like--because this is a constant thing. I am always following up and nothing works right.

ugh. I need a personal assistant.

Ahhh. Early birthday present.

My lease on life was renewed for another three months. :-) Which means in exactly three months, I'll also be about one year out of chemo and one year from my first all clear. Which is really exciting and I'm praying that the good news keeps up because I can never get enough of hearing "We don't see anything!"

Now onto those last ten pounds. I can only tackle one hurdle at a time.

One year. Your whole life can change in one year. I know that new parents say it takes nine months, but for me, it's been one year. And I wonder which is harder: to create life or to sustain it.

One year ago, I couldn't walk five steps. And then, over the weekend, I walked 13.1 miles with my best friends. They endured the blisters, the hurt ankles, the painful knees (and yes, we're only in our mid-twenties and former athletes) and a lot of wind, and sprinted with me across the finish line. It hurt. I kept thinking that maybe I should slow down, and then we'll make it. But everytime I started to slow down, something would happen that would make me want to speed up again, and then there we were. At the end. Done.

I had decided to walk the race last January once I finished with my steroids from Chemo and pneumonia. I figured a labor day race at the beach would be a great vacation mixed with a purpose, and somehow managed to convince my two best friends to come along. The race also benefited Leukemia-Lymphoma and I have to be honest, as corny as it sounds, there was so much positivity. People had the photos of loved ones on their shirts but there they were smiling and pumping fists, saying "I can do this" and I'm doing it for something. I mean, the Kenyans came in first, and they were like on mile 9 when we were on mile 2, and everyone was screaming and cheering them on from the other side of the track, amazed at how fast and determined and pretty incredible they all were. Everyone was just cheering on everyone else; those that were really good runners actually stayed along the course cheering on the walkers and not a snicker in the bunch. It was just the attitude of "You can do this" and finishing was more important than just finishing in a certain amount of time. And it was an amazing place to be. My body, ravaged by cancer and chemo and radiation, just kept on pushing and I was saying, this is for my friends who never stopped believing and my parents who needed me to believe, for the patients that are suffering setbacks and who are having a hard time, for everyone who ever wanted to tell me that I was facing a death sentence. For that doctor who informed me that I wouldn't be able to walk a marathon, ever again. I was buoyed up by my two friends (who let's face it are in much better shape and even at the end looked way better than my sweaty self did) who didn't complain, didn't whine and were just as happy to get to the finish line as I was because we did it together. I was still with them at the end of it; they didn't have to walk it in my memory.

And that's the point I guess. At this time last year, I was full of uncertainty. The tests were coming at me rapidly. I had gotten home from a friends' wedding and my mother was standing there telling me how horrible I looked. I couldn't understand the cough, the sweats, the itching, the unbelievable fatigue. This weekend I coughed from the cold air, was sweaty from the heat, itched from the sand and was only tired because we laughed too much, drank too much, ate too much and then walked for 3 hours straight.

Before I complain/write/dissect/analyze any part of my life, I want to say that I'm saying a prayer for all those in Florida and anyone else who might be affected by Hurricane Frances. I honestly can't imagine what it would be like to be staring at all the things that are in my apartment and thinking that they might be gone the next day. My father, the most giving person ever, owns a bunch of cottages in upstate NY. A family whose home was devastated was brought to his attention, and he's letting them stay there until they can get their lives back together. So Big Ups to Pops from Brooklyn.

So in light of the tragedy that could be taking place in Florida. The hostages in Russia. The suicide bombers that have been in both Russia and Israel (and the photo on the front page of the New York Times really made me cry while I was getting coffee and I couldn't focus on ordering and I wanted so badly to be somewhere else, doing something worthwhile). My friends and family sitting in a tent somewhere in Iraq. What am I to complain about? It just feels like the whole world is going insane, and where I would want to take refuge would be in my apartment, but then I'm locked to just my petty problems. My father was like, why take on the world's problems when you have so many of your own? And I'm just like, well take the environment. I grew up in Staten Island, home of the largest garbage dump in the world. I remember learning in 3rd grade that you can see that and the Great Wall of China from space. WAHOO! But how do I know that growing up there didn't contribute to my cancer. That all this destruction that we're doing to the environment isn't causing the hurricanes and anything else that seems "abnormal" weather-wise and isn't the reason that my body decided to turn on itself. They have no origin of Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. There's no gene, no definitive fact-only theories. I think as humans we're always rationalizing how things got where they are. Connecting to where we're from. I hardly anyone say that they're American. They're Italian-American, Irish-American, African-American. We yearn to be connected to where we believe our families originated. If a red footed hawk is in Martha's Vineyard, the first question is how did he get there? How did this all start? The beginning, the reason. And yet, they can't tell me how I got cancer. They can't tell me what I did that might have contributed and what I could definitively do different in order to ensure that I'm okay. So I wait and see and hope that before I get to the end, someone can tell me more about the beginning.

Sometimes I feel that there are tiny little cliques within the cancer community. Groups that don't want to share their struggle with anyone else. I remember when I was starting my website, well to be honest still starting my website, that the reaction I mostly received was "Yes, well we only deal with breast cancer" or "We already donate to breast cancer projects" and I realized that although there are a lot of young men and women out there with other types of cancer, there is no voice. There is no united cancer community. We are silos of disease, focusing on our own type of cancer, negating the fact that others have also gone through chemo, radiation, the loss of a body part or a loss of freedom, a loss of youth even. As a young woman, the focus is mostly on breast cancer, or any type of womanly cancer. And here I am, with Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma ( a decidely "old man" type of cancer, but growing in the younger population at an alarming rate) and feeling so left out. There are no scarves dedicated to my disease. No magazine articles. No products that will benefit the funds that fuel the research that will get me well. Isn't that sad? That for some reason I'm looking for acceptance inside a community that no one wants to be a part of in the first place? The other frightening thing is the belief that so many people have that whatever is out there, addressing the needs of a young survivor. Or a young patient. Also when attempting to start my website I found myself constatntly saying "But I was the person looking for the information, I couldn't find it. Show me where it is, " and they couldn't but still refused to believe that what I was doing was filling a need. Tell me where are the websites that tell me how to date again? Or to help my parents deal with the fact that their daughter who has been living on her own for sometime now needs them but also needs to retain some level of freedom? Or those people in college or grad school and where to they pick up? Where's the websites that tell me how not to look so sallow and pale or how to find the perfect headscarf? What about helping me with the weight gain? Something? Anything. Something that addresses me as the whole person and not the type of cancer. And I can't even imagine what it is like for young men.

the funny thing is that radiation leaves me at risk for a myriad of problems: breast cancer, lung cancer, skin cancer and heart disease. And is that fair? that once in my life I had to deal with losing a part of myself only to discover that what cured me of one has left me prone to others? that someday I just might be giving myself up piece by piece. And yet, I find myself constantly around the competition of "whose pain is worse." And i would gladly lose because I don't want to be in pain. I don't want to have the suckiest day or the hardest news to take. I would happily hand it all over. And yet, the ironic part, is that I wind up fighting for the recognition. The recongition of what I went through and what I feel and what I'll continue going through. So a part of me wants nothing more to forget, to have the scars on my body disappear and the only remnants of the disease can be found in the get well cards stored in my closet. And another, wears the scars like a badge, screaming for the attention of "Look what I went through" and remembering that there is no forgetting. At least for me. I can't escape it and I'm learning to embrace it. And someday, I'll be able to tell all survivors and patients, "We are all truly in this together. "

It's a club that I'd happily turn my membership in but it looks like I've got the lifetime membership anyway.

There's something odd about having been sick and then seeing people again. This weekend, I visited my parents up at their lake house, as a surprise. On the way, the car that supposedly had an oil change three weeks ago, ran out of oil and made oh so lovely noises. When we took out the dipstick and looked and saw it was dry as a bone, my father's friend said, "Wow, you're lucky that you even made it here" and I said, "Yeah, well God owes me one." And while I don't necessarily really feel that way, because I'm not entirely sure how God fits into the whole thing, but if he can throw me a non-seized engine now and again, I'll take it. My father was so happy to see me; I swear, if he could find a way to have me in his sight at all times he really would. But it was interesting to see how these people who I haven't seen in ages, reacted when they saw me. Some were really excited and wouldn't stop hugging me. Others, well, they kept me at arms length or wouldn't look me in the eye. I get that a lot more than I expected I would. People who don't know what to say, are afraid to ask "how are you feeling" so instead, just kind of barely acknowledge my presence and then look awkwardly around for the quickest exit. I mean, really, if someone asks me how I'm feeling, as purely a conversational piece, I'm always going to say "Great!" And most of the time, I mean it. I do feel great. This weekend I'm going to be walking a half marathon with my best friend Laura in Virigina Beach. People keep asking "what for" and the answer is (and it does sound pretty selfish): Me. I'm doing this for me. A year ago, I couldn't walk a block without feeling out of breath. Now, I'm going to attempt to do 13.1 miles. I mean, it's got to be just as hard as that block was last year. I might not finish, but if I do, and actually no matter how far I get, I'll know that it's much further than I ever would've dreamed possible at this time last year. And that at least is something.

I had my first post-sickness, celebration of good health trip. My mom and I went to Key West. It was so beautiful. The weather was fantastic, the food was unbelievable and the sunsets really are something. Swimming in the water at the Dry Tortugas, snorkeling and checking out the coral reefs really reminded me why we fight so hard to get through life. I had never snorkeled before, never saw coral that was waving with the current, sapphire blue water and fish that were a rainbow of colors. I sat on the water staring at the horizon and thought that getting through chemo was worth this. I firmly believe that chemo might have been nine hundred times more bearable if a picture of it was on my chemo chair instead of well, just the white walls. Key West was also perfect because it was so laid back. I still don't have all my strength back. I have a lot of it back but I still need to relax during the day which kind of takes away the partiness that I once had. But there it was so unnecessary. You could just lay by the pool, walk up Duval Street (COACH OUTLET!!!), and everyone was really nice and friendly. Plus like I mentioned THE FOOD. Fantastic sushi, key lime pie frozen and dipped in chocolate, salmon, macademia and coconut encrusted scallops, mmmm. I miss it already. I'm so lucky that my mom could take me away for a while. It was so something that I didn't even realize that I needed. Some people were like, but you weren't at work for a while, isn't that like a vacation. I stare at them and think, "uh, chemo is not a vacation." "Pneumonia is not a vacation" Needing to take a day off because radiation has kicked my ass a bit--not a vacation! Taking time off to heal is not necessarily a vacation it's a necessity. Sometimes I felt like I didn't deserve to take time off because i had been sick. But it was important to take a few days just to reflect and relax. And because I wanted to. Not because I had to. It was good for my mental health as well as my physical health. Getting up late and doing nothing but relaxing and soaking up the sun (with 45 sunblock, a rashguard to swim in and a tree to sit under ofcourse) and reading a good book just gave my body time to recoup from all it's been through. Two days after i got back I was bike riding 20 miles with my best friend. I just felt so renewed. Corny, I know. But there's got to be something to it.

I miss my long hair. I really do. I find myself being very self-conscious about my short hair. It’s in a similar style that Winona Ryder had at one point only she has a prettier face than I do, so she carried it off better. I’ve never really had a desire for short hair. Trendy styles were never my thing; my hair was always straight, maybe a little layered and at my collar bone or longer. The one time I had short hair before this, was when I decided to cut my hair to my shoulders. Only somehow from “shoulder” the hairdresser heard “chin” and I walked out hysterical crying and vowing never to get a “trim” there again. Now I’m overly cautious and descriptive with my hairdressers. I was a ponytail queen; I have a drawer full of unused holders and clips and hundreds of dollars worth of haircare products. Don’t believe me? Currently in my bathroom I have the following: MOP Pomade and Molding Crème; Garnier Fructis Putty; Got 2 Be Glossing Crème; Mastey shampoo; Philosophy Remember 3-In-1; Sebestation Potion #9; Dove Foaming Conditioner; Thermasilk Conditioner; Herbal Essences Shampoo; Frederick Fekkai Shea Butter Treatment and Tocca Crema. Okay, maybe not hundreds of dollars worth (I do tend to exaggerate) but certainly more than someone of my shorn locks needs.

But why the obsession with my hair today? I asked a close friend of mine what he thought of my short hair. He responded that he doesn’t think any woman looks good with short hair. My heart plummeted and tears welled up behind my eyes. He wasn’t saying it to be hurtful; I truly don’t think he even thought about what he said. It was one of those immediate response things, that’s his opinion and that would be his answer at any given time. But as soon as he said it, I found myself reaching for my hat and putting it on my head. I hide behind my hat, I know I do. I hate how exposed I am with short hair. I like my hat as some kind of shield; similar to probably how I felt about my longer hair. I was constantly playing with it, pulling it up and down. If I’m nervous or upset I find myself mimicking those same motions. I’m always disappointed when I run my hair down the back of my head and it ends at the base of my neck.

I read in a magazine that a survivor had said, “Any day with hair is a good hair day.” I wish I felt that way. I wish that I could just put it behind me and accept that someday it’ll be back and I’ll be able to use all those potions and products lining my bathroom shelves. But the problem is that I sometimes feel like a stranger to myself. I look in the mirror and feel just so lost. “Who is this girl?” I ask. My short hair makes me look so much older; but sometimes I feel like this whole experience has also taken the youth out of my eyes. I can see it. I can see it in pictures (which I almost refuse to take across the board these days). I look at these pictures, where I’m smiling and laughing and think, “I would give anything to be back in that moment.” When I was in the hospital, I made my mother bring in pictures of me from my friend’s wedding. When I was being brought to the ICU, and I wasn’t entirely lucid, I was begging the nurses to look at the photos, so they could see that I didn’t really look like this. I wish I was a better person. I wish it didn’t matter to me. I really do. I just can’t make it go away. I can’t turn it off. I can’t help that sometimes I collapse into tears and as much as I want to believe that the heaviness in my chest will go away, at that moment it feels like all I can do is hide behind my hat and try to face the world underneath the rim.

At 1 a.m. my doctor emailed me to inform me that my scan had come back clear and that I could rest easy. Needless to say, I'm overjoyed. Happy beyond happy. It's the type of news that will sustain me until I go away at the end of the month and until I have to do this again in 90 days. Or as my friend Juliet says, "It's just four times a year. It sounds better that way". So, that's how I'll put it. 4 times a year for two years. Which sounds much better, she's right. Although I still have the back pain. The type that happens when I'm eating. It feels like general muscle soreness but one of my oncologist was like "Set up an appointment with the secretary and come in for tests." But the problem is that she's in SI and it takes over an hour to get there and I'd have to leave work early or not go to work and I don't feel like doing that anymore. I wish doctor's had more convenient hours. But I think I'll just find a specialist nearer my house. Cause it ain't worth it to travel all the way out there, particularly when she said, "Well, I'd like to examine you to make sure that where you're telling me the pain is, is where it is, location-wise" I was bewildered by that remark, because, uh, I'm pretty sure I know where it hurts BECAUSE I CAN FEEL IT! Giving her the benefit of the doubt, I thought she meant if it is bone or muscular but no she meant where I was saying it hurt. Maybe she knows something I don't and I shouldn't bad mouth her.

So for now, while I'm clear, I have to ask everyone that I know to pray and send good thoughts to someone that the Lymphoma organization set me up with as a buddy. She's so sweet & so positive and is having a bit of a rough time; and it sucks because she's one of the nicest people I've met in the recently. And I truly believe that the good wishes that I received from everyone are what allow me to train for a half marathon in September, learn how to surf this weekend & go to the mall (which I wasn't allowed to do on chemo). So if you're reading this, send all the hope and wishes over to Cranford, NJ.

My cat fell out of a window today. And then he was subjected to being in a standoff with the stray cats that live and create havoc in my backyard. Thankfully, by chance, my mother had been coming over today to drop off groceries. She noticed the cat didn't come running to the door as he always did. And then she noticed the screen was out of the kitchen window. She saw the cats that were hissing and growling and screamed "Coyote!" And apparently he reacted like "Help me!"
My mother rescued him and he's a little traumatized at the moment.

But why is this story important? Well, it's midnight and I have to get up crazy early for this test, but I'm having trouble sleeping. And I just keep thinking how amazing it is that this cat isn't even scratched or hurt or has anything broken. He fell two stories and he's still here. Which means that it's possible to pick yourself up and be okay after something that should've killed you. And which gives me a lot of hope about tomorrow.

Tomorrow is my first post-cancer follow up test. A low-carb day, followed by no food after midnight then being in this place for two hours, assuming that they do everything on time (which they never do). And then a full-day of work and waiting for the results, which I’m hoping don’t take too long. I actually discovered something this weekend—I can no longer drink. I had a beer and a half, and was not only a little drunk but also woke up the next day not feeling well. I’ve become that girl. The one who has a bit of Coors’ Light (although I was drinking Summer Ale) and is dancing on tables and going to her friends, “OMIGOD I am so drunk”. Well, not that girl specifically, but that type of girl. I used to be able to drink a couple of beers, do a shot or two and be fine. I mean, I played Rugby. I guess I should be happy that I didn’t have this problem in college, because I definitely would’ve been left home on many occasion or had my Amstel switched out for an O’Dool’s by my friends who would be embarrassed of my behavior.

Being in the hospital was horrible. I hated it. That’s not to say that there were not amusing moments. They paired me up with a 90 year old, morphine addict who was surprisingly lucid given her age.

When we got there, and were put on an oncology floor, I was surprised that there were few nurses who could access my port. My mother sternly told the nurse manager that she did not want someone to “practice” accessing my port. The woman assured my mother that this would not be the case. And then they brought in a fairly new nurse, and three managers and a doctor to watch her access my port. At first they said that she had done this “loads of times”. It turns out it was the third time she had ever done it. I felt bad for the nurse, because she looked so scared and nervous but at the same time, I wasn’t very happy about being lied to by the nurses. It also wasn’t the first time that my mother would wind up staring the woman down with a smoldering anger behind her eyes.

The thing about hospitals is that I’m unsure how anyone gets better there. I slept a maximum of four hours a day, which I’m pretty sure is not helpful to my immune system. My mother stayed with me practically the whole time. She would catch her sleep on a “sleeper chair” at the foot of my bed. And I’m sure that she got little sleep as well, and it’s amazing that we didn’t kill each other at the end of it. I love her and all, but that tight of quarters for any amount of time, with anyone, and under such stressful circumstances really tests the limits of your patience and your ability to keep your annoyance to yourself.

The doctor’s had no idea what was wrong with me. They weren’t convinced it was PCP, although I had exhibited all the signs. The pulmonologist came in one day to discuss with me the options—I could go for a gallium scan which would almost definitively give them an answer or “We can shove a rubber tube up your nose and then down your throat and collect spewtum. It’s very invasive, and quite uncomfortable, and it might not even yield any results.” What the hell kind of choice was that…again? I opted for the gallium scan, particularly because the doctor presented it in such a way that was like “Cake or Death?” And it’s “Cake, please.”

Apparently I lit up like a Christmas Tree so yes, I had PCP. But they still wouldn’t say it definitely. But they treated me for it with Bactrim and Steroids and within hours my symptoms began to subside. There is a catch here though—the doctors, most of them, were completely confused as to why I had PCP. On normal regimens of CHOP, it was basically unheard of. So because they were so confused, they tested me for HIV and kept asking me if I was HIV Positive and not telling them. And they treated me like I was HIV+. I was so disheartened to know that they were so confused but also because they didn’t believe me.

My oncologist however was convinced it was PCP and told me from the beginning. How did she know when all these other docs were so confused? Ahh, the catch. When I went to Sloane-Kettering they told me that on the every two weeks of CHOP, they had seen a lot of PCP, so they were giving Bactrim as a preventative. Shocked, I passed this information onto my doctor, thinking she didn’t know. However, she did. Her answer as to why I wasn’t made aware of this: MD Anderson doesn’t give Bactrim as a matter of practice, so she didn’t. She put me at risk without telling me about it. I was so devastated and angry. It should have been my choice as to whether I could take the antibiotic. I almost died, because she didn’t feel it necessary to give me something that would’ve caused no real ill side effects.

The dying part. I forgot about that. The night that I was put on the Bactrim and steroids, I was also put into the ICU. My pressure was dropping fast and significantly, my Pulse Ox was at 88 and my pulse was racing above 145. They wheeled me up there and placed me into this room. I had an oxygen mask on. I had already begun to feel better and let me tell you—ICU is not a place for anyone aware of their surroundings. First, they started by placing all those cold, sticky things all over me. Then I was hooked up to every machine conceivable. Then, they told me anytime I needed to use the bathroom (a commode type of thing in the room with me) that I needed to buzz for the nurse. They sent my mother home. The front of the room is all glass, with a not completely helpful curtain across it. So once I had to pee, I called for the nurse. A nurse’s aide comes in and says “Okay, I’ll get you a bucket.” I panicked. What the hell did I need a bucket for. I could walk to the bathroom it was five feet away. I was like, no, no bucket please stop robbing me of my dignity. So, she allowed me to use the bathroom and shut the curtain (as much as it would go). Eventually I figured out that the wires would let me go all the way to the bathroom so I didn’t need to call the nurse. People’s vents were going off all night, there was screaming and crying and needless to say I didn’t sleep at all, even with Resterol (sic?) in me. The nurses were very rude. Apparently one of the doctors had called to find out of if I was there, and if I was okay, and they told her that they couldn’t say. Which seemed to make no sense to me because shouldn’t my doctor be able to find out if I was alive?. By five a.m. I had apparently drifted off. At six a.m. the phlebotomist came in to draw blood, and was grabbing my arm aggressively. I woke up enough to tell her that I had a port accessed and that they didn’t need to draw blood out of my arm (which was still sore from being injected at the gallium scan). She flipped out, telling me that only a doctor could draw blood. So they paged Dr. Doogie Howser (he literally looked nineteen) who said that he’d draw it later. The phlebotomist glared at me and told me she was writing “Patient refused blood-work” in my chart, which wasn’t true, but whatever. At seven o’clock I took myself off oxygen. I waited until nine to call my mother, growling into the phone to get me off the floor. By twelve I was back downstairs.

The best was when I asked the doctor why he had put me in ICU. He said, “Well, we didn’t know which way you were going to go. We needed you turn a corner. And here you are!” And then I regretted asking because I didn’t want to know that I had been near death at all. Because I hadn’t felt like I was dying. I would think that I’d have an inkling or an idea and the fact that I didn’t feel like that made me more nervous. It was the same thing as finding out you had cancer. I hadn’t felt well, but flu-like unwell, and did not feel like it was something as serious as cancer. And then to find out half the time there are no symptoms, it’s frightening to think that as your body is shutting down you’re mostly unaware that anything is so very wrong. And now, if I have a cough or a backache or anything that is generally just part of living, I feel like it’s a symptom of something far more insidious and that they’re going to turn to me and be like, “That backache that you thought was just from sleeping kind of weird is really your lymphoma returning.”

Because I was so susceptible to getting sick, my roommate had been moved out. She had caught a horrible cold in the hospital and they were worried that she’d get me sicker than I was. So for two days I had the room to myself, which was nice. My mother and I watched a lot of TV, which you had to pay $6 a day for. One night we watched “The Christmas Shoes”. Not being country fans, we weren’t truly prepared for this movie. I kept saying “Oh she’ll get a heart now” or “Those shoes can’t be it, they’re horrid” or “Rob Lowe dies and donates his heart” but that never happened and in the end, the kid gives his mom these horrible shoes on her deathbed and Rob Lowe doesn’t get divorced. It was such a horrible movie and we were looking at each other like, what kind of Christmastime crap is this! And then I got a new roommate. She was a few years older than me, and dying. It was horrible. The room was always quiet and I hated to walk by her bed on the way to the bathroom. But she didn’t want to be moved. She liked to be in the room with my friends and family coming back and forth and I really felt bed for her but I was afraid to go to sleep because she was so close to death and looked like she was going to code any minute. She also didn’t have a DNR, so I was petrified at what might happen. She refused treatments and to be intubated and she had so much trouble breathing that it would come out in raspy whisps of air and she would inhale gulps of air and cough and I just wanted to help her. I don’t know what ultimately happened to her, but I think she passed away. I hope it was peaceful.

Finally, on Christmas Eve, I was let out of the hospital. Apparently the doctor that was supposed to write my release two days prior, was in India for a month and no one had bothered to inform anyone else. So two extra days of watching bad t.v., and eating hospital food (or not eating it) because no one could write a friggin’ memo?

Sometimes it hits me at weird times. The overwhelming part of all this; the utter loneliness of being in this classification of cancer survivor. My weekend plans had been shot after my friend’s car failed to work. Something about a computer chip. So, I was looking at a weekend at home with my books, my t.v. and my cat. This wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t really been looking forward to going out and doing something for a change. I was excited to be going somewhere and getting away. But there I was on Friday night, watching the end of Gia on HBO. And I know that she had AIDS and it’s a movie, but I watched her in the bed, a shadow of who she was and I had to shut it off. I couldn’t think about it. And I went to go into the kitchen to get myself a glass of water, but I suddenly couldn’t walk any further and slid down the wall and just cried. I needed to be distracted for a while, but I was only met with silence and the fact that half my friends were at the Shore or with their boyfriends and I was here, contemplating the fact that I didn’t want to be dying; I wanted to be just fine and if I was going to die I wanted it to be quick and I didn’t want to know about it. It wasn’t an existential discussion at a bar over martinis about life and death. It was this internal dialogue, a raging debate inside me: how do I go on with what happened and how I’m going to deal with what has yet to be? What if it comes back? Before I was diagnosed, there was no “what if”? It simply wasn’t part of my consciousness. Sure, I wondered if I would get married and have kids—more so out of the fact would anyone be willing to make that type of commitment to me, rather than would I be around long enough to entertain the option. But now, I panic when I feel tired or a little back pain. I know what has come before and I know what could come again. And I don’t to have to do it all again (and I truly applaud the people that do. It’s amazing to me. The strength and resolve and spirit). I didn’t want to be worrying about lying in a bed with IVs and living out my days knowing that when I went to sleep that night I might not wake up. I wanted to be laughing and dancing and forgetting about the fact that I have to go for a PET/CT Scan the next week. A lot of my friends don’t even ask me to do stuff anymore; mostly because they don’t think that I can do anything because I said that I couldn’t for so long. They feel bad to ask and have me tell them that I can’t. And I can’t keep having my friends change their plans because I’m tired and can’t do much. And I hate after a long weekend being asked “So whaddya do?” And I have to admit to nothing. Shopping and cleaning. Got to watch The Manchurian Candidate, The Hudsucker Proxy and Bowling for Columbine. And the silence on the other end, like the disappointment that I didn’t do something better; that I’m not totally living life to the fullest as I should be. “How about you?” I’d ask, and I’m met with “I had a really good weekend.” And they sound like they mean it. They went to the beach, went to parties, went to a cabin with their families and I was home, putting together my new bathroom accessories. It makes me feel like I’m failing at my twenties, some unknown barometer of how well you know how to party and live. So I’m stuck in two places at once. On one hand, I’m dealing with the fact that I just got over this huge life ordeal and should be proud of the strength and resolve that I had to do so. Reconciling with myself that it’s going to take time to get back into the normal swing of things and that dating and going out and all that stuff was put on hold so I could like, live. And then to realize that I am getting my life back and I can be a normal 24 year-old again but I’m not even sure what that means anymore. I’m not sure what I should be worrying about. Should I go and get this great dream job because who knows for how long I’ll be around and why waste my time filing and faxing? Or if I approach life like the news that I’m going to be dying is coming, does that mean that I’ll live life to the fullest any more or less? What should my priorities be? Does it even matter? You know what I wish? I wish I could put my hair in a pony tail. Maybe something that simple would make it better.

After I had finished six rounds of chemo, every other week, I was getting set to take my PET Scan to determine where I stood. I thought that the general battle was over. Almost ten days after my last chemo, my friends visited me from England. We sat in my apartment and watched E! and then a soccer game, through which my friend Karen continually rolled her eyes as her husband Chris watched with excitement. When we got hungry, Chris begged to get Subway, because he really loved Subway. And I had coupons. All in all it was a lovely visit. And then, for some unknown reason—not because I felt sick—I took my temperature. It was 100.4. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t feel unwell, but knew that a temperature above 100.5 was a reason to call the hospital. First, I called my mother and told her. I swore it was that I was just tired and needed to drink more. She said okay, and to take it again in a little bit and we’ll go from there. When I called her a half an hour later, she was already on her way in. We called the Oncology Center, and after not hearing back for over an hour, we beeped my doctor. She told me to head to the ER and get a CBC done. It was probably nothing. Happily, I got in the car and went to the ER; I had to call ahead of time to tell them that I was coming so that they could put me in reverse isolation. The first time I had gone to the ER was about a month into treatment. I had spiked a fever, had a runny nose and a cough. I cried when they put me in the room and told me I might have to be admitted. I begged and pleaded not to be. Because of a mysterious outbreak of something or other in the hospital they thought it would be better for my overall health if I went home. So, they put me on Cipro and Augmentan (sic) and sent me home. I was better in a few days; I had just a cold but on chemo a cold could kill you. But this time I wasn’t so lucky and it wasn’t a cold. But more on that. So I walk into the ER, tell them all I need is a CBC and that was it. However, they were like “uh, there’s protocol on a chemo patient.” And I was whisked away to a private room that had been recently scrubbed and told to put on a gown. And the inevitable “pee in this cup”. Damn! And then sitting on the bed, my best friend who happened to be the PA on duty that night wandered in. She looked sick to see me. They accessed my port and then drew blood for cultures. I had to take a Chest X-Ray. I was put on IV antibiotics. I so very badly wanted to go home. I kept insisting that I didn’t feel sick, I wasn’t sick, that I was just tired and needed to get out of there. But more than that, I wanted them to call my oncologist and tell her what was going on. She had told me to have them call her as soon as I had gotten there. I kept insisting that it was important and I was being ignored. I didn’t want any antibiotics or medicine until they cleared it with her. “It’s protocol,” the smug, self-satisfied bastard of a doctor told me. “I understand that, but I need you to call her.” “We’re not calling her until we know something.” “She asked me to have her called. She needs to know what is going on.” “No,” was the simple reply. He told me that my chest x-ray showed a “haziness” and that I had pneumonia, case-closed and was going to be admitted for overnight observation. I was put on Avelox and that was the end of it.

The next day, I woke up with a horrific cough. Just to note: this was one that I hadn’t had the day before. My hospital room was freezing. I had hardly slept. The oncologist on call visited the next day, told me he wasn’t convinced that I had pneumonia (the X-ray was apparently not as definitive as the ER doctor had said it was) and that I could go home on PO medication. Yay! Or so I thought.

The next few days were hard. The symptoms ebbed and flowed. One minute I couldn’t breathe walking to the bathroom. Another I was fine. At some points I couldn’t even talk. I had become very tachycardic and tachyptnic. My mother kept calling the Oncology Center, and at one point was told “If she gets any worse, bring her in.” My mother’s response, “What like when she’s dead?” Frustrated, they took me in anyway. At the office, my pulse-ox was 95 and my heart rate was 144. Still, I wasn’t admitted (apparently no beds). But we waited there for 6 hours. Eventually we went home, were I was put on a different antibiotic and labored upstairs to bed. That night, my fever spiked at 103. I was freezing and begging my mother to make me warmer. She said I was burning up and held me and rocked me back to sleep. The next morning, she said that there was no way I was getting better and needed to be in the hospital. As soon as a bed was ready, they carried me downstairs to the car and I was gearing up to spend my holidays in the unit.

On my way to work, or out to lunch, or even on my way home, I'm always amazed at how many people actually smoke. And I have no problem with anyone who wants to smoke. Me--I don't. Never did. I can't. Smoking would be signing a death certificate right now. It would negate all the chemo and radiation and besides I'm not really a fan. It smells. My neighbor's downstairs are chain smokers (she was recently diagnosed with non-operable lung cancer) and my apt. smells like I smoke. My clothes reek. I have to go buy special expensive laundry detergent to get the smell out. But I digress. I really don't care if people want to smoke. Because while it's a proven fact that it causes a myriad of diseases, I don't think that line will really work to deter people. Why? Well, new research shows that soda causes cancer. Apparently tampons cause cancer. Nutra-sweet causes cancer. The sun causes cancer for crying out loud. So basically at any point in any day you can be exposing yourself to some sort of risk.

But there is an annoying thing about smoking. I can not be around someone who smokes. It really can hurt me. I get nervous that second hand smoke will do more damage to my lungs or create problems. And whenever I tell a smoker, "please don't smoke in front of me," they get angry like I'm preaching to them. When I'm not. I'm simply asking not to increase the rate in which I might die by blowing smoke in my face. One time, when I was just getting over pneumonia, I was online for the bus. This woman was smoking and it was going in my face. But I had a bit of a nasty cough left over from the pneumonia so I was coughing in general. And because it was so cold, I was holding my scarf across my mouth so that I didn't aggravate my lungs with the cold air. She got so mad at me and started cursing at me and telling me how disrespectful I was and if she wanted to smoke and blow it in my face she could and if I didn't like it to get to the back of the line. First, I was so taken aback that she would flip out like that. And then I calmly said, "Yes, you have every right in the world to smoke. I'm not lecturing you. However, I just finished chemo and being in the hospital with pneumonia, so between the cold and your cigarette smoke, I'm going to be coughing. And if you have a problem with that, then I suggest you stand somewhere else."

Sometimes reading about other's struggles is a good idea. I was just on planetcancer's forums, lurking as it were, and reading about those who are in remission, and have been for quite some time, and thinking "yes, that could be me." Only, just as often, I find myself staring at the words that have come to haunt me: "this is dedicated to (his/her/their) memory." My stomach drops, tears well up behind my eyes, and the sadness sets in. Because it's a reality. I try to act like I'm not living with cancer; the disease has been eradicated from my body and there are no more remnants of it to be found. But then I think, no, it's still there, waiting for a moment when I let down my guard, when I'm happy again, just to come back and take me down again. I pray that my name is never in that empty slot of "Dedicated in loving memory. She left us too soon." And soon means young. Before I have time to lament about crow's feet and kids. Before I can receive an invitation to my tenth high school reunion; and promptly turn it down. Before I can bitch about gravity doing a number on my body and how my eyesight is failing and that things sure ain't what they used to be. Before I can get married and have a house on the beach and stare at the ocean while on a swinging on a hammock. Before I can learn to surf or mountain climb or go to an exotic island. Before I can buy my own car and not have to worry about the payments because I actually saved enough. Before I can forgive myself for whatever mistakes I've been able to make in the short time I've been an actual adult.

I try not to give my fears any voice. Because it feels like if I say it, it makes it true. Which means that if I say "It's not coming back" that will make that true, but for some reason it never seems to work like that. It doesn't mean that I live everyday waiting for the other shoe to drop. That I'm not "Staying Positive" (see cliche post). It just means that there are moments when the idea of death, of dying, of having an epitaph comes and sits next to me. But I once told my father "You can't live your life afraid of dying." And that's what I tell myself when these nagging thoughts come to play mind games. And sometimes I'll take an Atavan to make sure that I can make it through. But just as often, those words are all I need to remember that all those things I mentioned above are still within my reality.

Well, same day but two different posts. The surgery went very well; apparently the post I had from yesterday didn't go through and well....here we are. I am very sore right now but so very happy. Not from the Vicadin (which I always spell wrong I think) either. It was everything that was to be expected; got there at 7 and as soon as we walked in there was a woman behind the counter waiting. I walked over. She looked up at me for a split second before lowering her head. I said my name and she didn't acknowledge me with her eyes, or a smile, just a "yeah." Sign this, mark here, insurance card please, sit there and we'll call you. All without making eye contact once. Pretty impressive. I really like that the people that they have behind the desk welcoming people before they go under the knife is so pleasant.

And then the waiting. I'm convinced that if I added up all the times I've waited in the past nine months, I could get a whole three days back. Walked into the back room ; my mother came with me. She's a nurse at that hospital, so everyone addresses her instead of addressing me. Half the time they think I'm 16. It's actually really annoying. Not that I mind my mother speaking up and giving information that I may have left out, but I do mind when they speak with her instead of me as if I'm incapable of giving an accurate recount of my health history. But eventually I tell them to please direct their questions to me and they respect that although they do sometimes think it makes me a little difficult.

Then you have to take the pregnancy test. Now, since all that has happened to my body, they tell me my chances for getting pregnant at some point in the future may be the same odds as the Bills winning a superbowl. However, and without fail, every time they hand me the illustrious cup to pee in, a nurse must tell me the story of how her friend/sister/neighbor/cousin/coworker/friendssister'sneighbr'scousin'scoworker also had cancer and low and behold now she's got three kids. It's very sweet; but funny because everyone does it. Plus at this point in time I'm like--uh, no kids is fine by me!

Then the inevitable IV for the anesthesia to come later. I always tell my mother she can not come to recovery until I am completely coherent. I do not need her asking me about whatever questions she has about my teenage and early college years. Or now even. Not that she would, but I would think that it would be tempting for a parent to find out exactly how many parties were held in their home. I remember one time my friend L and I both told our parents we were staying with the other one for a week. And then both sets of parents went away. I'm lame and wouldn't let anything happen to their house but sure had fun with the freedom at L's house. :-) Well, she didn't even need to ask me under anesthesia. She could just read this.

Then you walk down the hallway. Now you only have those horrid hospital robes on and you have to take off one of them. So trying to maintain your dignity is a little hard, clutching the back and lying down on the table to make sure nothing is showing. Because in five minutes while you might be lit up like a Christmas tree and not care, at that moment you do care, because there's a cute tech in the room, you have that horrible blue hat thing over your head and the hospital booties and the mumu (sic?) hospital robe is not helping your chances. Well, there was no chance anyway, but still...then you're on the table having things stuck to you and strapped in and it's all well and good because they're starting to sedate you and you're not having a care in the world. You feel like you could get up and walk out of there towards freedom just the way you are--much like Barbara Streisand at the end of "Nuts". Only there's still a receptor in your brain stopping that from happening. Then you're out but then you're back! And the OR is hopping. I can hear the chatter but not sure what they're talking about and slowly I came to and realized that they wanted to put music on in the OR but it might be Eminem. Hmmm. Okay as long as it isn't Britney or Jessica Simpson massacring a perfectly good Berlin song, I'm fine. One, two, three the port is out you're in the recovery room being hooked up to the final monitors of the day. Yay! But you know what is always inevitable with me. They always forget to take off one of those stickies. Always. So today as I was changing, there was one last sticky thing, which I don't mind them taking off when I'm feeling no pain, but now I'm feeling all the pain and it just sucks ripping it off your skin. But now it's time for lots of water, good ER reruns, sleep and some sympathy. And the port is GONE!