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.