It's amazing how a cheesy movie, with horrible acting and very lame editing, can stil manage to make me cry and put an end to my going-out plans. Let me explain.

I am about to admit that I'm a huge Ryan Reynolds fan. Yup, I mean, like fourteen years ago, I actually watched the show Fifteen when it was on Nickeolodean and had a huge crush. So there you go. Yes, I know he's marrying Alanis Morrisette and well, his movies aren't always the greatest, but he has this ease and charm that I can not help but find attractive. Anyway, he was in a movie on ABC Family and I just happended to TIVO it. After catching up on all my shows this evening, I cliked my now playing and turned on.

It was horrible. It really was. It was overdubbed, the dialoge was horrific and well, I didn't really want to watch it but I was sucked in. And there I was, enjoying the cheesy goodness and yup, it turns out that this loveable, young, wonderful teacher had terminal cancer. Throughout the movie you get glimpses--that he doesn't want to have relationships, he's kind of cut off from his world outside is job, yadda yadda yadda, and seeing him in the chemo room kind of jolted me. And I was literally in the chemo room that I had received treatment in two days ago, so I have no idea why this moved me. Maybe because there I had been visiting, on my way to somewhere else, and I had gone back just to say hi, to show off that I have hair, that I look normal. I don't know. But here I am, blotchy faced and a tension headache hitting between my eyes. Needless to say, I won't be getting dressed to go and sit at a bar and watch the crowd go by.

Insecurity. I’m pretty sure that we all deal with some measure of it. Me, I’m pretty bad. I know I’m extremely insecure, mostly about how I look. The worst part about it is, I studied rhetoric and cultural theory in college, with Susan Bordo as a frequent book selection, and Leslie Heywood a teacher and advisor, so truly I should know much more than the average person about the damage of the conventions of beauty. And while I’ve been able to dissect the social constructions around beauty, I’ve still never been able to reconcile it within myself. I give good speeches, but I’m not sure if I ever truly accept even my own words of wisdom.

Ah, so how does this at all play into this game of survival? I think this part of me is genetic. When my grandmother was dying (of brain cancer) she was talking about seeing my dead grandfather and a biker angel. She had become obsessed with Ricky Martin and Joe Pesci. But even though her mind was slowly slipping away, her vanity remained intact. She still wanted to wear makeup, and nice clothes, and she was so concerned about how the steroids and treatment was making her look. My nanny was a beautiful woman. She was absolutely stunning. She was a kind, good-hearted person who gave of herself and any definition of beautiful—in regards to both the aesthetic and personality—applied to her. While others questioned why she would care what she looked like, I didn’t. I understood even then. She would’ve been beautiful to me no matter what; and I know that she knew that, but it didn’t mean that she didn’t want her lipstick applied perfectly day in and day out.

What happens is that we become attached to our outside persona. We recognize ourselves in photographs and the mirror. It’s how we reach our identity. But this sickness, this disease, takes that away bit by bit. You’re subjected to countless humiliations and all of the sudden you’re completely dependent on everyone you come into contact with to help you get well and not lose your mind. And you look in the mirror and you wonder: Is this who people see? Is this who I am now? It’s not even fitting into some idea of beauty that Hollywood has created. That’s why I don’t understand plastic surgery; why would you want to look like anyone other than who you are? I would think that would completely screw with your head. Believe me, I wasn’t even thinking, damn I wish I could look like Kate Bosworth. I was thinking, when can I look like the girl smiling in the photos of my trip to California? When can I look like me? If I don’t look like me, and I certainly don’t feel like me, who am I? And if I can’t connect to that, do I lose that part of myself?

I am readily admitting I am insecure. I try to be better than that, I’ve written about it, and I wonder when I’m going to grow up and be comfortable in my own skin. When I’ll stop comparing myself to other people, and feel confident in knowing who I am.

This is a new year, and I suppose we’re all making resolutions. Or the smart ones of us aren’t wasting any time making them, which means that in one month there will be no guilt about not sticking to the excel spreadsheet that lays out the year’s budget. I actually signed up for a program called Builders of the New World, which mentors homeless children, sometime ago. It just so happens it gets kicked off in the New Year, which makes it seem as if I’ve resolved to do more charity work. But it’s not a resolution, it’s a conscious act, and it’s one I’m actually committed to.

I had my first training session on Weds. night, and I had a great time. It seems as if it’s a really great program. We had to go around the room and tell why we were involved. I had to write something similar on my application and I found myself then saying trite things like “I can learn so much more than I can teach” blah blah blah. But when my time came to speak it out loud, I found my reasoning much different. I had always worked with children and when I was sick, I wasn’t allowed to be around the disease-spreaders (I love them, but kids are gross and pass germs around like cookies) and it really sucked. I find kids to be very refreshing. For instance on Christmas my aunt had come to the house but didn’t want to hug me because she had a cold. I said, “Well, I’ve already had bronchitis this year, so don’t worry about it,” and my neighbors 7 year old daughter turns and says, “And cancer.” The whole room fell silent and I burst out laughing. I said, “Yes, and cancer but I don’t have that anymore.” And she said, “And bronchitis you don’t have anymore either.” It was such a random exchange but it really stuck with me. Anyway, back to the training session, I’m up and I said, “Well, last year I was diagnosed with cancer and when I was going through treatment, I wasn’t allowed to be around children. Now, I feel ready to connect to them again and I think this program will really be helpful. Plus it’s a creative outlet, so I’m not just raising money and removed from the situation.” And I found myself being much more honest. It’s probably really selfish that I want to do this program. I want to get back to doing things, and not feel so disconnected from people, from life. And also to get myself out of my own problems. It’s easy when we have something happen to us to get dredged up into it. I find that a lot of my recent charity work has to do with cancer. But I don’t want to neglect the fact that there are a lot of varying degrees of terrible situations and that I can’t just be like, “wow, this happened to me, so poor me” because that’s not really how I feel about it. And it’s not bad to be reminded now and again that I am pretty lucky all things considered.

Awhile back I wrote about how people tend to not really treat you all that different when you're a "survivor". I re-read the post and realized that I sounded pretty angry and felt some sort of entitlement to be treated differently; like I shouldn't have to put up with the same shit that everyone else does. Sort of like, god damnit be more careful of my feelings!

I've thought about it, and I guess that if everyone was hyper aware that I had been sick, and dealing with all this stuff, then I'd hate that too. I'd hate to be treated differently at all. What I was getting at is that probably what we all deserve is to treat each other better. I don't think you have to be sick or have a traumatic event or anything, I think that in each and every way possible, we need to make a concerted effort to be better human beings, for the sheer fact that if in some small way we can make someone, anyone's day better, we're reshifting this screwed up planet consumed by anger, money, power and violence. But on a day to day basis we forget occasionally forget to be kind or honest or thoughtful. We carve out days to do so, or hours, or events. I think I was just so frustrated with someone that day, I wanted the special treatment. But in general, nah, I don't want kit gloves just for being a survivor.

For instance, we were all at the bar the other night and my friend D notices something on my neck. He starts to go, wah uh, what's this. And I spun around, confused and was like, it's a scar. He freaks out, going, on my god, I thought it was a hickey. I start laughing, and said, no, no, it's not a hickey but do other people think that too? Hmmmm, that might not be helpful when I'm out and about. He finally relaxed and realized that I wasn't going to get upset or freak out or be like, you insensitive jerk it's a biopsy scar. Hey, maybe if I didn't like him I would, but in general, that's not my style. I don't like to make people feel bad for things that they didn't know.

There is no specific way to deal with a person being sick, or going through a family crisis or a traumatic event. The best way is to ask what they need and want from you. Explain that you're new at this, or that you want to be there for them, but they also need to express to you what that means. We as the patients shouldn't be expecting everyone to suddenly know what to do and read our minds. We're all different, we all handle things differently and if there was a great catch-all, as the magazine articles would like to suggest, then there would be no need for conversation at all. We could take their lines and use them in everyday life and be done with it. But life, illness, death, injury, war, anything is messy and painful but we owe it to each other to start to talk about it, be honest about it, have real conversations about it. That's always my theme--just be honest. On all ends. Walking around on eggshells is how we distance ourselves and makes for miscommunication and anger.

I used to write poems when I was younger. I’m pretty sure that they were horrible. I was always writing about some boy who may or may not have liked me and how my love was unrequited and while I’m sure it felt meaningful at the time, I look back at that and think, “was this for real?” The problems we create in high school seem so much bigger than us, and no one understands, no one can possibly be going through the same thing, yadda yadda yadda. As time passed, I found that I had less words to put into rhyming couplets. My problems had become deeper but I was also more removed from them. If someone asked me to write a flowing poem about the death of my grandmother, I wouldn’t be able to do it. She was far more meaningful and special to me than any high school boyfriend. But while I could compare the hurt of being broken up with to a gaping black hole in my soul (hey, I never said I was original) I really couldn’t find the words to deal with her dying. I know that a piece of me died when she did, but at the same time, I couldn’t put into any sort of form of what that really meant. I still probably can’t.

When I started this blog, I was hoping to get out on paper what it felt like to be going through cancer, surviving cancer and then just, well, surviving. I never felt that no one knew what it must felt like. Quite the opposite—I figured there would be tons of people with whom I could nod my head and say, “exactly”. My friends who never heard me express anything about my illness would read about my experience and gain a deeper insight into not just my journey, but their own or anyone else that they would meet along the way. But sometimes, just like above, I find myself falling short of the words to truly express either the joy or the pain of what is happening. And again, I find myself with endless paragraphs about unrequited love, although not as poetic but at least much more realistic. It’s funny, I’m so excited to not be writing about cancer, even if relates to my cancer in a tangential way, because I feel as if it’s something others beyond this little world I’ve created can relate to. But I wonder if it’s because I want to put all my effort into something that in reality doesn’t really matter all that much to me. I think we all do it. Put up those fronts to the rest of the world, hoping that if we can find those commonalities, we’ll never have to really discuss what makes us so different. I mean, I refuse to believe that people only think about the most shallow of bar discussions on a constant basis, even if that’s all you ever hear them talk about. But these barriers we create, hidden by topics of no substance, but are things that we can go on and on about, things that always provoke some sort of endless conversation. That’s always what attracts me to people. The minute they let down that barrier, even for a brief moment, that softening of their persona, I’m intrigued. It’s like you’re really seeing someone and they’re really seeing you and all the pretense and the lies are gone, and I feel like, yes, finally, I can say something to an actual person instead of just writing it and being removed from it. But the moment passes, and the walls go back up and maybe I spend the rest of my time looking for that moment again when you can really connect about things that matter. But it’s probably not appropriate to discuss with most people that you meet. It doesn’t even necessarily have to be depressing, just meaningful, but it doesn’t matter, I guess. Not all the time anyway.

So, that’s just something I’ve observed lately. As I start to participate more, I’m also finding myself saying less. Becoming obsessed with talking about those topics that have little relevance in the grand scheme of things, but then I don’t have to worry about discussing the latest test or the how I had to go for an echo cardiogram on my day off. But I don’t think I’m doing anyone any favors by forgetting the reason that I started this blog. Or maybe, this is what happens when you become more removed from treatment, your cancer becomes the core section of your life, but you also become less and less attached to it. It doesn’t rule your life, it just touches it. I’m not sure.

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.