"I bet you are so over this."
"I had no idea you were still receiving treatment.".
"4 more weeks of radiation? Don't you want to run the other direction?"
Umm. Yup.
On Friday my oncologist scheduled all my remaining appointments.
They last until July.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
Day 268 - perspective
I think I have mentioned before how much I like my radiologist. He is a really positive guy, and as an added bonus looks like someone who could, well, save your life.
Every Friday we sit down for a little chat - he checks my skin, my demeanor, and then sends me on my way.
Today he was out, so I got the substitute Dr.
This one didn't look like he could survive a stiff breeze.
His first question to me was, "how old are you?" Since the average age of breast cancer diagnosis is 65 I am a youngster in these parts. He smiled when I said, "41".
The he asked if I was feeling any fatigue. I told him most days I feel OK, but some days I am just exhausted.
His take was it wasn't radiations fault. What I really was feeling was the impact of the stress of a cancer diagnosis, running around to a million appointments, and trying to stay present in my real life.
I think I blinked about 40 times to push the tears back into my eyes, but he saw right through me.
"Don't worry, the great thing about someone your age and with your diagnosis is that you will survive this".
And I was reminded.
With age comes wisdom.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Day 265 - A promise kept
When I was in 7th grade I told my parents that I was going to get a full ride athletic scholarship. My father said that if that was the case, then he would buy me a brand new car.
I am not sure if he believed me at the time, since I am pretty sure he didn't have a brand new car himself, but I never let him forget it.
On the day that I signed my letter of intent to the U of O, I began dreaming of the new car I would be driving up to Eugene.
Somehow one of my Uncles convinced me that I didn't want a brand new car in college, that what I actually wanted was a brand new car when I graduated from college. For some reason I believed this to be a great idea, and told my parents of this new revised plan.
The very next day my Dad drove home, in HIS brand new car. A sweet Chevy Blazer. To say I was bummed is an understatement, and for a while I thought I had been duped - that my parents had set me up with my uncles help.
Fast forward four years, and I am engaged to be married in my senior year of college. Now instead of the promised brand new car, I was getting a wedding.
Five years later, my father passed away. A few months after his funeral my mom called and said he would have wanted me to have his car.
When it arrived in New York all I could think was.
He kept his promise.
I am not sure if he believed me at the time, since I am pretty sure he didn't have a brand new car himself, but I never let him forget it.
On the day that I signed my letter of intent to the U of O, I began dreaming of the new car I would be driving up to Eugene.
Somehow one of my Uncles convinced me that I didn't want a brand new car in college, that what I actually wanted was a brand new car when I graduated from college. For some reason I believed this to be a great idea, and told my parents of this new revised plan.
The very next day my Dad drove home, in HIS brand new car. A sweet Chevy Blazer. To say I was bummed is an understatement, and for a while I thought I had been duped - that my parents had set me up with my uncles help.
Fast forward four years, and I am engaged to be married in my senior year of college. Now instead of the promised brand new car, I was getting a wedding.
Five years later, my father passed away. A few months after his funeral my mom called and said he would have wanted me to have his car.
When it arrived in New York all I could think was.
He kept his promise.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Day 263 - 1976 was a very good year
When Doug and I lived in New York we would spend summer weekends "upstate". A typical Friday would have us sprinting out the door with our dog, and jumping into our 1976 Volvo.
In order to keep it from overheating we would turn on the heater and roll down the windows. Doug would wear the same khakis to drive in since the springs coming through the cushion wore out his pants.
The Volvo had been our wedding gift from Doug's parents, or at least that was the running joke. When they handed it over to us I stood on a street corner in Brooklyn emptying the contents of the trunk with my sister Kristy who happened to be visiting.
I think we threw out at least 3 birds nests, a collection of rocks, acorns, and buckeyes. I returned the ax, scythe, and hoe, and know for a fact that some of the newspapers we pulled out were over 20 years old.
As crazy as it may seem, I loved that car. It was a total New York luxury.
And then one day it saved my life.
We were up in the country with friends, having a grand time. The guys were golfing, and Kristy, Kafka and I were on a two lane country road minding our own business. I signaled to turn left, slowed to make the turn, and then we were t-boned by the car behind us.
Seems the driver thought I was slowing down to let him pass.
Alas I was not.
I will spare you all the details here - but it did involve being cut out of the car, a trip to the hospital in an ambulance, and stitches.
The Volvo was towed to the junk yard where Doug went the next day to retrieve our belongings. To this day he describes it like going to a wake and saying goodbye to a good friend.
The car that replaced the Volvo has its own story too.
One that is a little harder to tell.
I will try that one tomorrow.
In order to keep it from overheating we would turn on the heater and roll down the windows. Doug would wear the same khakis to drive in since the springs coming through the cushion wore out his pants.
The Volvo had been our wedding gift from Doug's parents, or at least that was the running joke. When they handed it over to us I stood on a street corner in Brooklyn emptying the contents of the trunk with my sister Kristy who happened to be visiting.
I think we threw out at least 3 birds nests, a collection of rocks, acorns, and buckeyes. I returned the ax, scythe, and hoe, and know for a fact that some of the newspapers we pulled out were over 20 years old.
As crazy as it may seem, I loved that car. It was a total New York luxury.
And then one day it saved my life.
We were up in the country with friends, having a grand time. The guys were golfing, and Kristy, Kafka and I were on a two lane country road minding our own business. I signaled to turn left, slowed to make the turn, and then we were t-boned by the car behind us.
Seems the driver thought I was slowing down to let him pass.
Alas I was not.
I will spare you all the details here - but it did involve being cut out of the car, a trip to the hospital in an ambulance, and stitches.
The Volvo was towed to the junk yard where Doug went the next day to retrieve our belongings. To this day he describes it like going to a wake and saying goodbye to a good friend.
The car that replaced the Volvo has its own story too.
One that is a little harder to tell.
I will try that one tomorrow.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Day 261 - Reality Check
When you are told you have cancer the first thing that pops into your mind is:
There is no avoiding it. Meandering around in our daily lives our mortality pops up once in a while. You read a sad story. You hear about a tragedy, and you are thankful for a moment that it is not you, and you move on.
Then one day, it becomes your reality.
After I was diagnosed, Doug and I were grocery shopping and in walked a group of kids dressed in costume. I rounded the corner, and there standing in front of me was the Grim Reaper.
For a moment, in the cereal aisle, it was just me and the Reaper. I am not sure who flinched first, all I know is we both turned tail and got out of there as quickly as possible.
I have often wondered what the kid, who so smugly thought dressing as the symbol of death was a good idea, thought when he saw the bald chick.
Was I an omen to him?
Did I scare him away?
I hope so.
There is no avoiding it. Meandering around in our daily lives our mortality pops up once in a while. You read a sad story. You hear about a tragedy, and you are thankful for a moment that it is not you, and you move on.
Then one day, it becomes your reality.
After I was diagnosed, Doug and I were grocery shopping and in walked a group of kids dressed in costume. I rounded the corner, and there standing in front of me was the Grim Reaper.
For a moment, in the cereal aisle, it was just me and the Reaper. I am not sure who flinched first, all I know is we both turned tail and got out of there as quickly as possible.
I have often wondered what the kid, who so smugly thought dressing as the symbol of death was a good idea, thought when he saw the bald chick.
Was I an omen to him?
Did I scare him away?
I hope so.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Day 259 - Brody
Like I mentioned the other day my daily dose of radiation comes with a daily dose of reality.
I park by the same mini van every morning. The back window decorated with those stick figure family stickers, mom, dad, 4 kids, dog, names below.
Today I also noticed a huge sticker on the back "Brody's Army".
Brody's stick figure sticker shows that he is the youngest in the family.
I see him every morning at around 8:15, yet he will never see me.
He is dreaming as I walk by, slowly waking from the daily sedation he receives so he can lay still for his radiation treatments.
And I remind myself that life, while not fair, is still great.
And I remind myself that cancer is not a death sentence.
And I remind myself that in 5 weeks I can put this all behind me.
I park by the same mini van every morning. The back window decorated with those stick figure family stickers, mom, dad, 4 kids, dog, names below.
Today I also noticed a huge sticker on the back "Brody's Army".
Brody's stick figure sticker shows that he is the youngest in the family.
I see him every morning at around 8:15, yet he will never see me.
He is dreaming as I walk by, slowly waking from the daily sedation he receives so he can lay still for his radiation treatments.
And I remind myself that life, while not fair, is still great.
And I remind myself that cancer is not a death sentence.
And I remind myself that in 5 weeks I can put this all behind me.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
DAY 257 - I have a dream.
My day yesterday looked like this:
Radiation
Massage
Echo Cardiogram
Lunch with Doug
Shopping
Dinner with Girlfriends
Radiation was what it was. I did notice another patient yesterday, and as a parent lets just say I am so thankful that I am the member of my family receiving daily radiation.
Massage. My massage therapist is the best person Doug has introduced me to in the last year. She finds all the places that need a little extra attention and then she finds some more.
Echo Cardiogram. My every 3 week dose of Herceptin does a lot of things right. One of the things it does wrong is that it can mess up your heart. I had a small cough at my last appointment and my Dr. looked panic stricken. (did you know a persistent cough is a signal for a lot of things that can be going haywire in your body? Including congestive heart failure - which I don't have, but is one of the side effects of Herceptin).
Oh and because my cancer was on my left side, and I am receiving radiation to my left side, my heart is taking a beating (!) from that too. Thus the Echo Cardiograms every two months.
Lunch with Doug. We talked about the past year - what it has taught us so far - and how lucky we have felt in our lives. Oh and also how crazy Harris is.
Shopping. I bought my two best girls a tiny token of my appreciation. I said if I could have afforded it, I would have bought them each a Cartier LOVE bracelet, screwed it on, and tossed away the key.
Dinner. My friend Aimee turned 41 and we celebrated with laughter, tears, and Mexican.
Home. The house was quiet when I pulled in. I kissed everyone good night and finally went to bed!
Friday, January 13, 2012
Day 253 - rinse / repeat
Today started off just like yesterday. I woke up way too late (seriously, 7:30! does anyone in my house think that lump in bed needs to get moving? Thankfully Harris came in looking for his underwear), pulled myself together and was laying down receiving radiation by 8:00.
Three people asked me what lotion I was using. When I couldn't conjure up the name I got frustrated stares and harrumphs.
Even my reassurances that a friend who had gone through radiation sent it to me didn't seem to help. "It's homeopathic!" I said. No dice. Next week I need to bring it in with me for their review.
You see your skin takes a big hit during radiation - and I need to keep mine in great shape in order to make it through the next 6 weeks. The type of lotion you use is of paramount importance.
Who knew.
H+D
Three people asked me what lotion I was using. When I couldn't conjure up the name I got frustrated stares and harrumphs.
Even my reassurances that a friend who had gone through radiation sent it to me didn't seem to help. "It's homeopathic!" I said. No dice. Next week I need to bring it in with me for their review.
You see your skin takes a big hit during radiation - and I need to keep mine in great shape in order to make it through the next 6 weeks. The type of lotion you use is of paramount importance.
Who knew.
H+D
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Day - 252 - off to the races
So today I had my second radiation treatment, this one was much faster than yesterday, and is what my remaining treatments will look like.
You have heard me say it before, and today it was true, it takes longer to park your car and get undressed than the radiation treatment.
Waiting in line at Starbucks took longer.
Trying to find parking at work took longer.
Writing this post will take longer.
People keep asking me if I feel tired. I am not sure what tired feels like any more. But I did go to the gym yesterday - which is the number one thing every single Dr. I have seen has prescribed - exercise.
So 2 down, only 31 more to go.
d
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Day 251 - Survivor
I love the show Survivor. While I am not such a fanatic that I actually know the cast of every show, I could probably pick 30% of the contestants out of a line-up.
The kids favorite parts are the challenges. Over the years I think they have gotten easier/harder. Meaning, they don't last as long (easier), but to win some of the physical ones you have to be in outrageous shape (harder).
I had my own Survivor challenge today. For my first radiation appointment I had to lie perfectly still, with my arms raised over my head, topless, for 45 minutes.
Anyway, like I said yesterday I wanted to use this time to try and meditate, and to keep my shit together. I am not sure which was more difficult.
I think I did a pretty good job on the meditation front for the first 5 minutes, but honestly it could have been the first five seconds.
The next 45 minutes were like a multi layered psychedelic dream.
Mozart was playing in the background the entire time, for what I would like to believe was dramatic effect, but of that I am not really sure. Nurses bustled in and out, at times I felt like they were my ladies in waiting, fussing over me, adjusting this, murmuring that.
Once everyone was safely out of the way this huge machine would orbit around me, beeping like a 5am wake-up call the entire time.
After a while I began to wonder, is this some sort of military experiment. I have no idea how much time is passing, the Mozart mixed with the beeping, buzzing, and murmuring is beginning to make me feel, well, crazy.
Stuck with my arms over my head, my nose begins to itch, my shoulders are screaming and the blood has drained from my hands.
And just when I think I can not take one more second of it a nurse walks in and tells me in the most cheerful of voices,
"Half way there!"
So I resolve to put myself on some tropical island somewhere, balancing tea cups on a stick while standing barefoot on a stump, in the blazing sun, not able to move a muscle or else I will be eliminated from the game.
And wouldn't you know it before long the treatment was complete.
I had survived.
The kids favorite parts are the challenges. Over the years I think they have gotten easier/harder. Meaning, they don't last as long (easier), but to win some of the physical ones you have to be in outrageous shape (harder).
I had my own Survivor challenge today. For my first radiation appointment I had to lie perfectly still, with my arms raised over my head, topless, for 45 minutes.
Anyway, like I said yesterday I wanted to use this time to try and meditate, and to keep my shit together. I am not sure which was more difficult.
I think I did a pretty good job on the meditation front for the first 5 minutes, but honestly it could have been the first five seconds.
The next 45 minutes were like a multi layered psychedelic dream.
Mozart was playing in the background the entire time, for what I would like to believe was dramatic effect, but of that I am not really sure. Nurses bustled in and out, at times I felt like they were my ladies in waiting, fussing over me, adjusting this, murmuring that.
Once everyone was safely out of the way this huge machine would orbit around me, beeping like a 5am wake-up call the entire time.
After a while I began to wonder, is this some sort of military experiment. I have no idea how much time is passing, the Mozart mixed with the beeping, buzzing, and murmuring is beginning to make me feel, well, crazy.
Stuck with my arms over my head, my nose begins to itch, my shoulders are screaming and the blood has drained from my hands.
And just when I think I can not take one more second of it a nurse walks in and tells me in the most cheerful of voices,
"Half way there!"
So I resolve to put myself on some tropical island somewhere, balancing tea cups on a stick while standing barefoot on a stump, in the blazing sun, not able to move a muscle or else I will be eliminated from the game.
And wouldn't you know it before long the treatment was complete.
I had survived.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Day 250 - Marathon 3.0
I am really great at compartmentalizing things.
Breaking down a big problem into much smaller, easier to bite bits.
This skill was likely learned at Basketball practice. While I could practice Volleyball for hours and hours, I dreaded each and every Basketball practice of my life.
It was the games I loved.
But alas, you spend more time in practice. So in order to get through years and years of practice, I would try and get through each drill, then the scrimmage, and last running lines, bit by bit.
This is the same philosophy I used when facing 16 rounds of chemo.
It is what got me through a bilateral mastectomy + reconstruction.
And it is what I will pull from as I begin 33 radiation treatments tomorrow.
One of the strikes against radiation is that it is the least social of all cancer treatments. No chemo buddies allowed.
In fact the nurses and radiologists don't even get that close to you.
Tomorrow I go in at 11am, and since I go at it alone, I am hoping that if you find yourself daydreaming about lunch toss a few good thoughts my way too.
That machine kind of looks lonely.
Think about the power of radiation, of how it will seek and destroy any rouge cancer cells, of how it is going to give us all peace of mind.
I will be focusing on my mantra.
Long Life.
H+D
Breaking down a big problem into much smaller, easier to bite bits.
This skill was likely learned at Basketball practice. While I could practice Volleyball for hours and hours, I dreaded each and every Basketball practice of my life.
It was the games I loved.
But alas, you spend more time in practice. So in order to get through years and years of practice, I would try and get through each drill, then the scrimmage, and last running lines, bit by bit.
This is the same philosophy I used when facing 16 rounds of chemo.
It is what got me through a bilateral mastectomy + reconstruction.
And it is what I will pull from as I begin 33 radiation treatments tomorrow.
One of the strikes against radiation is that it is the least social of all cancer treatments. No chemo buddies allowed.
In fact the nurses and radiologists don't even get that close to you.
Tomorrow I go in at 11am, and since I go at it alone, I am hoping that if you find yourself daydreaming about lunch toss a few good thoughts my way too.
That machine kind of looks lonely.
Think about the power of radiation, of how it will seek and destroy any rouge cancer cells, of how it is going to give us all peace of mind.
I will be focusing on my mantra.
Long Life.
H+D
Monday, January 9, 2012
Day 249 - LIVESTRONG
I had lunch with Lance Armstrong today.
Like I have been telling the people around me, membership has its privileges.
Today is the 15 year anniversary of LIVESTRONG, and as part of the festivities all the Nike cancer kids were invited to have lunch with Lance, the Dr. who saved his life, and the foundation president.
As impressive as they all were, I was also glad to learn about the 30 people in the room with me, several with my same haircut.
2/3 of my lunch mates were women, and I would say 2/3 of the women were breast cancer survivors.
There were 3 redheads - all 3 had melanoma.
The men had a range of cancers- from testicular, to lymphoma.
My favorite discussion of the day was when we spoke about "The Obligation of the Cure".
When Lance was undergoing treatment, and it got to the point when his Dr. realized that he was going to survive, he began discussing with Lance his obligation to all the people who came before him. People who had gone through the clinical trials that lead to his cure, people who maybe didn't make it, people who would come next.
I often think of all the women who came before me. The ones who tried new therapies that are now standard, the ones who didn't have good nausea meds, the ones who received full body radiation.
They got me to today. They got me to survival.
Now my obligation is to help who ever comes next, in any way I can.
Like I have been telling the people around me, membership has its privileges.
Today is the 15 year anniversary of LIVESTRONG, and as part of the festivities all the Nike cancer kids were invited to have lunch with Lance, the Dr. who saved his life, and the foundation president.
As impressive as they all were, I was also glad to learn about the 30 people in the room with me, several with my same haircut.
2/3 of my lunch mates were women, and I would say 2/3 of the women were breast cancer survivors.
There were 3 redheads - all 3 had melanoma.
The men had a range of cancers- from testicular, to lymphoma.
My favorite discussion of the day was when we spoke about "The Obligation of the Cure".
When Lance was undergoing treatment, and it got to the point when his Dr. realized that he was going to survive, he began discussing with Lance his obligation to all the people who came before him. People who had gone through the clinical trials that lead to his cure, people who maybe didn't make it, people who would come next.
I often think of all the women who came before me. The ones who tried new therapies that are now standard, the ones who didn't have good nausea meds, the ones who received full body radiation.
They got me to today. They got me to survival.
Now my obligation is to help who ever comes next, in any way I can.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Day 248 - Forward thinking
Doug and I spent a lazy afternoon yesterday planning 3 separate vacations, and began discussing the 4th.
Our philosophy for years was to always have the next vacation planned before you left. That way you never get too bummed that a vacation is over, since you have the next one to look forward to.
Last year, because I had just started a new job, we failed to plan a Spring Break getaway, and then, well, you know what happened next.
We will be home bound until the end of February thanks to radiation, but after that we are free as birds.
First off - spring break in Palm Springs.
Next our usual grown up trip to Vegas for the first weekend of the NBA playoffs.
Then to San Francisco in June to watch the US open of Golf.
We bought tickets last year, a few weeks after this whole cancer thing started, as a reminder that life is for the living. Doug said he had always wanted to go, and I said why not.
At the time we had no idea what was ahead of us, but we needed to take a leap of faith that one year later we would be OK. It was worth the gamble, and I think I am looking to that trip the most.
2012 is a big year for us.
In March we will celebrate 20 years of marriage together.
In July Doug will turn 50.
In July I will be finished with my cancer treatments.
After that I hope things get boring.
Our philosophy for years was to always have the next vacation planned before you left. That way you never get too bummed that a vacation is over, since you have the next one to look forward to.
Last year, because I had just started a new job, we failed to plan a Spring Break getaway, and then, well, you know what happened next.
We will be home bound until the end of February thanks to radiation, but after that we are free as birds.
First off - spring break in Palm Springs.
Next our usual grown up trip to Vegas for the first weekend of the NBA playoffs.
Then to San Francisco in June to watch the US open of Golf.
We bought tickets last year, a few weeks after this whole cancer thing started, as a reminder that life is for the living. Doug said he had always wanted to go, and I said why not.
At the time we had no idea what was ahead of us, but we needed to take a leap of faith that one year later we would be OK. It was worth the gamble, and I think I am looking to that trip the most.
2012 is a big year for us.
In March we will celebrate 20 years of marriage together.
In July Doug will turn 50.
In July I will be finished with my cancer treatments.
After that I hope things get boring.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Day 244 - Back to the grind
After a long break from life, we landed back in the grind today. For me it wasn't really work that I was dreading, it was my two Dr.'s appointments.
First off my plastic surgeon, who seems to think everything is healing up just fine. No big news to report there, just that I am about 3 months out from having to make a tattoo decision.
Next was my trip to the basement of the hospital for a little radiation consultation that looked something like this:
Admitting nurse takes my blood pressure, weight, asks about my general health.
Radiologist comes in, chats with me about what we are going to do (33 cycles, so that is every weekday from January 11th - February 24th), gives me a robe to change into, examines my chest (I have never had so many people look at my bubbies in my entire life, at this point even if I were to become a playboy centerfold I feel more people will have already seen them), then leads me to the radiology room that contains this:
That right there is the machine that will be killing any left over cancer. In my heart I am sure it is all gone, but I am not going to take any chances at this point. Plus that machine looks totally kickass.
They have you lay down on a sort of bean bag type pad that goes from your waist to your head. A technician then puts you in the exact position, and builds a mould around your body. This is what I will lay on every time I come in for treatment to make sure my body stays in the right place.
Next up, the radiologist draws lines all over my chest showing the treatment area. Stickers are placed around my chest and torso, and into the machine I go.
For about 5 minutes I am left alone in the room, while the machine whirls around me, taking pictures, figuring out positions.
It requires some serious mental strength for me to not loose it. If you ever want to feel totally alone in the world, may I suggest a whirl in this fine machine.
I wonder, how am I going to get through this?
Since I have been considering learning about transcendental meditation, I resolve to spend my time in this chamber meditating. I will let you know how that goes.
After the machine is set, the technician comes in, and as a final prize, I receive my first tattoos. There are now about 7 spots on my body that the radiation beams will target, all permanent parts of my landscape.
And yes, those tattoos hurt. Especially the ones by my ribs.
When I was finished I got dressed, walked to my car, and started my day.
First off my plastic surgeon, who seems to think everything is healing up just fine. No big news to report there, just that I am about 3 months out from having to make a tattoo decision.
Next was my trip to the basement of the hospital for a little radiation consultation that looked something like this:
Admitting nurse takes my blood pressure, weight, asks about my general health.
Radiologist comes in, chats with me about what we are going to do (33 cycles, so that is every weekday from January 11th - February 24th), gives me a robe to change into, examines my chest (I have never had so many people look at my bubbies in my entire life, at this point even if I were to become a playboy centerfold I feel more people will have already seen them), then leads me to the radiology room that contains this:
That right there is the machine that will be killing any left over cancer. In my heart I am sure it is all gone, but I am not going to take any chances at this point. Plus that machine looks totally kickass.
They have you lay down on a sort of bean bag type pad that goes from your waist to your head. A technician then puts you in the exact position, and builds a mould around your body. This is what I will lay on every time I come in for treatment to make sure my body stays in the right place.
Next up, the radiologist draws lines all over my chest showing the treatment area. Stickers are placed around my chest and torso, and into the machine I go.
For about 5 minutes I am left alone in the room, while the machine whirls around me, taking pictures, figuring out positions.
It requires some serious mental strength for me to not loose it. If you ever want to feel totally alone in the world, may I suggest a whirl in this fine machine.
I wonder, how am I going to get through this?
Since I have been considering learning about transcendental meditation, I resolve to spend my time in this chamber meditating. I will let you know how that goes.
After the machine is set, the technician comes in, and as a final prize, I receive my first tattoos. There are now about 7 spots on my body that the radiation beams will target, all permanent parts of my landscape.
And yes, those tattoos hurt. Especially the ones by my ribs.
When I was finished I got dressed, walked to my car, and started my day.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Day- 241 - 26
It is no surprise to anyone that I am glad to see 2011 come to an end. We toasted to good health all night.
Today we spent some time with one of Doug's cousins. I feel a special kinship towards him; we are the same age, accomplished athletes (he is an Olympian and coach for the LA Gallaxy) and both cancer survivors.
I remember when Curt, at 26, was diagnosed with stage III non-hodgskins lymphomia. It was a total shock to all of us, and I was always impressed by the way he handled himself. He put on his game face, endured 6 months of chemo, and survived.
Back then I remember him telling me that he was, "excited" to have cancer. Not because he wanted to be sick, or face his mortality, but because he knew this was a challenge he could meet.
I am not sure if he would feel that way anymore, now with the layer of a wonderful wife and two children. Too many people depend on him now. But at 26, in Olympian shape, he must have felt invincible.
What I love about seeing him is how much he loves life, how happy he is, and how he rarely thinks about cancer.
Like I said before, I resolve to CONTINUE to be one thing in 2012.
Healthy.
Just like Curt.
Today we spent some time with one of Doug's cousins. I feel a special kinship towards him; we are the same age, accomplished athletes (he is an Olympian and coach for the LA Gallaxy) and both cancer survivors.
I remember when Curt, at 26, was diagnosed with stage III non-hodgskins lymphomia. It was a total shock to all of us, and I was always impressed by the way he handled himself. He put on his game face, endured 6 months of chemo, and survived.
Back then I remember him telling me that he was, "excited" to have cancer. Not because he wanted to be sick, or face his mortality, but because he knew this was a challenge he could meet.
I am not sure if he would feel that way anymore, now with the layer of a wonderful wife and two children. Too many people depend on him now. But at 26, in Olympian shape, he must have felt invincible.
What I love about seeing him is how much he loves life, how happy he is, and how he rarely thinks about cancer.
Like I said before, I resolve to CONTINUE to be one thing in 2012.
Healthy.
Just like Curt.
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