Four years ago I purposely took on debt for the first time in my life. As I was easing from one career into another, it was necessary that I make some financial decisions that were previously foreign to me. It was uncomfortable, but I made it work. 

This past March, I finally paid it all off, including two surgeries that I'd unexpectedly had in the fall of 2016.

I was excited to put more money into savings, and to be able to share more freely with my kids. I was proud of myself that after a few years out of my high-paying job, I had finally recreated the same high-paying wage, but this time on my terms as I continued to build a new business. I got a bid to renovate my bathroom, and plans for more trips were underway. 

Not a month later, cancer showed up, throwing my entire financial picture into chaos. 

                                                       ************************************************

Did I mention that I am rarely sick? 

I get one cold per year, if any; I decline the flu shot annually even though I am a nurse who makes sure my residents get one; I have never had aches or pains, except self-induced by overdoing activity; I have always slept well; I have healthy skin, nails, and hair; I walk almost daily and practice yoga weekly; I am a Life Coach and RN who practices stress-free living; and I have built a beautiful life for myself and my family. I'm told often how much younger I look than my soon-to-be 55 year-old-self. 

I have had six surgeries in my lifetime and I have healed quickly and easily after each without needing any narcotics for pain relief. In fact, I don't do well on narcotics so I usually decline them when prescribed. I also birthed three babies without medication. My colleague said that if there was ever a poster child for healthy living, I am it! 

And besides having cancer, I'm a really healthy gal! Chuckle, chuckle. 

                                                     ***************************************************

On April 18th, my middle kid's 25th birthday, I finally, finally updated my will, feeling very adult that I'd completed it after so many years of it being obsolete.

​The evening before, I turned my head and felt an electric shock travel from my left upper back, through my neck and into my head where it immediately began pounding for about an hour, three days in a row. The headaches eventually went away, but the ache in my back lingered. I thought it was just a pulled muscle; a massage a few days later confirmed that I had many small knots in my upper back. 

I now believe that the odd muscle stitch was one of the first symptoms that morphed into the chest pains that took me to the doctor two weeks later. 

I kiddingly warn friends to never, ever update their wills!

                                                     ****************************************************

This is a newsletter I wrote in September 2017, which made my return visit in May 2018 feel like a premonition I didn't even know I'd had. 

As a nurse, I'm pretty fastidious about getting my annual check-ups. It's the only time I see an MD because I've been blessed with good health. But after my annual blood draw last month, I was referred to a hematologist, a doctor who specializes in blood disorders.  
 
I was surprised, but not worried, because when I asked myself if something felt wrong in my body, my immediate "knowing" was Nope.  
 
I also rationalized that if something was really wrong, I would've had an appointment immediately, but instead, I was given a date a month out. I promptly forgot about it until I had to rearrange my work schedule to go, but feeling concerned didn't even occur to me. Until, of course, I pulled up to a building today that read: "Cancer Care Center."
 
For the first time, it felt just a bit too real.  
 
As I climbed the steps toward the bathroom, I asked myself again: Do I resonate with having cancer? Again, I heard: Not one bit.  
 
At the check-in desk, my blase attitude began to lean toward concern as I was handed a large stack of papers to fill out. When I mentioned that this was only a consultation, the gal replied that everyone--whether diagnosed with blood disorders or cancer--gets the same packet.  
 
The visit suddenly felt a bit more worrisome.  
 
Everyone in the waiting room looked my way and I imagined them thinking, "There's the new girl. She still looks well, but everything is about to change for her."   
 
I sat next to a couple waiting for their loved one who was coming out of a procedure. I heard one of them whisper, "Thank you, Jesus" when a nurse informed them that all had gone well.   
 
I filled out the stack of papers in minutes since most of my answers were negative: I do not have any symptoms. I don't have pain or nausea or headaches. I have no history of problems, and I only take 3 pills a day, two of them non-prescription.  
 
Then I glanced at the TV screen on the wall that was showing a film about cancer survivors. I was surprised when I saw my sweet friends' face, her hair cropped close to her head, talking about her experience with cancer. She had survived, but her prognosis on that day was still unknown. I could see the sadness and worry in her eyes as she described life with cancer.  
 
I suddenly felt such love and awe for her and for the painful and triumphant fight she had endured. I was nearly crying.   
 
Then the thought hit me: This could be me, too. What if my world changes today, in an instant, just like Annie's had?  With blurry eyes, I returned my packet to the desk. My mind tried to imagine what life would look like with a diagnosis of cancer but I quickly dismissed it.    
 
There is nothing wrong with me, I reminded myself. Instead, I imagined what I wished I had done before today, before a possible and sudden change in plans.  
 
And that's when I felt a powerful surge overtake me. It was the same surge that ran through my body when my life was altered some years ago: I was standing in my living room, "knowing" that divorce was imminent. All that we'd planned for, saved for, and fought for was going to be lost. My only regret was that we'd wasted so much time doing things that barely mattered.  
 
In that moment, I no longer cared about our money, our cars, or nice home, because it would soon be gone. What mattered was our happiness, our dreams, and living life fully.  
 
That profound experience turned me around, pointing me toward a future of chasing dreams instead of merely wishing them to happen. I began to live boldly for the next several years.  
 
Until I stopped. The details about why I stopped aren't important here, but the sentiment to continue living boldly was with me today. There is little time to waste. It's time to go for everything I want. NOW.  
 
My reverie was interrupted by someone calling my name. I was taken to my room where (no surprise) my blood pressure registered 150/100. I told the CNA how unfair it was to take it minutes before a consultation in a cancer care center. She agreed and we shared a good laugh.  
 
Minutes later, the doc came bounding in and his first words were: "What are you doing here?" Assuming he was commiserating with me about the possibility that my life could change for me today, I answered, "I haven't a clue; you tell me."
 
He wheeled his chair close to me with his face inches from mine and said, "Nothing is wrong with you. Not one damn thing. You shouldn't even be here." I almost cried.
 
He opened his computer screen to show me an eight-year history of labs. Although I had an obvious trend toward falling lymphocyte values, my overall hematologic trend was perfect. I took my first normal breath since seeing Annie on the screen.  
 
And then it was over.   
 
Doc led me to the check-out desk where he put my paperwork down on the counter in front of me. With his pen, he drew a slash across the page. "No charge" he told the receptionist, then turned to me and reached for my hand. "Nice to meet you; I never want to see you here again." He winked as he walked away.  
 
I teared up: for his generosity, for his humanity, and for my relief. I knew all along that I was okay.  
 
But the possibility that today could have just as easily ended in a different outcome scared me enough to consider how I live my life. It also proved that I know, without any doubt, that I am aware of what is right and true for me and my life. 
 
I have changes to make, big things to create, and places I want to go. Coming a bit too close to an altered future shook me up enough to expedite my roadmap. I refuse to waste another minute indulging in fear or hesitance before venturing forward.    
 
So this is my message for you: What do you already know to be true for yourself and your life?  
 
Listen to it. My experience today also begs the question: If you had six months to live, what would you change today? What would you do, where would you go? How would you live?  
 
Then go out there and do it.   
 
Because your life can change with a single blood draw. 

                                                *****************************************************************

When I returned to CCC in May 2018, I saw the same doctor, who reiterated that he would have still sent me home today had he seen my blood work from September. 

Perhaps, on that day in September, cancer had not yet started to invade my body. Perhaps it's why I felt so grounded that I did not have cancer. Perhaps this visit was just a "dry-run," meant to get me used to the idea of the cancer that would become alive and active just eight months later.                                          

                                          

Once the preliminary diagnosis had been made via CT on May 8th, I was ready to get the ball rolling. But as is often typical with all things medical, that time-table took a bit longer than I was comfortable with. I thought for sure I'd be put on someone's schedule for the following day, so I was surprised when I had to wait a week to see an oncologist and a surgeon.

I still hadn't notified anyone of my diagnosis, so I was carrying on my normal routine as usual. I had to keep reminding myself that "a lot has happened already," but I was still antsy. 

But after meeting my new team of doctors, I trusted them immediately. A preliminary plan was drawn up with my oncologist, and a biopsy was set up for June 5th. But it was only May 16th, and that date felt so far away. My daughter's college graduation was foremost in my mind so I was insistent that I would be able to attend. Anytime I thought of or talked about my kids, I still broke down in tears. 

My surgeon was leaving that evening on a 10-day vacation so I asked to be put onto his schedule upon his immediate return. He led me to his secretary and asked what he had available a week earlier. When she reported that he had a 90-minute opening, he said, "Book it! Even if I'm late for the next surgery." I openly sobbed. 

The surgery to obtain a biopsy on May 29th went without a hitch. The team of professionals were compassionate, kind, and loving, and my dear friends came through in spades. That was probably one of the easiest days recently. I tend to have a high tolerance for pain so the 4-inch gash across my neck never gave me a problem, nor did I have to take anything stronger than a Tylenol for pain relief. I also have a fast rate of healing so I returned to work a few days later, almost completely healed, and with a good (fake) story to share. 

Let me remind you that I am the only RN at an Assisted Living Facility where we are one big family. The residents are my adopted parents and grand-parents, and I am considered one of their own. They sense when something is out of the ordinary, so my absence did not go unnoticed. Once I returned, a few of them asked guarded questions, but I was unable to share my story completely. In this population, it may be considered "burdening" our residents with our own personal issues, but they still found out, anyway.

(By the time word got around the facility, I was already out of the building for a week post-chemotherapy). 

I was told that the biopsy results would take 7-10 days, so imagine my surprise when the preliminary results came in just three days later, confirming the diagnosis of Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. I felt a wave of relief knowing that we were ahead of schedule. A plan-of-attack appointment was set up with my oncologist for the following Monday, just three days later. By then, we'd have a plan to begin the process of poisoning the hell out of this cancer.

Good thing, since my symptoms were amping up. I was now coughing almost all of the time and the aches in my back were worsening. Some nights were a constant up-and-down, reheating my microwaveable heating pad and doping up on Tylenol. I knew the tumors in my chest were having a field day, proliferating out of control. The "knot" on my chest grew puffier. Even friends and colleagues were noticing. 

But when Monday morning came and went without a call from my oncologist, I felt impatience welling up again. When he finally got a hold of me, his voice was somber. "Katie, I'm being told I cannot treat you. Something about insurance..."

Whaaaaaat? 

Long story short meant that the oncologist who was already overseeing my case couldn't continue, and I had to be switched to a new team, at a new building, in a new town--immediately. 

Now, up until this point, I'd been a fairly cool chic about this devastating blow to my life. But this was too much. I felt like I was falling through the cracks of bureaucratic bullshit while the cancer grew exponentially. I called my PCP to expedite matters; at least she could begin the process of ordering a PET scan and getting my port surgery scheduled. 

I was at work trying to negotiate all of this, when I finally gave in to the heaviness I'd been carrying. My colleague noticed my heaving shoulders and quietly handed me a box of tissue while she closed the blinds to our office. This fucking cancer was already taking me down. 

As it turned out, my PCP was able to expedite an appointment at a new facility not much farther away from my home. She was also able to talk me off the ledge when I felt everything around me collapsing.

When I met with my new oncologist, he immediately ordered the PET scan for a few days later, and set up a treatment date for June 14th. 

Overall, the delay was only 3 days. 

A new plan was underway. But when my doc mentioned that all of my symptoms should disappear after the first treatment, I was both shocked and elated. He was convinced that the tumor would be reduced by 50% because the treatment, which turns out to be composed of rat antibodies, is so good at targeting and killing lymphoma cancer cells. 

I think I will adopt a rat as my new mascot. I may even design a t-shirt with a rat in a cape. 

And as promised, that prediction came true. Just days after my first chemotherapy, the collateral veins in my neck and across my chest grew more faint; the pain in my back subsided; my cough disappeared; the knot on my chest dissolved.

When I visited my oncologist yesterday, just a week after chemo, he reported that I probably dissolved up to 80% of the tumors, which was evident not only by my appearance, but by my 7 lb weight loss in 3 days. 

The tumors had been taking up space deep within my chest's lymph system, causing a back-up into my neck and face. New veins wormed their way across my chest, creating new highways to carry blood around the tumors. My face and jaw swelled, but it had happened so slowly, I never noticed. Today, it's quite obvious. 

I am now 8 days from my first chemotherapy session, feeling much better, though I am just now nearing the end of the most hellish week of my life. I still have pain, but it has lessened by about 85%, and I am taking Tylenol about 20% of the time that I'd been taking it just a few days ago. 

I am grateful, happy, gobsmacked, and humbled. Not only by the awesomeness of my body's ability to assimilate poison and create something good from it, but by my ability to have endured it. I am also brought to tears daily by the outpouring of love, attention, and compassion from people in my life. 

I have been buoyed by texts, visits, prayers, meals, company and some days, a tight squeeze when all I could do was cry. My heart is full, and my outlook continues to be positive. 

And I am profoundly grateful that you have come along for the ride. ​

There was once a King who offered a prize to the artist who would paint the best picture of peace. True peace.
Many artists tried. The King looked at all the pictures, but there were only two he really liked and he had to choose between them.

One picture was of a calm lake. The lake was a perfect mirror, for peaceful towering mountains were all around it. Over head was a blue sky with fluffy white clouds. All who saw this picture thought it was a perfect picture of peace.

The other picture had mountains, too. But these were rugged and bare. Above was an angry sky from which rain fell, and in which lightening played. Down the side of the mountain tumbled a foaming waterfall.

This did not look peaceful at all.

But when the King looked, he saw behind the waterfall a tiny bush growing in a crack in the rock. In the bush, a mother bird had built her nest. There, in the midst of the rush of angry water, sat the mother bird on her nest.

The King chose the second picture as the winner. “Because,” explained the King, “Peace does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble, or hard work. Peace means to be in the midst of all those things and still be calm in your heart. That is the true meaning of peace.”

Inner peace is a gift we give ourselves when we learn to live in the present moment regardless of what is going on in our world. It takes dedication and commitment to stay centered and grounded. Yet, the rewards are priceless.

                                                 ***************************************************************

I was at work, waiting for the call from my GP on the results of the CT scan. I thought some arthritis would be found in my sternum, but my mind did not worry about anything else. Still, I took her call in the private dining room. 

"Katie, it looks like you have lymphoma." 

"Shit!" I replied as I rested my forehead on the crook of my elbow. "My dad died of that 27 years ago," I said in a whisper. Even so, I'd never been paranoid about it hitting me, never. Cancer has always been the furthest worry from my mind. 

Then I had an even worse thought: my kids. How the hell am I supposed to share this with them? 

I don't recall the rest of the conversation, but I do remember asking my boss for a moment of her time after I hung up the phone. In the quiet of her office, I calmly told her about my call, then took in a deep breath. Again, I thought of my kids, and this time I broke down in tears. 

"I can't let my kids know, not yet," I cried. "My daughter graduates college in a few weeks and this may crush her." 

Mind you, my kids are no longer kids. In fact, they are 23, 25 and 27--old enough to handle a devastating interruption to their lives, but I was not prepared to be the reason. Nothing else mattered but shielding them from this terrible news. I am their young, high-spirited, healthy Mom. Not a dying one.

My boss nodded with understanding, then she leaned forward in her chair, pointed her finger at me, and through tears she said: "Do not do this alone!"

Best advice ever. 

But I still couldn't bear to tell them, which meant I wasn't going to tell anyone, not yet. I couldn't risk the possibility of word leaking out to them in the community before I told them first. 

After disclosing to my boss, I left work early and went home to write. Writing is my cathartic space, and my journal is my healing place. I immediately wrote a list of cancer survivors whom I know personally, which amounted to about 20 people. That was stunning, in itself, since my net doesn't cast that far. But TWENTY just in my small circle? I shuddered. I then added celebrities to the list, and friends and family of people I know, and the list kept growing. ​

​Yes, I will be okay, the list seemed to convey.

It's interesting to come faced-to-face with my mortality. I thought about my funeral often in those early days, and have even jotted down a few songs I would want played. It didn't feel morbid, but necessary. I divvied up my small possessions in my mind, then jotted down which kid or friend would receive them; these were all quickly jotted down on sticky notes, clicked together by a paper clip. I can't imagine that will hold up in court. Holding a ketchup bottle one day, I suddenly wondered it I will outlive its expiration date.

But then I realized that I was moving way beyond myself, my diagnosis, and my future. After all, I hadn't even gotten a biopsy yet. I just wanted to be semi-prepared, if there is such a thing. But I decided there wasn't, and I didn't want to waste my time wondering who would profit from my life should this cancer be my demise. 

But still, for the next two weeks, I told no one. Then I carefully shared my news on the phone with my sister because I finally had to tell someone before I burst, and I shared the news again with one of my BFF's on my mother's 94th birthday. I swore them both to secrecy. 

My daughter had just a few weeks left before she graduated from college. She has had a long, challenging, and oftentimes difficult road toward receiving her diploma. I was afraid that receiving news like this in her most vulnerable remaining few weeks, would cause her to cave. I couldn't jeopardize all the hard work she had accomplished.

But I also had to ask myself: where was I not trusting my daughter? Do I not believe she has the capacity to hear difficult news? Do I not trust that she is an adult who is capable to feeling her own feelings and I don't have to protect her from that?

I just couldn't bear to watch my kids' faces transform as they contemplate possibly losing their young, vibrant, and healthy 54-year-old mother. 

They wouldn't know yet, at my first admission, that there are things operating in my favor. That will come second as I try to ease the pain of the moment.

But I knew this: my blood markers for lymphoma (LDH) are only "mildly increased" according to my oncologist; I have no symptoms of lymphoma; I was diagnosed as probable Stage II which is highly treatable; and lymphoma is one of the few cancers that responds very well to treatment.

When I finally shared the news with each of them, individually, three days before my biopsy, through tears and stuttering, I felt a burden lifted. And all three of them took the news like champs. 

If my kids survived the news, and they were still okay, then I was okay, too. They, like their mother, have the capacity to hear difficult news and weather it with grace.

It freed me up to share my news with everyone else, too. So one-by-one I started calling on my troop of survivors who led the trail before me. Their support and love and encouragement have been immeasurable. 

I am not afraid to die. I am afraid to leave my kids. I am not done watching their lives unfold. I want to see them marry the loves of their lives; I want to know their spouses and their children; I want to watch them blossom and thrive in their futures, the ones that were set up with me.

Perhaps it's egotistical to believe that they still need me; they don't. They all have full lives with little input needed from their mother. But after 20 years as a single-parent, I deserve the right to see how their lives play out. I must've done a good enough job because they are all self-sufficient, kind, generous, hard-working members of the world. And dammit, I deserve to reap the rewards of what I created while they were living solely under my wing. 

Yes, I believe it will build character to watch their mother go through a devastating diagnosis with style. But they do not have to lose me to teach character.

I am not done with them yet. 

I have cried every day since May 8th, but the reason is not what you may think. I am so newly attuned to the beauty in the world and in my life that I cannot hold it in. I remember feeling this raw after my life caved twenty years ago. My grief was so near the surface that I could actually feeeel how beautiful the world was whenever I had enough air to breathe it in. Life felt richer, crisper, newer. 

This time, I don't feel the grief.

I feel immense amounts of gratitude: for my life, for my diagnosis (hopefully before it was too late), for everything I've been able to experience thus far. My life has been a beautiful testament to the way I've wanted to live, and I am proud. I'm proud of my decisions; I am proud of my children; I am proud of myself, especially in light of so many difficult life events, and the hard choices I've had to make in the wake of those events. I have had to take some hard stands, oftentimes standing alone, but I have no regrets. 

This time, I won't have to do this alone. It has already been evident in the scores of people, both near and far, coming to my rescue. 

It's strange to realize that I have live cancer cells damaging my inerds. Before the biopsy, I could feel a cluster pressing against my esophagus, making swallowing hot coffee or large pieces of chicken challenging. It didn't hurt; it just felt uncomfortable, like a large pill getting stuck.

Since surgery two weeks ago, it hasn't happened again. I'm assuming that something got shifted while doctors were inside my chest trying to cinch off a portion of the tumor to use as a biopsy. At least that's what I've decided happened. I'm just grateful I no longer need to worry about scarfing down food for fear of something getting stuck. 

As a nurse for almost 30 years, It still surprises me that I am not entirely tuned into the fact that this disease can kill me. I only realize it when I read the scared and supportive emails, or Facebook posts by others. Then I think, “Holy shit! This is serious!”

But I also firmly believe that no matter how dire a disease, healing can still happen. I expect to be one of the survivors, because I know how much grit I have to weather this. I am strong, courageous, and a tough young chick who seems to thrive in adversity (though I'm not sure this is an appropriate bragging point).

I also know that this will shake up my life in a profound and necessary way. And I'm okay with that. Hell, I've done it a few times before so I know the path, at least the beginning parts. The rest will be revealed in time. 

The symptoms that took me to the doctor 6 weeks ago have been shape-shifting over the past month, which is a constant reminder that there is a foreign invasion going on. They are unpredictable and appear quickly, and for a woman who never experiences pain and rarely takes medications, this has been beyond annoying.

What first started out as chest pain quickly morphed into something more. It began to occasionally feel like a match was being lit under my skin. This was the cancer oozing its way into/over nerves, which sets off a blazing tingle that lasted for up to 2 hours, usually in the middle of the night. I've also had "referred pain" in both of my scapulas, which feels like someone has punched me repeatedly...with a ring on. Then there's the numbness in my left arm, headaches, and a hacking cough that is either wet and wheezy, or dry and tickly. Sometimes I get winded just walking. I was prescribed an inhaler for the wheezy or constricted moments, which have been intermittent. But when I need to breathe better (and stop the hacking that sounds like I have emphysema), the inhaler has come in handy. 

Since the diagnosis, I have continued life as normal. Nobody has known the difference. In fact, when I shared the news with my colleagues a day before my biopsy, most were stunned that I had been working, as usual, the previous 28 days, with nary a change in my behavior or work. But being at work, doing my job, normalized me. It gave me little time to worry about the cancer invading my body, even though it was constantly on my mind. 

It has also helped that the rest of my life has remained status quo. I still meet friends for coffee, I still exercise and shop, and get my hair and toes prettified. My daily routine has not shifted much. I have been sleeping well, for the most part, even though some nights are tiresome. Most days I feel great, which is deceiving because there is a battle going on behind my breastbone, deep within the cavity where my heart lays quietly and triumphantly beating. 

Still, I feel at peace amidst the chaos. 

And for that, I am grateful. <3

"Breathe, Darling. This is just a chapter. It is NOT your whole story."

I began writing my Grati-Tuesday newsletters about a year ago when I heard the clever play on words. 

I am a huge believer in Gratitude and I practice it relentlessly, so it was a no-brainer to start writing a blog as a Tuesday pick-me-up for my followers. 

So one would think that good things should happen on Tuesdays, right? 

(Okay, maybe that's just MY expectation!).

Well, try telling that to my poor General Practitioner who showed me the results of the CT scan after breaking the news the evening before that it "did not look good." 

It was Tuesday, May 8th.

I'd been having chest pain the previous week and tossed and turned the night of April 30th. It was the same day I thought I'd rubbed a quarter-sized muscle knot onto my clavicle. It felt like a bruise, but the underlying ache in the wee hours of the morning felt like my heart was tightening up.

I decided to stay home from work and get a cardiac check-up. I secured an appointment that morning.

My EKG was perfect, but as an afterthought, my practitioner suggested that I get a chest ex-ray. Perhaps my chest pain was related to inter-costal issues; maybe some arthritis was settling into my sternum or ribs.

That sounded feasible, so I drove to the hospital to obtain a quick and easy x-ray. A few days later, the report noted something "suspicious" so a CT scan was recommended. 

My nurse sounded alarmed, but I wasn't. After all, I am a healthy gal, fastidious about annual MD visits. I don't get sick often; I decline flu shots; I am up-to-date on my mammogram and pap smears; and I had an early colonoscopy a decade ago. 

I'm not a hypochondriac; I take 3 pills a day, two of which are supplements; I rarely get head-aches but when I do, I hesitate to take any medication; I'm in good shape, with the proverbial few pounds still to lose; I walk almost daily; and I practice yoga and self-help. 

I'm a nurse and a life coach, perfect breeding ground for living a bountiful, sickness-free life. 

So I was stunned when I received the news on that seemingly normal Tuesday: I have a 10.6 x 6 cm tumor in my chest, with several smaller ones, most likely a diagnosis of Lymphoma. 

Despite my vigilance, cancer still snuck in. 

I had to understand how this could've happened right under my nose. Did I recall any symptoms before the chest pain? 

Well, yes. Burping. 

I'd been experiencing an inordinate amount of burping for what seemed to begin out of nowhere (it continues still, a month later). It began just before the ache. 

Other than that, I did not and still don't have any of the classic symptoms associated with lymphoma: no drenching night sweats; no fever; no weight loss (damn!); no excessive tiredness. 

I've been belching, that is all. I was puzzled about what I'd been eating. I also noticed a tightness in my throat that felt like the short bout of reflux I'd experienced a few years ago. 

If it weren't for the possibility that my heart was acting up, I probably would've ignored the ache in my chest, because I was already passing off the burping and reflux as indigestion problems. 

And the ache in my chest has subsided, so I may have not gone to the doctor had I waited it out a few more days. The blessing is that the pain was bad enough, and had gone on long enough, to seek evaluation on the day that I had. 

If I stretch my memory farther, I can admit that I've had an annoying cough/tickle in my throat for a long time. How long? I'm not sure, but for more than six months, and that's a sign that something is amiss. I just passed it off as a "tickle" and as a medical professional, I know better.

I also noticed a labyrinth of veins running across my chest, but again, I cannot pinpoint the date they appeared. I don't believe it was while I was in Hawaii just a few months ago; I think I would've been aware of them while strutting around in my bathing suit.

But it was odd when I first noticed them, because the last time the veins on my chest displayed such a vibrant, blue hue was with each of my pregnancies.

It now makes sense that those veins boldly showed themselves off as they wormed their way to the tumors deep within my chest cavity, keeping them well fed with oxygen-rich blood.

Since meeting with my oncologist, I have discovered that the "muscle knot" on my clavicle is actually a tumor that has worked its way through my breast bone.

Lovely. 

But because it presented itself so obviously on my chest, it was easily used for a biopsy just a few days ago. And the cells that were recovered will be used to decipher which treatment options will be best.

The burping, I've also learned, has been caused by the tumor nudging my esophagus aside, causing discomfort. It is only when I burp that the discomfort is released. 

On May 19th, my mother's 94th birthday, I finally began to share my diagnosis, first with my BFF. Amidst tears, we continued chatting as girlfriends do, which for us means plenty of laughing. 

I told her about the hat party I intend to host while complaining about how awful I will look bald. Maybe I'll begin wearing bright red lipstick and sporting a smokey eye shadow to draw attention away from my baldness. And perhaps the port on my chest (for infusing chemo) will become a sexy new way to attract men. 

Chuckle, chuckle. 

An hour passed, with moments of tenderness and tears, when an older gentleman parked his car and walked right up to us. 

"I've been informed by management that you are both having entirely too much fun!" 

Snicker, snicker...

I leaned toward my friend as he walked away and said, "If only he knew what we're really talking about!" My friend informed me that he was a local pastor. 

See, God is already infusing my life with blessings.

In fact, it hasn't been the diagnosis that has brought me to tears; to the contrary, I've been more enveloped in sobs by the reality of blessings and love already showing up from all corners of my life. 

And from the moment this began, I have had a heightened sense of peace, which initially concerned me because I worried that I was in denial. 

But I have had to remind myself that I also have 25 years of healing behind me. I have lived through a few life-crushing events already so I am an expert at grieving. I know how to shore up my emotional resources and carry onward. I also know how to reach out for help. 

I have learned new coping mechanisms, and I have a steady--if not sometimes shaky--belief in a God who wants me to become all of who I am meant to be. 

In the past, that meant slogging through grief, betrayal and a broken heart while I struggled to find my footing again. Perhaps today, that means inviting cancer to my table, as I stay open to its teachings.

I believe that life is one big school of lessons, and our soul wants only for us to become our whole, authentic, bright selves. Those of us who are hard-headed students (um, yes, that would be me) sometimes need more than just the gentle whispers that signal a change is necessary. 

I seem to need the damn Mac Trucks. 

My intention for this newsletter is to introduce a new platform. From the minute the news hit my ears, I made a decision to kick this, no matter what it may require of me. 

And with that decision came a whole lot of gratitude and a plan for loving life more fully while I'm still in it. 

The Nurse in me plans to stay informed about treatment options; the Life Coach in me longs to remain brutally authentic; and the writer in me lives to tell the story. 

I'm drawn to sharing my journey with you--the good, the bad and the ugly--because that's life. It often hits with a devastating blow, from out of nowhere, crushing all you thought you knew. 

But having endured hard emotional events before, I know that it's possible to do things we don't want to do. I know this because I have come out the other side with more gratitude, more wisdom, and a whole new attitude for life. 

I plan on soaking up every morsel of teaching this cancer has in store for me. 

I am not writing this to draw pity, but to show you how you can hold your head up high when life serves up shitty, moldy lemons, and live with courage, anyway.
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It begins with an intention. Then you have to do the difficult, exhausting, sometimes terrifying work to get there. 

And remember this: the possibility of a good outcome is just as likely as a bad outcome, but we as humans tend to worry and fret and obsess about all the bad things that are going to happen!

Well, I prefer to dwell on all the possibilities of GOOD, and you should, too.  

Much love,  
Katie