You may have read in a previous blog (here) that there have been some unexpected and surprising fall-outs from my diagnosis of cancer. My cancer-survivor friend warned me from the onset that people would "shock the shit out of me," and they have. 

Mostly, it has been out of sheer delight from the massive outpouring of support. 

But if I am to be completely transparent and honest in this blog, which has been my goal from the beginning, I must admit that I am still very much distressed by some of the losses. 

People who I had assumed were part of my support network didn't show up, like a good friend of over 30 years, and a few family members whom I thought I meant something to. A favorite aunt of mine never said a word; yes, we had a falling-out a decade ago, but I am still her niece. And one of my favorite childhood cousins has only asked about me through others in the family, but has not reached out, not once.

Another friend of over four decades never responded to a mass email I sent announcing my diagnosis. It was uncharacteristic of him, so when I asked why, his response was that he was praying for me daily so he didn't need to reach out. 

That's cool. But, um, how would I have known that? 

What I know about people in crisis is that they need to know that you are thinking of them, even if it is just a simple "I'm sorry to hear...". You don't have to show up in a big way, but if you are part of someone's life, it helps to hear any words of support or compassion (even if nothing more is ever said or done). 

Now, one can certainly argue that my expectations of others were probably too high, and that could definitely be part of this equation. 

But honestly, if strangers were able to show up for me, isn't it natural to assume that family and friends would, too? 

Well, not necessarily. Because some still didn't. 

So it begs the question: will they show up if I die from cancer? Or were they never part of my team to begin with?

The biggest surprise and heartbreak is my BFF. She is now my "former" BFF because I actually lost her as my friend. 

Over cancer (I think). 

This is where it gets really sticky for me because while I know that her disappearance is ultimately about her, I also know that my angst over that is about me.

But I lost someone important to me. And I don't have any solid answers about why, and I don't know what to do about that. 

Especially since it is so out-of-the-norm for her. From the beginning of my diagnosis, she was all-in, offering support when I was still trying to come to terms with my diagnosis. 

But then she slowly began retreating.

My first clue was when she didn't call me for three weeks after her return from a two-week trip abroad, then when she did, her daughter was in the backseat while I was on speaker phone in her car. 

That didn't feel very personal, I remember thinking. But I also understood that returning home from a long trip is exhausting and tedious so multi-tasking with her BFF while running errands may have been the best she could do. 

But, still. 

Weeks went by without seeing her, then one day she called me under the guise of wanting to know how I was feeling, but quickly asked who I'd been writing about in my coaching newsletters. I had an immediate gut reaction that her real motive was to find out if I was writing about her, and that felt awful. It was apparent that she was already feeling guilty about her disappearance, and she even tried to chastise me for writing about her publicly.

But I wasn't.

Instead of reacting to her accusation, I later asked her why she was reacting so strongly about my newsletter, and she admitted that she didn't understand why she felt so out-of-sorts. 

A month later, she sat across from me over dinner and through tears admitted that she "couldn't lose" me. I know she meant she couldn't lose me to cancer, but the irony is that she ultimately lost me because she was such a poor friend. 

But that night in August (the last time I saw her), over our shared meal of tears and laughter, she asked how she could help me as I was going into my 4th chemo. She even jotted down notes in her phone, as a reminder of my string of good days and bad ones. She was all-in again and I felt my BFF had finally returned as I knew her. 

But instead of showing up, she kept retreating.

She tried to deliver flowers on a day that I was really not feeling well, so she opted for the next day to deliver them. I waited and waited, and she never arrived with them (she later blamed me for "refusing her offering"). 

For several weeks after that, I tried to get together with her again (the girl with cancer was doing an awful-lot of chasing to find her), and when I told her of my unavailable dates (due to chemo), she chose only those dates to meet up. 

It appeared as if she wasn't paying attention to my schedule, at all. 

Mind you, my schedule had been pared down to mere days because it was overtaken by chemotherapy, recovery, and work. 

So when she didn't answer my inquiry about viable dates to get together, I emailed her. I also confronted her about her continued disappearance, and this time she became defensive.

Her response would have been inappropriate as her BFF, but as her BFF with cancer?

It was hostile and cruel. 

She said she was busy, and she was bothered that I could only see her at my convenience.

Well, no shit. I was undergoing cancer treatments, which widdled my available time each month down to days. Everyone else seemed to understand this, but she was the only one using it against me. 

What I now know for certain is that those of us who are in crisis-mode are allowed to be selfish. And yes, I obviously expected my BFF to contribute much more than she was able to, but couldn't she just have told me this?

But her behaviors only got worse, and each time I excused them because I thought she was having a hard time with her BFF having cancer. In her inappropriate letter to me, she made it very clear that I was wrong in my assumptions.

So then, what was her disappearance about? 

Because any friend of mine needs to be all-in. I am with my friends, so it's how I judge my expectations of others. 

I drop everything for my friends, and I would make sure my friends never felt discarded while going through a life-altering event. I was surrounded by strangers who made more of an attempt than she did, and they have since become my friends.

Huh, imagine that. 

Even my massage therapist knew more about my treatment and recovery than my BFF did.

In fact, my BFF saw me only once with my wig on; she never saw me with my doo-rag on, or bald; and she had no idea how each of my chemotherapies went or how I endured them; she had not one clue about my daily radiation treatments. 

But she has been privy to my life through my blog, Facebook and newsletters, which is a lazy way to find out how people are doing without being a friend who engages in-person. I don't believe she has the privilege of knowing about my life if she chooses not to participate, so I have made the difficult decision to block her from all of my social media. 

The way I see it, there is no excuse big enough that would help me understand why my BFF would bail just when I needed her most. 

And as I sit writing this, I begin to wonder why I am filled with such hot-rage. It is obvious to me now that she apparently was not the BFF I thought she was, nor did she take our friendship as seriously as I did. 

Instead of feeling sad, I should be feeling triumphant.

I am a loyal and trustworthy friend who sticks like glue to people who are important to me. And because she failed to even come close to resembling what a friend means, I should be thankful that I found this out before another decade went by, all the while believing that she was on my team. 

But, still, I am in mourning over the loss of my BFF whom I have shared a decade of memories with. A decade of fun and laughter and tears. It's heart-breaking to find out that someone I felt so close to bailed so badly.

And during the most vulnerable time of my life feels like a slap in the face.

I mean, doesn't she even have the slightest bit of concern about me? Doesn't she want to know anything about my life anymore? I certainly miss hearing about hers, but she hasn't shared anything of substance in months. And I haven't seen her in close to five months. 

That, right there, should convince me of what kind of friend she wasn't.  

Her parting words in her email would probably sting if they weren't so insulting: I want you to be happy inside again and love yourself so your body can reach homeostasis and the interactions with others are through love. 

She's schooling me on loving myself and others, really? 

From the woman who has show little compassion/empathy/interest/concern for her BFF with cancer.

In that same response, she asked not one question about me, the gal who was at that time in the midst of cancer treatment and uncertainty about living. 

One of my favorite authors, Elizabeth Gilbert, wrote about this experience in a blurb I happened to save: 
​
"Who are you furious at today? Now look closely at your history with them. Find the moment when you allowed that person to come closer to you than they had earned the right to come.
Now figure out how to reestablish (or establish for the first time) a wiser boundary.
When they are held the correct distance from you, you will stop hating them. Until then, you are just using this person as a weapon to beat yourself up with. Put an end to it. Stand in your dignity and set your own terms."

Wise advice. It's probably why I love Ms. Gilbert so much. 

As I look at my history with my BFF, a few details stand out which would suggest that she was never all-in, but I still allowed her to come close to me when she had not earned that right. 

Perhaps I am really just mad at myself for allowing her to get close without proving that she was a trustworthy and loyal friend. 

And the only way I can begin to let this anger go is to reestablish a wiser boundary with her. First, by demoting her as my BFF; second, by letting her go completely; and third, by writing her a thank you letter for her friendship that has been important to me for nearly a decade. 

Then I can forgive both of us. 

But this sad fact remains: she missed it all--the good, the awful, and the amazing. She missed out on the beautiful ride my cancer journey turned into, and how I was able to share so much goodness with others. 

She missed the exact reason we have BFF's to begin with: to be witness to others' suffering while offering love and support. 

People stop me on the street, thanking me for writing this blog. Apparently, many have learned a lot about cancer. They've also learned how to support others who are in crises. I am both humbled and grateful for being able to be an inspiration to others. 

Because if you expect to be my friend, I require your loyalty, your support, and your unwavering presence, especially if I am going through a life-altering event. Because, dear friends, you will always have mine. 

Anything less than that is settling. 

And as a fresh cancer-survivor, I can't afford to settle for anything or anyone that doesn't support my life. 

When my marriage fell apart two decades ago because of a hidden addiction that my husband had been living, I was, as one may imagine, devastated. I had no idea he had been straying for the length of our marriage, nor that I'd been exposed to potentially dangerous diseases and/or situations. 
 
Besides two miscarriages, discovering that he had another life was the single most tragic event that had happened to me (that I could recall) to-date. 

So it was no surprise that I needed lots of help from outside of myself, and that God--in all His infinite wisdom--showed up in a personal and gigantic way. 

I tried my best to capture that experience in my book, Coming Through With Grace, and pretty much failed. There was no way to adequately describe how I knew I was being guided, talked to, and taken care of by an entity outside of myself.

But while I was going through it, the experience was unmistakable. 

I had little energy to take care of three kids under five by myself in the midst of grappling with the truth that had just descended on my once-happy-little-life. But I quickly realized that when I couldn't muster up the energy to take care of them and myself, others appeared to help out, and instructions about what to do next were being downloaded straight into my ear, as if I was having a conversation with someone else.

Someone much more vast than myself. 

I heard a strong, steady, male whispering, You're going to be okay, just when I most needed to hear it. I felt guided, as if someone had a hand on my shoulder and was physically guiding me around my home, making sure all was taken care of. 

Magic was everywhere. I knew it and I felt it.

And it went on for months. 

So when the cancer diagnosis jolted me awake just 8 months ago, I expected God to personally show up again.

Good thing, I remember thinking; I knew I'd been on the outs with Him in recent years so I was excited about the prospect of His presence once again. I'd been feeling ignored as I was trying to navigate my way through the next phase of my life, which included empty-nesting and starting a new business. 

I felt alone too much of the time, trying to find my way in new territory. And it wasn't going very smoothly, so I blamed God for much of my angst and frustration. 

I need help! I'd cry out time and again. 

And all I seemed to hear were crickets. 

But with a cancer diagnosis, I was certain He'd appear in a big way again. Remembering the beauty of the magic that once showed up in my life, I was both relieved and elated that I would experience it one more time. 

But when God didn't show up like before, I felt confused. 

Where is He?

Cancer was a scary diagnosis, so why wasn't He around, comforting me? I needed help, dammit! 

Instead, a gaggle of humans began to show up, almost immediately, showering me with everything I needed just when I needed it. 

After days and weeks of people consistently showing up to support me in several ways, it was then that I realized what God may be doing (as if I knew, ha!): perhaps He knew that I had needed him so desperately last time because I was so broken.

I needed the Big Guy to appear before me because only He could ease my grief. And only that experience could help heal me. 

(Which, thankfully, it did). 

This time, I wasn't broken. Nor did I feel lost or afraid. I was emotionally intact, just a bit bewildered about how cancer was able to invade my life.

But mostly, I was strong. 

He didn't need to show up in a big way again. 

But He wasn't about to leave me hanging, either. This was a new experience, and a doozy of one, which meant I would certainly need some assistance and guidance.

So he sent his angels and warriors in to help me, guide me, soothe me, cry with me, and keep me fed. He sent all of you in His place because you were enough, and I would be healed by your support and my tenacity. 
 
I love this theory, even if I'm completely wrong or delusional. 

It was as if God realized that I was in very capable hands--YOUR hands and hearts--as you showered me with love.

SO. MUCH. LOVE. 

And the funny thing is, I have never once blamed God for cancer. I have not been angry with Him, not for one minute, for this intrusion into my life. 

In fact, I have sensed for quite some time now that cancer arrived to heal me in other ways. Specifically, by guiding me back to God, and back to myself. 

Because, you see, I had felt very shut off from God for far too long. It wasn't necessarily my choice to feel so separate, but it seemed that no matter what I tried, I couldn't quite reach Him. 

Then cancer appeared, along with all of you, and I felt Him everywhere: in your hugs; in your kind words and soothing prayers; in your smiles; your tears; your worry and concern; the food you prepared; the gifts you delivered; the donations you made, and in the time you lovingly took with me. 

You never left me alone, just as He didn't years ago.

God, dressed in people's clothes, showed up in a big, gigantic--yet different--way, guiding me back to health. 

Radiation ended on November 16th without much fanfare.

I received a certificate of completion, signed by all of the radiation nurses, and stuffed it away into my binder full of cancer paraphernalia. Then three days later, the skin on my chest and back finally began to turn pink, then dark red, then tan, with lots of itching in between color changes, which needed lots of lotion to curb the annoyance. 

The burning in my throat lingered for a week post-radiation, causing distress with each swallowing, then it suddenly disappeared. I can't even recall when it really went away because it happened so quickly, practically healing itself overnight.

Then...

I noticed a minuscule, light blue bruise on my left arm...

And I've had a variation of the same cough for months. It probably came on the heels of a cold from a few weeks ago, but...

Last weekend my back began to feel strained, like a knot was forming in the muscle around my right scapula. It came out of nowhere and kept me up for most of the night, pinching...

Hot flashes appeared again, lasting a few minutes throughout the day, with night sweats that have been different in nature from the menopausal ones I'd been used to before cancer hit. 

These are some of the minor symptoms that I had when I was first diagnosed. The cough, hot flashes, and bruise can easily be written off as symptoms of a cold, lingering menopause, and clumsiness.

But the same kind of pinched muscle in my right scapula that first began on my left scapula eight months ago? That's what started the whole symptomology that lead to my diagnosis in May. 

My mind runs wild with worry. And questions. 

My sister reminded me that I have a choice to feel paranoid, so I tried not to panic. And thankfully, I had a scheduled appointment to see my medical oncologist two days later where I would have an opportunity to ask all of my silly and paranoid questions. 

Like: can cancer recur this quickly, just ten days after treatment ended?

And if not, that would explain these symptoms as belonging to other reasons, but the muscle that has constricted into a knot? Well, I suppose that can be attributed to stress, which I've been trying really hard to steer clear of. Stressful thoughts, that is.

Like paranoia and worry. 

The day before my appointment, I had to ask for an emergency massage from my therapist. The knot had tightened its grip, making my workday long and uncomfortable. Thankfully, after a deep-muscle work out, I felt a bit better, but it didn't last long enough. I had another fitful night of sleep, awakening every few hours to re-heat my heating pad or take pain relievers. 

Hmmm, this was beginning to resemble the weeks before and after my first chemotherapy, carrying around my heating pad as my constant companion, while taking analgesics round-the-clock. 

By morning, it wasn't any better. In fact, within a few hours, I was feeling electric shocks in my right shoulder. It seemed to run along the course of my radiation line, so I assumed that my nerves were being jolted back to life. I was to see my doctor that day, so I went about the day as planned: Christmas shopping, acupuncture, then MD. 

When I explained the symptoms to him a few hours later, I struggled to find the words that didn't make me cry from worry, and he politely cut me off. "I'm 99% sure that this is a residual side effect from radiation, that's all."

I sighed with relief, mostly because it made sense. 

He prescribed some Prednisone to ease the pain and reduce any inflammation, then asked me: "Have you ever been in a serious car accident?"

"No."

"People who are in accidents are afraid to get back into a car for days, weeks, sometimes months. You're going through the same thing. Your body has been under attack for nearly a year and it only makes sense that you're paranoid about new symptoms that may resemble the old ones." 

"My job," he continued, "is to make you feel comfortable, not just medically. And when you're not comfortable, I need to figure out why. It's my job to get you back into the car."

I nearly cried.

"The prognosis for your cancer has a 3-5 year cure rate of 85-90% and that's really, really good," he continued. "In the meantime, I will be seeing you every three months, then every six months, probably for 2-3 years." 

My paranoia quieted down, and my trust in my overall health and emotional wellness returned. 

Besides, he and I were very impressed with my perfect blood work. Not one single value was abnormal. 

So I filled the prescription, returned home, and was surprised when I had another fitful sleep. By morning, the intense pain in my back was gone, but it had also traveled to my ribs and underarm.

Then it hit me.  

Oh shit! This is how shingles started!

Twelve years ago, I'd had a similar experience of pain that started in my back, then within days, had traveled to my ribs.

I can't believe my doc and I missed this.

I had been so consumed with worry that lymphoma was returning, that no other possibility even entered my brain. ​Our discussion did not even veer into other considerations. 

I immediately phoned the office and a triage nurse answered. I explained what I believed was happening and within an hour I had received a new prescription. By days end, I was feeling a bit better. 

But new paranoia was trying to settle in, too. 

In May of this year, just after I was diagnosed, I was told by my first oncologist that there is a definite link between having shingles and getting lymphoma later in life.  

So if the shingles on my left side from over a decade ago caused lymphoma on my left side this year, might this right-sided shingles be a precursor to getting right-sided lymphoma later? 

To ease my concern, one of my coworkers posed an interesting theory: the first time shingles appeared, I hardly knew I had it since it never produced a rash, only pain. This time, the pain is much less intense from what I  remember, but the rash is obvious. I have a line of pink dots running from my sternum, across my right breast, ending at my right scapula. 

It was a bit itchy at times, but after a few days, it and the pain in my muscles and bones is finally subsiding. 

Perhaps, my coworker theorized, because shingles stayed "trapped" within my body last time, never appearing on my skin as a rash, maybe that's why lymphoma erupted 12 years later. Now, this episode is clearly showing its presence, so maybe it will not have to morph into lymphoma later. 

I like that explanation, whether it fits or not. 

But either way, it quickly dawned on me that fretting about future events now is simply futile. It's a huge waste of emotional energy that I cannot afford to entertain. 

So I plan on not allowing my fears to overtake me. 

After all, I am well today because of my vigilant efforts that complemented medical technologies. And if cancer should return one day, I am well-equipped to handle it. 

Isn't that the point of hardships, to discover what we're really made of? We have an innate capacity to endure whatever life presents, and that's very good news, indeed. 

So if you'll excuse me, I have a bold and beautiful life to live. 

I'll start by getting back into my car...