I am the Nurse at an Assisted Living facility so when I was diagnosed with a relapse of cancer recently, I had to stop working because of the threat of COVID. It's no secret that our establishment is the most vulnerable of all populations, and I am now immuno-compromised again. Despite working through chemotherapy and radiation last time, I have to sit this one out. 

I moved my 96-year-old mother into my facility from the east coast a year ago. That was after having had cancer, but I had withheld the information from her because I'd been informed by my family that her dementia was bad enough that she wouldn't remember, anyway. Well, when she moved here, I found no signs of dementia, just advanced-age memory loss issues; definitely not the same thing.

When she was eventually told about my cancer, she was flippin' mad and I didn't blame her. After all, doesn't every mother want to be there for her child in time of need? I had stolen that away from her. 

So when I visited her a few weekends ago, is was to let her know why I wasn't at work anymore. 

Let me tell you: informing a mother that her 8th and youngest child has a cancer recurrence is brutal. Not only did her husband (my father) die of the same type of cancer thirty years ago, but there is a possibility that I may, too. Not anytime soon, I hope, but this could eventually take me. 

"How come you're so strong about it?" she asked through sobs.
"Because I've been here before, I don't feel sick, and I am good at accepting life on life's terms." 

It's a motto I adopted from 12-step programs when I stepped into the rooms of Al-Anon over two decades ago. My marriage to an addict got me there, but what saved my sanity was learning how to stop fighting the craziness of living with a man who couldn't stop his addiction--not even for me or our children.

When I stopped resisting the inevitable--that he wasn't going to change, but would instead continue dragging us down the slippery slope of addiction with him--I got honest. I got help, and I took action.

It took a while, but I eventually left him and moved on. And in time, I healed the fallout of our destructive marriage and moved into a bigger and better life. 

"The truth will set you free" is not only real, but it works. The hardest part is surrendering to the reality of the event, whatever that is: A looming divorce; a child on drugs; a job loss; a miscarriage; a bankruptcy. 

Or cancer. 

I still fight circumstances on occasion, but for really big issues that are entirely out of my control, I know better.

I have learned to cave, to surrender, and to accept whatever has landed into my lap. 

But no, I wasn't always good at this. I had to learn it by landing on my face time and time again. It was through those hard knocks that I was properly prepared (and ready) for cancer's arrival. 

But what other choice do I have but to accept this?

Sure, I can holler and scream and cry, but what good would that do? It won't make the cancer go away; in fact, it may even cause it to proliferate. And if I focused all of my attention on resisting my diagnosis by staying in denial or anger, I wouldn't have any energy or motivation left to seek out alternative treatments, or to heal. 

But a positive attitude, I know, works like magic. Not only for cancer, but for all of life's unexpected zingers. 

I believe it contributed to my quick healing last time, with no significant health problems during the 7-months between diagnosis through chemotherapy and radiation. I was still able to work; I regained my stamina and energy after each chemo; radiation only gave me a short-term sore throat; and I've been feeling great since it all ended in November 2018. 

Now that it's back, I don't ask "why?" because my only focus is to get better. And that means getting honest about my life and how I can improve my chances of healing by paying attention to my diet, exercise, attitude, and treatment options. 

But my mother insists on understanding the "why?" Perhaps she is still mourning the loss of her husband of 45 years, or worrying that her youngest may succumb to this as well. Perhaps understanding the reasons why cancer has shown up again in her child while she is ready to leave the planet at 96, may help her sort out her own pain about the past and the present. 

It's how she and I are fundamentally different, my mother and I. I care about the "Why?" only so I can better  understand what I may be able to do to avoid a prolonged relapse, and to ensure a better outcome. 

I spent over an hour with my mother as she cried and vented. I was grateful that I had on sunglasses and a mask since behind them I was a snotty mess. But there were also moments of levity. Through tears she said, "I wish it was me and not you," to which I replied, "I do, too." It not only took her by surprise, but also made us both laugh out loud. 

"Why this/Why now/Why me?" are mere distractions on my road to recovery. And I've never been one to play the victim card. 

I believe it's why I've made it through sex abuse, two miscarriages, a marriage to an addict, divorce, and cancer. 

I'd also like to think that being a bad-ass is my super power. 

June 2, 2019

You guys, I've stumbled upon a game-changer!

No, it's not new information, but I'm finally taking it to heart. 

A year ago when I was diagnosed, one of my first thoughts was about a woman named Kris Carr. I'd seen on Oprah many years ago as she had (and still has) an incurable cancer that was found while she was in her early 30's. The approach for her treatment was to "sit and wait" since there was no treatment, and several years later, she is still happily alive with a tumor that hasn't grown. 

I remembered her because she was telling the millions of viewers that she does a daily dance in her kitchen, and her tumor has taught her to enjoy life. She has since made millions with her book Crazy, Sexy Cancer that has been a phenomenal medical movement. 

Since I was determined to make something good out of my diagnosis, I immediately ordered her how-to book, along with her Crazy, Sexy Diet cookbook. I've since given away the how-to book since I was already doing all of those self-help recommendations and it offered nothing new. I took this as good news since I was already halfway there. 

But I kept the cookbook, read through it, and promptly tossed it aside as treatments began and continued throughout last summer.

I knew sugar was a big no-no with cancer, but for some odd reason, I wasn't worrying about it. I happily chowed down anything with sugar, including my almost-daily chai lattes. 

Fast forward to several months after treatment when I was gifted a cruise by my sister. 

It wasn't cancer that snapped me out of my fog of realizing how bad sugar is.

No, no, no. It  was vanity. 

Or more specifically, it was my passport picture. 

I was shocked to see an old, tired, chubby woman looking back at me. 

Is that what I look like in real-life? 

This also coincided with the news that a friend was diagnosed with breast cancer metastasis throughout her body. When I spent time with her, it finally dawned on me (or scared the bejeezus out of me) that I could be in her position one day, too. Especially if I've been so cavalier about my nutrition. 

Now, aside from sugar, I've had a fairly decent diet. I'm not big on pasta (except during chemotherapy!), I get my fair share of daily fruits, I can do better about my intake of vegetables, I eat appropriate portions (most of the time), I cut out coffee, I drink only almond milk, 

But I also knew I could improve it. 

I spent last summer exchanging all of the products in my home to natural remedies, including my makeup, shampoo, lotions, and soaps. I began drinking water from my local Coop, and I met with a Naturopath who put me on natural supplements to suppress cancer. I adopted a habit of using essential oils on my body, in my diet, and in a diffuser, and I enjoyed massages and acupuncture during the length of chemo treatments. I bought a small trampoline and a body brush, both of which have not had much use, oh well.

I was getting healthier in all sorts of ways. 

It was the damn sugar that I could not seem to kick (or didn't want to). 

Then I read "How to Starve Cancer," and I got serious. It made sense in so many ways, that I decided to amp up my health regimen and tackle what I call my "Phase II of healing."  I then pulled out Kris' book. 
 
Sigh. It takes what it takes. 

And to my surprise, it hasn't taken much. 

I have cut out sugar, including my almost-daily chai latte, and have replaced it with a tea latte instead. It's not as exciting since I'm not getting the serotonin high, but I'm getting used to it. I'm also beginning my day with a green juice and have ditched anything gluten. I never considered this to be a problem for me until I read Kris' book. 

I am already feeling better and have already lost weight. Easily. 

I am not hungry and have not craved anything. I cannot believe I didn't heed the advice of friends and my Naturopath to cut out sugar earlier. I have tried, but have always gone back. Ahem, that's the nature of addiction. 

But now with statistics in my hip pocket and a very real possibility that cancer could strike again, I feel better equipped to stick to this new way of life.

Besides, I feel great. Perhaps that should be the #1 reason to stick with it!

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

It is now a year after initially writing this blog, and sadly, I am in recurrence.

I'd spent most of last year sticking with my new eating plan, up until Halloween when I added Reese's peanut butter cups, then it all went to hell with each subsequent holiday. 

Do I believe that reintroducing sugar caused my cancer to return? 

Not necessarily, but we will never know, will we? 

In the meantime, I've re-read my books and feel more committed than ever to eliminate sugar once again. Mostly because I don't want to take another chance--whether sugar is to blame for my recurrence or not--and because I know that when I quit sugar, I lost weight quickly and easily, and felt great. 

I want that again, period.

I don't have to blame cancer in order to take a deeper look at my eating habits, then change them--just because it's the healthy thing to do.  

As I was finishing up writing my previous blog a few days ago, I received a call from my oncologist.

I had emailed him post-surgery, asking if it would be okay for me to return to work before the biopsy results came back. Since I work in a highly vulnerable environment, I wanted his approval so that I wasn't putting myself or others in jeopardy. 

I was already in quarantine after getting a COVID test on Saturday, and I remained in quarantine until my surgery on Monday. 

To be better prepared to answer my question before my anticipated return to work 3 days after my biopsy, he called the pathologist, then he called me.

"The pathologist is seeing some of the same material that was found the first time, but he's also doing more testing. Until we find out for sure what the results are, I want you to stay in quarantine." 

Damn. This may really be positive.

I had hoped that this was all just inflammation from a 3-week cough I'd had this spring. After all, my labs are normal, I feel fine, and my oncologist kept telling me that what was presenting was "not typical with recurrence." 

I spent most of Wednesday making phone calls and filling out on-line forms for a possible medical leave from work, while lying to a few of you who asked for an update. If the results were still not definite, I did not want to alarm you unnecessarily. I also had no news or answers that would alleviate the worry I know you were all feeling on my behalf. 

I don't know what the next steps are. I don't know if I am going back to work anytime soon. I don't know how bad this can get. 

I had music playing, I had received good news about possible interim financial support, and my body soreness from the day before was improving. It was a good day. 

But then a certain song got the best of me, and tears began to flow. 

"How the hell can I do this again? And what if it doesn't work this time, either?"

fuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck!

Can I please just rewind back a few months to have caught this just a wee-bit sooner? 

When I was initially diagnosed in 2018, what I thought were heart issues led me to the doctor, which quickly led to a cancer diagnosis. 

Son of a gun, did the same thing happen this time, too?

Just weeks before Christmas, I felt a stabbing pain in the wedge just below my sternum, with a very subtle clenching in my throat, much like the constriction that is felt upon throwing up. I was walking around Costco, thinking to myself that there were plenty of people around me should I go down, but the pain subsided in about 5 mins. 

It wasn't until I was at work in late February when it happened again, but this time the pain was less severe and it lasted about 3 minutes. I was in a resident's room and was able to complete my nursing assessment when it disappeared as quickly as it had started.  

But when it happened again just 2 weeks later, I worried that I may have to get my heart checked out again. Around this time, I also started getting heart palpitations, which set my nerves on edge.

But was this typical of a heart issue? I had no pain around my heart, no left arm discomfort or numbness, and the constriction I felt in my throat did not radiate from the bottom of my sternum, but was separate from it. 

I also know that heart attacks do not present with typical symptoms in women, so I contacted my PCP. A standard stress test came back positive for coronary artery disease (CAD), but it was ruled out a few days later when a more detailed, nuclear stress test showed that all of my veins and arteries were in great working condition without any signs of disease.

It didn't even occur to me to consider if cancer was returning. 

So when my CT came back positive on May 12th, I was surprised.   

Reading up on recurrence while recovering from my biopsy this week, I was reminded that it's not uncommon for NHL to return, especially in the first two years. 

Somehow I'd missed that tidbit of information last time, perhaps because I was so focused on surviving the first round. Since this journey has been so full of irony, it can't be left unsaid that I celebrated 2 years since my initial diagnosis on May 8th, and May 12th was my routine CT. 

Go figure. 

But I sobered myself up with some encouraging stats: 

• There are proven treatments for NHL recurrence;
• NHL is very treatable but finding the right cocktail sometimes takes time;
• My labs are all super-normal; and
• I had TWELVE tumors last time, the largest measuring 10.6 cm (that's just over 4 inches!).

​This time, I'm hoping it was caught early since it's just a minuscule size of 1.6 cm. I believe I'd been walking around with lymphoma in my system for months, possibly years, the first time so this is hopeful news, indeed. 

At least that's how I'm pacifying myself while I wait for the results and the plan of care from my doc.

Having time alone to process this new information has been helpful. It's been important that no one else knows yet so I don't take on any of the sadness and fear that will undoubtedly be shared with me. While I haven't freaked out (I never did last time, either), I have been able to sit with my raw feelings of sadness, then put it all into context. 

After all, this does not necessarily mean a death sentence, nor does it mean the end of my life as I know it. It's merely another annoying interruption where I get to focus all of my attention on my health. 

So while I've been home waiting for the "official, definite" results of the biopsy, I have already gotten used to the idea of a major life shift that you are only now learning about. 

A few hours ago when I received word that the biopsy results confirmed a recurrence of NHL, I was already primed.

But please understand this: I am not afraid, because I am good at Doing Hard Things. And I've been here before, so I already have a road map. 

My job was to call some of my people to let them know, to finish writing this to let you know, and to officially notify my employer that because of COVID and pending cancer treatment, I have to take a leave of absence from work, effective immediately. 

In the meantime, my case will be reviewed at a Tumor Board on Wednesday by several top-notch oncologists from around the area, including Seattle, because this recurrence as it has presented itself is so "unusual." 

The lack of rush and "atypical" status have actually put me at ease, so I'll take both as good news as I plan to enjoy my weekend.

​Thank you for all of your well wishes and prayers. 

On May 12th I had my 3-month check-up, which included the usual blood draw, followed by a CT scan that hadn't been done since the previous November.

I have been conditioned to put a lot of stock in my blood work since a high or low value can signal a problem. And since this journey began two years ago, my blood work has been consistently near-perfect (even while undergoing chemo). 

So when my LDH level came back nearly the lowest it has ever been (188), I was relieved, which allowed me to mosey through the rest of my week with nary a worry about the scan. (LDH fluctuates in response to inflammation in the body, so a higher-than-normal reading usually signals cancer, or in my case, a possible recurrence). 

Four days later, I met with my oncologist to confirm that my labs were stellar, so I wasn't prepared when he segued into saying, "but the CT scan found two new areas of concern."

It took me a minute to compute what he was saying, mostly because I was not expecting any bad news, but my body remained calm so I was able to ask the appropriate next questions: 

"What does this mean?" and "What are my next steps?"

"We might be looking at a recurrence, or it may just be inflammation."

To make that determination, he was going to order an Urgent PET scan which would be able to look at the areas in more detail.

"Urgent" apparently means "two weeks" since my insurance company wasn't buying it that I needed another scan on the heels of the CT just weeks before. And at the cost of eight grand a scan, the process can't be hurried. 

But finally, the PET scan took place on May 29th, the same date two years ago when I underwent my biopsy surgery. (Oh, the irony!). 

My oncologist called me with those results, and explained that an area measuring 1.6 cm adjacent to my trachea was lighting up "like a Christmas tree" on the scan. The second, larger area of 3.0 cm, was not lighting up at all.

So, one lymph node was deemed "suspicious," while the other was not. 

"I want to see tissue in a dish in a lab," he said, "before attempting to make a statement about what 'this' is." It could be an inflammatory response from a virus I had months ago, a recurrence of my Non-Hodgkins Lymphona, or nothing at all.

Although the result of the biopsy has the potential to completely upend my life again, this time in a much bigger way now that COVID-19 is a factor, I feel no fear.

I had already been told months ago that if COVID-19 turns up at the place I've continued working as a nurse throughout the pandemic, that I would have to take a leave of absence. And if I'm undergoing treatment of any kind, I certainly could not stay, whether there was infection in the building or not. This is in direct opposition to what I did last time when I continued working through all of my chemo and radiation treatments. 

But still, I'm calm. Happy. Grateful. 

Because the moment I was told the news after the CT, my body stayed neutral.

I felt no flip in my stomach or extra beat in my chest that would signal panic, and I've learned to put a ton of faith into how my body reacts to just about everything in my life--from what it needs throughout the day, to assessing what actions to take regarding work and friends, to receiving potential dire news--because it has always been so spot-on in its predictions by the way I feeeel. 

Do I somehow have the inside scoop that this may not be a recurrence? 

No, I think it runs deeper. 

I believe my body's calm reaction because I'd like to think that it means that everything will be okay, no matter what. 

My lab work and my health also tell a story that is not typical of recurrence: my LDH is nearly the lowest it has ever been, my other lab work remains perfect, I have no symptoms that would signal a relapse, and I have never felt better.

According to my oncologist, nothing is pointing toward a possible recurrence except for a 1.6 cm area next to my trachea that lit up on the screen. 

"This is not typical," he kept repeating. "Usually we'd see an explosion of areas, not just one." 

"But if it is?" I asked. 

I expected him to launch into a litany of plans around chemotherapy or stem cell transplant, since that is the typical protocol with a recurrence, so I was greatly relieved when he told me that since the area is so limited, he was hopeful that a few focused rounds of radiation may do the trick. 

Phew!

But first, I met with yet another new doctor, a surgeon, over the phone on June 16th. The date initially felt too far away for an "urgent" consultation, but my oncologist had assured me that he and the surgeon were comfortable with the wait. And since the surgeon works at two separate buildings for two-week stretches, I had no choice but to wait...again. 

In the meantime I remained calm, "forgetting" that there may be a potential problem up ahead.

My chat with the surgeon lasted all of 7 minutes, where he explained the procedure that he's "done hundreds of times" and laid out the risks, which all seemed fairly minor. After another 48-hour wait, I received news that surgery would take place as his first case, bright and early on Monday morning, June 22nd. 

I felt no anxiety walking into surgery on Monday, and everyone--from check-in to recovery--was wonderful. Somehow in these past two decades, I've managed to have eight other surgeries so I have become somewhat of a pro at this.

As I was wheeled into surgery, I told the staff about my OR incident when my port was removed over a year ago: after being given my first dose of sedative, and without prompting, I launched into a very loud, very articulate count-down from 20 to 1 IN SPANISH! I wanted to warn them that I tend to embarrass myself under the influence...

Then poof! I was back in recovery, waking up, coughing, looking around in a dazed state of confusion. 

I love that about surgery. One minute I was awake, laughing, and the next I was waking up, as if from a dream I could not remember. 

The rest of the day was spent on the couch, feeling slightly "off" from my normal, perky self. It almost felt like I'd just had chemo, which left a literal bitter taste in my mouth. I had to remind myself that a scope had just been inserted into my trachea, and a sizable pinch of skin was removed, so of course I would feel out of sorts. 

By Tuesday morning (yesterday), I woke up feeling very sore. My throat, my neck, my lungs, and my back all felt slightly on-fire. I was reminded of my nursing school days when I attended my first surgery. A very large lady was having a rotator cuff (shoulder) repair and the only way to keep her on the narrow operating table was to duct tape her to it! I was horrified, but it was then when I learned that man-handling lifeless bodies in the OR is not an uncommon practice. 

(Hence my very sore body).

My oncologist called last evening and asked me to remain in quarantine until we get the biopsy results, hopefully by Friday. So now that I'm feeling better, I plan to take advantage of a few more days off from work while I recover fully. 

Am I worried? Not really. What would worrying solve? Either there is a snag or there is not, and the only way to determine that is to have obtained a biopsy. 

So for now, we wait...

In addition to writing this blog, I also write a newsletter for my life coaching business and I just came across this from a few months ago. I like it so much, it's worth sharing again...

"Things everyone needs to come to terms with: 

• No response is a response.
• If they wanted to, they would.
• Timing will not always be in your favor.
• Not everyone has the same heart as you." ~ FB post 

Do you struggle with this, the way I do? 

Having cancer has done a number on my relationships, dismantling ones I thought were strong, while creating new ones from places I'd never thought to look . 

But, still...

Despite the big tribe that came out in droves while I was enduring cancer, I continue to lament on the few who disappeared. 

I stew. I feel hurt. And angry. 

But as a life coach, I know that when I'm disappointed by others' actions, I am also resisting reality by expecting them to act as I would. 

Because, of course, that's a ridiculous no-no. 

And fighting against reality is how dis-ease is able to take hold and cause diseases in our bodies. 

Like cancer. 

I cannot afford to hang onto the sadness I feel about the people who have walked out of my life. People I have loved. 

As the quote above reminds me, not everyone has the same heart as I do. But here's where you lose me, because I know my friends' hearts. 

At least I thought I did. 

I wouldn't have been friends with them if they had traits that weren't conducive to building strong friendships. 

And they still left. 

Which boggles my mind, and leaves my heart aching. I don't know how to act, mostly because I don't understand. 

"Why would a friend disappear after I was diagnosed with cancer?" 

It just doesn't make sense to me, because I cannot imagine retreating if they had disclosed the same diagnosis to me.  

But in the grand scheme of having had cancer and living to write and talk about it only a year later, losing a few friends is, in comparison, minuscule. 

Unless it's not. 

Because I lost two close friends. Friends I trusted and loved. Friends who had been around for while. Friends who I cherished and would do almost anything for. 

But can I even call them "close friends"? They both disappeared without warning or explanation soon after cancer came on the scene. 

I can't change what has already happened, so what's the opposite of fighting against reality or stewing in sadness and confusion? 

Acceptance. 

I have no idea why they chose to retreat, nor do I have the right to judge them because I feel hurt by their absence. 
I just have to feel the feelings that have been left in the wake of their disappearance. 

And sometimes that doesn't feel like enough. 

My immature-self wants to retaliate and deem them "bad" friends. But my wise-self knows that I just have to feel the hurt and disappointment and sadness and pain, especially when I don't want to. 

Because feeling the pain is how we heal. 

It's not the words we use to attack others, or the mantras we recite to feel better, or the confrontations we want to have with the people who have hurt us that makes the hurt go away. 

It's feeling that leads to healing. 

I have to mourn losing friends who I thought were on my team for the long haul. Discovering that they weren't is painful, but I don't get to hurt them in return. 

The above quote is also a good reminder, a kind of note-to-self, that if they wanted to hang out with me throughout my year of cancer, then they would have. 

And when I try to stay in touch with them, their lack of a response is a response. 

So if you're like me, and you're struggling with the pain of others' hurtful or confusing actions, remember that when the troubling feelings begin to come so quickly that you may feel like you're drowning, you just have to remember to breathe.

Then feel all the feels.

Let go. 

And Forgive. 

Then move on. 

Even when it feels hard. 

Or impossible. 

Or it's the last thing you want to do.

Do it for you, the way I have to do it for myself, too.  

Because you and I deserve people in our lives who choose to show up when we need them most. 

It has also helped to consider that maybe God has dismantled a few relationships in order to make room for new ones that are meant to help me become the best version of myself. 

I like that.  

"Tragedy doesn't change who you are. It shows who you are."
​
This has been one of my favorite quotes since my life took a detour decades ago. I learned, first-hand, how tragedy has a way of bringing you to your knees while showing you how strong you can be. 

In the midst of intense grief, I was focused on just one thing: being fully immersed in getting through my days without falling apart every moment. It was the most present I had ever been. 

And it happened again when cancer struck. 

My life was narrowed down to the basics: cancer treatments, rest, friends, and work. The rest became inconsequential as I focused on becoming well again, working at my job every chance I could to keep my financial head above water, being with friends when I felt up to it, and resting as much as I needed to. 

Just tonight as I was driving around town running errands, I felt immensely grateful for being able to fill up my tank of gas and buy groceries without worrying about how much money I have in the bank. I am reminded often how some people in my circle live paycheck-to-paycheck so I don't take my ability to spend money lightly. 

I felt grateful for having the stamina and energy to run into several stores while someone in my life has been newly-diagnosed with cancer, and another friend will be finding out this week if she will be facing the same fate.  

My life is full and busy and alive. I move through my work days with barely a moment to sit down, I rush home to get to yoga on time, I eat on the run and I have so much energy, it's hard to imagine that cancer had ever slowed me down. 

And while I wouldn't wish cancer on my worst enemy, I do believe that experiencing a difficult life event brings so much growth and too many goodies to ignore. I don't pity the person who has to face any tragic event, though I do offer bucket loads of empathy and help. I will sit in the trenches with anyone who needs a friend, some company, or a shoulder to cry on. 

But I don't usually wish the tragedy to bid adieu because I know, in so many ways, how a tragic event shows you what you're made of. It crushes you, brings you to your knees, then slowly lifts you up until you're able to see yourself for the truth of who you are.

You are made powerful. You are made strong. You are made to conquer and live, really live. 

And each time my life has brought me to my knees, I have been grateful for the opportunity to become more of myself again. 

And while I am full of gratitude that my life is big and busy, I also miss the simplicity of my life when I was wholly present on just a few simple things.  

I also miss the closeness and intimacy I felt with God. In '96, I felt His presence in my home, in my heart, and in my life. He was uber-present and real. 

When cancer showed up just shy of two years ago, I looked high and low for him again, but was disappointed to realize that I was alone in my experience of cancer. It wasn't until I looked around, day after day, and saw how friends, family, co-workers, and strangers kept showing up for me as I healed. 

It was only then that I recognized God again. He'd been there all along, vibrantly showing himself in the smiles, hugs, meals, tears and comfort my tribe had been providing for me while I was healing. 

​

On November 16th, 2018, I was done with cancer. After 6 cycles of chemotherapy over four months, and 20 radiation treatments in four weeks, it was abruptly over, without fanfare.

After all the stress, worry, time off from work, energy-zapping treatments, tears, sadness, paranoia, and medications, it all just...ended. 

I returned to my normal work schedule, my hair began growing back, I no longer took daily medications, and by Christmas-time, it was hard to imagine that cancer had been a part of my life. 

One year later, it is still a very far-away experience, as though it happened decades ago (or not at all). 

By May of this year, my buzz cut no longer signaled having had cancer, but resembled a cute, stylish pixie cut (see below). And just a few weeks ago, I had my THIRD haircut! 

See how much can change in a year? 

Just a few days ago, I had my three-month check-up, which predictably consists of blood work and chatting with my oncologist. I've had a few annoying "twinges" in my body lately, which always sets me on edge about what could be happening deep within my tissues, but all continues to be well. My LDH remains within normal range and the twinges are just my body's way of making sure that all is working and healthy. 

I feel a huge responsibility to pass on the healing that I have lived, so I've been speaking about cancer for the past several months, both at the Cancer Center and within my tribe of friends, family, and clients. I share how I believe cancer infiltrated my life, and how I believe we can all return to good health--even after cancer.

​It's ironic, because while I was undergoing cancer treatments, I never felt--nor did I think of myself--as "ill". I've been so healthy all of my life that I couldn't take it in that cancer was actually an illness that was invading my body.

Perhaps that attitude was partly what contributed to my healing, but I still consider myself a very healthy 56-year-old woman...who happened to have had cancer. 

My gratitude for continued health and happiness one year later runs deep, but today, I am at a loss for words. 

I just know that everything can change in a year, so if you find yourself in a scary or uncertain place, remember this:  

"Beginnings are scary, endings are usually sad, but it is the middle that counts the most. You need to remember that when you find yourself at a new beginning, just give hope a chance to float up. It always does." ~ Hope Floats

​"It's not about trying to change the world to give yourself a better life. It's about trying to change your life to give the world a better you." ~ Emma Grace

Several years ago I began writing a newsletter called "Grati-Tuesday" and it has since gained a popular and steady following.

It had become obvious through my own life and clients' lives that being grateful for everything--things we deem good, bad, or awful--changes not only our lives, but US. 

So I wanted to share the magic of that with my readers. 

I believe daily gratitude has reshaped the way I see "problems" and how I react to them, even when those challenges are seemingly "tragic."

But in order to be grateful, you need to know where you are. 

Are you stuck in the middle of an "awful event," one in which you curse and wish your way out of? Or do you understand that this event is meant as a lesson for you, to help you become all that you're meant to be? 

In 1996 when my life exploded, I only knew to crumble as everything I thought I'd known about myself and my marriage imploded, leaving me wide open and raw. 

My immediate reaction was to grieve--loudly and often--and ultimately, it's what I believe started the cascade toward healing my shattered heart. 

And it was the best thing that could've happened to me. 

I purged emotions that I'd been stuffing for years, possibly decades, and my world began to open up. Gratitude for my new-found hope about my life, and excitement about a new future, quickly followed. 

Eventually, I was even grateful for the "tragedy" of betrayal. 

It wasn't just a temporary healing, either. It was a deep-down, in-my-bones-kind-of-healing that has lasted decades. 

I'd healed the betrayal fully, deeply, and permanently. 

But let me take this story one step further, to illustrate my point...

In 2003, I was newly in love and moved my 3 pre-teens cross-country to be with a new man. But when the relationship began to take a nose-dive, I did not react with my typical Zen-self. 

Instead, I fought the signs that told me something was not right. I did not give-in, cave, or face our impending break-up head-on. 

I fought it.

And because I fought with anger, blaming, and excuses about my partner's behaviors, I wasn't able to start the trajectory toward healing, either. 

It was a long, challenging few years before I came up for air and was myself again because I had not been willing to be grateful for the lesson, nor was I willing to accept that I had invited addiction into my life again. 

Eventually I faced what needed to be dealt with and I healed, but remnants of that battle still linger. 

Fast-forward to May of 2018 when Cancer was diagnosed. 

Because I had already been steeped in self-help and healing for decades, I was able to face this new challenge head-on. I was willing to do whatever it took to heal. 

And I believe that practicing gratitude in the face of a devastating diagnosis was the primary reason cancer took a hike. 

I didn't fight it. I didn't look the other way. I wasn't the least bit angry about having been diagnosed with a potentially-fatal illness. 

I accepted the diagnosis, then did what needed to be done to come out of the experience the victor. 

I was grateful to be alive; grateful to continue working; grateful that I had a huge tribe supporting me. 

I even became grateful for cancer since it has reset my life on a new course. 

You see, practicing gratitude changes us. 

It changes the way we look at life, and how we respond to people, challenges, and "problems." 

It changes how we see ourselves in our big, bountiful lives. 

Gratitude for what we already have in front of us draws more of what we want to us: love, peace, money, magic. 

I believe I healed cancer by being grateful for its presence, just like I believe I was able to heal a deep, dark betrayal because I leaned into the lesson it was meant to instill.

Much like a car that has to drive through a heavy and dark storm to travel the highway toward its destination, we have to be willing to lean in and forge ahead when life feels unpleasant. 

Be grateful for the presence of an event...even when you don't like it or understand it. 

Be grateful for the lesson...even when you can't see it. 

Be grateful for the potential for growth...especially when you're feeling uncomfortable.

Practicing gratitude feels even more seductive when comparing my three stories. When I wasn't grateful for the event in 2004, and failed to invite the lesson into my life, it took double (triple?) the time for me to heal. 

See how it works? 

So now it's your turn. 

I invite you to share a story in your life where simply being grateful healed you, changed you, stirred you, or unhinged you. 

It's in the stories we share with each other that allows more healing to take place. 

We learn that we are not alone, we often hear just what needs to be heard... 

And it's always at the right time. 

After almost 16 months since my cancer diagnosis, and almost one year of being cancer-free, I am intrigued by the changes that cancer has brought into my life. And I'm not talking about the obvious changes, but the subtle, sometimes silly ways in which cancer has changed me. 

The first change is a surprising one: my hair. 

It began growing back before chemotherapy was over last September, but by Christmas, it was still only peach-fuzz. I remember dragging my hand across my head often, feeling the soft stubble of hair between my fingers. When spring rolled around, it wasn't much longer. In fact, my passport picture was taken in late May and my hair was still very, very short. 

But within a month, my hair had suddenly sprouted! It was almost back to my original length by my birthday in early July and I just had my second haircut in about 5 weeks. 

Not only was it quickly growing, but the texture was thick and curly, two adjectives that I've never attributed to my fine, baby-soft, stick-straight hair that I'd had for 55 years. I actually like this new sassy do that I now part on the opposite side of my head.

And I've often wondered why this is. I've been parting my hair on the same side for several decades; then it grows back in and I automatically began to part it on the other side. Weird. 

Another change: Because so much poison had been infused into my body over several months--causing my hair to fall out and my skin to change--and because I wasn't sure what had contributed to getting cancer, I became vigilant about what I put into my body.

I started purchasing Reverse Osmosis water on the recommendation of a friend who'd had the same cancer and knew that the water in our neighborhood was not healthy for immunocompromised people. Then I started buying Organic foods, focusing on more fruits and vegetables. I've since cut out most sugar and have gone gluten and dairy-free. 

I also started using essential oils on, in, and around my body, which I have continued to use. I diffuse them nightly at my bedside, I drink them in my daily cup of tea, and while my tumors were being disintegrated by chemo, I was faithfully applying Frankincense to my chest since it has been touted to be a good tumor-fighter. 

I also changed my soaps, lotions, shampoos, and make-up to natural products, though the latter has been a bit more challenging since I am breaking out like a hormonal teenager with the use of clean products. Perhaps I'm still detoxing and it's coming out of my skin. 

Alternative treatments: I had already been getting massages every other week, so I added weekly acupuncture once cancer came on the scene. The reason was two-fold: I wanted my body to have the best chance possible to heal itself, and I was in quite a bit of pain after the first rounds of chemo. Acupuncture was an immediate antidote that I continued for the length of treatment, and even when I was no longer in pain, I believe the consistency of treatments helped my body return to homeostasis where it was better able to heal. 

Weight: After the first chemo treatment, I'd lost 7# when the largest of the dozen tumors was eradicated right away, but with my overzealous eating habits, I had gained that back fairly quickly during chemo while steroids were a part of the regimen. However, once treatments were over and I got more fastidious about my intake, I lost 9# fairly quickly. 

Finances: Ironically, since cancer I have become more financially responsible for my future. One would think that butting up against a possible death sentence would make me want to run away to Tahiti, not caring about a retirement that may never come, but I've actually tightened up my purse strings.

You may have read that my cancer symptoms began while I was sitting at my lawyer's office while I was updating my Will last year, so I have often joked that people should not bother with such trivial plans since they can be bad luck! 

But if I am to live a long and healthy life, I also want to have a bank balance that supports that.

So I have set up more long-term accounts to counteract the years when I was more reckless with my money. And while I am usually prone to changing jobs every few years (because as a Nurse, I can!), I am feeling more content to stay where a predictable paycheck and health insurance can be counted on. 

I've also become more generous with my cash. As a single-parent for a few decades, I am a fairly decent money manager but I've also been very frugal in my daily spending habits.

Not anymore.

So many people shared their wealth to help me through a tough financial situation so I'm happy to pay the favor forward. After all, it was a great lesson in trusting that I am being taken care of--no matter what my situation looks like--and witnessing how generous others were when I was in need was not only heart-warming, but mind-blowing. 

How could I ignore others' as they face their own hardships? 

People and things: I am less capable of putting up with bullshit, though I'm also more willing to let things and people go when I smell bullshit. Experiencing the pain of two of my closest friends walking away this past year contributed to this, I'm sure. I just don't have the energy to wonder why people do or say certain things, especially if they've been hurtful.

On this memorable day of September 11th, I am reflecting about how life can be taken in one single moment, or altered with one single diagnosis. 

I do not take this lightly, but I am also thankful for the simple pleasures that cancer has restored in me: the choice of good food, healthy habits, meaningful relationships, and a financial plan for my future. 

Oh, and curly hair. ​

I've known about this appointment for three months.

My last post-cancer check-up on May 14th revealed that my LDH level was back to normal at 199, and a follow-up appointment was made for today's CT scan with labs.

I was told that for the first two years post-cancer, I will be monitored every three months, either by a scan of some sort (PET or CT) every 6 months with labs, then with labs and an office visit during the in-between appointments. When I hit year three, monitoring will be cut back to every 6 months, then yearly at the five-year mark. 

Essentially, I will be closely monitored until I hit the "cure zone" of five years, and I've been aware of this all along.

But when faced with the reality of what it all means, it's a different story.

Usually an emotional one. 

I arrived early for labs this morning, then had a CT scan with contrast done.

Yes, I drank the Kool-aid.

But flavored with a raspberry twist, the radioactive poison actually went down easily. I sipped on my 32-ounce drink for an hour (ample time for it to coat my innards) before I was taken back to the scanner. 

I've had a few of these already, and not all of them have been for cancer. It was quick and easy, just as expected. When the technician asked when I would be having my follow-up with my oncologist, I told him "Two o'clock today." 

"No pressure," he said. Something in his voice caught me off-guard. Was it sarcasm? Or a hint of knowing how that appointment would turn out? I couldn't grasp what I'd intuited, but it felt just a smidge off-kilter. 

But I've learned not give into my own paranoia so I went about my day running errands until my scheduled appointment. Soon after I returned to the Cancer Care Center, I was taken much earlier than my alotted time. It pays to arrive early.

When I stepped onto the scale, I was proud to report that my 9-pound weight loss had been intentional. Health professionals become a bit skiddish when they see a weight loss with cancer patients as it's often one of the first signs of there being a problem, but not this time. 

In fact, as a result of cancer, I've tweaked quite a few habits and one of them is my food. I have significantly decreased my sugar intake, switched to gluten-free breads, and cut out coffee and dairy. In just a few months, the pounds melted off of me, even after cheating during my week-long eating binge on a cruise last month. Once I was back on dry land, I resumed my previous eating habits and the 4 pounds I'd gained were gone within a few days. 

Easy peasy. 

After (happily) weighing in, I was taken back to a room where my vital signs registered as normal, but I was already beginning to tear up. Not real tears, like I wasn't ready to sob, but I had to keep wiping my eyes at the corners. 

As usual, I had also walked into that room with a list of questions:

1. Why was a CT done instead of just labs? (Because a scan every 3 months is protocol with my type of cancer and there were a few areas in my body that were "questionable" on my PET scan in February, so this CT was done to monitor those areas); 
2. Why does the CT cover my neck to mid-thigh but not my head? (Because lymphoma normally doesn't metastasize to the brain); And
3. What if...? What happens next if today's information goes south? 

While I was reading over my questions, the PA walked in, breathless, like she'd just ran from upstairs. "I have only part of your CT, so we're still waiting on the other half, but your labs are all normal." 

I wiped the corners of my eyes as I shifted in my seat. Then I got down to business. After all, I am not just a patient, but a Nurse. 

"My LDH level?" 

"178."

Wow, I mused to myself as I kept my eyes on my note pad. That's so much better than 199 in May!

"And the upper half of the CT--your neck--is clear. All clear."

That answered my question about the nagging aches I feel every so often in my neck. It's like waking up with a stitch after a deep sleep; each time I turn my head left, the twinge stops me from rotating all the way around so instead, I often have to rotate my whole upper body. 

My massage therapist has been working on these twinges since long before I finished my treatments and although they've improved, they haven't gone away entirely. I've been passing them off as "radiation aftershocks" and the PA agreed that I could still be experiencing some minor issues post-chemo and radiation. 

No biggie. I've never had to medicate myself for them and I've become used to the aches. As long as it's not cancer returning, I'm good. 

Then she left again in pursuit of the other half of my scan, and returned a few minutes later. 

"Yep, all clear!" she sang as she entered the room. "The areas we were concerned with earlier have improved, too."

I looked down at my pad of paper and casually crossed off "What if...?"

Then I reached for another Kleenex. 

She rambled on about something, but I didn't hear much. I hadn't realized until that moment that I went into my appointment feeling a little bit more than worried. I had been keeping a tally of symptoms that have been feeling out of the norm for three months, worried that it may be a sign of cancer returning. Even though I don't normally think about cancer, a slight variation of some bodily function can jerk me back into "uh-oh." 

It wasn't until I heard the LDH level that my shoulders relaxed, it wasn't until she said "all is clear" that I breathed normally again, and it wasn't until I was walking out to my car that I realized how much I base my life off of these appointments. 

I have been planning a trip to the southwest for this Fall, but I wasn't willing to book a flight until I knew this scan was clear. If the scan was not in my favor, I had already mapped out in my head what my next steps would be--both at work and on the home-front. 

It's like I have a "Yes, Cancer" or "No, Cancer" plan quietly hanging out in the back of my thoughts for when I may need to retrieve either. 

I had cancer last year, a statement that still doesn't make sense, but I am healthy today--very healthy. A friend of mine died of breast cancer the day after my birthday last month, and a gentleman-friend has developed Multiple Myeloma seven years after having leukemia. Two other friends have brain tumors, another has prostate cancer, and one of my favorite residents is dying on Hospice. 

Cancer is all around me, so it is not lost on me how blessed I am that I am well. 

But it doesn't mean that I am beyond the trauma of having had cancer.

I imagine that that worry may quietly hang out in the back-drop of my life, maybe forever. 

I just don't plan on allowing it to stop me from enjoying every last minute of the days I get to be on this planet.