"And once the storm is over, you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won't be the same person who walked in." 

Today was my third PET scan, and for some reason, I was more worried than usual.

I'm a nurse; I know how to do this. I'm also a patient who knows what to expect.

I had my first scan upon diagnosis last May, and a second one on October 9th that showed I was cancer-free. It's an easy test: much less confining than an MRI, but much longer than a CT.

Still, it's a breeze. 

There was no reason to be scared, but I could feel it bubbling beneath the surface as today came into view. 

I had to fight to keep my appointment since it had already been cancelled once due to an insurance issue, then I stayed on top of the issue until it was resolved and today's appointment was made. I wanted this test done. 

When yesterday's snowstorm blew through our state, I was worried that my scan would again be postponed. 

But as I cautiously eased my car out of my snow-packed driveway this morning, I was also wishing that I would not be able to make today's appointment. 

I wanted a good excuse not to go. "Sorry, my car couldn't make it up the hill due to ice" I would say to the receptionist without having to lie.

Instead, I could go to work and not face the inevitable, at least not today. 

But my car did make it up the hill, then through town on snow-mixed-with-ice laden streets, then to my appointment. I even arrived thirty minutes early.

So I puttered around in my car until my appointment time, and to my surprise, I had to fight back tears as I watched my smoky breath in the frigid air. 

What was I so afraid of? 

The chill of the car quickly became unbearable, so I dabbed my eyes with a Kleenex, grabbed my bag, and went inside where I updated my medical history, then asked for a copy of my labs. I had arrived with a mission to check on my LDH level that had been drawn a week ago.

LDH stands for Lactate Dehydrogenase, an enzyme that can be found in almost every cell in our bodies. When LDH levels are increased, it's a sign that there is tissue injury or a disease, such as cancer, brewing somewhere in the body. Normal range of LDH is 100-190. 

My initial LDH level last May was 261, which was deemed a "mild increase" by my oncologist. Within a month, and after Non-Hodgkins's lymphoma was officially diagnosed by biopsy, my LDH shot up to 331. 

After an excellent response to several months of chemotherapy and radiation, my LDH level was down to 201 just eleven days after radiation ended in November. My oncologist expected it to be a tad elevated (above 190) since radiation had just damaged my tissues during the previous 21 treatments. 

Today my LDH level was 209, an 8-point increase from November. I wasn't sure if that was good or bad, considering it had gone up since last time. It was expected to be elevated after finishing radiation, but what about now, almost three months later? 

Does an increase of 8 points signal that the cancer may be returning, or does it confirm that my body is still healing from the trauma of chemo and radiation? (And shingles, to boot!). 

My first instinct when I read my lab results was a positive one, that at 209, I was still in remission. I felt it as I smiled in relief. It was only when my mind started wandering with questions because of my rising fear that I began to doubt myself. 

I decided not to second-guess my intuition and I settled into the lobby seat as I browsed through the newsfeed on my phone. I was called into radiation where I cozied up in a recliner under several warm blankets while my nurse (whom I had last time) inserted an IV into my arm, checked my blood glucose level, then injected radioactive sugar into my vein. 

Then she left me in the dark for an hour, my favorite part. 

The reason for this, you ask? 

Cancer cells feed on and attract sugar, so as the radioactive substance began to disperse within my body, cancer cells lie in wait, hungry to eat up the sugar. I was left in the dark so that I wouldn't move about the tiny room, causing my muscles to take up the sugar and use it for fuel. Instead, it was free to be taken up by cancer cells, or to be eliminated from my body should there still be no cancer. 

Thirty minutes in the PET scan machine would determine if any cancer remains in my body. If so, all the places that have cancer would light up banana yellow on the screen; if no cancer remains, the screen will remain black without any hint of color. I will get those results next week when I see my oncologist. 

In the meantime, I figured out why I felt so shaky about today. 

When I'd had my second PET scan in October, I'd already had six chemo treatments. If my scan turned banana yellow anywhere in my body at that time, I would've continued with two more chemotherapy treatments for a total of eight. If nothing turned up on the scan (which is precisely what happened), I would go right into four weeks of radiation. 

And I did. 

But on that day, October 9th, I was deemed cancer-free!

Had it not been that result, however, I still would've had a "back-up plan" to continue to rid my body of cancer. I still would've had the option of more chemotherapy, followed by radiation. 

But this time? 

If this scan shows cancer at all, there will be no chemotherapy or radiation available as "back-up" options. 

In fact, if I thought chemotherapy and radiation treatments upended my life in a big way, then the next course of treatment will surely blow my life out of the water, because the next step would be stem cell transplant.

At least that's what was explained to me when this whole event started last May. 

No wonder I was close to tears this morning. The next step is too monumental for me to consider. Too scary to think about, and too overwhelming to wrap my head around. 

Especially since I have felt so well. I have made peace with the cancer that needed to take up space in my body for a while, and am grateful that it eventually left. 

So instead of giving into the fear that wants to rise up and think the worst, I will choose to put faith in my God-given intuition that reminded me today how I remain cancer-free.

The same intuition that told me last May that I would heal through this bout of cancer quickly and relatively easily, with no residual cancer remaining once last year's treatment was over.

And so far, that has been my beautiful story. 

"...You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won't be the same person who walked in." 

Amen. 

As a woman with cancer, I've noticed how often I have felt part of a special group, like I did when I was pregnant. 

Much like a growing belly that tells an obvious tale, so does my short hair and doo-rag. It's clear to others that I have probably gone through chemotherapy, and when their faces register that reality, something in them changes. 

I see it immediately. 

They meet my gaze with a compassionate "I'm sorry" look, followed by an almost tangible sense of pity--until I smile back at them, reassuring them that I'm on the mend. 

Most people take extra time to help me at the store, in the check-out lines, and at work. They seem nicer, more like who they want to be all the time, or who they are meant to be at their core. 

Many also reach out for my short, bushy hair and can't resist running their fingers through it. Much like others reach out for pregnant bellies to touch. 

I think my cancer tends to bring out the best in others.

Even in me. 

My goal has been to be a good poster-child for cancer. I want to help others understand that cancer has a soft side, one that teaches us how to be more ourselves, more authentic, and more real. 

I also want to make it clear to others that cancer does not equal death. We have so much life to live, and my being positive about my future despite a hefty diagnosis helps others understand that I'm not taking life sitting down. 

The healing, the joy, and the challenges have made me stronger than I've ever been, even though I started this journey as a pretty tough cookie.

Cancer has so much negative stigma and fear associated with it that I'm committed to teaching exactly the opposite. 

As I've learned how to live life differently because my schedule and energy level have become usurped by treatments, appointments, and a new routine, I can still be full of life. It may be an adjusted life, but it is also (most likely) a temporary experience. 

Dealing with that has made me more relaxed, and more in-tune with what my body and soul want and need. 

Perhaps that is what people are drawn to when they see beyond the military cut on my head that signals my having had cancer.

They see Hope. Future. Love. 

Then there are others who know exactly what I've been through.

There is a silent code with other cancer survivors I see out in public, much like motorcyclists who give each other a middair "high-five" as they pass each other on the highway.

Without having to say a word, there is an immediate camaraderie. Our eyes meet with a knowing smile and nod. 
We understand each other.

We are sisters in the same experience.

We belong to the same club, one that no one wants to be a member of, but one we are grateful to be included in. 

Something in me changes, too.

I come alive with compassion for them and for myself for having endured such a monumental blow. 

I say a silent prayer of gratitude, as I square my shoulders and grow a few feet taller.

​I am damn proud to be part of an elite group of cancer survivors who have shown more than just an ability to endure. 

We have faced cancer head-on and it was no match to our grit, heart, tenacity, compassion, and love. 

As long as cancer continues to stick around, it will not have the ability to thrive in this kind of environment. 

I, for one, plan to keep it that way. 

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...

It's interesting how good humans are at adapting to loss.

When I was first told that I had lymphoma, my immediate thought was that cancer kills. But that was quickly usurped by the idea that it wouldn't be me dying, at least not then. 

Even though I was smacked with a diagnosis that leaves many dead, I felt blindsided for only a few minutes before I made the decision to be one of the survivors, no matter what it would require of me. 

Fortunately, it has so far been my fate. 

When my hair-shaving party was held just over four months ago, I didn't want to be there. I kept shoving others in front of me to get their hair shaved because I had no desire to do so, even while dozens of people who love me surrounded me in support.

I cried every time someone happily sat down on the stool to have their head shaved, like they didn't give a rat's ass that their hair would be gone with one swipe of the clippers.

Why not, people?

I was falling apart knowing that I didn't have a choice but to lose my head of hair. 

I had to fight back tears when it actually happened, and cringed with the sight of myself in the mirror. 

But now?

I flip my wig or bandana off of my head as soon as I walk in the door to my home and spend the rest of the evening bald. Sometimes, I even remove whatever I'm wearing on my head as I drive home, allowing cool air to soothe my hot scalp. If I'm really in the mood, I go in public with a bald head (I would do this more readily, but my head gets cold quickly!). 

I constantly rub the stubbles on my head in a weird, OCD-kind-of-way because I love the way it feels as I drag my hand across my scalp. And since my hair began growing back a few weeks before my final chemotherapy, my head feels like a baby chick's, all soft and fluffy, so it's even more enticing to touch. 

I was certain that I would feel mortified without eyebrows and eyelashes, but they fell off so slowly, I only noticed they were gone when I tried to put mascara on the few remaining hairs.

Now I highlight my eyes with a brown pencil, put on red lipstick, and call it good.

I don't fuss over make-up, nor worry about how I look before strutting out the door, confident as though I had a full head of my own hair with eyebrows and lashes to match. Even though my eyebrows have mostly grown back in, they are now very blonde so they still don't show up against my light complexion.

When I lost feeling in my fingertips within 12 hours after receiving my first chemotherapy treatment, I got used to it within a few days. When the same cotton-under-my-skin feeling reached my toes just a few weeks ago, I knew what to expect. This neuropathy may even follow me for a lifetime. 

Que sera.

The chemotherapy may have numbed-up the tips of my fingers and toes, but it also saved my life. 

I am sure I will even get used to the idea of dying should that scenario be my story before I'm ready. 

Although I just learned a month ago that the cancer could no longer be detected on my PET scan, my mortality was put into question during the months when I had no idea if the chemotherapy was working or not. 

Fortunately, my treatment went well and I am finally done with nary a trace of cancer. 

But while I was home recovering after each treatment, I missed 7 days of work each time, which also meant lost wages, sometimes twice in one month. You can imagine that I lost a lot of money during that time, and you'd be right. My absence totaled just over eight work weeks, which amounted to about 20% of lost income for this year. 

That financial loss is a huge chasm that I will most likely never be able to recoup, but the upside is that many of you contributed money, while others donated vacation days, making my financial loss a bit more manageable. 

The external losses of cancer are obvious but they are also temporary, and will soon be just a distant memory.

Sadly, other losses have been more difficult to deal with and understand. 

During one of the most challenging times in my life, I was given an opportunity to see a real-live snapshot of how people behaved while watching my journey unfold. You've been privy to how beautifully so many people came to my aid. 

​As surprised and ecstatic as I was (and continue to be) by the outpouring of help and love, I am just as sad to report that some of the people I thought were part of my support network disappeared when cancer came on the scene. 

No explanations. They just never showed up. Or they quietly vanished. It was perplexing, but I just assumed each time that perhaps a diagnosis of cancer was just too much for some people to face. 

My chemo nurse confirmed this when she told me, "I've seen so many people lose best friends over cancer. It happens all the time."

And I was shocked. 

Because I lost one of mine, too. 

It was both heart-breaking and confusing when she disappeared because I didn't see it coming. She slowly started to fade into the background of my life, then her final departure was swift and harsh.

There are so many questions left dangling. 

And so much sadness left to face. 

Of all the losses that cancer has thrown into my life, losing trust in someone who was like a sister has been the biggest loss of all. 

A colleague recently commented that since I was deemed "cancer free" on my PET scan a few weeks ago, it seems like all the fanfare around me and my diagnosis has disappeared. 

And she is right.

Most people have stopped calling or texting to check in; meals are no longer delivered; bracelets have been taken off; fund-raising has come to a halt; and the focused attention on me is non-existent.

But I can hardly blame anyone.

After all, the minute there was no cancer found on my scan, my view of myself and my needs changed, too. 

We all sighed a collective sigh of relief, then jumped back into our lives--the ones we were unabashedly living before taking a hiatus to focus on me as I wrestled head-on with cancer. 

I dove back into my old routines as quickly as I could once I left the oncologist's office that beautiful day when she told me my cancer was gone. Within days, I returned to work full-time with the same energy and stamina I had before cancer; I resumed my walking and yoga routines; and I began to live life as though cancer was never a part of it.

I got so busy, so fast, that I haven't posted a blog in 4 weeks, and I rarely keep Facebook apprised of how I'm doing these days. I've barely had time to slow down with this new schedule. 

It has even been difficult for me to remember that just last month I was still flat-out on the couch recovering from chemotherapy #6. It feels like another lifetime, one that I was only vaguely a part of. 

I had cancer? 

It doesn't seem possible, nor real. 

But, wait a minute...

Although I'm clear of cancer, that doesn't mean I'm altogether out of the woods, either.

I am just finishing three weeks of radiation that has been uneventful and relatively easy. My 2.5 minutes on the "hot seat" happen at the end of my workday, five days a week. The most tiresome part of each day is driving thirty minutes each way to and from my sessions, just to show up for a few minutes. This new routine is boring and intrusive. 

But radiation is also potentially dangerous and I'm not entirely through with this cancer journey yet. Everyone keeps forgetting that, just as I do. 

Since radiation kills fast-growing cells (just like chemo), and the area of focus is my chest, I was warned that my throat may feel sore and I may experience heartburn as my esophagus' lining becomes vulnerable to breakdown. I was also told that if it happened, it would be near the end of my 20 sessions since my radiation dose was so low. 

But after just seven sessions last week, I felt a stabbing pain just below my throat when I swallowed a stewed tomato from my lunchtime soup. It continued every time I swallowed, like nails were scraping the inside of my esophagus. It wasn't exactly my throat that hurt, but the area below it, so I assumed I was experiencing the side effects I'd been warned about. But when I met with the MD that same day, he confirmed that it was too soon to be troubled by side effects. 

He also peered down my throat, but didn't seem concerned. He handed me a prescription for a lidocaine cocktail that would numb my esophagus so I could eat, and I was sent on my merry way. 

But the lidocaine didn't help.

In fact, the soreness only got worse. You'd think that as a nurse I'd be worried about Strep throat, but it never crossed my mind to consider it a possibility. Probably because never in my 55 years have I ever had it.

By day #5, I was still choking down food while wincing, so I finally called the doctor. She wasn't worried about Strep, either, but recommended Ibuprofen to curb the pain. I am not one to reach for medications quickly, so that hadn't crossed my mind, either. She described my symptoms as the "perfect storm": a possible cold virus combined with the beginning of radiation side effects. 

It is moments like these when I want to raise my white flag. I'm no longer is severe distress, but I'm tired of this on-going, seemingly never-ending journey. I want to quit walking and sit down and rest. I want my life back. I want to quit worrying about new symptoms while feeling paranoid about old scary ones. 

This transition into the life I lived before cancer has been slow.

I jumped back into parts of it, like work, but the rest still feels disjointed with several pieces dangling. I feel overwhelmed about how to move forward. And there are so many people to contact after falling off the grid for six months. 

My house is disheveled after 6 months of ignoring it. There are birthday balloons from July still floating around my ceiling, and the weeds in my yard are choking whatever has been trying to grow around them.

My coaching business feels dormant, ready to spring anew, but can it be revived considering the lull it has taken? 

I've had to remind myself to take it easy through the end of the year. After all, it has only been six weeks since chemo was completed. I've experienced a severe trauma that needs patience and tender loving care as I navigate my way back into my life while I create a new future. 

But I have no idea what that future looks like, or what I want it to be. My coach thinks that's a good thing, to not have a clue about my next steps. While I find it somewhat freeing, I am also a woman who likes to plan. And I have no plan this time. 

As quickly as cancer stole my life, it also gave it back to me when I wasn't exactly expecting it. But more than feeling jubilant about it, I mostly feel lost. 

There is a need inside of me that has to know what this was all for. There has to be a reason that cancer interrupted my life and I don't want to miss or waste that lesson. I've written my theories about what it meant, but what do I do with that information now? 

My world view has changed, but little else has. I work the same job, live in the same house, surrounded by the same people, doing the same things. 

I feel an enormous responsibility to change something, or do something in a big way, but as I see the finish line just 6 radiation sessions down the road, I can't help but choke back tears of immense joy. On November 16th, just a week before Thanksgiving, I will be done.

​This journey will be officially over.

The best I can muster today, as I see my future opening up, is to bow on bended knee in deep gratitude that I was given another chance at life. 

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

​Today I got tatted up for the first time ever. My kids will be so proud. 

Upon my 6th chemo on September 27th, a PET scan was scheduled that would determine my next steps for treatment. If no cancer was found, I'd go right into radiation; if any trace of cancer was still detected, I'd have 2 more chemo sessions, resuming next Thursday.

Three appointments were set up for today: meeting with a radiation oncologist, followed by a possible simulation of the radiation procedure, then finally, meeting with my oncologist to read the PET results. 

I had the PET on Tuesday, then I had to wait two whole days.

But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself...

As a life coach, I have learned the practice of talking to my body when it is in distress, then listening for the "answers" it gives me. This is such a powerful exercise, and I have received such insightful answers, that I decided early on to engage in conversations with the largest of my dozen tumors. 

It is the reason the side bar of this blog identifies my tumor as a "he," because from the get-go, he introduced himself as "Rupert".

Immediately, I pictured a nerdy gay guy with glasses, hardly someone to be afraid of. He actually looked like Waldo, red striped shirt and all. I think I even chuckled at the thought of him as my bad-ass tumor, an intruder who was trying to kill me. 

Him?

I liked him from the start, and kind of felt sorry for him, which made it easy to talk to him. 

"Hey Rupert, what's going on?" I began a week after I was diagnosed. "Why have you been schizophrenically destroying my healthy cells?"

His response surprised me: "I had to get your attention in a big way because my subtle hints haven't caught your attention."

"Subtle hints for what?" I asked again.

"Carrying your mission to the world. You are so much bigger than you think and act and it's time for you to step into your power in a big way." 

Ignoring his instructions, I asked: "What can I do to make you stop your cell division frenzy?"

"Start looking inward for your answers. They're not 'out there'. You are so close to everything you want, yet you keep retreating. Stop retreating and RECEIVE." (Yes, he really did speak in capital letters).

On August 4th, just before my 4th chemo, I asked what my next steps were and he told me: "BELIEVE. Believe you will be healed--not by medicine, but by you and God. Your body is a fast healer."

If you recall, my 4th chemo was the worst post-recovery out of all six chemos I had received. I felt poisoned and I was even worried that I wouldn't fully recover. Fortunately, I did. 

So I carried on this 2-sided conversation for months, then one day before my 5th chemotherapy, I was driving (where many of my intuitive hits happen) when I heard him chattering in the back-drop of my thoughts. When I began to pay closer attention, I clearly heard him say "I'm dead."

I knew, right then, that the cancer was already gone. I told only one other person, Carmen. "Of course it's gone," she responded. She was as confident as I felt.

But, still. What if we were wrong?

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

So, back to today. I met with a radiation oncologist before meeting with my oncologist. This was an introduction to the radiation treatment, so I was surprised when she nonchalantly announced as she walked into the room, "Your PET scan looks good." 

"What does that mean?" I asked, startled. I wasn't expecting to hear this news until I met with my oncologist in a few hours. 

"I think you're done with chemo."

I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding in. 

"It's gone?"

"Yes, as far as I can tell, but let me check with your oncologist so he gets the final word before we move forward." 

She left me alone with my thoughts and I nearly broke down in a laughing-crying sort of way. But a few minutes later she bounded through the door again, excited. "Okay! We've got the approval to move forward!"

IknewitIknewitIknewitIknewit

"So if there's no cancer, is there any chance I could receive less than 6 weeks of radiation?"

"Six weeks? Oh, no! It will be 3-4 weeks, max."

ThankyouGodThankyouGodThankyouGod!

As she described the treatment and side effects, she quickly followed it with "but your dose will be cut in half so any side effects should be minimal." 

​The good news just kept coming: No more 10-day recoveries; no more missing so much work; no more feeling poisoned; no more steroids; no more baldness. NO. MORE. CANCER!

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

This morning as I walked into work, Carmen showed me her green bracelet. All of the writing was gone. She slid it onto my wrist and said, "Your cancer is gone, too." 

You may not believe me, but... 

I knew this was coming, though I never could've guessed that it would be in the form of cancer. 

It was five years ago when I became an empty-nester and I turned 50. It was a year to celebrate having raised my three kids alone for the previous fifteen years, and time to celebrate venturing off into a new career.

I felt ecstatic, hopeful, and empowered to begin life anew, this time on my terms since I no longer had anyone to be responsible to. I'd raised my family and they were all off to promising futures of their own. 

It was my turn. 

After two decades single-handedly raising a family in a conventional way, I was branching out into my more unconventional nature. 

I'd already quit my high-paying job because I couldn't see spending the rest of my nursing career behind a cubicle, and I wasn't willing to comply with a large company whose managerial practices were less than stellar. It was time to jump ship and I was ready. 

That's when I sensed it.

It wasn't the first time I'd been informed by my intuition that something was up.

I have even heard a Voice that has spoken to me directly. In fact, when my life caved two decades ago, the Voice was loud, clear, and consistent. I knew I was being spoken to and guided by God as I navigated my way through unending grief, while trying to make sense of how the life I'd known had just exploded. 

I often had to look over my shoulder to see if anyone was there. The Voice was so close, so present, and so...real. 

So when I sensed during the summer of my 50th birthday that death was circling nearby, I took it as a warning. I didn't know how, and I didn't know when, but I was under the impression that I would be dying before my 51st birthday. 

Oddly, it held no fear, just understanding. Like I'd been notified that the pizza would be delivered in an hour. 

But, still, I didn't change anything.

I had already decided to take more chances in my life, so after taking the summer off, I enrolled in a program for life coaching. When I graduated the next spring, I had lofty plans to make my nursing salary that first year, so when that didn't pan out as quickly as I'd anticipated, I panicked.

My savings had sprung a serious leak after leaving my job, so I had to swallow my pride and find work again. I did, but because my heart was no longer in nursing, I eventually left that job, too. For another half year I hobbled along between coaching clients and savings, but still managed to pay my bills and keep up with my house. 

I was growing more impatient and frustrated with how my plans from a few years earlier were not working out. Empty-nesting was panning out to be more challenging than I'd expected it to be. 

My 51st, 52nd, and 53rd birthdays came and went, and each time I was surprised that I was still alive.

But by the time my 54th birthday rolled around last summer, I realized that perhaps I was wrong. Either I misunderstood my intuition, or the Big Guy Upstairs had changed his mind. I thought I'd been let off the hook. 

So I finally dropped the idea of death happening.

Then just eight weeks before my 55th birthday this past July, cancer arrived, bringing with it a momentary shock that the Grim Reaper had finally arrived.

It was finally my time, and I'd been warned.

Ruh-roh.

The irony is that when the diagnosis finally settled in to my consciousness, I knew for certain that my death was not at all imminent.

For five years I'd been expecting the final countdown, but when it finally arrived in the form of cancer, I realized that it wasn't my death that was predicted.

It was my dying that had been. 

I was already, in some respects, dying a slow death. Or rather, my life was slowly dying.

The fun and adventurous woman who had taken her kids on countless road trips to places far and near for the past two decades was no longer traveling as much as she'd wanted; the woman who had taken every opportunity to explore felt too timid to venture far without an ally, and her friends were usually too busy to accompany her; and the woman who encouraged her kids to try new experiences felt too fearful of trying anything new by herself.

She was withering--the exact opposite of what she'd expected when each of the kids flew the coop. 

​Did she know how to be a fully-engaged woman in the world after tending solely and fully to the needs of her family for so long? Had she been hiding behind her children all these years so she could no longer be in the world alone?

I had looked forward to this moment for decades, and suddenly I was too leery about branching out very far beyond my comfort zone. 

Don't get me wrong--my life continued to be fulfilling and adventurous upon each of my kids' departures. But once I began taking risks with my career, and those didn't work out as I'd hoped, my usual optimism turned to cynicism, and my excitement turned to fear. 

The new life that I was trying to create on my own had been feeling too hard and exhausting, and little seemed to be working out. I was putting forth so much effort with little in return.

So I turned to binge-watching TV, snacking on too much junk food, and feeling complacent. All of my efforts seemed fruitless so I adopted the attitude of "why bother?"

Like I'd mentioned in a previous blog, I was feeling like my old, dysfunctional self from decades ago again, and that was unsettling. I'd already molded her into someone different years ago, but she was leaking out again, messing with my Mojo. I didn't really know how to tame her anymore, because believe me, I'd tried. 

In a very strange way, it seemed easier to passively allow death to find me than to continue fighting against my life. 

Until death had momentarily arrived.

​Then I wasn't at all ready, because I have no desire to leave this planet, not yet.

Perhaps I'd been informed way back when that cancer was on its way, and if I didn't pay attention, it could very well be my demise. 

But instead, I'd been slapped upside the head, maybe just in the nick of time.

Somehow, this life coach needed another wake-up call. And I've been listening with rapt attention ever since.

Not often, but just every once in a while, the thought of death will sneak in.

I'm usually caught off-guard. After all, cancer is synonymous with death, yet it is not really on my radar, and nowhere near my point of fear. I don't really believe that cancer will be my demise. 

But the reality that it could happen does remind me how vulnerable we all are. It also grips my fear in a different way: I want to make sure that I've lived a good life that has been upheld to the truths of who I am and what I've been trying to accomplish. 

I want to write love notes to my children, in particular, to let them know that their time with me mattered. That birthing them and raising them was the cornerstone of my life. It is one of the reasons I believe I was put on this earth, to be their mother, no matter how spectacularly I failed. 

What is my legacy? And how do I want my kids and the world to remember me? 

I can happily admit that I've already achieved this.

​I have lived a life full of integrity, especially in the face of hard choices. I am proud of my courage, emotional strength, and steadfast convictions. I have erred on the side of fairness, I have stood up for doing what's right (even when it wasn't popular), and I've been committed to recreating myself, constantly. 

Oh, I have failed miserably, more times than I care to remember. 

​But I have also triumphed boldly. And that is how I want to be remembered, especially by my children. 

They have seen me stay with their father when it was the unpopular choice, then divorce him when he could no longer provide the emotional stability that my children and I deserved. They watched as their parents formed separate lives without hurting each other, and witnessed their mother blossom while she ventured forward on her own with three small children in tow. 

They packed their courage when I moved them cross-country to new lives that were not guaranteed to be like their old ones, but their trust in their mother was complete. They learned to thrive under new circumstances and challenges, and were made stronger by them. 

I have finally learned how not to settle for just a "good enough" life, but have learned instead to create something great, on my terms. I have accepted my trials with grace while trying to make the best of the lessons they came to teach me (usually!). I have loved fully, I have been a loyal and steadfast partner and friend, and I've tried my best to be a better person with each new day. 

My children have walked beside me as I have faced life head-on, with my head held high and my courage intact. They have already been shown the best parts of me, which means they have been given the tools to live their own lives--with our without me--with integrity, grace, humility, and grit. 

I have already left my legacy, and for that, I feel at peace. 

Many days, I forget I have cancer. 

Then I see my bald head in the mirror each morning and think, "What the hell happened??"

I swear, it shocks me each and every time. 

Not that I'm in denial, or refuse to accept my diagnosis. It's just too surreal that I have cancer. It doesn't make sense, and it doesn't seem real, because I don't feel or act "sick". 

And because it doesn't resonate with me, I was afraid that cancer would consume my life.

On many levels, it has. It has become my new normal for how I live and work and plan my life.

But much of my life has also stayed the same: I am still able to work (thank God!), even if it's an abbreviated schedule; I still meet friends for coffee and dinners out; I still practice yoga; and I still pay my bills, make plans for my future, and make time for my adult-kids and grand babies. 

Then every 21 days, I spend a full day hooked up to my "poidicine" (poison/medicine) at the Cancer center and try, as best I can, to weather through the next 10 days of recuperation.

And just like that, after a somewhat grueling and exhausting post-chemo recovery period, I return to work for a full, forty-hour week as if nothing has happened.

My body and mind return to their normal, healthy, joyful states where there are no lasting effects from the previous week. It amazes me that my stamina, my energy, and my mental clarity are fully intact as if my whole system has been rebooted (perhaps it has!).

And although I can remember feeling badly after each chemo, and can even remember writing about about how awful it was, I am like the woman who has gone through labor who "forgets" how bad it was when she declares with confidence and excitement, "I want another baby!"

By the time the next chemo session rolls around, I am usually ready for it, "forgetting" what the previous treatment was like and how I weathered through it (or didn't). 

Thankfully, I am not consumed by my diagnosis, nor do I worry about it being a death sentence.

Because in my mind, it isn't.

I forget I wear a wig until it shifts on my head (or tries to fly away in the wind!), and it doesn't even occur to me that I have very few eyelashes until I try to put mascara on the ten I have left each morning (who am I kidding?).

And although my life has remained much the same, it's still not easy squeezing four weeks of life into two each month. 

During my eleven days feeling "normal", I am able to enjoy a weekend catching up with family and friends, then return to work another three days before beginning the process of chemo and recuperation all over again: 10 days of cancer destruction and repair; 11 days of feeling normal; then the next chemo. 

It is obvious why I am not able to reach out to others very easily or often: I am busy resting, working, or catching up on the life I'd missed while strung out on the couch for ten days.

And mostly, that includes catching up on housework, going to Costco and Target, buying groceries, doing laundry, getting my oil changed, curbing the weeds in my yard, etc--you know, the daily life stuff that I'd usually have 30 days each month to complete. Couple that with acupuncture appointments, walking, massages, and new holistic practices--all meant to ensure a speedy recovery.

Or to save my own life. 

Many people in my situation have a spouse or partner; I do not. Early on, my niece asked why I don't take time off from work during months of cancer treatment and my answer was, "Because I have a life to pay for." I'm not bothered or resentful of that fact; it's just another way in which I live with cancer as a single person. 

And because I am single, my life depends on only me, so when I am well for those 11 days, I am busily (and happily!) getting myself and my life all caught up for the next round of chemo. 

It is obvious why I appreciate being able to lean on others for meals, errands, donations, company, or friendship. And I am grateful when my friends and family show up for me in so many big and consistent ways. 

In case you aren't aware of this simple truth: I need you.

But please understand that without warning, and without my consent, my life was abbreviated.

And in the aftermath of that, I am trying my best to live gracefully with a hefty diagnosis while I continue to work as a nurse, hang with my kids and grand babies, write blogs and newsletters, and keep my big life in order. 

I'm damn proud of myself for doing so well this far, and for enduring so much alone. 

But despite this, I still need you.

I need you to keep reaching out without any expectation that I will reciprocate. Because most days, I simply can't. 
I need you to understand that I am only one person, balancing cancer on one shoulder and my life on the other. 
I need you to simply be there because I can feel your healing energy and your boundless love and support. 

​So even though not much has changed in my life, everything has.