Crave the Rave

As often as time and opportunity will allow, I like to take the kids to volunteer at the Special Olympics. The seeds of this tradition were planted long before I had children or was even married. I went with the singles group from my church and had such a marvelous time that five years ago when I decided I was long overdue to go back and help I thought for sure it would be hard to get in and they would be turning volunteers away. Not so. They've always needed us. And in a beautifully, almost poetic way, we've always needed them.

Sometimes when we go, we are assigned to act sort of like officials. We make sure they bowl when it's their turn, or stay inside the boundaries of the bicycle course, etc. always cheering them on along the way. But sometimes, cheering is the only thing we are assigned to do. This year the committee coined the phrase "Fans in the Stands" to describe volunteers assigned to cheering. Maybe some volunteers don't come back because they don't feel needed when they are placed as a cheerleader or a fan in the stand. But this year, the reality of just how much these athletes respond to the encouragement of cheering, became evident to me.

Three of us were sitting by the shot-put event cheering on the contenders when a large group of teenagers came to cheer as well. With their added volume and enthusiasm, you would think you were at an NBA game that was in overtime. The athletes perked up instantly. The shot was put significantly further than ever before. They smiled each time they heard their names being called from the crowd.
It was exciting.

As the event went on and the different divisions came to compete, the teenagers became distracted once in a while and would entirely miss a competitor here or there for no appearant reason other than a text message or an important conversation about something that happened the night before. Innocent and expected from a group in that demographic, but oh how my heart ached for those that didn't hear a crowd cheering for them.

I haven't stopped thinking about how significant it is to be encouraged, even cheered on. So simple, yet so significant. But we live in a world that is severely deficient in applause and approval. Unless of course, you're heads above the rest; bigger, sexier, richer, if you have -er at the end of any of your attributes, you know what it feels like to be cheered and appreciated. You also know what if feels like once the cheering fades. But what about those of us who are merely capable of only doing our best, like the Special Olympians, like the majority of the human population? Doing your best has become so under-appreciated that many people have lost the motivation to do even that.

But where does the fault lie? In the ravers or in the cravers? I believe it's the latter. If we focus on the perfect gifts that God has given us, that dwell inside of us, that bless those around us when we freely share them for the sake of beauty and not the sake of praise, we have serenity and a sense of fulfillment. We can see our perfect place in the universe and in the lives of those around us while being imperfect. We can hear God cheering, we can see five loaves and two fishes go a long way.

Three days ago I was assigned to cheer someone on. It was my job. But in reality, their willingness to take what God had given them and do their best was probably the most cheer-worthy thing I had seen all week, assignment or not.

Relax...I won't quit

I need your prayers. Or...maybe I need self-discipline. It's possible I just need to grow up. And I probably really need some other things too...but I think I'll just ask, ever so humbly, for your prayers.

Dilemma as it stands: I just realized I have a crazy bad habit. The first three times I "practiced" this habit, I was completely oblivious that there was any kind of trend to it. But fortunately, I'm only somewhat thick, and I realized yesterday, that I have a problem.

Hello. My name is Rosemary and I am a quitter. Can't there be another word for it? I hate "quitter", it sounds so lame and even despicable to some degree. But what else do you call someone who gets a job in the winter, loves it, but then wants to quit the moment signs of summertime start to appear? My last three jobs have all ended exactly that way.

I have wonderful reasons, other than summer, when I quit. Once I quit due to nepotism, an other time it was sexual harassment, and then there was "religious reasons". See...they're good reasons, aren't they?

The answer is yes, those are good reasons, but...I've run out of 'em. I have no reason to quit this year, hence my moment of self-discovery: I just wanna play all summer! Thanks to the public school system, that was firmly engrained into my psyche for twelve of my most impressionable years. Work all winter, play all summer. How can I not want to quit?! (Thank you...I feel your sympathy and compassion already)

Dad, if you're reading this, relax...I'm not going to quit. First of all, this was the hardest job ever to get, the economy IS a little scary to say the least. Second, I don't think I could go to another job interview and keep a straight face knowing what I know about myself now. I'd be laughing through every question. Potential Boss: "Why should we hire you?" Me: "Replacing me is half the fun?"

So now I've just limited my readership by about eight people. Eight people at my place of employment that can never EVER read this blog. (Shhhhhhh.....be very, very, quiet.)

But if they did read this...hmmmmmm...I wouldn't have to quit.....

Ok...I'm so kidding. C'mon...I just said this job was hard to get. And I do currently have Friday's off. So really...this is the best job ever. Right?! No quitting. And no getting fired on purpose. (Thank you...I am a good girl, aren't I?)

(But just for the record, that moving my desk downstairs...from a private office to a S H A R E D office??? That was lame people...so lame.)

Driving 60

Have you ever tried driving below the speed limit...on purpose? I mean, while other cars are zooming past you? Not menacingly slow, just something like 5 mph under the limit? If you're a lead-foot like me, this will be a new experience for you and somewhat of a challenge.

A few weeks ago I found myself driving to the mall very late at night, to pick up my son and his friends who had all just gotten out of the late show. I had been going, going, going all day and had long since run out of stamina. I was so completely wiped out that by the time I was backing out of the driveway for this last errand...even my van felt tired.

Usually I take to I-15 at a nice 7-10 miles over the speed limit and I'm usually in good company, but that night 60 was all I could muster. I was officially out of the race. Car after car passed by, leaving me in the dust. As I plodded along in the slow lane I began to realize that I had left the world I was used to living in and had entered a whole new existence. I was driving at the speed of contemplation. I waxed philosophical, like some sort of guru with a key fob. Everything became a metaphor as my inner beatnik emerged.

Driving slow started to mean that where I had been was OK and that I didn't have to run away from the past. It started to mean that where I was going was my decision, but how I got there was largely up to forces beyond my control, a.k.a."Life is what happens while you're making other plans". Sixty miles an hour meant no competition, no vying for preeminence. No enemies. My new compliance with the law squelched my old fear of it. And for once in my life, I wasn't secretly employing every bad driving practice that my husband openly loathed, while wondering how I'd explain myself if I were to get caught. (is there an emoticon for "sheepish confession"?)

Later I realized that if I wanted to maintain this slow-driver status/state of mind, I would finally have to own up to the fact that sometimes I'm a little overbooked and a lot of late...which is something I hate. I hate late. Speeding is my form of denial, a desperate attempt to escape from consequences and frankly, buy more time. For me, speeding was like buying on credit. Trying to get somewhere on something that I just didn't have, all for the sake of appearances. In the future, driving slow would take more than just being tired, it would take planning, downsizing my schedule a bit, self discipline and most gruelling of all...self-honesty. Basically, all the things that any decent key-fobbed guru would need.

So the question is...can I do it? I'm not sure, but I do know this: If you ever have more miles to go than money for therapy, don't underestimate the power of a good slow-down. And my guess is...slow-downs work in kitchens, bedrooms and backyards as well. No steering wheel needed.

P.S.

I have felt the warmth of your company, and the grace of your kind thoughts throughout this blog. Thank you for your comments and friendship. They will never be forgotten.

Go On

The next 500 words you read in this blog, give or take a few, will mark the end of my career as a cancer blogger. All in all, that’s a really good thing because it means I have run out of things to say about life with cancer. It has stopped being a disruption in my life.

Some people ask me if I am in remission and, what the heck…I say yes. My doctors haven’t exactly used those words. But that is mainly because it has sort of fallen out of fashion to say the word remission in the world of oncology. It’s too gloomy. It suggests an eventual return, does it not? So you might hear the acronym NED instead, which means No Evidence of Disease. You say tomato; I say… as long as I don’t have to have chemo, I’m happy!

I am aware that PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) has been found in some cancer survivors. That probably explains why I struggle with guilt when I hear about other people who have actually lost their life to the disease. But fortunately, that’s the extent of the emotional side effects that I have been left to deal with.

Looking back on my initial diagnosis and the hours that followed, I’m struck by how certain I was that I was going to die, how desperately I did not want to leave my children, and how overwhelmed I was at the thought of someone having to sort through that pile of papers on my desk that never seemed to go away, after I died. The first two thoughts demanded every tear my tear ducts could produce, the last one…well that was just weird, but so very very me.

Now I find myself consumed in a crossword or sudoku puzzle every chance I get in a desperate attempt to eradicate “chemo brain” or what some call the “chemo fog”. I actually drove my car to the Safety/IM station for an inspection not too long ago, just to realize as I pulled into the bay that the car that needed the service was still in my garage at home and that I had driven the wrong car down. But my favorite story comes from a young musician/chemo patient in New York who got a flat tire late one very, very cold winter’s night. He got out of the car and managed to jack up his car and put the spare tire on without freezing his fingers off or getting mugged, just to realize as he was one foot back into the vehicle that he had changed a perfectly good tire and the flat one was still sitting on the wheel!

So, everything is going to be all right. I won’t blame myself for the tumor, but I will eat less sugar and more vegetables. I’ll take a hundred bad hair days over a “no-hair” day, any day and I will find a six-letter word for "laugh" before the night is through. My blog will go on...but have very little to do with cancer, if anything at all. Cheers.

Plastic Surgery

Let’s face it; there are just some parts of your body you don’t want to discuss with anyone, not even your doctor. We get embarrassed. However, cancer is no respecter of organs. Therefore we find that as age marches on, we must submit to awkward medical procedures and conversations once in a while, in order to prolong our stay as mortals.

Let’s all be mature, shall we? Well, that’s easier said than done for me. I am 40 years old yet I still crack up like a fifth grader when I hear the word “fart”. Just typing it made me laugh. So perhaps that explains why I’ve found it difficult to have breast cancer. I feel awkward talking about breasts, especially my own.

So imagine, immature little me having to delve head first into the world of plastic surgery. Imagine me at my first appointment with my plastic surgeon as he explained the reconstruction process. I felt like I was investigating some sort of cult, incredulous to learn what they were putting in the punch that everyone was drinking.

No way was I going to write about this in my blog. Too weird and way too personal. But then I kept seeing this beautiful young girl in my head, sitting at her computer, contemplating cosmetic surgery. Could anyone out there be more starved for the truth than today’s youth? Could anyone be more vulnerable to our cult of beauty?

So it is with “her” in mind that I swallow my pride and put my giggles away. For you, my little sister, I share my honest thoughts: Yes, your dress may fit a little better, but just as the novelty of buying that dress wore off, so will the novelty of your new profile in it. You’ll be just as happy or miserable as you were as an A cup now that you’re a D. I once lived in a Parade of Homes home, now I live in a duplex. My surroundings have changed, but in the morning, I still wake up with the same me that I used to put to bed at night in my old mansion. Happiness and success comes from the soul, not the shrink-wrap.

As fabulous a job as plastic surgeons have done over the years to improve their ability to mimic nature, there’s still no fooling anyone. Not anyone. Fake is fake. If you can live with it, fine. Many do. I do. But if you had a choice, would you rip the trees out of your yard and replace them with silk ones from the super mart? Silk plants are great. I love ‘em. But silk plants don’t give me oxygen. They don’t grow. They don’t need me.
They don’t interact with their environment, overcome adversity, follow the sun, or do anything dynamic and memorable like real foliage does. Fake is fake.

Finally, let me just say…it hurts. It really, really hurts. Each of us gets to choose every day how much suffering we will introduce to the world. The less suffering we inflict upon each other, the better. The less suffering we inflict upon ourselves, the best.

So little sister, this is my opinion. Not my judgment. I condemn no one for choices that come from a heart that has never beat in my chest. To the rest of my readers, I hope I didn’t offend anyone and I hope you never let “body embarrassment” stop you from doing the right thing, from having a colonoscopy to saying excuse me. (pardon me while I giggle)

Being the spouse

If I had been told that I was pregnant last March, I would be delivering a baby any day now. Yes... it's been that long since my diagnosis. Although I'm not about to give birth, I am celebrating new life this month. I'm going to paint a room this week and I'm even considering getting a part time job somewhere. It's nice to be back. I think I feel even better than I ever did after giving birth. Definitely no post-partum depression with this one. Quite the opposite. I samba'ed all through opening presents this morning. I've started exercising again, which along with getting Tamaflu day one of my symptoms, I believe contributed to my speedy recovery from H1N1 last week. But the MOST credit goes to, as usual, my husband.

While my H1N1 case was mild, my sister-in-law Sarah has been battling the same virus with everything she's got. She's been in the ICU for over a week and I'm sure the stream of prayers ascending to heaven have been nonstop. The vigil her husband Jimi and her sister Tracy have kept by her side has been constant. Most of the rest of us have had to rely on blog news to keep updated on her condition. Fortunately, the past few days... it's been all good news.

But I feel strongly that the men need their dues. These unsung heroes deserve an opus, but all I've got is a little Rob Thomas. Not long ago this former lead singer of Matchbox Twenty wrote a song about watching his wife suffer a debilitating illness. It's called "Her Diamonds" and I wish I could get it on my blog here, but I don't have the know-how so you'll have to find it and have a listen.

Since it has a great beat and you can dance to it...I recommend checking it out sometime on I Tunes. In the meantime, take a minute and look past us sick-chicks. You'll see real men. Real, true manhood standing there. When I was first diagnosed I was told about a study and the rate of men who leave their wives who have cancer. It was astonishing but I never wondered about the stability of my own guy. He's proved me right without fail. This one's for the boys.

But don't wait to celebrate your guy until you've fallen ill. No...do it now. Afterall, they put themselves out there for us every day and unlike Wilma Flintstone, I've never thought that being the breadwinner is easy by any stretch of the imagination. They are all heros. Some, like the men in my life who have had a little extra cryptonite thrown at them lateley are proving themselves in remarkable ways. No doubt in lots of ways, it's harder to be the spouse in such extenuating circumstances. But oh how they shine when they come through for the women they love!

The Cancer that Saved Christmas

Last week I had my last radiation treatment. Because of some goofy things they are doing with my husbands insurance at work, we had to cram the last two weeks treatments into one week, but it all worked out. I just feel awful that someone had to come in to work just for me over the Thanksgiving break. But how nice was that!? I'm sure my puny little $10 Cinemark gift card made it all worth his while. ha!

So now the radiation will keep burning inside and outside of me for about two weeks and then my skin should start returning to normal. Normal. I like the sound of that.
Oddly enough, I will really miss my radiation staff. It was actually sort of nice to start off every day with our little visits. And donuts every Friday didn't hurt either.

So far, having cancer hasn't given me the big life changing epiphanies that I thought it would. Cancer's lessons have been small.. but sweet nonetheless. One of them I realized rather recently. Up until this year, my opinion of Christmas and all that goes with it had become rather...worn out. I'll spare you all the reasons, but let's just say; Christmas had become another chore for me to do. But when we put the tree up last week, I rather enjoyed it. And shopping hasn't been the burden I remember. I even bought a book full of snowflake patterns and we totally littered the kitchen yesterday with specks and slivers of tiny paper shrapnel making one beautiful paper snowflake after another.

So, ho-ho-ho and God bless us everyone. Ding-dong the Grinch is dead. "Wha-hoo dooray" which in Whoville means: little hair, big heart, bring on the egg nog.

Better Days

Time heals...and stretches. Radiation is no longer as devastating as it started out to be. And George has moved on to that big horse farm in the sky. So I guess I'll have to find something else to whine about now (like how fast Christmas is coming). Just kidding...but thanks to everyone who humored me during my recent jaunt into the world of whininess. I owe ya' one.

Liking Flies

I have now gone and laid on the radiation table three times, each time thinking it would be better than the last. Each time reminding myself that everyone says radiation is so much easier than chemotherapy. And I suppose when I'm no longer filled with disgust and loathing for radiation therapy, I'll most likely agree with that. But for now...I have to tell you...I think I actually like the fly that's buzzing around my kitchen right now more than I like having radiation.

For those of you that can't believe I actually have a housefly on my A list now, I know...I can't believe it myself. I'm pretty sure I haven't lost my mind, but let me tell you what radiation is like, just in case. Unless of course, you really don't care, then I wouldn't read on. Otherwise...

Number one is easy: Try laying on a table. A table, not a bed. Hard and flat, huh?
Number two is a little more complicated: Imagine your armpit is now made of scar tissue, scar tissue that is connected to not-scar tissue. Now strike a pose by raising your arm (ouch) until your elbow is practically (ouch) behind your head and hold it there (ouch) for ten minutes without moving at all.
Three: While you are enjoying this position, a huge metal "camera lens" robot thing the size of a tire will come within inches of your face and everyone in the room will leave and stand behind these six inch metal doors while it starts shooting scary-whatever-radiation-is stuff at your body. You're really hoping it misses your lungs and your arm because you're rather fond of breathing and you really don't want your arm to blow up to the size of Fat Albert's (lymphedema).
Number four: Everyone comes back in the room and peels you off the table because you can hardly move a muscle after being frozen like that for ten minutes...they promise you next time will be better and then you hobble back to the dressing room to change out of your gown.

Now, take your newly sunburned self home to George (your fly friend) and taunt him with the sweet smell of aloe vera gel. Repeat every day for six weeks.