Someone Up There Has a Sense of Humor

I like astrology, not in the "weekly horoscopes" type astrology, or even as a basis to predict my future. Rather, I'm a huge fan of zodiac characteristic profiling. It's pretty spot on, in my humble opinion. Most Libra's I know are people pleasers, wanting a balance in their environment. Leo's and Aries are pretty strong-minded and stubborn. Virgo's are pretty solid, salt of the earth people. I am a proud Pisces -- pretty fluid and goes with the flow for the most part. Look up the standard character description of a Pisces and you pretty much have pegged me (well, as much as you can peg "water"). I was a March baby, born on St. Patty's Day and I love, love, love, love being a Pisces.

A year ago today (June 25, 2009), dear Dr. T said these magic words "Well, your CA-125 score is 7 and I'm happy to tell you that you are in remission." He said it! He said "REMISSION" on June 25, 2009, the day I was given a "second go" on life! So, today's my first [second] birthday!

I cannot believe a year's since passed. It is at once so near and yet so far. It's fresh, still. But, it seems like a long time ago. I haven't forgotten. But it seems the world has, or at least the world around me has. And I wish I could forget like they could. But, I know that it'll be with me for a while, because Dr. T made very clear that I was in remission and not cured. Nonetheless, I am happy to have a second birthday. I'm happy to be here watching World Cup re-runs. I'm happy to have silly arguments with my daughter. I'm happy to be getting frustrated at work. I'm happy to wake up every day, even though getting out of bed is painful on all levels. Yes. I'm happy that it's been a year and I'm still fine. I'm blessed to be alive, no matter how grumpy I get. I'm happy it has not reared its ugly head at all.

It? What's "it?" Why, cancer, of course!

But guess what? When I looked up what Zodiac sign corresponds with my June 25 "birthday," I was amused when I found out it was "Cancer!" That's when I had a good chuckle with the powers that be! Someone has a sense of humor up there.

And, I'm glad to laugh about it. Now, please pass me a piece of that wonderful [Cancer] birthday cake.

L'CHAIM!

Fuel Up!

The capacity for hope is the most significant fact of life. It provides human beings with a sense of destination and the energy to get started. - Norman Cousins

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Hope comes in many forms and is found in many places. To some, hope can be found in churches; amongst encouraging loved ones; in seeing the sun rise after a long hard night; in hearing the laughter of children at play; seeing a marathon runner cross the finish line; in a song; or in hearing the testimony of a survivor. Hope can be found most anywhere at any given time -- there for the taking. It is an optimist's bright guide and a pragmatist's best companiion.

I am more pragmatic than optimistic. And while it's true that one needs to be at least a little optimistic when fighting something like cancer, I think that, in my case, it's more important to be pragmatic. See, I'm not wired to be optimistic even though faith and hope are the foundation of my existence. Even though I don't look at the world through rose-colored glasses or sing "the sun will come out tomorrow," I do believe that everything happens for a reason -- good or bad. Nothing is in vain. It all goes towards the "big pot of purpose" Although many times, I don't know what the reason is, I have absolute faith that there is always a reason. This keeps me sane and grounded. Life moves, albeit sometimes in mysterious ways. If you don't move with it, you'll get left behind, perhaps stagnate and eventually atrophy. Hope is the the fuel that enables movement, especially when moving is the hardest. And when you're saddled with a heavy load like having to fight cancer, you need to get to your nearest hope fueling station and fill up!

My hope fueling station is nestled in the second floor of a mid-sized office building in the middle of the city. Hope was dispensed from a large room at the end of a long and cold hallway, flanked on either side by offices. The door opened to a rather gray and sterile reception area, always full of people either waiting for their turn to go beyond the reception area for their turn or waiting for someone else who is inside. Once seen, one of the two receptionists quickly greeted me cordially and bade me sit until my name was called. I always sat in the the chair right nearest to the large bowl of hard candy that seemed always to be full -- lots of peppermint and fruit variety, a very cheery addition to the room. This was the waiting room at my oncologist's chemotherapy clinic, where I went for treatment once every three weeks. Yes. This was where I fueled up on hope!

Different people have differing opinions about chemotherapy. In reality, it is poison that kills fast growing cells in your body. So, yes. It does harm to your body. And a lot of cancer patients and survivors resent that -- as well they should. The immediate side effects alone are enough to banish this treatment to hell and back. BUT, it IS a necessary evil, isn't it?

Perhaps I'm crazy to say this, but I deemed Carbolplatin and Taxol as healing infusions. I absolutely looked forward to chemo every three weeks because I believed that with every IV infusion, more cancer cells were being killed by the chemotherapy. So, what if my liver suffered, or my hair fell out, or I was fatigued, or I was bleeding incessantly after treatment? I sat in those chemo chairs always with anticipation and with a smile. "Give me chemo, please!" was the look on my face. I never thought those IV's were poison at all. I thought of them as medicine that will make me better. Chemotherapy gave me hope -- enough hope to weather the nausea, fevers, headaches and everything else in between. And no matter if it was poison for other cells in my body, I didn't dwell on that. I was just always glad to have the infusion. It's the pragmatist in me.

Whatever I needed to get rid of those cancer cells was all well and GOOD -- not poison! "Dwell on the good it is doing, rather than the damage it is wreaking," I told myself. Because the little energy I had was better spent on "accentuating the positive" as the old song said. And because of that, chemo served as hope rather than poison. I believe that attitude helped immensely in my bout with cancer. Hope comes in all shapes and sizes. Mine just happened to be in the form of Carbo-Taxol chemotherapy.


So, here's to hope, where ever and however you may find it! Hang on to it and reach for the sky!

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We'd never know how high we are till we are called to rise; and then, if we are true to plan, our statures touch the sky. ~ Emily Dickinson

An Armor of Scarves and Pencils

I've always admired women who have the courage to "rock the bald" (as my boyfriend put it). Persis Khambatta took my breath away in Star Trek. Melissa Etheridge's brave appearance at the Grammy's drove me to tears. I can't count the hours I'd been mesmerized by Sinead O' Connor, whom I can't think of as other than bald. And I sat in admiration as I talked to a young breast cancer patient at my oncologist's waiting room, resolved to "not care" that she was walking around bald, because she had worse things to worry about. Right on, sister!

That's all well and good for others. Brave women with hairless pates are so powerfully beautiful. Here's to breaking conventions of beauty! (You go, girls!) But not for me, thanks. All it took for me was my first gaze at my bald self. If I weren't in such shock, I would have probably been horrified. I felt so, so.... naked! There's something about being stripped (pardon the pun) of one's mane that leaves a certain feeling of being exposed and vulnerable. Gone was that hair behind which to hide or to frame oneself. And, if my reaction to my reflection in the mirror was of such potential horror, what more for others? I had cancer to deal with. Don't make me garner up more strength to endure unwanted gazes (whether imagined or real). . .please. . .


Thank goodness for the good folks at Look Good Feel Better! They anticipated that there would be a need to reinforce female cancer patients' self-image issues through make-up tips, hair/wig tips, and head wrapping tips. They have classes around the country. Or, if you can't make it out, they have tutorials on their website. Not only was there a make-up artist during the classes, there was also a wig/hair expert. It's an invaluable service! It also felt good to sit with about a dozen other women in various stages of chemo treatment. I wasn't alone. Plus, they sent you away with a "gift bag" chock-full of new make-up and skin care from the best brands in the country! Thank you, Look Good Feel Better!

After my class with Look Better folks, I played around with a wig and concluded that I wasn't a wig person after all, much as I'd have liked to have been. It just wasn't me and I would have felt more self-conscious about the baldness. So it was on to scarves. And with those, I wanted a form that most resembled hair (a hair bun?) and not just something tied around my head. I found this very helpful video on the basics of how to wrap a scarf on my head. She provided the basic mechanics and I came up with my own "formula." I started with these turbans as the base (so that the scarves had something to grip on to and also to serve as "cushion" for my head) and then wrapped two layers of scarves (one layer with one of these jersey (t-shirt) scarves and then another with these lovely scarves. The materials I chose with which to wrap my head were all of soft cotton -- very important for one's bald sensitive pate. Also, my wonderful daughter, who is a MAC make-up artist extra-ordinaire, taught me first-hand how to draw my eyebrows in and do my eye make up so that it's not the focal point of my face. All this comprised my armor of scarves and pencils that enabled me to navigate the outside world without exposing my head.

I've never been one to spend much time in primping. Fifteen minutes and I'm ready to go. But with all this wrapping and drawing, I had to add 30 to 45 minutes to my "primping" time. Not only was the wrapping and drawing taking time, I also had to allot time to figuring out what scarves to combine with the turban so that I'd know what to wear with them. Man, I needed a whole styling team, didn't I? It was quite the involved process, all to be done first thing in the morning. Not a good thing for someone who dreads mornings. Good times! But, I guess it was a price I had to pay for choosing to wear this armor of scarves.

Like to real armors, mine proved to be an inconvenience over time. The scarves gave me a gargantuan headache during the day. I guess I always wrapped my scarves extra-tightly around my head for fear of them coming undone. The headaches became so painful that I actually considered going without the scarves (just for a minuscule of a second though). Man! What a great feeling it was when I unwrapped my head at the end of the day at home! It was like a release. All the pressure on my head would be gone all at once and the headache disappeared in an instant. But the welts of my head from the scarves stayed through the entirety of the evening. Looking back, I don't know how I endured that every single day. I can only attribute to my attachment to hiding behind my armor or scarves and pencils. No one, but three people: my boyfriend, my daughter, and my brother, R-- had seen me bald during. These were the ones who loved me the most and therefore I trusted not to run in horror upon seeing me "naked" like that. Otherwise, I endured the armor headache or no.

What was the point of all of this? Well, first I hope that the information above about help regarding "beautifying" whilst ill with cancer can help someone else; and second, if you are reading this and are having self-image issues because of hair loss, it's okay. If you don't feel like being brave and want to hide behind an armor of your choice, please do so. See, when you're up against something as insidious and big as cancer, you need to be pragmatic. If what you need is to don a wig or wrap your head in scarves OR walk about bald, then that's what you should do. This is your battle. So, you should arm yourself they you deem fit. Don't let anyone else tell you otherwise. Be gracious to yourself. Give yourself whatever works. There is no one one way of contending with this. You don't have to wrestle with self-image issues whilst wrestling with cancer. Do what feels right to you.

I'm glad to have found my armor of scarves and pencils. Who knew that the scarves of cotton and wax pencils would fortify me during my cancer bout? Strength comes in so many forms, even in the softest.

To Be or Not to Be

This is nothing new. For most, something snaps when they're at "death's door," as it were. Suddenly, there's a sense of urgency to everything and bucket lists are made. My bucket list was short and simple. No, there was no jumping out of planes or swimming with dolphins. All I wanted was to do was to go forward the trip to Miami Beach that had been planned and confirmed long before I was diagnosed with cancer.

Was this wise? Foolish? Risky? Irresponsible? Did a cancer patient have any business being in Miami Beach, revelling in the sun?

What was I thinking, going at the onset of my chemotherapy treatment? I wasn't. I didn't want to think. I wanted to forget! For one week, I wanted to pretend I wasn't sick. I wanted to be vibrant, fabulous, and alive in Miami Beach, Florida! So, armed with my meds, suntan lotion, and flip flops, my boyfriend and I threw caution to the wind and headed for Miami Beach, two weeks after my first chemo session.

. . . Oh, but sometimes desire and intention overtakes ability and capacity . . .

Soon after landing Miami Beach, things went awry. That familiar pain on my left side and the swelling of the leg visited once more (Oh no! Blood clots!), accompanied by a blinding headache and profuse bleeding. Immediately, I regretted my being on vacation and being thousands of miles away from home and my doctors. So much for forgetting I was sick. And talk about feeling foolish, vulnerable and scared! So, instead of going out on that perfect balmy Florida night to start my carefree vacation, I hid under the sheets with fear and loathing that I had made the wrong decision after all.

. . . Although, ability and capacity CAN match up with desires and intentions . . .

During my phone consult with my oncologist the next day, the swelling on my left leg and the pain on my left side had subsided. Apparently, that long plane ride aggravated the swelling. But after being stretched in bed overnight, things got better. So, my doctor told me to not overdo anything and keep to my Coumadin and Lovenox therapy everyday. Okay. So, I wasn't going to die. That was that. Time to start forgetting and start partying like it's 1999 (well, actually, it was 2009)! No more fretting. When life deals you lemonade, sip mojitos!

. . . I denied cancer to dance and revel like I wasn't sick. . .

But, the irony of this all, of course, is that the very thing I was trying to get away from was with me throughout our vacation. I really couldn't get away from it, could I? Especially because, right on schedule, my hair started to fall out in big chunks! There was hair everywhere but my head. And really, there probably was no worse place for this to happen than in Miami Beach, where every woman (it seemed to me) was perfect and beautiful. I was warned about it and knew it was coming. But, nothing really prepared me for the reality of hair loss. Nothing! It was horrific. I felt like a deformed monster. Oh! And there was nothing like hair loss to snap me back from forgetting. There were times when I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed and face all the fabulous beautiful people of Miami Beach. Thankfully, I came prepared -- thanks to my boyfriend who bought me a chic short haircut before the trip, a fabulous cowboy hat plus a few scarves just for the occasion (He's got me!). So, with a little courage and disguise, I still managed to go and enjoy myself even though every morning, I hated what I saw in the mirror.

. . .Even though cancer insisted its presence, I kept covering it up to forget about it. . .

Though, on our last morning in Miami Beach, I woke my boyfriend up and told him it was time -- time to face cancer head on. No more forgetting. No more pretending it wasn't there. So, we walked hand-in-hand into a Supercuts right in the middle of Washington Avenue to have my head shaved.

My Hero . . .

. . . is actually a "she." No. She's not faster than a speeding bullet, but when I flash the Ms. B signal, she's there quicker than the speed of sound. I don't think she has x-ray vision although I'm certain she's psychic. No. I have not seen her leap across tall buildings. But, she's whip smart, beautiful, diligent, wise, strong, big-hearted, gentle, immensely creative, absolutely emphatic, wickedly funny, loyal, kind, intuitive, and incredibly strong -- -- all packed in a petite sprite of a person that is Ms. B. Yep! She's all that and a bag of chips (well, maybe a bag of baby carrots instead, since we're trying to be healthy here).

She sounds too good to be true, doesn't she? If I didn't have the fortune of working next to her each and every day, I would say so too. But, I did, and I still do. Her presence in my life has had such a grounding effect on me. She alone truly understood what it was like to battle cancer. She was attuned to its very obvious side-effects to the very stealth effects of chemotherapy. Though cancer manifested itself very obviously, there are so many other subtle (yet very deep and significant ) side effects of cancer that escape the naked eye. And how absolutely invaluable it was for me to have Ms. B by my side to validate that what I was going through was legitimate, no matter how seemingly trivial. She perceived what no one else saw and heard what no one else heard.

This is not only because of her incredible capacity for empathy but also unfortunately because she had also had her own bout with Lymphoma about a year or so before I was diagnosed with Ovarian Cancer. I didn't know her as well then. But, I remember watching her navigate her illness with so much resolve, strength and dignity. One could not help but admire her resilient courage and determined cadence. And while I had my boyfriend with whom to partner during my illness, Ms. B did not have her fiance by her side when she was sick (he's in another state because that's where his work has taken him). I often wondered how scary and lonely it must have been during those times when the " cancer goonies" visited you in the middle of the night (for example) and Ms. B didn't have him there to tell her that she was going to be okay. But, without fail, she was always there, at work, soldiering on, as if she weren't sick at all. She never wanted extra special dispensation, but was always gracious to accept help from us, her colleagues, her friends and her loved ones.

Ms. B "set the tone" for me. By example, she showed me how to fight, and fight well. It's as if she passed her "boxing gloves" on to me and then continued to cheer me on. My only regret now is that I wasn't able to be for her (during her illness) what she had been for me when I was sick. I wish I could have given to her even a fraction of all that she had given to to me. Absent that, it is my hope to "pay it forward" some day and be able to be for someone else what she was for me.

This post is but a minor tribute to my sister-in-arms and my amiga sympatico! The heavens had sent so many gifts when I was sick and certainly one of the most endearingly wonderful ones was (and still is) Ms. B -- my hero!

What a Difference A Year Makes....

Following is my journal entry for March 17, 2009, a year ago today:

Happy damned birthday! Now whose bright idea was it to put cancer in a box and hand it to me as a birthday present, huh? Not funny!!!!!

Suffice it so say, I am not looking forward to what will be a very emotional day. Waking up bitter, cold and lonely does not help. But I have to put on a brave face for all my well-wishers. I wouldn't wish this heavy feeling on them. [WHY ME?!?]

Thank goodness I was greeted by C [my daughter] first thing this morning, bearing presents: lovely earrings and and beautiful silk flowers barrettes for the bandanas and hats. She's so thoughtful! And her birthday card....wow! I don't know if she's just saying that, or if she really meant it. She said that all she is, is because of me. And I don't know whether that's good or bad. She's a wonderful girl -- crazy sometimes, but absolutely awesome! And she hasn't had the easiest of lives, but she's managed to survive and be a great human being despite it all. She's a very strong-willed girl. Thank goodness!

Tonight, I'm having dinner with the kids. Hopefully that will go well. How can it not? It's dinner with C and J [my son]! Hopefully, J will be less angry at me this time. Poor thing.

God! I wish it were another birthday -- like my 30th or something. Well, that was a harsh birthday too, but at least I know what happened. I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. And I"m scared today.

I'm scared I won't get well. I'm scared of the pain and the eventual strain this illness will put on my family, friends, and co-workers. I'm scared of the tension it will put on my relationship -- that it may buckle under this pressure. I'm scared I won't live to see my birthday next year. I'm just plain terrified! Ms. B was right. There's a certain feeling of loneliness and solitude about this cancer thing. And no matter how surrounded you are, you can't help but still feel alone and and exposed. I keep clicking my heels and saying "there's no place like home" and nothing happens. Boo!

Happy f*cken birthday, girl! Don't waste a wish today. Make it good.
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What a difference a year makes! Last year, I was facing a terrifying prospect of dying. Today, it's as if it didn't happen. Well...yes. It did. But I'm thankful I can refer to it in the past tense. And I'm grateful that I can be here today, sharing the learnings of an extra-ordinary year.

It's a happy birthday indeed!

The Office

No. This doesn't star Steve Carrell. This stars three amazing people, with whom I have the privilege of working and knowing. This is not only because they're all consummate professionals. But it's mostly because they are the most wonderful human beings: compassionate, unassuming, intelligent, helpful, kind, and considerate, generous, all with amazingly wicked sense of humor. They make it so that going to work was (and is) something I look forward to doing.

Structure and routine played a very important and positive role during my bout with cancer. And one of the important routines for me was going to work as much as possible at the time I was undergoing chemotherapy. It gave me something worthwhile to focus on during my waking hours; a sense of usefulness because it felt good to wake up every morning knowing I was contributing to a common good; and less of an opportunity to sit and wallow in cancer. And somehow, it empowered me to go on with the bout, each round.

It was also important that, at work, it would be "business as usual." I didn't want anyone to know that I was sick and wanted to go on as if nothing extra-ordinary was going on. Certainly, the notion of people asking and fussing at work was nothing I wanted I wanted to face. Fortunately for me, this was made possible by those three folks I mentioned above: My boss, N; his second in command, H, and my colleague and hallway neighbor, the wonderful Ms. B. We're a small team serving a huge purpose in national non-profit organization. We get along very well and work well together. Suffice it to say, this is the best place and the best group people I've ever worked with -- and I've been working for a long, long time!

When I was sick, they made sure that I never worried about work when I was out due to chemo. But, while I was at work, I was never made to feel somehow lacking because I was sick. They showed utmost care and concern without patronizing or smothering. They absolutely honored my request that we do not skip a beat because I was sick; that we do business as usual, as if cancer wasn't an issue. I was treated as normally as possible, and I couldn't thank them enough for this. And, because I didn't want my illness to be public, they were staunch protectors of that "secret." I most thankful for their effort in creating that space for me where I could just feel normal and not be sick. What an invaluable gift that was!

... and they cared (in so many little ways) like...

N would go to this tiny candy place every other weekend so that he could buy for me these organic ginger hard candies which were of tremendous help to my nausea. This was the only place they were available and he was always glad to go fetch them for me. H would faithfully come to my office every morning to see how I was and "mothered" (in a very good way) me by watching out for my fatigue level and being sure to remind me to rest or go home, if I didn't look well. And Ms. B, what can I say about her? She did everything from bring me scarves and hats for my head, to listen to me vent, to .... really everything else...seriously. She understood, when no one else could.

Everyone should be so fortunate to have such wonderful people to work with. I don't know how well I would have fared without the unwavering support and care that N, H, and Ms. B have generously given me all this time. I can say, without a doubt, that how well I fared during chemo has a direct correlation to how well these folks have cared for me and treated me during that time.

.....and for that, I will always be grateful.

He's Got Me

Titles are insufficient sometimes. And certainly, "boyfriend" does not do justice to mine. I mean, yes, he's a friend (the best!). But he's no boy. He's a man. Manfriend? (Uhm...no. Let's shelf that one.). Actually, "partner" is a better term, but it's so blah and cowboy'ish. I just keep hearing John Wayne in my head saying "Howdy, pardner!" Though we're not in business together, we are in the truest sense, partners. Still, the word just doesn't ring my bell. But, let's not get trapped in a cycle of semantics here. It doesn't do him justice, but "what's in a name?" as the Bard wrote. All told, he is my friend, cohort, consort, comfort, partner, playmate, my "blanket" counselor, cuddler, schlepper, comic relief, intellectual challenge, all around safe place, my very own Wesley (but not the "dreaded Pirate Roberts), my protector, and lots more I couldn't even think of at the moment. And there's no no one word for that. Is there? So please indulge me as I revert to "boyfriend," insufficient though it might be.

I thought this would be the easiest of posts to write. How difficult can it be to talk about one's relationship and one's boyfriend? The thing is, this post does not attest to who he is in totality, or to our relationship as a whole (that would require a whole other blog). What I want to show here is how absolutely key his role was during my bout with cancer. That although Dr. T and his team were responsible for the medical aspect of my healing, my boyfriend was there to help me sort out everything else. Afterall, I only saw my medical team once every three weeks. Then, there was the everyday life to contend with -- the aftermath of chemo, as it were. And during those times, my boyfriend was the partner with whom to walk that road. He took to the task no questions asked, only with lots of willingness and love.

He took a huge weight off me. One of the things I was really concerned about was the burden cancer would put on my daughter. I did not want her saddled with looking after me, while she was working full time and going to college full time. I know she would have nursed me, without question. But, it was the last thing I wanted for her. It was bad enough for her to contend with the fact that her mother's really ill, let alone be charged with my care as well. My boyfriend did not even need to hear this concern articulated. Immediately, he just took on the role of my caretaker, lifting the responsibility off my daughter. My "awful" post-chemo days were usually spent under his care. What a burden lifted off my daugther and off me! I'd like to say too that it is a testament to who he is that my daughter felt absolutely confident and secure that I was being properly looked after.

He respected and understood my personal boundaries. There's a thin line between being always there for someone and smothering them with your presence. My boyfriend walks that line beautifully. He has great respect for my personal space and boundaries and trusts my judgement about that. But he's also sensitive to those times when I couldn't articulate a need. He just knew when and where to be there for me. Truly, he understands boundaries and allowed (and provided for) me the space to be whatever and whomever I want to be. He never imposed on me his deep desire to help, more than I allowed him. And certainly, he was quick to accept his role in the whole scheme of my healing, no questions asked--just a readiness to be where I needed him to be.

He created a safe place where I could exhale. When I was sick, I had this self-imposed need to maintain my composure, thereby setting the tone on how my illness would be deemed by others. I wanted to demonstrate control by maintaining a positive, energetic and "can-do" attitude for my family and loved ones. That way, they would all stop worrying and not be pained with the burden of cancer. As Nurse J said, "set the tone." And that, I certainly did. But, there were times when I didn't feel like being a "teal warrior" or I felt too scared to be positive. Yes, there were times when I would succumb and cry that I couldn't do it. During those times, I knew that I could go to my boyfriend and fall apart. He created a safe place for me in which to collapse. He listened and did not judge, because he knew that I just needed to do that. It didn't mean that I had given up. It just meant that I needed to exhale from time to time -- take a load off. And that was just fine. My boyfriend made a space for me to "just be" -- whatever that was: silly, angry, childish, preachy, quiet, restless....anything. Having that space when I was sick was key to recharging so that I would be ready for the next rounds. It was invaluable!

He took "romance" to the next level. What woman hasn't gone crazy over the prospect of losing her hair? Or having dry, ashen skin? Or looking generally sick? Or not having eyebrows or eyelashes? It's maddening! And it doesn't get any better when reality strikes. I certainly couldn't look at myself in the mirror and reflect back a beautiful, desirable woman. But my boyfriend, never looked at me like that. He always made me feel like the most beautiful, desirable and loved woman. In his presence, I never felt bald or not feminine, though my reflection in the mirror betrayed that. A bouquet of flowers, a surpise picnic on a Sunday, something sparkly to wear, breakfast in bed...these are all well-accepted gestures of romance (some of which I have been privileged to receive) But, I think that all gets trumped by my boyfriend's shaving my head every weekend and looking at me as if I were the most beautiful woman there is. Now, that's romantic!

Above and beyond. I know that the words "to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer..." are exclusive to the marriage vow. But I would like to borrow them for purposes of this post. Yes. He and I have had our fun, health, and "richness." But, last year was a scary time of sickness and poorness for me. And my boyfriend was there to "have and to hold" me through it all with unfaltered reliability and love. Indeed, I count myself fortunate to have him as a "partner" with whom to travel the road behind and the road ahead. That road would have been steeper, colder, darker and lonelier without him.

Thank you, babe!

Telling Hurt More Than Hearing

It was bad enough to hear that I had cancer. But it's worse to have to tell others about it. The prospect of "sharing" my cancer was the last thing I wanted to do. I was arrested by a slew of emotions that almost muted me.

First, I felt immense guilt -- guilt that I had let my nearest and dearest down, particularly my children, parents and siblings. Had I made better choices in my life, I wouldn't have to be telling them about this bad news and therefore causing them pain and worry. Cancer was my fault and the burden was on me to sort it out, not theirs.

There was also a lot of anger at myself because I thought I had failed my children. How dare I put them in this position! They're young adults just on the verge of starting their own lives. But, with my cancer, they were going to be noosed with caring for a very sick mother. What a burden to give them! Parents are supposed to set their children free, not hold them back. Never mind living with the threat of losing one's mother. No child deserves that. Shame on me! I would have done anything to spare them all that pain of that fear. Anything!

No parent wants to survive their children. Neither does a parent ever want to see their children suffering. This was nothing that my 77-year-old mother, living thousands of miles away from me, should have endured. Certainly, once she heard about my illness, I knew that the only thing she would have wanted to do was run to my side and care for me, without regard to her own health limitations. But, alas! She was incapable of doing that. What torture for her!

Then, there was the feeling of being damaged and somehow inadequate causing me to feel sorry for myself. And because I already did, I wanted no one else to feel sorry for me, especially not my healthy, vibrant and very lively friends and family. One drop of "I'm sorry," and I would have lost all form composure and a never-ending pity party would have ensued (no cover charge at the door!). No thanks. What I wanted was to still be seen as "normal" and not someone sick with cancer. But if I told, then...

Last, there's also the "sensationalism" of cancer. It's not as if I just had this hang nail or my appendix removed. It was that I had cancer, the "killer!" And for an introverted person like me, the prospect of being attached to such a sensational disease as cancer was unsavory. "So and so has cancer!!" And then one becomes a spectacle (sort of like the bottle neck at the highway when there's an accident). I just couldn't stand the thought of the all the fussing and the gawking.

This was true particularly at work. I thought that if my workplace knew I had cancer, it would be disruptive. I didn't want anyone asking or checking on me. You know those folks who wouldn't even give you the time of day and then suddenly they're all over you because you have cancer? I didn't want that. Business as usual, folks. Please move on, nothing to see here. Go back to your desks.


If I had my way, I would've just "disappeared" for the 6 months of planned chemo treatment and not told anyone; then re-appeared later, as if nothing had happened. [Sure, why not? Pigs have wings, right?] But of course, the reality was that I was going nowhere for no time. And I had to face up to the fact that I couldn't keep my illness to myself. In the end, the chips fell where they did and most of my fears were not unfounded.


But even now, a year hence, I still feel the same as I did then. I still want to have spared my family (especially my children) and loved ones the pain of cancer. I still resent the spectacle that is cancer. And even though I fought the good fight and am in now remission, I still can't help but feel damaged and inadequate sometimes.

But, no matter. Here I am today -- still telling. Because the hope is that in the telling, someone else's pain might be alleviated.

The Line in the Sand

One of the most important lessons I learned when I was sick last year was that of setting personal boundaries.

I was born and raised in very old-fashioned patrician home in the Philippines. My nouveau-Victorian upbringing meant a "proper and gracious lady" was only to "be seen, but not heard." Respecting other people's boundaries was definitely ingrained in me; but I never was taught that the same was due me. To assert oneself was not feminine and was certainly vulgar. A proper Filipina lady was always soft and demure.

Although I was a very immature 19-year-old (I may as well have been 12) when my father brought us here to the U.S. to get a proper American education, my education went far beyond the walls of academia. Quickly, I assimilated and embraced the American/Western/modern way (much to my father's dismay). One of the most stunning and attractive learnings for me was that of personal freedom. And from that I found out about personal space and boundaries. I was floored by the discovery that I was equally entitled to my own freedoms and boundaries as others were. Sadly, although I quickly embraced all of this intellectually, I struggled with it for years in practice. Like my mother (and her mother before her), I was raised to be a "pleaser" and would rather avoid conflict at the cost of personal freedoms.

That struggle came to an end during my bout with cancer. Not surprisingly, after I got word to my family and friends that I was sick, they all wanted immediately to rush to my side to help -- drive me to and from chemo, keep me company during chemo, go with me to doctor's appointments, stay with me after chemo, cook for me, shop for me, clean the house, keep me company, care for me, or whatever else needed to be done. What an amazing and wonderful, people I have in my life! And though I was grateful for their help, I did the unconventional thing and gently said "thank you, no" to most of them. I was grateful. But, cancer was an deeply personal and private experience for me. And I wanted to keep it that way. I wanted only a small number of people to know about my illness and an even smaller group to be intimately involved in my battle with it. To maintain a sense of control of the situation, I needed to surrender control to only a handful of others. I had to do it. It was my cancer. And as such, I felt very strongly that I should have been able to regulate how and when assistance would be needed.

Though I had read many testimonies of how good it is to surround oneself with a community during times like these and to let people help lift your burden and carry you through it, I was overwhelmed by the notion. I wanted to focus on healing. The help and the community would have distracted me. To be frank, I also didn't want to deal with the politics of who's helping when and how. Those were all too complicated of issues for me to handle then.

It was my natural instinct to just succumb to my loved ones' supplications to help. I wanted to make them okay with the situation. And I knew that all of them would have felt better if I let them help and and participate in my healing. But that would have been to my detriment, no matter how well-meaning they all were. Because even though I would have made them feel better, I would not have felt right. What I wanted was entirely different. And the lesson was, no matter how unconventional or even perhaps gauche, ultimately, it was my cancer. And I needed to fight it the way I wanted to -- with as much personal space as I possibly could have gotten.

So, I drew a line in the sand and asserted my my personal space with the help of a very few people, who watched over it diligently. No, everyone else was not the enemy. It wasn't like that. It was more about preserving a space which I could breath, focus and get to the task at hand --getting well. They understood where I was coming from and they respected that. The sense of control that they gave me was an immense boost to me in beating the cancer. But most importantly, my own assertion of personal boundaries and space, ultimately fueled my resolve.

The Man Who Took The Wheel

Dr. T introduced himself with a big handshake accompanied by a luminescent smile that lit up his apple cheeks. Even more fetching was his very bold and colorful shirt and tie combination which paled his white coat all the more. I don't know what oncologists are supposed to look like or seem to be, but, "bright and smiley" were not words I would immediately associate with them. Beneath his shiny veneer, Dr. T is a well-credentialed and experienced oncologist and hematologist. (Wow! Two birds with one stone. Begone! pesky blood clots!). Naturally, because of his good reputation, he had a busy practice. And it was apparently difficult to get an appointment to see him. "He's one of the best. You're blessed," said the Chaplain to me.

Yes, his credentials and reputation were certainly important. But, I knew that I wanted him as my oncologist when I shook his hands and looked into his eyes. Dr. T exuded confidence, but not ego. He was professional, yet cordial. He was also very forthright, assuring and compassionate as he delivered the news that he couldn't tell what cancer it was. Were he another doctor, I probably would have fallen apart. Instead, I appreciated that he wanted to have more tests done, including further examination of the biopsy by the pathologist. Without my asking for it, Dr. T was going for the "second opinion."

Even though he had no answers by the time we said "goodbye" at the hospital, Dr. T sent me home with this comfort: Whatever type of cancer he found, it was going to be treatable and "We might even be able to make it go away." Again, said with THAT smile. What a great big dollop of hope! And what a lot of boost, as I set to left the cocoon the hospital to face the world. At least at that juncture "Now what?" had an answer. Unequivocally, that answer was to put my life in this man's hands. Altough very sad and scared, I felt assured that Dr. T had taken control of the wheel of the most out-of-control and scary ride of my life. After that, I was prepared to ride that car where ever Dr. T took it; because I knew that he had mapped it to go to a place called "Treatable."

A week from my hospital releas, I was going to meet with Dr. T so he could tell me what kind of cancer I had and we could start treatment. It would still be a scary ride. But, I had confidence in the driver. I knew he had it under control.

My Surgeon

He's my surgeon because he found the swollen lymph node from which he took the biopsy. I had an appointment to discuss the biopsy with him the day I had to take myself into the ER due to my inability to breathe. Needless to say, I was quite concerned and disappointed not to see him that day. Dr. R is a very amiable, non-assuming person. He quickly put me at ease during our meeting and ensuing encounters. I liked him a lot. And if there was anyone who could have softened the blow of a cancer pronouncement, it would have been him. Think "favorite uncle or grandfather." That's the gentle Dr. R.

So imagine the deeper shock to my system when it was Dr. Z who delivered the news and not my favored Dr. R. It was doubly devastating. I knew that if I got the news from my surgeon instead, the blow would have been less severe. Ahhh, but the gods had other plans, I guess. Suffice it to say, not seeing Dr. R that day contributed a lot to my feelings of isolation and and estrangement at the hospital. He was the one doctor I wanted to see the most. But to no avail. Oh well....

I woke up more disoriented the next morning. Even though Nurse J had been good enough to give me some Ambien for sleep, it was nonetheless a fitful night of "sleep." It didn't help that the only person with whom I felt comfort (the lovely Nurse J) had completed her shift and I was now under the care of another nurse. All my feelings of wobbliness came rushing back that morning. I was in a quiet panic once more.

It was in the middle of this internal chaos that my surgeon appeared, unexpectedly! He was in his scrubs and had a piece of paper in his hand. I squealed his name and he almost ran to me. Then I just collapsed in his arms. And for the first time since I heard about my cancer, I heard the words "I'm so sorry." He held me quietly as a cried like a baby for a good long while. I needed that.

Acts of kindness don't have to be in grandiose proportions. What was it for Dr. R to just swing by and visit me before he went to surgery? Probably not much. But it meant the world to me. What was it for him to say "I'm sorry" not in apology but in sympathy? But it fortified me. The smallest demonstrations of sympathy can sometimes mean the most. What Dr. Z lacked, Dr. R made up for in leaps and bounds.

Kindness. It never fails.

The Internist

Soon after the ER doctor gave me his diagnosis of pulmonary embolism, he informed me that I was being admitted to the hospital so they can monitor and dissolve the clots and administer more tests. Another doctor was taking over my case. He wished me well and left.

A while later, a tall, stoic, man in his 40's, wearing a crisp white coat, walked in with even, measured strides, carrying all the authority of a 5-star general. He introduced himself as Dr. Z, the Internist assigned to my case. My GP did not have a hospital practice and, therefore couldn't look after me while in the hospital (how bureaucratic is that?). Great! More strangers to poke and prod at me (and another person for whom to repeat for the the umpteenth time, the events that led me to the ER that day).

Now, using the word "stoic" to describe Dr. Z is quite the understatement. If Spock and Ripley (from Aliens) had a love child, it would be Dr. Z. Let's just say that he did not radiate warmth of any sort, but rather he was stiff, authoritative, measured, and very "business-like"-- in that 60's TV show doctor sort of way. This was the man who "delivered the news."

After we discussed my pulmonary embolism and the protocol for treatment to dissolve the clot(s), he told me that my surgeon had sent the biopsy results to the hospital for review by my medical team (of which now Dr. Z's in charge). Dr. Z then asked me whether I wanted to know the biopsy results (Uhm no...I don't want the answer to something that's been preying on my mind every waking hour for the past week...) Of course I did!

...pause...

He stood there, towering over me with his arms folded. "It's not good," he said robotically. Gulp...."Cancer?" I asked. "Yes. And it's bad," he replied. Now, even though I'd been thinking "cancer" since I heard the word biopsy, there was always a tiny glimmer of hope that it wasn't. And hearing that it was indeed cancer from a doctor sure was another thing. It was official! A sentence had been pronounced and a gavel had been struck. Cancer! It felt like someone had taken a baseball bat and swung it at me. Every other word I heard (though the good doctor never said it) was "dead." I'm dead. What cancer was this that was going to kill me? With guillotine precision, Dr. Z enunciated: Stage 4, non-Hodgkins Lymphoma.

Whatever did that mean? Why is it a Stage 4 rather than a 2 or a 3? Lymphoma, I'd heard of before, but did not know the specifics. And I certainly wasn't aware of stages. None of those words meant anything to me. All I kept thinking was that I'm dead. And, for the life of me, I couldn't articulate the questions that were milling about my head, except one: "Is it curable?" The cancer had apparently wreaked havoc in my lymphatic system, as well as my chest, pelvic, and abdominal areas. So no, it was not curable, but that it was "stoppable." That did not make sense! What stuck was that it was not curable and that it was everywhere in my body. (There went my head rolling off the guillotine!). I'm dead!

You'd think at a time like that the whole world would have gone black. Instead, everything seemed to slow to a stop, then turned gray, quiet, and cold. I should have been screaming or crying or something. But I was dumbfounded. All I could do was stare at the unblinking, almost blank eyes Spock's love child, trying to find life, hope, or even warmth. I'd like to have heard an "I'm sorry" or something to that effect. But nothing. He just stood there. Unmoved by what should have been my violently shivering body and frightened eyes, Dr. Z continued, in his his well-cadenced speech, to say that I was going to meet his chosen oncologist the next day to discuss the cancer further, as well as the suitable course of treatment. The oncologist would be in a better position to answer any more questions I had. He bade me "good night" and walked out of the room in perfect stride. That was February 25, 2009.

From where I stand now, I think that the Internist did me a big favor by being the way he was: calm, cold, and calculated. Because if he had shown me even an ounce of sympathy (or even blinked!), I would have fallen apart in his arms completely and probably would not have been able to keep it together for everything that was to follow. Looking back from a year's distance, I can see how important it was that I did not fall apart at the hospital and the very important part that Dr. Z played in that. So, thank you Dr. Z, for your cold comfort. Live long and prosper!

Those Dodgy Clots

So, what started all of this? How did I get get here?

It's, thanks to these "cute" little things

<==============

What are they? Raspberry jellies? Little red underwater corals? Lychees? Nope. Blood clots -- dodgy little blood clots! And thank goodness for them. Yes, I did say "thank goodness" for them, because they paved the way to my cancer diagnosis.

It's not really certain when they started forming. But I'm sure that my very quick, tiring trip to DC to witness our 44th president's inauguration had something to do with it -- long airplane rides, overexposure to sub-freezing temperature for long periods of time, walking, standing around, walking, and then walking on and on from the crack of dawn until late into the night. My left leg started to hurt and swell a little in DC, but I dismissed it as just a bodily reaction from this new, tiring environment.

But by the time I got back home, the pain and the swelling had escalated to noticeable proportions. So much so, that I found myself in the ER two weeks after my trip because my left leg was so swollen, it felt like my skin was going to break and the leg would explode. The first doctor who examined me suspected a blood clot that my lead to a stroke. So he ordered a whole slew of tests, including a CT scan and 2 ultra sounds (one performed by him and another by a vascular ultra sound tech). Two doctors, several tests and 12 hours later, I was released from the ER with no clot in sight, BUT with strict orders that I was to see my GP immediately.

My GP did see me post haste. Alas! The mystery wasn't solved there. With head shaking, I was sent to sent to MORE tests, including another CT scan, several ultra-sounds and a referral to a surgeon. At that point I didn't even understand why I was referred to a surgeon. I thought, if there's a clot and they fear stroke, shouldn't I be referred to a cardiologist? hematologist? or some other specialist? But a surgeon? Oh well...I wasn't the expert, so I went to see the surgeon. And again, thank goodness! The mild-mannered, good-humored surgeon who had looked at the ordered test results took one good look at my swollen leg, felt my lymph glands and stopped at one (the one is at the right inside of my upper thigh on my swollen leg). "Feel that?" he said, guiding my hand to the swollen node (I barely felt anything). "I need to take a biopsy of that."

BIOPSY. Not a good word in my vocabulary. BIOPSY=HURRY! To say that I was alarmed is an understatement. I'd always associated the word "biopsy" with cancer. So the notion started floating in my head and I wanted the biopsy as soon as possible -- the same day if possible. But the quickest they could do it was the next day. We made an appointment to discuss the results of the biopsy a week later. It couldn't come soon enough.

I did not make it to the surgeon's office at the appointed time. I ended up at the ER instead. The night before my appointment with the surgeon, I couldn't sleep because my side hurt. I thought it was gas, so I took some Gas-X. No comfort. So at 5:00 a.m., I got out of bed, took a long hot shower and had some relief. I made my way to work -- an unusual thing because I usually leave for work at around 7:30 in the morning. I was too obsessed with the biopsy and too uncomfortable to stay put. By the time I got to work, the pain to breathe escalated. It hurt so much, I couldn't even speak. Short breaths were torture. A co-worker wanted to call 911 because I looked that bad. But, I didn't want a scene at work. So I managed to go downstairs and hail a cab and mumble "take me to the ER" to him. He did a fine job, although he was definitely panic-stricken.

No sooner had I laid down on my bed in the ER when morphine was administered and the very harried ER doctor sent me through to another round of tests. (My insides may be cooked at this time with the amount of radiation it's been exposed to over the past couple of weeks.) Let me just say here that I don't know I survived the chest x-ray. I don't know how I managed to take a deep breath and hold it without screaming in pain. Oh, I know why...it hurt to even speak.

Despite all the fuss around me, all I could think of was that I wasn't going to make my surgeon appointment to discuss the biopsy. So I asked the ER nurse to phone him and let him know where I am. The first thing I was going to do as soon as I got out of the hospital that night was to call his office and take the first available appointment. I just couldn't stop thinking of the biopsy.

A few hours later, the same harried ER doctor returned and said "I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?" I chose to hear the good news first. "Well, the good news is we found out what's wrong with you. And the bad news is that it's a blood clot, lodged on the lower side of your left lung." Aha! The first ER doctor of a few weeks ago was absolutely right! There was a clot afterall! So they admitted me to the hospital so they could break down those dodgy clots and make sure that none of it travels to my heart and brain. I was assigned an internist and spent 2 and half days in the hospital. I forgot about the biopsy, obsessed about those dodgy blood clots and learned a few new words: pulmonary embolism, Coumadin, and Lovenox.

Everything changed after that.....