I want a love like that.

Yesterday we got up early and headed to our doctor's office. It was time for our routine checkups. Pulling into the parking lot, we were surprised to find it completely full. After circling around a few times, we lucked up and found a car leaving so we snagged the spot. As we approached the door to enter the building, we noticed several people wearing masks again. We looked at each other and shrugged. Though Covid still lingered, the new concern for many was influenza. We were thankful we'd had vaccines at our last visit. The doc had suggested the high dose injection, the one for old folks. 

We made it up the elevator and into the waiting room. Sitting down, we noticed there were only a handful of people. We took seats and waited to be called back. Most of the people in the room were staring blankly at the huge TV screen mounted on the wall, a distraction to help ease anxiety. From our seats along the side of the room, we heard the familiar voices of "Golden Girls." An elderly woman to our left began laughing at something Estelle Getty said. Her smile was precious. As we waited, more and more people filed in.

A nurse entered the room and called out, "Jack, is there a Mr. Jack _____ here??" Everyone looked around the room waiting for a response. Though there were 3 men in the waiting room, none of them turned at the nurse's call. From across the room, a middle aged woman discreetly motioned toward an elderly man suggesting he might be Jack. When the man didn't turn, I assumed he was hard of hearing and leaned forward. I was seated directly in front of him and knew he could see me. I spoke loudly and used sign language, "Are you Jack?" He shook his head and went back to watching the television. A moment or two later, the door to the back office opened.

In the doorway stood the nurse and a senior adult woman. The nurse was helping her shuffle across the carpeted floor.When they reached her husband, the man we thought was Jack, the nurse released her hold and said goodbye. The gentleman rose to his feet with the aid of a cane. When he was fully upright, his wife slipped her arm into the crook of his. I watched carefully as they slowly made their way toward the exit. They were so cute. As they were walking, I thought, "I want a love like that." I wanted a love that lasted forever, a tender, precious caring love - one that looked past the wrinkles and sagging hips, one that still saw beauty even though it had long faded. 

When they reached the door to exit, the woman turned toward her husband and smiled. He leaned close and touched her cheek. Then they were gone. I imagined they'd walk hand in hand to the elevator and then continue through the medical building before reaching the parking lot. In my mind's eye, I could hear them, "What did the doctor say, dear?" And as she responded to his question, I imagined she'd have to repeat herself several times in order for him to hear. 

Love, so much power in a such a tiny word. Just 4 letters but, wow. 

A minute later, it was our turn to see the doctor. We'd made our appointments simultaneously for convenience. The nurses had gotten used to setting up the exam room for 2 instead of for 1 and they knew, since we'd been married so long, we had nothing to hide from each other. And often, my husband's hearing loss required me to interpret the doctor's questions so he could understand before answering. Our visit went well and we were told to come back in 6 months for lab work. 

After saying goodbye to the medical staff, I looked at my husband and smiled. His eyes were twinkling. Taking my hand, we strode toward the exit. His large hand felt so warm and comforting. That's when I realized, we already had the kind of love displayed by the elderly couple, the kind I'd always wanted. I guess I'd just become too comfortable and hadn't remembered those times he reached for my hand as we walked, the times he'd looked at me with adoration, the times he took care of me when I was ill, never leaving my side. I'd forgotten about the time he stood outside the church in the pouring rain without an umbrella because he wanted to ask me out. I'd stopped paying attention to the multitude of ways he expressed his love and devotion to me, it had become so commonplace, I failed to notice until I'd been reminded by the elderly couple. Without saying a word, they'd shown me I already had that kind of love. I was so blessed. If I'd had the chance, I would have thanked them for the gentle reminder they'd given me. I was the lucky one. 

As we grow older, I pray one day a young couple will notice us. Perhaps they'll lean toward each other as one of them whispers, "I want a love like that." Love should never be taken for granted. It should be treasured and protected at all costs. It's the most precious commodity one can possess and when you find that forever love, like we have, it's a marvelous thing.

Another blessed year of life

The first week of 2024 has come and gone. I meant to start writing this year's blog on the first day of the new year, but that didn't happen. You know what they say about good intentions...

This year seems to have started off with a great sense of urgency. Not only have I grown older, but I've also become wiser. I'm realizing there are more days behind me than ahead of me and I'd better get busy doing the things I want to do. 

I've checked in on many friends diagnosed the same year I was. Some of them are still around while others have gone on to glory. It's a sad thing to realize our personal choices in treatment options most likely contributed to our current state of health, but it's true. Those who chose conventional rounds of chemotherapy and radiation haven't fared as well as those who chose a more natural route. It makes me extremely sad to know, had they considered different options, they might still be around. But when you're in the thick of things, choices are often made under duress. 

I've decided, after almost 10 years of survivorship, that cancer will no longer dominate my life. Yes, it will still be part of it since I'll be making annual visits to the City of Hope for checkups, but I won't be allowing thoughts of a possible recurrence to dictate my days. In fact, I'm purposing in my heart to push all thoughts of cancer aside and have a great year. 

This year seems to be a year of big changes. Phil has retired and I'm getting used to the routine of having him home 24 hours a day. It's definitely an adjustment but it's also been nice, too. We can come and go as we please and it's nice to have a constant companion on outings. 

Later this month, we'll take our first cruise together. It will be exciting and scary at the same time. He's always wanted to go on a cruise. Me, not so much. Hopefully, it will be a great trip and I won't get seasick. We'll be heading toward a warmer climate which will be wonderful considering the chilly weather we've been experiencing here. 

Also, in the next few months, we'll be moving again. We've got our real estate agent looking for our perfect forever home. 

The yard at the old house was huge and hilly making it difficult for us to keep up with the yardwork as we grew older. Also, climbing up on a ladder to clean out gutters was becoming more of a challenge for Phil as he was pushing 70 and his knees were giving him problems. Yes, we could have hired someone to do the work but felt it was time to find a smaller home, and sale prices were at an all-time high, so we caved. We made a nice profit and now we're on to greener pastures. 

God has been so good to us and we know He has many blessings ahead. We can't wait to see how those unfold. We pray you have a very happy, healthy, and prosperous New Year. 

Hopefully, I'll do better at keeping my blog up to date this year. One of my resolutions is to do that! 

Well, it's about time for an update, don't ya think?

 I'm lax. A slacker. Not really, but it feels good to say I've kind of forgotten about my blog lately and the reason is a fairly good one, I think. Life has been going well and by that I mean pretty normal. 

Normal is hard for a person affected by cancer to ever say because once cancer has come into your life, nothing is ever normal again. 

On my fridge hangs a schedule of future medical appointments. I'm happy to say there's only one cancer related appointment among that list and that appointment is in March. 

How'd that happen???

It seems I've been under constant surveillance for so long and now, I'm on annual watch. It seems like I'm a recently freed prisoner or something. And it feels weird - kind of like the safety net has been pulled out from under me. But, I'm thankful. Very, very thankful. 

I can never forget about cancer though. Every time I look in the mirror, I'm reminded of how it changed my life. To this day, almost 10 years post diagnosis, I have no feeling on the right side of my chest. The long incision where they sliced away my breast tissue damaged nerve endings and those haven't rejoined. When I touch my skin there, I can feel a slight pressure, but nothing more. It's an odd feeling. 

I've kind of gotten used to being flat chested. At home, I don't wear my boobs because they're cumbersome and irritating. When I go out, I do. Mostly, to help myself fit in. I don't want to be stared at because I'm different. When I wear my prostheses, no one knows I had breast cancer, unless I tell them. 

My husband and my family know they may or may not see me with boobs on and they've grown to accept it. But now, my youngest daughter has a new boyfriend and he isn't familiar with my health journey. I've given her permission to tell him about it in hopes he'll understand and accept me with or without my female anatomy. I don't want him to be uncomfortable wondering about me if I don't look feminine, especially when he doesn't know me well enough yet. And when I meet his family one day, I'm hoping they won't know my secret. 

It's hard to keep a think like that hidden but I feel it's my right to share or not share. 

Sometimes, it feels like this has all been a bad dream.

I made it through Thanksgiving this year without balling my eyes out. In the past, I always cried as I remembered all God has brought me through. I definitely don't take any of that for granted, it's just this year, I'd come to a place of contentment. 

Now Christmas is upon us and I can't help but feel nostalgic. As I put up decorations, I think about all the people I've known who are no longer with us. Many of those were friends who fought cancer hard and lost. It breaks my heart to think about their valiant fights, but each of them possessed a bravery I can only hope to mirror one day. 

It's nice that cancer isn't my main focus any more. I still can't believe how much territory I gave it those first few years. 

There are still some friends who're fighting hard to make it through cancer. Seeing their struggle makes me so sad. I wonder why God has been so gracious to me and yet, they aren't as blessed. I have to remind myself daily, I could be in their position just as easily as they could be in mine. 

I never want to take a day for granted. 

That's one gift cancer has given me - the gift of gratitude. I used to assume too many things. Now I don't. 

One thing I've learned recently is I don't need cancer as a convenient excuse anymore. 

Yes, I still experience side effects from radiation - my right lung was damaged and sometimes I struggle to breathe properly. I do get tired more easily than I used to, but that could also be because I'm older now than when first diagnosed. I still have body image issues on the bad days, but usually, I can push through them. Most of all, I'm just glad I'm still around. 

I love getting to watch sunrises and sunsets. I love listening to instrumental Christmas classics, I love smelling oranges or cookies fresh from the oven. I love seeing the wrinkles on my husband's face when he smiles a big smile and that twinkle in his eyes when he's happy. I could be missing all those things...

I don't know if cancer will ever rear its ugly head in my life again, I pray not, but if it does, I'll worry about that then. Until that day, I'm moving forward. I'm living my life to the fullest and I'm really glad I can. 

Hindsight is 20/20 and then some

 

I read a quote today that really hit home: 

"You will either step forward into growth, or you will step backward into safety." — Abraham Maslow

As I read the quotation, I felt it prick my soul. How very true those words were for my life. I'd always been a person who needed safety and security. I'd always found comfort and solace in the known. The unknown, however, always tempted me with curiosity and a hint of danger, but more often than not, I opted for stability and routine. My type A personality enjoyed the control of knowing what lay ahead. 

For the past 7 years, I did freelance writing for a cancer publication. It was a huge blessing in so many ways. It provided an outlet for me to discuss all aspects of my cancer journey and gave me a huge perk of getting paid for sharing those experiences. When the 7th year rolled around, I felt I'd said all I had to say about the subject. I was tired of cancer and found myself dreading coming up with articles for the magazine. After some serious thinking, I felt my time with the magazine was over. I submitted an official resignation letter along with a debt of gratitude. Wishing them well, I opted out and decided to spend more time focusing on enjoying life. As I left my thoughts about cancer behind, I felt lighter. 

About six months passed and I began to get itchy. I needed something to do. I felt like I was wasting my days piddling around doing crafts, cleaning house, and doing some yard work. I needed a purpose and so, I contacted the magazine to see if they might be interested in me working for them again. They responded immediately and gave me a positive response. They'd missed my submissions and would be happy to have me back. I was glad to hear it and began writing for them again. But this time, things felt differently. There had been several staff changes and the editor I'd worked with in the past had left the company. They'd also taken on more freelance writers making the odds of being published much slimmer. They'd even sent out a notification that the "pot was full of submissions so it would take time to get each writer's work up." We were expected to be patient and understanding. 

I was used to having at least 4-5 articles published each month and suddenly, I'd been cut down to 1-2. That meant my income from the freelance work had been greatly reduced. That income supplemented my social security check and it hurt to have it cut so drastically. 

Even though the workload had been greatly reduced, I still enjoyed writing and kept going. I submitted 4-5 articles each month and waited for them to be published. In the past, I'd always get a quick reply from the editor thanking me for my submissions and shortly after she'd received the work, it would be published. But now, I'd check the magazine every few days only to find none of my work being published. Wondering why, I contacted the new editor. She gave me the same spiel as before, "We have so many submissions..." 

The more I thought about it, the more I realized I should have never gone backward. When I decided my time writing for the magazine was over, at the 7-year mark, I should have stayed away. 7 is the number of completion - my work was done, but no...I couldn't let it go. 

Now I'm seeing clearly that my time writing for that publication is over. I just need to find a new outlet for my creative juices to flow. 

It's hard to let go of something you love but as the quote says, I need to move forward for growth. 

Who knows where the Lord will take me. I'll wait for the next door to adventure to open. Until that time, I'll focus more on my blog and other things I enjoy. 

Too bad the magazine has so many other contributors now! I enjoyed that extra income, but c'est la vie! 

The wait is the worst part

 

The day started early. I woke at 6 a.m. and tiptoed into the kitchen to have my devotional. My sweet husband had taken the day off work so he could accompany me to the hospital for the test. I didn't want to disturb him. He'd set his alarm for 7 a.m. and that extra hour of sleep would be good for him. 

The kitchen was dark when I entered. The red light from my head lamp made things take on an eery glow. Pulling out my devotional book and my Bible, I sat down at the table and began to read. 

The time went by quickly and before I knew it, I heard hubby's alarm going off and a few minutes later, the shower running. While he got ready, I went back in the room to make the bed and get dressed myself. We needed to leave the house as close to 8 a.m. as possible so we could arrive at the hospital in time to find a parking space, get registered, and pay our co-pay. 

As I busied myself with small details, I tried to keep my thoughts in check. Of course, I was worried, but I did my best not to show it. 

When we arrived at the hospital, the parking lot was already pretty full. We couldn't find a space up close, so we parked a good distance away. Thankfully, as soon as we cut off the car engine, a hospital volunteer, an elderly man, pulled up in a golf cart. He asked if we wanted a ride to the front door. We took him up on it and were amazed at how quickly he drove. 

At the registration desk, I gave my name and other information. The receptionist printed a hospital bracelet and attached it to my arm. Another volunteer, a very white-haired gentleman, escorted us to the radiology department. I wanted to tell him I knew the way already, but I didn't. 

We checked in at the radiology desk and about 2 minutes after I'd sat down, a technician called my name. Rising, I turned to Phil and said, "I love you," as I followed the young man through double doors. 

I was asked to take a seat in the blood draw chair, a large, vinyl chair with a pull-down arm. I sat down and proceeded to tell the tech about my lymphedema and my arm restrictions. He didn't balk when I said my only option was the left hand. Taking my hand in his, he began to slap the top of my wrist and hand. I knew he was trying to coax veins to stand up so he could find them better, but he explained to me anyway. After finding what he thought would be a good vein, He pulled out a syringe and proceeded to jab me working the needle side to side hoping for flash - blood flow back into the needle indicating a vein had been hit. There was none. He apologized and moved the needle to another site. I watched as the sight of the first prick swelled and turned blue. Once again, he couldn't find a vein. I laughed and told him 5 tries was his limit. He said, "No. I won't try again, but I'll call a nurse in." The nurse came and hit the vein on the first try. I was glad. I hate getting stuck over and over again. 

When the needle was in, she threaded an IV and the tech injected the radioactive tracer. It only took a few minutes. I was told we could go home but would need to return around 11:30 a.m.

Phil and I left the hospital and went home. I did a couple of loads of laundry and tried to guzzle water as I'd been instructed by the tech. 

When it came time to head back to the hospital, I began to feel anxious. I knew this was going to determine my future. 

We checked back in and my tech, Doyle, met me at the double doors. As we walked down the cold corridor, he said the test would be about an hour. 

Doyle helped me climb onto the scanner table and covered me with a warm blanket. I'd had this type of test several times before, so I was familiar with what was going to happen. The table underneath me began to vibrate slowly as the machine came to life. Doyle's cell phone went off and he left to answer it. He came right back and we got started. 

The machine moved very slowly over my face, down my sides, over my chest and trunk, then down my legs. After the first set of scans was complete, Doyle ran extra scans of my hips, spine, knees, and ankles. He said he could see degenerative changes in those areas, which my last scan had revealed. 

Finally, it was over. Doyle reminded me to drink a lot of water to flush out the radioactive tracer and we left. 

We ran by a local restaurant to pick up lunch, then headed the Cancer Treatment Center. There was a nice covered pavilion there and we planned to use it. 

It was so quiet and breezy beneath the pavilion. I talked with Phil about our future asking him if he thought I should do chemo this time if the cancer was back. He told me he didn't think I was going to need it. Secretly, I hoped he was right. 

We sat and talked for about an hour, then went home. The doctor's office told us we wouldn't get a call until later that day or perhaps the following day. 

At exactly 4:30 p.m., I got the phone call from the oncologist's office. When the phone ran, my caller I.D. did not indicate who was calling, but I answered it anyway. The nurse said, "Hi, this is Kelly, Dr. P's nurse. He asked me to tell you what your scan showed." At that very moment, I felt my heart begin to race and I held my breath. I was so scared! She said, "The news is good, there's no evidence of cancer!" It was all I could do not to drop the phone. Tears welled up in my eyes. Phil came running over and I had to motion to him that everything was okay. 

I don't remember how the conversation with the nurse ended, but I do remember, as I hung up the phone, I gasped for air. I'd been holding my breath the entire time. 

Phil and I both began to cry and hug each other. We were so very grateful for the good news and immediately began to praise and thank God. 

Waiting on test results is such a hard thing to do, especially when those results could change your life forever, in a split second. 

I have no idea why God, in His mercy, has given me another chance at living life cancer free, but I am so very grateful. I haven't taken a second of life for granted since my initial diagnosis and I'm not about to start now. 

I group messaged all of the kids with the good news. Their texts of gratitude started to pour in. 

It was such an emotionally stressful day and I was so glad it was over, but even more glad that it ended on a good note. 

The fear of recurrence is a horrible thing. None of us like to live in wonder. 

I really want to learn to thrive this year instead of merely surviving. Hopefully,  this will be the year I do that. 

God is teaching me to number my days. I don't want to waste one of them. I hope you don't either. 

Tomorrow is the big day

Tomorrow is the big day, the day I celebrate 7 years of being cancer free. 

As I think back on all God's brought me through, I can't believe I've made it this far. 

A friend I met through an online breast cancer site and I share the exact same diagnosis and we were diagnosed just a few months apart from each other. She's not doing well at all and is about to enter hospice. I can't help but wonder why God's allowing me to live on while she is facing the end of her life. It hurts my heart and while I can't quite understand it, I have to remember God is God and I am not. He and He alone has numbered our days. My only hope is that my friend will know she was well loved and she will certainly be missed when she goes home to meet the Lord. I'm so thankful for her faithful witness, her strength and her resilience. Though she chose a different treatment path than I, I can't help but wonder if perhaps the chemotherapy and all of the other medications she endured during treatment may have contributed to her ill health. 

When I first began fighting cancer, I chose to go the natural route. The only conventional treatment I agreed to was surgery and radiation therapy. I felt those were the best choices for me and for the most part, I've been happy. Other than the burns I suffered and the cording, I think I've done quite well. It hasn't been a bed of roses though, by any means. And the side effect of lymphedema in both arms sucks, but I'm still here, so how can I complain? 

Everyone has to make their own decisions in the fight against cancer and we can never fault someone for choosing a treatment plan that differs from our own. We all want to live and we'll do anything possible to gain better odds toward that end goal, but sometimes, we react from fear and don't always make the best decisions. 

It would be nice if doctors would present all choices and allow the patient to make an informed decision, but that isn't usually the case. Most doctors steer patients toward conventional therapies and those usually involve severe life altering remedies. Chemotherapy and radiation both kill the good and bad cells in our bodies. There's no way to only target the cancer cells. If there were, we'd have so many more survivors than we currently have. 

I've always wondered why doctors don't help their patients discover natural, less invasive solutions to fighting cancer. Their Hippocratic oath of "Do no harm" should be all encompassing, but there are big bucks in big pharma and many doctors are all about the dollar signs. 

Seven years seems like a lifetime ago. It's hard to remember what life was like B.C. (before cancer) but I try. Some of the things I do remember and miss terribly are my physical stamina and my body image. I used to have so much energy I could go for days, now, I'm lucky if I make it to 9:00 p.m. without flopping into bed exhausted. I used to look in the mirror and think, "Hey, you're one hot chick!" But now, I can't help but look at my body with sadness and disgust. 

God has been faithful and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, He understands all of the emotions I've faced throughout these past 7 years. He's watched me cry tears of heartbreak and joy. He's held me tight when I felt I was unloved and unlovely. He's comforted me and given me strength on days I never thought I'd make it. I am so grateful He's deemed me fit to continue on. I know He still has work for me to do. 

Throughout my 63 years on Earth, I've learned, over and over again, through every trial I've ever faced that God is loving and kind. He has a good plan for me, a plan to prosper me and not to harm me. A plan to give me a future and a hope. 

And so, I press on. 

Now instead of watching the clock, I move through life minute by minute trusting God for the next step along the way. Jesus is my portion. He is my one true love. He is my everything. His eye is on the sparrow And I know He watches me

Looking to the New Year with Concern

Yesterday I had an annual visit with the cardiologist. It was the first time I’d been to the hospital since the breakout of Covid-19.

 I knew I’d need to wear a mask before entering the building, since most businesses have adopted this policy since the virus began to spread.

 Entering the building, I walked to the bank of elevators. Pushing the button, I chose the floor for my doctor’s office. When the doors opened, I saw 4 large blue circles on the floor inside. In each circle, the words social distancing appeared. I was caught off guard, realizing, even in elevators, people weren’t allowed to be close.

 Stepping inside, I obediently stepped on a circle. Right behind me, a man entered. I spoke to him through my mask offering a muffled, “Good Morning.” He did not respond although I knew he heard me. Our eyes locked and his fear was evident as he moved to the far corner of the elevator. I felt like a leper.

 When we reached our destination, we both exited the elevator. I went one way and he the other.

 Walking down the halls, I glanced into glass windowed offices. Inside each were chairs spread apart, many of them numbered. Signs outside office doors notified patients of limited capacity and without an appointment, one could not be seen.  

 I went in to register, my temperature was taken, and I was asked if I’d been exposed to the virus or if I had any symptoms. Answering in the negative, I took my seat.

 When the nurse called my name, I was taken to an exam room where I waited for the doctor. Before he entered, the nurse explained I’d need an EKG. Since I’d never met this particular nurse before, I gave her a heads up. I said, “When you attach the leads, you’ll be surprised.” Her questioning look said it all, that’s when I informed her, I was a “flattie,” a breast cancer victim who’d chosen not to reconstruct. She laughed and said, “I’ve seen everything, honey. Don’t you worry.”

 The EKG only took a few minutes and the doctor came in to perform his exam. I received good news and was told I didn’t need to return for a year. Before he left the room, the doctor and I talked.

 “You know,” he said, “I had Covid-19 for 2 weeks in late March. It was terrible.” Wondering why he was sharing such personal information, I listened as he continued. “Are you going to get the vaccine when it is released?” I gave him an honest reply, “I don’t know.” He said, “You really should, you know. With your compromised immunity, you should be among the first to get it.”

 I was surprised to hear I was considered to have compromised immunity, especially after 6 and ½ years of fighting cancer, but he insisted it was true.

 I left his office feeling conflicted. My doctor was advising I receive the vaccine when it became available but I was concerned. In the first place, the vaccine had barely been tested. In the second place, I had lymphedema, which made receiving inoculations difficult. Instead of being able to receive vaccines in my arms, I needed to receive them in my buttocks. Most nurses gave me a hard time when I tried to explain.

 I wondered if the majority of breast cancer patients were being advised to take the vaccine and if so, how many would comply?

 I also wondered if many women might forego visiting their doctors during COVID-19? Would they skip having suspicious lumps checked for fear associated with catching the virus? And would all of this contribute to an increase in the number of breast cancer cases next year?

 The new year is filled with uncertainty and while we wish we could see COVID-19 completely disappear; it seems it will be around for several more months. Will the vaccine offer hope? Should everyone receive it? The decision is one that must be weighed individually but for those with compromised immunity, like those affected by cancer, it seems a no brainer, especially when doctors recommend it, but I've already made up my mind. I'm not taking it, no matter what. 

The reasons I've decided against taking it are varied, but the main one is due to the lack of time given to trials. There's no hard evidence about potential side effects and I'm not willing to be a human guinea pig. Some may say I'm crazy, and that's okay. Everyone has a right to their own choices concerning immunizations and other medical procedures. I hope you'll take time to weigh yours carefully. 

Stay safe and well.

 

The New Year is almost here

2020. That date freaks me out.

As a child, I remember watching the Jetsons wondering what my future might look like. Would we really travel by flying car? Would we have robots running our homes for us? Would space travel be the norm? As I think about those cartoon images, I realize we're not too far off from those predictions. While we haven't found ourselves traveling by flying cars on a daily basis, we do have robots in our homes (iRoomba, etc.) and virtual assistants like Siri and Alexa to help with our menial tasks like finding the newest movie to watch, pulling up directions as we drive, setting our thermostat or turning on music before we come home and a host of other conveniences. Our electronically run homes would make the creator of the Jetsons proud.

And remember when we went through the Y2K scare at the end of 1999? Everything seemed so uncertain and the doomsday prep began because we weren't sure if all the computers would crash and our world be instantly turned upside down, but thankfully, all of that was for naught.

Now here we are rushing into the twentieth year of the twenty first century, a staggering thought!

Facing an unknown future is scary, especially to someone who's faced cancer. Every single day, I'm reminded I don't know what the future might hold. Every ache, every pain reminds me the cancer could be back and it's hard to live teetering on that precipice.

In February, I'll have my annual check up with the oncologist. It's marked in big, red letters on my calendar. I've already begun to count down the days because I dread that appointment. If I get the all clear, still N.E.D diagnosis, I'll take a deep breath and rest easy until the next appointment, unless some rogue illness or severe pain tells me I can't hold onto that diagnosis any longer.

It's not a good place to be, always wondering when or if the cancer will return. And I don't want to go into the New Year with that attitude. I want so desperately to walk into the New Year trusting God. I know He knows how many days I've been allotted, but it's still hard. I have to remind myself to make the conscious effort every minute to walk by faith.

This New Year, I've promised myself to do everything within my power to be healthier, stronger, better...and I mean it but most of all, I've promised myself to move forward daily with a positive attitude and a hopeful outlook. I don't want to continue to give cancer power over me.

Yes, cancer may come back into my life sometime in the future but I pray it never does. But if God chooses to allow it back into my life, I'll know He has a reason and I'll trust Him to guide me through it.

Cancer caused me to muster up my courage. I was forced to be brave. And every single minute of every single day, I continue to fight to maintain that bravery.

As we ring in the New Year, let's celebrate new possibilities, new hopes, new dreams, and a better tomorrow. And let us not forget to pray for those currently fighting against cancer, the battle isn't one they chose to fight.
 

Don't forget where you've been

My mother always told me to look where I was going. More than likely she started speaking those words to me when I was very young but I don't really remember when I first started to hear her chide me. 

What I do know is that as a daydreamer/multi-tasker, my focus has never on what was immediately in front of me. My head was always swiveling, trying to see not only where I was going but where I'd been. That was not necessarily a good thing and often, I ended up with scrapes and bruises from my inattention. But, looking back isn't always a bad thing. In fact, it can be a very good thing. 

Sometimes it's necessary to take a look back in order to see how far you've come. 

Today, as I was working to free up some space on my Google drive, I came across a multitude of photos from my cancer journey. That journey began in June of 2014. As I started to look through the photos, I became overwhelmed. Although it's been almost 5 years since my diagnosis, it seems like it was only yesterday. 

One of the photos that particularly impacted me was a picture of my naked torso. In that photo, I'd already had my breasts removed and had almost completely healed from that surgery. The photo was taken at the radiation clinic and the staff had just completed their "mark up" for my scheduled treatments. The dots and lines they'd applied with a Sharpie marker wouldn't stay on permanently but they'd stay on through the first couple of treatments. 

I remember well the day they began to mark up my body. They'd made a fiberglass mold of my upper body for the linear accelerator to insure accurate positioning every time I came in for treatment but then, they'd also explained, the need for markings to help line up the beams of radiation. Without them, some of my vital organs could be damaged. 

Radiation was difficult although I didn't feel a thing while going through the treatments. There were no sharp pains, no ill side effects other than some extreme fatigue and the burns I acquired about halfway through treatment. But later on, down the road, the doctor discovered I'd received some damage to the lower lobe of my right lung. They'd done everything they could to avoid damaging my organs but they could only control the radiation to a certain degree. I'd been warned in advance that the possibility of some residual damage was possible. 

As I looked at the photos of the radiation therapy, I could feel those feelings all over again. The feelings of embarrassment at having to bare my chest to even more people than I'd already done and of the feelings that cancer would never end. I was very down in the dumps during that time and feeling pretty hopeless. It wasn't good. 

But then I flipped through more photos and came across the ones from my first few cancerversaries. We'd had cake and family had come to help me celebrate those important milestones. Those were extremely happy memories and as I remembered those days, I was thankful. 

There were also photos of special trips we'd made to the beach and photos of my new boobs. I'd tried to document every aspect of my journey so my children would be able to look back one day and see how far I'd come. Some of the photos were extremely serious and some were overwhelmingly hilarious. 

Taking a walk down memory lane through Cancerland today was interesting. I'd forgotten about some of those moments but the photos helped remind me. As I looked back, I didn't lose sight of where I am now and I didn't find myself bumping into something that was going to cause me physical pain either. 

It's good to remember where you've been and how much you've overcome. Fighting cancer isn't easy, in fact, there are many, many lessons we learn along the way but some of them aren't realized until we glance back and face reality. 

Breast cancer hasn't been a total negative experience for me. I've learned many things along the way and some of those things I would have never learned were it not for this major health challenge. 

Along with being an "accident waiting to happen" as my mother always called me, I'm also a Pollyanna. My rose colored glasses help me find the good in both the past and in looking toward the future. 

I won't forget where I've been and I certainly won't forget where I'm going. Although I don't have an exact destination here on Earth, I know I'm moving forward one day at a time and that's good enough for me. 

Yet another rejection

I was raised to always do the right thing. Now, while I know that's always the best choice and the most positive thing I could ever do, I don't always do it. I'm human. I make mistakes. Some of them are humongous and I own them, even though I'm not proud of them but sometimes, making the right choice isn't as easy as you'd think. Sometimes, others make the choice for us.

The future has been on my mind a lot lately. There are so many things I want to accomplish before I leave this world. Being the responsible adult that I am, I've also been thinking about ways to leave my husband well taken care of in the event I am the first to depart, that's why I made the choice last week to apply for some life insurance.

Funerals are expensive and it seems no matter how much you prepare ahead of time, there are always unexpected expenses that arise after a person dies. Even when deciding on a low budget funeral or choosing cremation, there are expenses that will be incurred. And while most people think they have enough coverage, most of them do not.

My ceramic urn

Last week, we attended the death of an uncle and that's what started my thought process. I began to wonder, should I die in the very near future, if my husband would be able to give me a proper burial. I don't want anything fancy, in fact, I've already mentioned my desire to be cremated. I've even picked out my urn - it's a lovely turquoise ceramic container, complete with scuffs and scratches. I bought it at a props sale held by my former employer. Many of the items on sale that day were from past passion plays the drama department had put on for huge audiences in downtown Atlanta. I felt blessed to snag a piece of history and also felt inner glee knowing that piece of pottery would one day hold my cremains.

Anyway...talking about death and funerals can be quite depressing so I'd best get back to the subject matter for this post.

Two well-known insurance companies sent me mailers last week. Both of them offering insurance policies at reasonable rates. One of them claimed no person would be turned away regardless of their medical condition. The other had an application attached to it and said they'd base their decision on the answers provided by the consumer. I wanted to do the right thing, truly I did, so I filled them both out and sent them off. Crossing my fingers, I hoped one of them would approve me.

Yesterday, I received a letter from the company that had provided the questionnaire. I'd answered the questions truthfully and to the best of my ability, so I wasn't surprised as I began reading the first line after the letter's salutation - "We regret to inform you, based on the answers you provided to our questions, that we will be unable to offer you insurance coverage because of your history of cancer."

Handcrafted in Italy, look at the detail!

Well, how do you like them apples????

With that rejection in hand, I wondered if the other company would hold true to their word and offer to provide me with coverage no matter my health condition. Time will tell.

It would be nice if the insurance companies would do the right thing and provide coverage to anyone willing to pay their premiums. So what if I had cancer! Sure, I'm no dummy. I know it could come back at any time, but hey...I still need insurance coverage people.

So what's a girl to do? I have my urn and that's a plus. Hopefully, I can get coverage before I kick the bucket so hubs won't have to sell all his belongings to make sure I have a nice funeral. Oh well, if I don't get it, I'll just tell him to bury me in the backyard, there are lots of places back there that would be perfectly suitable. I especially like that big oak tree on the corner of our lot...