For the past week I have been spending nights at the hospital with my mom. She was admitted to ICU with difficulty breathing. I have watched her sleep peacefully with what appears to be an uncomfortable and annoying breathing apparatus while her body desperately tries to heal itself. My mom is an amazingly strong and vital woman and spending time with her is always filled with blessings, no matter the circumstances. She is beginning to rebound and you can see the glimmer of her old self returning through the tubes and wires monitoring her every breath, every heart beat.

Sitting up every night I have had plenty of time to think about what it means to have lived a full life. While I can look at my mom and know what an impact she has had on the world and the many lives she has touched, it has made me think about my own life in the same regard. While I can say confidently that I am proud of the woman I am and am becoming, especially when I can see my mother's traits in my actions, I know I still have much room for growth. Of course the past few years tinged by cancer have weighed heavily on my personal development, both good and bad. After emerging from the haze of chemotherapy and the physical challenge of multiple surgeries, I made a commitment to live life fully and passionately. Sadly, I think I have failed.

I remember believing during treatment that if I kept working and kept my normal routine, no matter what I looked like temporarily, cancer was not in control. I kept my work schedule in tact and kept up with my teaching schedule throughout everything. As the months since treatment continue to grow with gathering speed, I continue to maintain everything . . . and then some . . . more classes, more activities, more conferences, more committees. . . more responsibilities to everyone outside of myself. I somehow confused living passionately with being busy. Instead of the joy of living life fully propelling me forward and manifesting itself in my actions, I feel the joy diminishing with each mounting responsibility and each moment given away under the guise of living passionately.

I have grown to understand my cancer diagnosis as a pivotal time in my life. Certainly this is understandable as cancer does bring a new reality into one’s life. I find myself judging and weighing each action I make post cancer on some grand scale in comparison to the pre-cancer person. This is exactly the person I did not want to become. I did not want cancer to be the enlightenment period of my life. I want my entire life to be my enlightenment period. I want to always be growing and evolving throughout my life and not only the period where I passed through the cancer crucible, judging everything on some pre or post basis.

Once again I find myself on the precipice of great change. This time, however, the change will be two-fold. First, as much as I don’t want to face it, my family is changing. My mother is very strong and will recover and come home from the hospital once again. But the future and what it inevitably holds, is much closer than any of us want to believe. Secondly, internal change for me must be part of the equation. This must be the time that I learn what it means to live life passionately and what it takes to find that inner joy that will resound in my actions. I have to learn the difference between being busy and being present in the moment, the difference between doing several things and embracing the things I am doing.

Somehow I think it is going to be a bumpy ride.

Labels: family, moving on after cancer

Many years ago when my family first moved to California, one of our relatives mailed my father a chestnut. While in transit, the chestnut sprouted. Never one to waste a thing, my father planted the little sprout in the front yard. The dry, hot California climate may not have been the best home for a chestnut tree; however, it's growth over the years has been a symbol of its indomitable spirit as well as a symbol of family history. We kept a piece of tradition and home with us as we emigrated to the US and eventually came to California. For me, a California native, it has been a link to family history that extended generations and across continents.

Labels: family, moving on after cancer

I had been in a state of limbo with no news to share while I had tests, saw doctors, and awaited results. I can’t believe the number of emails and messages expressing concern. Thank you, thank you, thank you for caring!

Let me first begin by updating about the “mass.” Right now, no one seems to think it is cancer or anything to worry a bout at this time. I’ve had a CT scan, an MRI (the last one I am likely to have – ever), sixteen tubes of blood tests, the mother of all urinalysis, and an aborted biopsy (called off by the radiologist). Results? Hmm, all seems to be okay, but we’ll take some pictures in a few months and keep an eye on it. Who would have ever believed that a little 2mm stone would have led to an insurance referral nightmare, an argument with my doctor, me carrying around a jug of my own urine for twenty four hours, and a kidney specialist releasing me after telling me that there is no evidence I continue to produce kidney stones despite the ongoing unbearable, yet intermittent, pain in my kidney region.

This whole episode was eerily reminiscent of my original breast cancer diagnosis exactly three years earlier. I was busy, busy planning 4th of July patriotic celebrations while having a lumpectomy and then receiving an official diagnosis on July 1, 2004. Once again I found myself facing doctor appointments and tests and visits with specialists only this time to be given inconclusive, wait and see, results. I reacted the only way I knew how: I put it all aside and focused my energy on planning an amazing 4th of July parade (see my job description under “other duties as assigned”). The lesson I learned this time around, and on my third cancerversary, is that life is too short to still feel like a patient. Moving on is long overdue.

As I write this, someone whom I know and love is experiencing a recurrence with extensive metastases after three clean years. It is funny how we both thought we made it and were cancer free, free and clear. I guess there is no such thing as free and clear after cancer and no reason or logic for recurrences. It has made me think very hard about how I have lived the last three years. If it were me instead of my friend, how would I feel about the way I lived the last three years? I’ve said before that in some ways, cancer has made me both fearless and fearful, but which has prevailed?

Perhaps the fearful part has moved me to action to fight this dreaded disease. Fundraisers, walks, reaching out to others facing cancer, volunteering in various ways, and lobbying my political representatives to action are really the foundation of my armor. Somehow, in my own mind, the more of us that make it, the stronger our team becomes and the weaker the opponent appears, right? (Please tell me I am right, alright?)

It’s the fearless part that will likely get me into trouble. There is a part of me that doesn’t fear long term consequences any longer (which is probably a good change at times for conservative little ol’ me) and part of me that doesn’t stop until I get what I am seeking or reach whatever goal lies before me. While this may sound a little on the “fierce” side as my friend Tyra would say, it all takes incredible energy. Energy to fight the beast; energy to laugh in his face by carrying on in spite of him. And really, I don’t want to spend my time and energy reacting out of fear in any form. I’d rather spend my energy acting out of love rather than reacting out of fear.

So on this, my third cancerversary, my new goal has become pretty clear. It is time to move on rather than simply talk about moving on. It is time to stop being a patient (and learn patience!). I declare this the year of love with my goal simply to live and love with abandon. To give of myself freely out of love and not out of fear. To bask in the energy of the healing power of love.

Won’t you join me?

Labels: milestones, moving on after cancer, Spreading the love

Learning to live a normal life after a cancer diagnosis is challenging. There is such a desire to pick right up after the last chemo treatment and bolt back into a familiar routine. I had to learn to pace myself, allow myself time to heal physically, and adjust to a new routine. A routine that would include regular doctor appointments with a variety of doctors, adjusting to the side effects of a medication I still must take for 3.5 more years, and ongoing lymphedema and scar tissue issues. I’m not complaining. In fact, breast cancer has introduced me to people I would never have met otherwise, helped other relationships grow, and encouraged a somewhat more focused approach to life. In some ways it has made me fearless and in other ways fearful.

Enter fearful. Three weeks ago, after an extremely successful Relay for Life event, I awoke in the middle of the night with excruciating pain. I ended up in the ER and was admitted immediately. The pain in my lower left back was so bad that I who hates pain medication found myself cheering for the nurse who brought me favorite painkiller of choice. While awaiting CT scan results, I casually said to my sister, “What if they find something else?” This is not a thought I would have ever had before breast cancer. I would have been concerned about the pain, but never about what else might be lurking there.

I was feeling a little like Carnac the Magnificent when the doctor came in proclaimed, “You have stones everywhere, but more importantly you have a mass on your adrenal gland.” Who even knew where the adrenal gland was or what it does? Without even taking the time to register what he said, I started calling to schedule the follow up while I got dressed (after successfully passing the largest kidney stone – yikes!). By the time I got through to my primary care physician’s office, it had registered. I handed the phone to my sister who didn’t skip a beat making the appointment on my behalf while the tears silently rolled down my cheeks.

My oncologist tells me the chances are low it is a breast cancer metastasis. Somewhere in the back of my mind I flash back to several other doctors telling me that what I felt in my breast was not likely breast cancer because I was too young and it didn’t quite feel like cancer, not to mention the surgeon saying it didn’t look like breast cancer when he took it out. Rather than “wait and see” I am proactively having a slew of tests including a biopsy.

Truthfully, I am at peace with whatever this mass or nodule turns out to be at this point now that I am armed with information from a very skilled nephrologist. What I am not at peace with is knowing that this is my fate. Every bump, lump, mass, or nodule will always raise alarm, will always spark a round of tests and scans, and will always bring me to a place of uncertainty and fear. Some feel that it is good to get such thorough follow up and I agree on some level; however, once you have heard the urgency from some doctors and been prayed over and bear hugged by nurses who understand the odds of surviving multiple cancer diagnoses or metastases, you will understand the desire to run in the opposite direction . . . if just for a little while . . . .to absorb the reality on your terms and then move forward with the courage and grace you have had to learn from living through a cancer diagnosis.

Labels: cancer, moving on after cancer

Spring is traditionally a busy, busy, busy season for me and this year is probably the busiest yet. In my own way, I take that as a victory.

Last week I found myself preparing for a special workshop that my organization only holds every few years. Three years ago I found myself preparing for the same workshop when just days before I detected a lump in my breast. Of course it took months and several tests and procedures before I finally heard the words, “You have cancer.” But instead of being in that place, I find myself with the strength and energy to handle what feels like an even more demanding schedule.

Honestly I believe it has taken me two years to shake the effects of cancer and its treatment and adjust to a new reality in my life. The most difficult part has not been how I feel personally, but how I internalize and feel about the people I have come to truly care for who are experiencing much greater struggles with cancer and recurrences. My heart aches for them. I can feel their fear. I know what goes through their mind. There is nothing I can do to help them or make it better for them or take away their fear. And I can’t do anything to take away my own fear. Somehow, or rather by the grace of God, I move forward each day trying to grab as much life as I can.

Each day I am grateful for my health and the blessings in my life. And each day I also remember others who continue to fight. I am asking that you do the same. I need all your good thoughts, healing energy, prayers, mojo, or whatever you call it to be directed at Lori and her husband Cary. Lori is an amazingly strong warrior who needs strength from everywhere she can get it to keep fighting. If you are reading this, Lori, I am dedicating my Relay laps to you. I’ll be there 24 hours and I’ll be carrying you with me in spirit.

Never take a day or any moment of any day for granted. Let’s all grab as much life as we can today.

Labels: moving on after cancer

At the 2.5 year mark, my tumor markers are holding steady in the normal range. No sign of cancer. No cancer-related issues. See you in six months. Thank God and thank all those who have offered prayers and good thoughts.

Even though I try to believe that these check ups don't stress me, apparently I was wrong. I have a swollen right side of my face from what appears to be grinding my teeth in my sleep. I enflamed the nerves which are pressing against my sinuses which are apparently a little infected. As a wise woman once said, "It's always something."

Even still, it's a good day. A very good day.

Labels: moving on after cancer

There comes a time when words escape me. I should know the signs by now. I can’t express myself, I don’t want to talk about cancer, commercials touting “I’m ready to start my chemotherapy” make me cry, I find my jaw clenched the majority of the time, I’m a bit agitated (and not by too much caffeine), I can’t make eye contact with women with extremely short hair (even if it is a chosen style), and then I go to the lab for blood tests. Even though I had a reprieve for the last six months, I should know by now that oncology follow-ups get to me no matter how much I try to believe I am stronger than that. They never get easier. Waiting is never palatable.

I get my results next week. Fingers and toes crossed (even if it makes me drive funny and walk with a strange double limp).

Labels: cancer, moving on after cancer

This is my third New Yearsy type post since I began blogging. I can’t believe how much my life has changed and yet still remained the same. Long ago, before I ever knew what blogging was, I decided I needed to carve out a place for myself in this world. I needed to make a mark on life somehow. I had finished grad school, my career was going well, and the part-time teaching was challenging and rewarding. I thought I felt good about my accomplishments, but somewhere deep down inside it didn’t seem like enough. “What would happen if I died tomorrow,” I thought to myself. “Who would ever know I existed, that I made a contribution to this world?” I began doing more, volunteering at with charitable causes, getting involved with various projects, giving everything I had within me to anyone who asked. I thought I was living passionately, but instead I was slowly dying.

And then 2004 rolled around and brought a cancer diagnosis. Suddenly life as I knew it changed. Nothing else existed except the single goal of waging a war and winning. Before the year ended, I had been through chemo, surgery, and declared cancer free. I welcomed 2005 with a vengeance as a new start. Instead I started what seemed an endless journey through reconstruction spanning the entire year. It didn’t matter though because it was a year of reconstructing as opposed to the prior year of what felt like deconstructing. I was trying to reconstruct a life post cancer, but I wasn’t sure what I was reconstructing. My life before was chaos. It was basically a flurry of responsibilities and duties and trying to find my place in this world.

By the end of 2005 I thought I figured it out. I needed to be still. I needed to understand what had transpired in my life and build the life I wanted, something that could make me proud. I tried to be still and plan rather than just jump in and do, but life post cancer kept infiltrating my quiet moments and the white noise would overtake the stillness and chaos would creep back in. When I would look deep within me, rather than find understanding and acceptance, I would see a deep, black, cavernous hole that was engulfing me from the inside out.

As 2006 has rolled on by, I have learned that life is simply a decision. At the beginning of this month I was facing a series of doctor appointments with various specialists to address the various physical ailments that may or may not have been associated with treatment or medication. On the way to the appointment I passed the former home belonging to my aunt and uncle whom have both passed away in the last couple of years. It is just down the street from my mom’s house and somehow the street seems vacant and soul-less without them there or without various family celebrations taking place there. The new family had just had their first family celebration there. As I drove past the house a flood of images came across my mind. In the trash bin set out at the street, the remnants of a piñata were visible. That piñata symbolized the changes at that house, the new family, the new celebrations, the new culture. Somehow the house had survived and once again happy memories were filling every corner. The house looked beautiful once again.

As I was discussing the results of a medical procedure with the doctor, the words she spoke were different than what I heard. She may have said, “The results look normal, but what you describe is not. Let’s keep an eye on this and have another exam in a year.” What I heard was, “You may not feel normal or trust your body, but you are going to be okay.” It was on that day that I made the decision to move on. I realized I could make a decision to be miserable or I could make a decision to be happy and truly understand what it means to live a passionate and full life. In a sense, the remnants of my own psychological piñata, as beat up as it was, lay strewn on floor as I left the office.

With that lesson, I move forward into 2007 with great hope and great joy in anticipation of the many changes that lie ahead. I’ve deconstructed, I’ve reconstructed, and now I look forward to making the decisions in my life that will bring happiness and excitement and rewarding challenges. Well, 2007, bring it on. I am ready. I am so ready.

Happy New Year to all the internets and my family and friends who continue to stop by. May you see your own piñata in the days ahead and a enjoy new year filled with great surprises!

Labels: holidays, moving on after cancer

A friend of mine recently remarked that I was raised “old country.” In my head, momentarily, I had mixed reactions. The modern career woman in me was a bit unarmed because apparently my secret was out. I was exposed for the old country girl that I am.

For the sake of clarity, let's make sure we are on the same page in respect to “old country girl.” I am not an old country girl like Barbara Mandrell (who incidentally was country when country wasn't cool). I am old country as in "from the old country." My family has roots in Italy. My father, though an American citizen, was raised in Italy. My mother's family came to the United States when her oldest sister was just a child. They were part of the big wave of European immigrants who came to the United States in the early 1900’s with my parents a part of the generation who experienced both the Great Depression and World War II. As the very last of the Baby Boomers, I was raised to turn off the lights when I left a room, to not be wasteful, to respect the institution of family, and, perhaps most important this time of year, to make traditional Italian goodies (from scratch) for the holidays. The old country in me is most prominent this time of year when nostalgia runs high. I find myself seeking out opportunities to be around people who value the same things and share the same culture, but each year it seems that opportunites to bring together old country Italian-Americans are dwindling. It seems this feeling of balancing old and new, past and future, are part of my present in many ways.

As I was decorating the Christmas tree this year, I was reminiscing about my first Christmas tree in my very first apartment. I bought my first tree without thinking about a stand, lights, or decorations. Details, details. The stand was a quick buy at the tree lot, but for the others I would have to be creative. Lucky for me I was a child of the 80’s (okay, perhaps not a child, but a young adult) and had a large selection of dangling sparkly earrings (though mostly neon colors – c’mon, it was the 80’s afterall) and filled in the rest with dried flowers, ribbons, lace, and other handmade decorations. Sometimes old country comes in handy.

As the years progressed I tried to create a designer tree with a color scheme and theme. I had collected all the decorations, made the tree skirt from a bridesmaid dress (there is a use for them after the wedding if you're crafty). Though it looked department store window beautiful, every time I looked at it I felt this distinct sadness. It finally dawned on me that nothing on the tree had special meaning. The ornaments weren't hand made and there were no fancy ornaments received as gifts. There was simply no tradition, no story. That was one of those moments when I realized the importance of tradition for this old country girl. Over the years I threw out the color scheme, the plain white lights, and the theme. I have expanded my collection of ornaments, mostly antique reflector ornaments, as well as a few special ornaments that were either made for me or given as gifts. The tree isn't complete without lots of multicolored lights and one of my old earrings just for nostalgia.

As I decorated my tree, I couldn't help but think about how time has flown sine that first tree. Each ornament from my collection tells a story of the past and the memories fill the house along with the decorations. More importantly than the past, this tree tells a story about the future. I haven't had a tree the last few years. After recovering from surgery each of the last two years a tree was the furthest thing from my mind. This year is different. This year it symbolizes the joy I have today and the hope I have for tomorrow. It is a big step in my journey, but one I have to take to continue moving forward. This year is different indeed. I don't always feel it one hundred percent, but in my heart I know that I am coming to terms with the implications of having had cancer and how it impacts my life each day. Most days I feel at peace with it and am ready to go about the business of living. Not living in the shadow of cancer, but living passionately, embracing the past, and greeting the future with a reserved yet optimistic enthusiasm. Not a bad start for an old country girl.

Labels: holidays, moving on after cancer, traditions