May 17

Today (May 17) was Livestrong Day. Lance Armstrong's foundation always commemmorates this day every year, as it was the date when Lance Armstrong was diagnosed with cancer. They ask people to wear yellow and/or Livestrong apparel, and they have various activities to promote cancer awareness and advocate cancer-related causes. I wore my Livestrong polo shirt, baseball cap, and wristband, and when my dad and I went out to lunch, I got a lot of questions about whether I worked for the Lance Armstrong Foundation. (I don't.)

May 17 is also a special day each year for my husband and me, because it is our "kiss-a-versary." 23 years ago on May 17, we had our third date and I got a nice kiss on the doorstep as Jared dropped me off. He remembers this date, too - he even puts it on his PDA calendar. (How many husbands actually do that? I'm LUCKY!) It was also the day that I took and miserably failed my AP History exam, because I was distracted by "date tonight with Jared - woo hoo!"

We celebrated by having some new furniture delivered today. Because I can't drive (which is so silly because I can tool around skillfully on a bicycle...and I must confess that I did actually break the rules and tried driving a little bit last weekend...it was weird), I can't visit my clients, so they have to come to my home office for in-person meetings. So now I have some nice, new living room furniture (because it serves as my office lobby) and a nice, new dining table & chairs (because it's also my conference table). See - it's like I said before: cancer has its privileges.

Today also marks my eighth day of consecutive exercise - I'm back into the obsessive exercise groove again! Daily exercise - no excuses - unless a doctor says to stop (and then only when arguing with the doctor doesn't change their mind). That's the policy that worked for me really well in my B.C. years. I want to beat my previous three-year streak (especially because that would involve surviving for three years). I kicked it off on May 5 with Relay for Life, and I haven't stopped since. Lately we've done a lot of bike riding as a family, now that my daughter is old enough to sit with her brother in the trailer that Jared pulls behind his bike. It makes me feel very Lance Armstrong-ish as we pedal around. (Especially today as I did so in my Livestrong gear!)

Living strong and loving strong, and celebrating both today on May 17.

What Sweeter Music

Okay, so someone asked for details about the good choral music I like to listen to. Here's a quick list:

1. Anything performed by Evening Song (because my husband and I used to sing with them, and were part of the group during their first three CD recordings). You can visit them at www.eveningsong.com to order a CD or listen to a sampling in their recital room.
2. Anything written/arranged by John Rutter or Mack Wilberg (I accidentally left them out of my list of favorite composers!).
3. Anything recorded by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir under their new label (especially because they sing a lot of stuff by Rutter and Wilberg on these newer CD's).
4. Handel's Messiah as recorded by the Monteverdi Choir and conducted by John Eliot Gardiner(Philips/Polygram label). It's hard to find, and it's expensive, but it's the best recording of that oratorio!
5. Anything recorded by the Choir of Kings College, Cambridge.
6. Anything recorded by the Tallis Scholars.
7. The Choral Moods CD recorded by the Choir of Trinity College, Cambridge (especially Allegri's "Miserere Mei, Deus" - which is purported to be the song whose score used to be so carefully guarded by the Vatican until Mozart heard it once and wrote it down from memory because he loved it so much - and Barber's "Agnus Dei", which is a choral version of his famous "Adagio for Strings" that a lot of people tell me is "the music from Platoon")
8. Requiems written by Brahms (especially "How Lovely Is Thy Dwelling Place"), Durufle (especially "Pie Jesu"), and Faure (ditto on the "Pie Jesu"). (Hope that doesn't sound morbid, recommending requiems!)
9. Vivaldi's Gloria (especially "Et in Terra Pax" and "Que Sedes Ad Dexteram Patris" - the latter because it is a kick-butt alto aria that I wish I had the chance to perform somewhere).

And that's just what I came up with from the top of my pumpkin-carved/radiation seared head!

Broken Things To Mend

I had a great Mother's Day yesterday. My son made me three cards (including one that he signed, "love, Jacob Oakes") and told me I was "the best mom in the whole world." He made me a little potted plant in preschool, and is very proud of it. He also sang his heart out with the Primary children in church, as they sang special songs like, "Mother, I Love You". His little face beaming at me while he sang was even more precious than the nice Coach watch that his daddy gave me! My husband also made sure I was treated to breakfast in bed and Sunday dinner (including dishwashing service) without my having to lift a finger. My daughter's gift to me was mastering the word, "Mama" - which she repeated loudly throughout our church service. It was a fun day.

Another treat I had yesterday was the re-discovery of a general conference talk given by one of the leaders of our church, Jeffrey R. Holland (who happened to be the president of BYU when I was a student there). The talk (which is now an Ensign magazine article) was called, "Broken Things To Mend" (You can click on the title to view the article.)

In the article there is a wonderful poem, called, "The Carpenter of Nazareth":

In Nazareth, the narrow road,
That tires the feet and steals the breath,
Passes the place where once abode
The Carpenter of Nazareth.

And up and down the dusty way
The village folk would often wend;
And on the bench, beside Him, lay
Their broken things for Him to mend.

The maiden with the doll she broke,
The woman with the broken chair,
The man with broken plough, or yoke,
Said, “Can you mend it, Carpenter?”

And each received the thing he sought,
In yoke, or plough, or chair, or doll;
The broken thing which each had brought
Returned again a perfect whole.

So, up the hill the long years through,
With heavy step and wistful eye,
The burdened souls their way pursue,
Uttering each the plaintive cry:

“O Carpenter of Nazareth,
This heart, that’s broken past repair,
This life, that’s shattered nigh to death,
Oh, can You mend them, Carpenter?”

And by His kind and ready hand,
His own sweet life is woven through
Our broken lives, until they stand
A New Creation—“all things new.”

“The shattered [substance] of [the] heart,
Desire, ambition, hope, and faith,
Mould Thou into the perfect part,
O, Carpenter of Nazareth!”

- George Blair, “The Carpenter of Nazareth”

Dog and Butterfly

People don't have to know me for very long to realize how much I loooooooove music. Most of what I love to hear is the kind of stuff I'd hopefully hear in heaven someday (especially good sacred choral stuff). The more I have participated in music, the more I have learned to appreciate beautifully written stuff.

At the same time, however, I have some favorites that probably don't waft through celestial Muzack, but they feel great to listen to. My personal theory is that well-written music in general is good for the brain, so I like to treat it with both the inspired stuff and the fun stuff.

I am a super-huge fan of the girlie rock duo, Heart. Only the Longflicks will ever top them, I think. (Only die-hard readers of my blog might know who the Longflicks are!) When I'm in a "let-out-some-steam" mood, I love to listen to "Barracuda", and sometimes I just love how awesomely clean the drums are in "Crazy on You". But from my early junior high years I fell in love with their ballad, "Dog and Butterfly". I would listen to it on the radio often as I fell asleep at night. There was something soothing about the guitar and Ann Wilson's voice. I had NO idea what this song was about, but for some reason I liked it a lot.

Now, 28 years after the song was released, I have it on CD, and I listened to it a bunch of times today. I still couldn't get what the song was about, so I studied the lyrics and found an article online about it. It turns out that Ann Wilson was inspired to write the song after watching her dog chase a butterfly around the yard. Her sister, Nancy, was quoted as saying that, "As Ann watched her dog it struck her as symbolic as to how life can be. When you're an earthbound creature we're always jumping and reaching for things we can never really catch, but you try anyway. And that's the point of the song, we're always trying to grab at something higher."

There I was with the old man,
Stranded again so off I'd ran.
A young world crashing around me;
No possibilities of getting what I need.
He looked at me and smiled,
Said "No, no, no, no, no child.

See the dog and butterfly; up in the air he like to fly."
Dog and butterfly; below she had to try.
She roll back down to the warm soft ground, laughing
She don't know why, she don't know why
Dog and butterfly

Well I stumbled upon your secret place
Safe in the trees you had tears on your face
Wrestling with your desires;
Frozen strangers stealing your fires.
The message hit my mind
Only words that I could find:
See the dog and butterfly; up in the air he like to fly.
Dog and butterfly; below she had to try.
She roll back down to the warm soft ground
Laughing to the sky, up to the sky
Dog and butterfly

We're getting older, the world's getting colder.
For the life of me, I don't know the reason why.
Maybe it's livin' making us give in.
Hearts rolling in, taken back on the tide;
We're balanced together, ocean upon the sky.

Another night in this strange town
Moonlight holding me light as down
Voice of confusion inside of me
No begging to go back where I'm free
Feels like I'm through,
Then the old man's words are true:
See the dog and butterfly; up in the air he like to fly.
Dog and butterfly; below she had to try.
She roll back down to the warm soft ground
With a little tear in her eye.
She had to try, she had to try.
Dog and butterfly

So I guess whether its fighting cancer or following any other challenging dream, we just have to try. "Maybe it's livin' making us give in", but we can't give in or give up. We have to try. And maybe we might be as silly or stupid-looking as a dog jumping around and chasing a butterfly. (My beagle is so tenacious, he can be funny to watch when he is going after something.) And maybe after trying and trying we fall back down with a little tear in our eye. But we still have to try.

No wonder I like that song! I mean, it's not exactly Handel or Bach or Mozart or Brahms (my favorite composers), but it's a feel-good song with a feel-good message.

I get to take chemo!

How silly is this - being excited about taking chemo?

My white blood cell counts are a little higher - still a little low, but my neutrophils are way up, so I'm cleared to start another 5-day high dose of Temodar.

And maybe it's okay to eat a raw vegetable again!

Life Flashing Before Your Eyes

I've often heard people refer to their "life flashing before their eyes" when they were in a perilous situation.

I am neither in a plummeting aircraft nor observing an oncoming drunk driver in a Mack truck. My threat is more of a slow motion thing. So I guess the life flashing before my eyes is more of a slow motion thing.

One of the "perks" of cancer is the opportunity to reflect intently on one's life. I've posted before my thoughts about how I have been blessed with a good life (a great life, actually). But it's also been kind of a "This is Your Life" season for me, where I have had the opportunity to be transported back in time. Back to my seminary teaching days, as I have been in touch with some of my seminary students. Back to my singing days with Evening Song choir, as we rejoined the group for a rehearsal and an upcoming tour. Back to my dancing days with Jared. Back to my high school days with "the gaggle". Back to the many years of Messiah. Back to the family vacation and "second honeymoon" days at Disney World. Back to the day when my son was born, as recently relived with his birth grandmother on the phone. And so on.

Long, long ago B.C. (before cancer) - about 11 years ago - during a trip to New York City, I had my first taste of time travel back to the sixth grade. I saw Shaun Cassidy perform on Broadway, and I caught him afterward at the stage entrance for an autograph. I think I even touched his jacket. He was my obsession when I was in the sixth grade, and seeing him in real life took me back to those days when I would have fainted at the idea of getting to meet him.

That crush had long-since been transferred to my husband, but there was another part of that sixth grade era that I have missed: my best friend at the time. Her name is Dawn, and we maintained a friendship not only during that sixth grade year at Lake Zurich Junior High School (in Illinois), but also for years afterward, despite my family's move to Utah during the summer before seventh grade. We wrote each other frequently and had a fun reunion at the Great America amusement park during a family trip back to Illinois when I was about sixteen or so. We continued to correspond for years thereafter, but fell out of touch around the time that we each got married. I would often think about my good friend and wonder where she was, how she was doing, etc.

I recently had a nagging feeling that I needed to find her again - NOW. And thanks to the magic of Google, I was able to find her! It has been a fun and exciting reunion as we have been catching up with each other through email and phone conversations, and every time we talk I get to have that fun time of life "flash" before my eyes. Dawn is coming to Texas for a visit next month, and I am very excited for the opportunity to let her meet my husband and kids, and to relive another great time of life.

Eat Right, Exercise, Die Anyway

I once worked for a man who laughingly told me about the wisdom he found on a bumper sticker: "Eat Right, Exercise, Die Anyway". I think he liked it so much because it helped him feel better about the fact that he DIDN'T eat right, and he DIDN'T exercise. Of course, sure enough, because he was a heavy chain smoker, he did die anyway from lung cancer.

Those words came back to my memory as I considered the irony of my situation. A couple of years before my cancer diagnosis I had changed my eating habits. I was exercising every day - no exceptions. I was getting closer to a healthy weight and I felt great. Put those together with the standard Mormon ways of never drinking or smoking and not even drinking coffee, and I'd say I had a pretty healthy lifestyle. I was trying to avoid heart disease and diabetes, which based on family history were much more realistic health risks than some random, obscure brain cancer called "glioblastoma multiforme". "Eat right, exercise, die anyway" hit too close to home for me!

I would make a small amendment, however, to this unfortunately true statement:

"Eat right, exercise, die anyway - BUT - eat right and exercise anyway."

There isn't much I can control about my cancer, but I can control some lifestyle choices that will help me hang on as long as possible. I need to be a good surgical candidate, if surgery is ever needed again. I need to have physical strength to endure whatever treatments are needed. I need a strong immune system. Heck - I need to fit into the MRI tube!!!

And if all else fails...I need to leave behind some photos for my family that don't make me cringe! Steroid abs and multi-chins, GO AWAY!!!

I'm not getting into dietary extremes, but I am trying to incorporate as many phytonutrients and antioxidants as possible into my diet. Lots of fruits and veggies, as well as lean proteins to help heal damaged tissues. Brown rice instead of white. Whole wheat pasta instead of pasty white. Just little things like that whenever I can.

For those of you who have read from the early days of this blog, you may remember my lament over the breaking of my three-year daily exercise streak when I had my craniotomy. From that time I have had various restrictions placed on physical activity. When those started to ease up, I enjoyed resurrecting my clog dancing days and being able to pick up my baby girl. And then I had my stereotactic radiosurgery. And my high fever. Setbacks that restored some restrictions. But - hooray - I was recently told that I can exercise without restriction, provided that:
1) I ease into it; and
2) I breathe a lot to keep my blood pressure (and therefore pressure on my brain) to a minimum.

And so...I have decided to become a daily exercise fanatic again. I used the Relay For Life as my launch date, and every day since then I have done SOMETHING for exercise. Even with a nasty cold, there is something that I can do each day. The success of my three-year streak is based on a "no excuses" approach. If the question is changed from "will I exercise today" to "WHAT will I do for exercise today", then it becomes easy. Also, having a variety of exercise options helps a lot. When the weather is nasty outside, I have a treadmill and lots of workout tapes inside. I can do a short strength-training workout or take a long walk. Or we can put on our clogging shoes and dance. If I'm too sick and miserable and wiped out for a strenuous workout, I can do yoga or flexibility exercises. Just something every day, to stay in the habit.

The other day we went for a family bike ride - something we used to enjoy until about a year ago, when our daughter was born. She is finally old enough to sit with my son in the trailer that my husband pulls behind his bike. We toured the neighborhood and had a nice time, and as we returned back to our house, I alighted nimbly from my bike and wondered aloud why on earth I am still under doctor's orders not to drive a car!!!???!!!

Oh, well. Maybe driving will be a milestone to look forward to. Meanwhile, today is Day 7 of my new life as a daily exercise fanatic, and I hope to surpass my earlier streak of three years.

Gonna die anyway - someday. We all do. (Having a flashback to the movie, What About Bob?, when the psychiatrist's kid, Siggy, tells Bill Murray's character that "We're...ALL...GOING...TO...DIE!")

BUT - Eat right and exercise anyway.

Ooh, My Head

We just finished a fun moment, dancing with our son in the living room to the LaBamba soundtrack. (I'm still sicker than a dog, but it was fun to try.) I decided that one of the songs, "Ooh, My Head" was probably my theme song. Of course, our favorite song on the soundtrack is "We Belong Together":

You're mine and we belong together
Yes, we belong together,for eternity

You're mine, your lips belong to me
Yes, they belong to only me,for eternity

(Jacob and I share a special smile during this part):

You're mine, my baby and you'll always be
I swear by everything I own
You'll always,always be mine

You're mine, and we belong together
Yes, we belong together, for eternity

Jacob knows that "eternity" means...for-EVVVV-er.

This was our fun moment of the day. The icky moment of the day was when I was conversing with my oncologist's office about the delay in my chemo regimen because of my lowered white blood cell and neutrophil counts. I mentioned hearing that glioblastoma can double in size every three weeks, so I was worried about delaying my chemo treatment at least one third of that time. The reply I received was that it is only that aggressive "when" the tumor becomes resistant to chemotherapy and goes out of control, and I do not CURRENTLY have any clinical signs of that problem. Unfortunately, I confirmed with them that yes, this is considered to be a WHEN, not an IF situation: my cancer cells will ultimately develop an immunity to chemotherapy. The blow was softened with reassuring possibilities: it may take a long time for that to happen, that's why we monitor so often, there are other treatment options, research may find a cure or a long-term solution, etc., etc., etc. But still - I had an icky feeling throughout the day, like I was given something new to add to my "in case you run out of things to worry about" list.

BUT - reminder to self: trust not in the arm of flesh. Sure, there are icky possibilities. This is an icky cancer. People die from it pretty quickly. When I was at Relay For Life and met other cancer survivors, I got the same reaction from each survivor that I met, when we did the "what kind do you have" exchange. These people (these fellow cancer battlers) would hear me say, "brain cancer", and give me that, "oh,wow - that's too bad - dead woman walking" look. It was weird. It's bad news among bad news. Glioblastoma multiforme - the most insidious of all brain cancers on top of that. No wonder I sometimes get treated like the walking dead. But...this is all based on the reasoning of man and not the wisdom of God. Trust not in the arm of flesh...

For some comic relief, my husband and I had a good laugh today despite our initial gut wrench reaction to the "resistance to chemo" possibility. There is a scene in the movie, The Princess Bride, where the hero wins a roulette-style battle of wits over which drink contained iocane powder, a tasteless, odorless poison that kills instantly. When the opponent dies, the hero reveals that both drinks were actually poisoned, but he had spent the last five years building up an immunity to iocane powder. We both remembered this scene, and laughingly decided that perhaps the secret ingredient in Temodar is iocane powder. Unfortunately, though, building up an immunity will threaten my life instead of save it. So again, it's one more new thing to keep those prayers fresh.

And meanwhile, as we were reminded as we danced to the La Bamba soundtrack: despite "Ooh My Head", we know that "We Belong Together" (for eternity).

"Life" ended early - but it was great

Relay For Life, I mean. Just a few hours into the event, it was called off because of approaching severe weather. Considering that our campsite on the field was directly under power lines, we were grateful for the precaution!

Relay For Life is a fundraising event for the American Cancer Society. You form a team and take turns going around a track all night (because cancer never sleeps). It is also an uplifting event. Cancer survivors get a purple t-shirt to distinguish ourselves from everyone else (who gets a white shirt). There was a special dinner before the event for cancer survivors and their caregiver. We listened to a speaker who is both an M.D. and a cancer survivor, and she delivered a great message about hope. Speaking of her lymphoma, diagnosed more than 13 years ago, she said that her cancer was not "incurable" -- it was a cancer for which researchers are looking for a cure. Her hope lies in the fact that her latest remission was her longest (nearly 7 years) before a recurrence had to be treated, and so if her next remission is at least that long, there will be even more advancements in treatments (and perhaps even a cure). And she must have read my blog or somehow overheard my brother talking to me about prognosis -- or maybe great minds just think alike -- because she mentioned that prognosis information is based on other peoples' histories, and they had no history of lymphoma in someone exactly like her.

After the speaker finished, we had a pinning ceremony. Survivors were asked to turn to their caregiver and pin them with a special caregiver pin. It was a tender moment of thanksgiving as I pinned my husband and we tearfully gave each other a hug and kiss. Then all the survivors were asked to stand up, form a circle, and hold hands (of course, my first thought was my compromised immune system as well as the likelihood of others with the same problem, and the wisdom of holding hands...this moment brought to you by Purell, perhaps??) and then we each turned to the person on our right and pinned them with a special survivor pin.



Soon afterward the relay began with an opening ceremony that included a survivor lap around the track. My son held my hand and walked/ran with me. Then caregivers were invited to join in on the second lap, so my husband (holding our daughter) joined us. Then everyone joined in for the third lap, and afterward each team was to furnish at least one participant ad infinitum. A short while later there was a luminaria ceremony, where luminarias were lit in honor of cancer survivors and in memory of those who died of cancer. There was a lighted luminaria with my name on it, but unfortunately the other names we submitted (a grandfather and a great-aunt who died of cancer, and a good friend who is surviving cancer) did not appear. (The volunteers were horrified and apologetic.)



There was plenty of food and entertainment to keep us going (and spending money) until the weather cut things short. We didn't get to walk all night long and wear ourselves out (which is good, since I caught something nasty, and I need to rest because my ability to fight it is compromised), but my little team was able to raise around $900 for the American Cancer Society. I really appreciate the outpouring of support that I have received from family and friends, who were generous with available time, money, and participation.

Between a Rock and a Rock

I passed my neuro tests yesterday with flying colors: "an A+", they said, plus extra credit for being able to walk on my heels with backless wedgies on! Considering the nature of the tests (which always make me feel like I am on an episode of COPS), I am also officially sober (which is no surprise, considering that I have never had a drop of anything that would make me otherwise)! I was poised and ready to start my next 5-day blast of high-dose chemo.

This morning it was called off. I got the results of my blood tests. The chemo has finally attacked my bone marrow (a common side effect), and my white blood cells and neutrophils have dropped below normal ranges (WBC=2.8/should be at least 4; ANC=1456/should be at least 1500), putting me at higher risk for infection. I was told to practice good handwashing and avoid obviously sick people as my primary precaution. And I can't start my 5-day chemo dose this month until things improve. We'll check again next week, in the hopes of being able to start then.

This is one of those "between a rock and a rock" moments that my doctor told me about a while ago, when we discussed the possibility of this very scenario. I asked about the risks of postponing chemo treatment, and she said that the alternative is an imminent threat of dying from a serious infection. Between a rock and a rock. Deal with the immediate threat as best as we can, and then we'll go back to the other threat (which hopefully won't have increased in urgency in the meantime).

Well, you know, in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus warned against using vain repetitions in prayers. I know that doesn't mean you can't sincerely ask for the same stuff over and over again, but I like the fact that this gives me some new material to keep things fresh!

And hey - gotta look at the good possibilities: considering what happened to my bone marrow, hopefully this means that the cancer cells in my brain are in even worse shape!

Afraid of Flying?

When I was a teenager I used to scoff at people who were afraid to fly, because as a young traveler I found it to be quite convenient. I'd board, fall asleep, and wake up at my destination.

Later, as a college student, I transformed into a nervous flyer after hearing several air disaster stories in the news. Two in particular were caused by stupid mistakes and were really traumatic. One involved the collision of a commercial jet and a student pilot who forgot to check in with air traffic control, and the local schools had a lockdown so that children wouldn't walk home and see body parts that rained down from the sky and lay scattered on the ground. It was gross and made me think twice every time I boarded a plane.

Then I had an interesting experience on a business trip with my husband more than a decade ago. On a flight from Los Angeles to Houston, our anticipated "on-time" landing was delayed for an hour due to heavy storms that closed the airport in Houston. The problem was the delivery of this news by the pilot: "Ladies and Gentlemen, I have good news and bad news." It was a little scary.

Another time, during a short flight from Oklahoma City to Dallas, the passengers near the window suddenly started pointing to the window, saying something about seeing lots of smoke and fire. I was in an aisle seat, so I had no clue what they were seeing. The window seat guy in my row must have seen my eyes get really big, because he leaned over and explained that there was a large brush fire on the ground, and the view from the airplane window was the source of all the excitement.

Because of the string of "mini-traumas", and because I would sometimes have nightmares about seeing planes crash (which reminds me of the movie, La Bamba), I routinely flew with a knot in my stomach and sweaty palms. It didn't keep me from flying when it made sense to fly, but it was still an uncomfortable thing to do. I knew it was an irrational thing. I know all the stuff about air travel being so much safer than road travel. Irrational fears are exactly that - irrational.

Enter a deadly, menacing form of cancer. As our family recently boarded the plane together for our trip to Disneyworld, I had no fear - no sweaty palms - no knot. In fact, I almost - ALMOST - had a flicker of disappointed surprise when we landed safely on our return trip. (Talk about irrational!) Granted, I think we should all live long, healthy, and productive lives. I don't want to cheat my children out of the opportunity to grow up, and I also don't want them to become orphans. But the idea of a plane plummeting from the sky with our family intact on board was less scary than the idea of cancer taking me alone and leaving them behind.

It's so silly. Bird flu, terrorist attack, natural disaster - things that are truly undesirable and worrisome - don't worry me at all for that same reason. The Second Coming and all the turmoil that will supposedly precede that event - small potatoes on the Worry Meter. Stacked next to brain cancer, they seem pretty tame. It's the classic case of thinking other problems would be easier to handle (grass is greener). Or maybe it's my cancer-riddled mind's way of searching for an easy "out". Whatever it is, it makes me shake my head and laugh at myself for having such loony thoughts. (Maybe the tumor triggered a loony thoughts button???) Each one of us has a time to be born and a time to die. It's okay (even now, I can say this) to let the Lord be in charge of that stuff.

Even so, I sure did like flying with dry palms!

When You Wish Upon a Star...

...Makes no difference who you are;
Anything your heart desires can come to you.
I sure like that little song;
I sure hope that it's not wrong!
I have dreams of remission -
Hope they come true!
It's been a long while since my last posting, and while it's nice to know that people notice, I should assure my dear readers (some of whom have expressed concern) that my absence was not for any bad reason. After the Easter/Messiah whirlwind I was a flutter of activity getting client projects finished and preparing things at home so that we could take our much-anticipated family trip to Disneyworld.

This trip was a Christmas gift from my mom, who always knows what to get the person who has everything (including cancer). We were able to enjoy the trip together with Mom, my brother, Dr. Jim, his family (wife Rachel and children Madison and Ethan), and my "baby" brother (who is approaching the quarter-century mark), Blake. Our group was large enough to qualify as a "Grand Gathering", full of many magical and wonderful experiences.

We blitzed through the entire World in five days (four full days and two half-days)and still had time to hang out in the hotel pool. We met with/took pictures with/got autographs from almost every Disney character and/or princess that you can think of. We ate enough fabulous food to look like we were all on steroids. We did all the "headliner"/must-see rides & shows & other attractions (except that I was a good patient and stayed off the rollercoasters and fast rides, which but for the advice of my doctor I would fearlessly go for). We stayed in the Animal Kingdom Lodge, where we had giraffes and zebras and other animals feeding right outside our balconies. We had a great time.

To Jared: It was fun to relive our 1993 "second honeymoon" trip to Disney World without having to play "what's colder than me." (Inside joke!)

To Jim: Thanks for the mole checks at the pool and the housecall when Mom and I both got the same funny rash on our ankles!

To Rachel: Thanks for taking on all the many details of trip planning, so that we could have so many awesome activities!

To Madison: I'm glad we were able to celebrate your 7th birthday together in the Magic Kingdom! I'm sad that you got sick the next day, but glad that you got better. You are a beautiful young lady, and Jacob looks up to you as his older cousin.

To Ethan: You did a great job, man! Jacob loved playing with you as his younger cousin! His favorite memory is playing light sabers with you!

To Blake: "If you knew Suzy like I knew Suzy..." (Inside joke!!!!)

To Jacob: Remember that just as in life, most of the things we did were not as scary as you feared! You were the most charming little prince in the whole Disney World!

To Emma: You were born to be a princess, and while you won't remember this trip, I'm still glad that we could see it through your eyes.

To Mom (aka The Fairy Godmother): Thanks again and again and again for making this magical dream trip come true!

And we all lived happily ever after!

p.s. Pictured from left to right are: Emma, Jared, me, Madison, Mom, Mickey Mouse, Jacob, Ethan, Rachel, Blake, and Jim

Stepping Out

We added some new Easter decorations to our home this year. Two are framed pictures that caught my attention in the store, because they both depicted Christ emerging from the tomb. One is a front view, and one is a rear view perspective.

I have seen many pictures of the empty tomb. I have seen many pictures of the Resurrected Christ appearing to his disciples, to Mary, etc. The "stepping out" part of the story has always just been implied until now.

The "stepping out" moment is one that is so dear to me, because it was that very moment when all of the things we suffer in mortality were rendered temporary. There is no sorrow, no disappointment, no sin, no illness, no pain, and no death that can't be overcome. He bore it all in Gethsemane. He died on Calvary. He was resurrected and fulfilled all that was required, so that the Atonement was completed. He has perfect compassion for all that we must endure, because He bore it personally. And ultimately, it all gets fixed someday. None of the messiness of life has to stick forever. We get relief from it someday. All of those pains were relegated to temporary status the moment Christ stepped out of that tomb and finished His work. It's an awesome moment to be captured by an artist.

As I was sitting among the bunnies and plastic eggs and grass - the other Easter decorations in our home - I was considering when I might finally take the time to pack up the box of Easter stuff and start setting out the summer decorations. But the "stepping out" pictures will remain on our walls as a comforting reminder of the very moment that gives comfort and relief to all that we must face.

I Could Handle Messiah

(My mom still giggles at that pun...)

After the performance was over, as I was making my exit, I couldn't help but marvel once again that this happened despite having cancer, surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy drugs invading the right brain, where musical ability and memory are controlled. I could remember. I could discern pitch. I could sing. It meant so much to me. I had my diva moment and sang my solo to the best of my ability. Later in the performance, my husband and I sang a duet, "O Death, Where is Thy Sting?" We were divas together. It felt great. (Although I hoped I wasn't throwing down a gauntlet by taunting Death with that song!)

The preservation of my musical ability is a miracle, a tender mercy, a great blessing, and more. It was a great gift. In addition, I managed to have enough strength to withstand the nearly 90-minute performance, despite having had so many previous days of illness and exhaustion. Sometimes I could barely endure rehearsals. My energy level during the performance was amazing. I feel very blessed and grateful.

We had a wonderful audience, and I was happy to know so many members of the audience. We had lots of local friends and family there, and we also had some who traveled from the Houston area and even from as far as St. Louis - just to hear me sing. It meant a whole lot to me to be able to sing to as many people as possible.

I don't know if this is my last Messiah performance. I pursued it as though it were, but I hope that it is far from my last one. My dad suggested that I should be like Cher, who has had ten "farewell" tours. My brother predicts that four years from now everyone will be rolling their eyes when I come in again for my audition - "Here comes Sister Oakes, saying it's her last Messiah AGAIN". I hope he's right. We don't know how long I'll be here, and we don't know how long my musical ability will last even when I am here. But all things are possible.

Handel's Messiah is not only an amazing oratorio, but the story behind it is remarkable, too. Handel's career was in ruins; he was bankrupt; his mother had recently died. He was about as down and out as one can be. With a little money from his mother's estate, and with the scriptural libretto from a friend, he began an intense, three-week process that was filled with inspiration as he wrote the entire score of Messiah. It not only defined him as a composer, but it allowed him to become a philanthropist who used the money from his work to free debtors and benefit orphans. Like the real Messiah, Handel's Messiah brought him from despair to glory. There is hope for all of us to be rescued from our deepest trials, and this was indeed something to celebrate. I was glad to be able to do it with wonderful music, surrounded by friends and family, savoring talents and abilities during this season of unknown duration, where they still exist.

Thanks to my brother Blake, these performances were captured on stealth video:

Gaggle Therapy

I recently started my maintenance dose of chemotherapy - high dose drugs for five days each month. So far it's going okay. The best thing was that I started another therapy around the same time.

Three of my good friends from high school came to visit with me this weekend. One is here for a week, two came for a few days, and while we always want it to be longer, it has been a wonderful time!

There is actually a group of five of us - I usually refer to us as the "gaggle". We hung out together in high school and sang in the choir and danced in Cloggers West and thought we would all get married to the cute boys we had crushes on and live around the block from each other forever and all that great stuff. As is typical, though, we all grew up and drifted wherever our lives took us. (I did marry the cute boy that I had a crush on, though!) We are spread out from Oregon to California to Utah to Texas.

Our last "gaggle" reunion actually took place nearly five years ago. We all had babies in 2001. For me, it was my first. For others, it was their last (or near to the last). But we all happened to be visiting in Utah during Thanksgiving weekend, and we met up for dinner with our babies in tow, and it was really fun. Since then we had our 20-year high school reunion, but I don't think the five of us were all together at that time. But meanwhile, our friendships have endured the test of time.

Cancer has infiltrated the gaggle twice. One of our friends was diagnosed with breast cancer a couple of years ago, and I drew the black bean for brain cancer. Twenty-plus years after playing and singing and gossiping together, we are now realizing how precious life is, and we are supporting each other as best as we can. Cancer is a lousy excuse for a spontaneous reunion, but I was glad that we had one! Only four of the five were together this time, but hopefully we'll catch up somehow. It was a really fun time. We giggled through the pages of our yearbooks, we put on our clogging shoes and danced, we sang karaoke, we ate great Tex-Mex food and toured Dallas (I'm hoping to recruit future Texans), they came and heard me rehearse Messiah, and we just had an all-around great time. Friends that are still friends after graduation and college and husbands and kids and careers and moves and life crises and all that stuff. Throw us back together and we're transported back in time...to the good times! Add my bestest friend from high school, aka my high school crush, aka my husband, Jared, and we were all twenty years younger - regardless of what state our bodies might be in!

This is a time of my life where I have enjoyed visits from both family and friends, and it always does me a world of good. It reminds me of how wonderful my life has been, and how wonderful it continues to be. I am blessed in many ways.

Hurdle Cleared!!!!

The MRI today was good! We are breathing a huge sigh of relief.

I start a high dose of chemo on Friday and take it for five days every month. In four weeks, before starting the next five-day dose, I'll go in for neuro tests. Four weeks after that, before starting the third five-day dose, I'll have another MRI scan. This will be the routine: monthly neuro tests & scans every other month while taking high dose chemo 5 days a month. If something pops up or progresses, we have something else to deal with. But for now, all is as well as it can be.

One thing that came to my mind today was the realization of not only how many prayers were offered on my behalf (THANK YOU AGAIN), but also how many times I prayed for this outcome today. It was more than the routine prayer schedule, to be sure. So my question for myself today was whether my prayers of thanksgiving will be as numerous and frequent as were the prayers for help with this scan. I definitely need to step it up. And I guess it would also be a good idea, while I'm thanking those of you who prayed for me, to ask you to join with me in a prayer of thanksgiving for a good result today.

A Moment of Suspense

This is it - that first "how's it looking" MRI scan. I go in tomorrow morning, and I leave the MRI facility with films in hand and take them directly to my oncologist. I'll know pretty quickly how things look. They have all the prior scans, including the ones that were done during radiation treatment, so they will know all about the "area of concern" and whether it looks the same now.

Based on my clinical performance, the expectation is that the scan will be good. I hope they are right. It would mean smooth sailing for our upcoming Disney trip. For my upcoming Messiah performance. For, you know, LIVING and stuff. And then I start my maintenance regimen of chemo and we keep on monitoring unless/until we find something to deal with.

This is another big prayer moment, and another nervous moment. I keep telling myself, "IT IS WHAT IT IS." This is just a matter of finding out so we can deal with whatever we need to deal with. Or hopefully just a matter of finding out that it's okay for now, so I can have that peace of mind. There will be many big prayer moments and many nervous moments. I have to remember how to ride these in a way that will keep me from going nuts. It is what it is...it is what it is...it is what it is...

Let's just hope that it is...good news!

Handel's Messiah

One of the highlights of the Easter season for me is our local community performance of Handel's Messiah. Once again, I am singing with the choir, and once again I get to sing one of my favorite solos: "O Thou That Tellest Good Tidings To Zion". A new thing this year is the addition of my fabulous husband in the choir, because he and I are also cast to do an alto/tenor duet of "O Death, Where Is Thy Sting?"

I have mentioned Messiah before, and how glad I was during an earlier rehearsal to realize how much of the music I could remember. It's such a miracle that I can sit here with cancer in my RIGHT BRAIN, of all places. That's where musical tones and pitches are recognized, and where musical rhythms are processed. Where memory happens. Where just about everything relating to this performance was potentially affected. And it wasn't. This is one of my favorite "tender mercies." Only the Lord knows how much it means to me to sing. How much I love music. My abilities in this area have been literally untouched by my cancer and the subsequent treatments that have been invading that part of my brain.

My performance this year is a celebration of that miracle, and an expression of my gratitude for this continued talent. What better way to use that talent than to bear witness through song of the Messiah? The One who bore all that I will ever have to endure. He not only bore my sins for me, but He bore all of my suffering, disappointment, pain, fear, and grief. And because of it, I will someday overcome all of these things. I will even overcome death, because He did. I am just so excited to celebrate Easter in a fitting manner, singing praises to our Savior - the Messiah - Jesus Christ.

My husband makes a face when I say this, but we really never know if this will be my last opportunity to sing Messiah. Statistically, it would be, but I'm pooh-pooh-ing the statistics. I'm hopeful that a miracle will keep me here for many Easters. But regardless of how long I stay around, we have no guarantee that my musical ability will always remain as it is. I hope it will be, but since we just never know, I want to make the most of today's voice. Today's song. I want to make it my very best, and savor it and enjoy it as much as I can. I hope we have a big crowd to sing to!

The performance is Easter Sunday, April 16, at 7:00 p.m., at the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, 2801 Eldorado Parkway, McKinney, Texas. The public is welcome, and it is free of charge. Come and hear me sing my solo. Come hear me sing a great duet with my very talented husband. Hear me sing, so that in case next year I can't do it anymore, at least I will know that I sang to as many people as I could. Come early to get a good seat, and stay afterward to say hi and get "thank you" hugs from me as I exit the podium!

Worse I felt = better I got??

I keep thinking about that Lance Armstrong quote: "The ironic thing was, the worse I felt, the better I got."

Boy, if that's the true measure of improvement, then I must be sailing toward remission, because I feel pretty darn lousy!!!!!!

I am transitioning to a new seizure medication, which is nice, because the fevers and chills are finally going away. My personal record was 105.8, and I'm glad to know that it can remain on the record books for a while without challenge. A week of high fevers has taken its toll on me, though. I feel pretty sapped and sore and miserable. In addition, the new medication has its own side effects - especially dizziness and fatigue - so basically I would easily fail a sobriety test. Good thing I neither drive nor drink!

The silliest thing is this "dysesthesia" on my back. It basically feels like my back is sunburned. I feel it when I sit or lie down and my clothes come into contact with my back. I feel it when I walk, and the impact of each step is painful. I feel it when my husband lovingly hugs me or caresses my back. Love the thought - but OWWWW!

Right now I spend a lot of time in bed, trying to recover. But I feel like an invalid. I am so limited as to what I can physically do right now. It's frustrating. I prefer to feel vibrant and alive, like I did when I could clog dance and run on my treadmill. Instead, I feel like someone who is dying, and that's not the feeling I want right now. I want to be feisty and full of energy to fight this battle. I want to be physically fit, because that may be a lifesaver. I realized that if I am sedentary and packing on weight again, that's a sure path to developing diabetes. If I develop diabetes, that's a sure path to being a non-ideal surgical candidate. And that means I may be more likely to have an "inoperable" tumor, if one recurs. And an inoperable tumor may simply mean a matter of time before my time is up. Not a good way to go. I really want to get up and run. But I can't. I can barely walk across the room at a normal pace. I usually shuffle slowly like an old man in a nursing home. It's crazy. I keep thinking of the Lance Armstrong quote, and I tell myself I must be getting better. And in time, I will also feel better. At least, I hope!

I lack nothing

(By the way, as a postscript - no pun intended - to yesterday's post, KPGR radio is on FM 88.1 in Utah Valley - that would be an awfully low temperature! I was miserable with fever and chills this morning, it got better this afternoon, and it's cranking back up tonight. Really looking forward to a remedy soon.)

On Friday evening, as we sat in our temple, I experienced the contrasting conditions of discomfort and spiritual enlightenment. I was miserable with fever and chills, and I was anxious to know the MRI results. At the same time, however, I was in a place that helped calibrate my focus back to "the most important thing", and everything else just becomes details. It is always a wonderful place to be.

At the conclusion of our ordinance work, as we were sitting and reflecting in the Celestial Room (a beautiful room that represents the presence of God), the thought occurred to me that "I lack nothing." It's true. I lack nothing.

I have everything that I need to reach my highest potential. I have the opportunity to live on this earth and receive a physical body (even though it got cancer at age 38, it's still a blessing to have). I have a Savior who bore my sins and my sorrows and pains, and who atoned for me and was resurrected for me. His gospel has been restored to the earth, giving me access to the saving ordinances and blessings that come through restored priesthood authority. I was born of goodly parents who taught me the gospel, so that it has been a part of my life from its foundation. I have a very loving and wonderful family - including the family I was born into, the family I married into, and the family my husband and I have built together. I have a sure knowledge and testimony of my Heavenly Father's love for me, and His watchful care over me. I know that, no matter how violent this rollercoaster ride becomes at times, I can always trust in Him. I have been blessed in the past with experiences of adversity, which taught me so much and shaped my trust in Him. He will always do what is best for me, and what will ultimately bring me "through thorny ways" to a "joyful end".

My daily needs are always met through a bounty of blessings. My husband's employer (really, guys - buy LOTS of Mary Kay stuff!!!) and my wonderful clients give us a secure living. I have access to very capable and competent medical care, using advanced technology. We have an army of angels from my church family, who make sure I have any help that I need, from driving to childcare to meals to laundry and housekeeping, to ANYTHING. The Lord uses His children to bless His children.

In addition to what I "need", I have also been blessed with special delights: talents and abilities and opportunities to use them, beautiful and happy relationships (including the great love of my life and the two great joys of my life - all of whom live in my home), an appreciation for good music and an opportunity to hear it often, and a long list of "tender mercies" that have been given to me.

I realized that when it comes to the things that I need, I lack nothing. Nothing. I can't think of a single thing that I could possibly need, that isn't here or ready to show up as soon as it is needed.

Is there something that I want? Yes. I want complete remission of this cancer. For-evvvvv-er. I want to live long enough to raise our children. Do I lack these things? These are things that remain to be seen. We always get what we need. We sometimes can also get what we want, if it is not contrary to the will of the Lord. I hope I get what I want, and I know that by putting my righteous desires before the Lord in prayer, I reveal my heart to Him.

The power of negative thinking?

MRI result = negative! "Completely negative - everything looks exactly as it should." Just got the results today.

While I am SO relieved at the news, and while I marvel at the sophisticated technology that is available, I have grumpily thought to myself that the process of diagnostic imaging is often barbaric. With the exception of some ob-gyn ultrasound monitoring, the process is performed by a technician who is looking at the image while it is being taken. This technician is highly trained, and I'm guessing that part of that training involves "Advanced Poker Face".

Getting test results is not like what I remembered from the days of getting college exam test results at the BYU Testing Center. When I was a BYU student, we often took computerized exams (fill in the little circles). When I was finished, I would exit the exam room through a special exit room where I would hand my completed test to the testing center worker, who would run it through a scanner and hand me a printout with my test score within minutes (depending on how many people were in line before me). Maybe that's why I'm into immediate gratification when it comes to obtaining information.

Instead, I am at the mercy of the facility's immediate access to a radiologist, who reads and interprets the image. It's a function of organizational structure and communication channels between technician and radiologist, and not anything against radiologists - I have a friend who is a radiologist! And then the radiologist communicates the results to my doctor, who may want a written report and/or a copy of the actual images. My doctor does whatever they need to do with the information, and then if I cry "uncle" loud enough, I get the result.

I understand the necessity of the process, but I really wish there were a more streamlined way to manage it. I think the thing I dreaded most before I knew the result was if it were going to be one that required more testing.

Meanwhile, my fevers continue to move up and down the FM dial. 104.5, 103.8, 102.2, 101.9, 97.8, 99.9, 100.3, 104.1, etc., etc. It's my inner disc jockey. I was a disc jockey during my senior year in high school. Our high school had a radio station that played top 40 hits, and seniors could take a class in "radio", which included a part-time assignment after school as a disc jockey for the station. KPGR - I remember the call letters, but I can't remember the spot on the dial. I'm hoping my current "station" starts to consistently stay on the "negative" side of 100 degrees. The fever doesn't bother me as much as the chills. Those are a constant discomfort, no matter how many layers I pile on to keep me warm. We are going to change my medication on Monday, when my oncologist and neurologist can come up with an alternative. The expectation is that it will provide immediate relief, so I'm anxious to prove that theory correct.

O, that it were only a fever!

You know you have brain cancer when...

...Meningitis sounds like good news! I received news today that the lab work came back with absolutely no indications of any kind of infection. And I received clarification that the main reason the MRI was ordered was not really to look for signs of meningitis, but because of the strange ache & dysesthesia (vocabulary word of the day) in my upper back. They want to be cautious and hopefully rule out tumor progression into other parts of the central nervous system. Chances are, they say, it will be negative. But to me, the idea that it came up as a prudent course of action in response to this mystery feeling in my back, makes me more than a little worried.

The thing about brain cancer is that it doesn't metastasize to other parts of the body (it just makes swiss cheese out of your brain), but it can definitely spread to other parts of the central nervous system, like the spinal column, the meninges, and cerebral spinal fluid. They are fair game, because they are all part of the same general group of body parts.

When faced with worrisome things, my inital reaction is to play through all the possible scenarios (kind of like that computer on the movie Wargames). So I'm already thinking through possible positive results and the treatments that would follow. Would a tumor on the spinal cord be inoperable? Would I risk paralysis? Would radiation be tried instead? Does it become possible to spread elsewhere, once it is outside the brain? Is this a tumor recurrence that makes me eligible for experimental treatment?

And what I really wish I knew...with all this thinking a few steps ahead of the game, why am I not a better chess player?

Meanwhile, the fever and chills continue. Because there is no sign of any infection, the latest theory is that it is some kind of reaction to my anti-seizure medication. The timing makes sense, because this started after the first week of tapering down on my radiation steroids. Those steroids may have been masking any earlier reactions. We're thinking about that, and we may have to change to a different medication if the fever continues.

But seriously - I was almost rooting for meningitis. Meanwhile, we will pray and pray and pray and pray (and we know that others will, too - THANK YOU), and hopefully we'll just be ruling something out instead of reaching a grim diagnosis. No matter what, though, those prayers will be helping me in many ways. All will ultimately be well, I continue to remind myself. What I will have to endure until then is probably going to be rocky at times. But I will always be blessed with what I need to endure all things, and the prayers of others really help unlock those blessings for me.

Is that a radio station, or my temperature?

104.1 - KFEV

Yeah, that was me at 3:00 this morning! It's closer to normal now, but it was a rough night.

Of course, then I remembered something I read earlier about hyperthermia as a cancer treatment. Hyperthermia is the exposure of tissue to high temperatures, damaging and killing cancer cells while preserving normal tissues. So I laughed to myself and wondered if maybe this fever thing was God's way of treating my cancer with hyperthermia!

Fever!

...in the morning, fever all through the night...FEVER, when you kiss me, fever when you hold me tight...

Well, anyway, I woke up this morning after a restless night with a fever of about 102. I don't really have any other symptoms, so it was kind of disturbing. And because I also have some neck and upper back soreness (which may simply be due to the difficulty finding a good sleeping position right now with a sensitive head), my oncologist wants to rule out meningitis. They also did some neuro tests to check for clinical evidence of tumor progression to the spinal column (glioblastoma can rapidly spread throughout the central nervous system), and I am told that those all looked good. However, after requesting a substantial blood donation for lab tests (normally when I give away that much blood I get juice, a packet of cookies, and a free t-shirt from the blood bank), my oncologist also ordered an MRI scan of the thoracic spine. I'm told that this is to decide whether a spinal tap is needed, because infection might show up as inflammation on the MRI. But I also worry that maybe she wants to be sure and rule out tumor progresson on the spine, and I wonder if that is the real reason for the MRI. I don't know. It's kind of creepy. The scan is scheduled for early Friday afternoon, so we'll know more then. Hopefully we'll find a whole lot of nothing.

...just in case anyone wants something new to pray for!

Homecoming Day Photo

...Just thought I'd share our updated family picture, taken on our son's "Homecoming Day" - March 15. (See, I told you I have more hair than my husband!) I'm also sporting my "Livestrong" band as I hold on tight to my little boy's dear hand, and I'm clinging like Velcro to my Prince Charming as we both hug our baby girl. Our for-evvvvvv-er family. Thousands of years from now, after we all have our turn to go the way of the earth, we'll still be a family. We'll still hold tight to each other. We'll still love each other. The sorrows of mortal life will be a sad but distant memory, while the joys of our relationships will continue to be vivid and bright.

My Blog is Blank!

It's nice to know that people notice when something is up! I received a flurry of emails from concerned readers, who noticed that my blog was "blank" when they went to my URL. Sure enough, I had the same problem. I have notified Blogger.com, and hopefully they are fixing it. Meanwhile, I am posting this in the hopes that it will kickstart a new publishing of my blog in order to restore it. And meanwhile, for those who kindly expressed concern for me, rest assured that the problem lies with Blogger.com, not with "the blogger"!

p.s. - I think it helped!

For those who comment

As many of you are aware, this blog has a "comment" option, where readers can post a comment to me. The comment remains on the website, and also comes to my email account. They are always welcome and appreciated, although sometimes they come to me from anonymous sources, where there is no opportunity for me to reply directly to the author.

So, first of all - for those of you who do comment: THANK YOU! Your comments have been supportive and encouraging, and they always make my day. I wish that I could reply to you directly, but for now, here are some ((((HUGS)))) and big thanks for you.

One comment came from someone who is LDS, whose husband was also diagnosed with glioblastoma multiforme. They are also adoptive parents and the husband served in many of the same callings that I have held. He has been a year out with no recurrence. I would LOVE to find a way to get in touch with these people!!!!

Other cancer survivors or loved ones have contacted me, and I appreciate that very much. Hopefully we can share stories of survivorship for a long, long time.

Some have asked questions in their comments. So here are some of those questions along with my answers:

Q. Are my children's adoptions "open" adoptions? Do we send updates to the birth parents, and are they aware of my cancer?
A. Both adoptions are considered "open", in the sense that we have had face-to-face contact with the birth mothers, and we have each others' identifying information. It works well, because we are all secure in our roles relating to these wonderful children. Birth moms gave these children healthy, beautiful bodies, and placed them in loving families. Our job took over shortly after birth. We are to be their parents, and care for them and raise them and love them. (And help them become part of a for-evvvv-er family.) We have email contact with Jacob's birth family, and we love sharing photos and updates so that we can each see how this process has blessed all involved. We love his birth mom so much and enjoy hearing how she is doing. Emma's birth mom has been less communicative for now. We sent her some pictures and encouraged her to write us back, but we haven't received a reply. Maybe someday she will write us, but we want to respect her privacy and her feelings, which are probably tender at times. We love her, too. Jacob's birth family knows about my cancer, and is praying for me. Emma's birth mom does not know about my cancer.

Q. What is a "gas pump virgin"?
A. ME! What this means is that I have never pumped gas. NEVER. (So hey - we know the brain tumor didn't come from petroleum fumes!) When I turned sixteen, one of my friends gave me a book called, Real Women Don't Pump Gas. It was a humorous book, but I decided to take it seriously. Plus, at the time I was dating Jared, who was already practicing his Prince Charming skills. He always made sure my tank was full. And when he spent two years serving a mission in Japan, I didn't have a car for most of that time. I was going to college and I lived close to campus. And when I did have a car, I learned that there was a gas station near campus that did full-serve at no additional charge. After I married my Prince Charming, he let me continue this silly obsession. And now that I can't drive anyway, the matter is moot.

Q. How would you prefer people to talk about what you're surviving? That is, not mention cancer by name and just keep on "as normal", or mention it straight out in conversation, or say "I'm sorry that you have cancer", wait until you bring it up - or something else? Or does it change by the hour?
A. I happen to be an open book about this kind of thing, in case you haven't noticed from my blog! On the other hand, I know that in this situation it may be hard for people to know what to say, especially since it seems like a very touchy subject. But for me, it's such a part of my life that I am more desensitized to things than most people would expect me to be. It is surprisingly "not touchy" for me to address. I have had many people initially come up and tell me things like, "I heard about your situation, and I just wanted you to know that you're in my thoughts and prayers." And that is really, really nice to hear. Or people who have already broken that ground might ask, "Hey - I've been thinking about you - how's it going for you today?" That's a good one, because it's specific and easy to answer ("I'm a little tired today, but I'm excited because I'm feeling a lot better than I thought I would be right now.") I've had curious people ask me detailed questions about certain aspects of my treatment, or the testing I will do, etc., and I'm totally fine with that. Specific questions are always easier to answer than than the general "How are you?" (I always think, "Fine...except, oops - not really fine, because I have cancer.") As far as whether you should mention cancer by name, it's really okay with me to hear it. It is what it is, and it's no big deal to call it what it is. I am a little more cautious about what is said within earshot of my son, though, because even though we have prepared him with "the talk", I don't want him to overhear things that might scare him. But as I said before, I'm generally an open book about this and don't mind people approaching me and asking me about anything, or sharing their love and best wishes and hugs - and prayers!!!!

For those who comment, again - thank you. If you ever want to contact me directly instead of using the comment feature, please feel free to email me at (I'm going to spell out some things so that it doesn't look like an email address to spam machines who crawl through this site): kristaoakes(at)gmail(dot)com

My Dream Team

I've decided to be completely shameless in promoting a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society. They have been very generous in their support resources for me, and they also provide a lot of good education that may help save lives through early detection (unless, of course, you have glioblastoma multiforme, for which there is no early detection). The other reason I am participating in this fundraiser is that it is an activity that I CAN do. It's life-affirming, because it is a physical activity. It's the Relay For Life.

The Relay For Life is going to take place on May 5 & 6 in Plano, Texas. It starts at 7 pm on Friday, and goes until 7 am on Saturday (because cancer never sleeps). The way this event works is that each team has to have someone walking or running on the track during the 12-hour relay. So obviously, the bigger the team, the less time each person has to spend on the track! There will also be special things there to honor cancer survivors and memorialize those who have lost their battle. It's a very super-cool thing, and I am just really excited to do this. And I think it can become a really fun event, where we camp and eat and play and take turns on the track. They will provide food and t-shirts and stuff for those who participate.

I sent out an obnoxious email to as many people as I could, asking them to join my team. Now I am being equally obnoxious by posting information in my blog. I hope to form a really big team and have lots of fun. For those who are interested in joining my team, simply go to www.acsevents.org/tx/relay/plano and sign up to be on "Krista's Dream Team". While you are on the website there will also be opportunities to make a donation and dedicate a luminaria to a friend or loved one (cancer survivor or lost battle with cancer), which will be displayed at the event.

I look forward to hopefully seeing lots of these readers there!

Lucky me

I continue to be blanketed with many deeds of service, from childcare to meals to house cleaning, to driving, and anything else that I need. It's incredible. One of the women from my church who came yesterday afternoon to help with childcare also gave me a profound thought. Something so awesome, I can't help but share it.

In order to understand it, I should preface with a little background of LDS doctrine, which includes the concept that before the earth was formed, we lived as spirits with our Heavenly Father. He had a plan for us, which included the creation of the earth and our being born into it so that we could receive a body and use our free agency during mortality to be tested and tried, and we would have a Savior who would help us overcome both physical death (through the Resurrection) and spiritual death, or sin, (through the Atonement) so that we could one day return to our Heavenly Father. Satan rebelled against this plan and was cast down, along with many spirits who chose to follow him. They were denied the opportunity to be born and receive a body on this earth. In the book of Matthew, there is a story where Jesus comes across two men possessed with evil spirits. As he is casting them out, the spirits beg him to be put into swine. They go into the swine and drown themselves. But to them, it was at least a chance at having a mortal body.

My friend's comment was that no matter what physical infirmities we have to endure in this lifetime, no matter how imperfect our bodies are, there is someone who is jealous of us. There are spirits who lost their chance to be here, and they probably look very longingly upon us, even when we are in a hospital bed or on a radiation table, or when we are taking painkillers or anxiously awaiting the results of a medical test. Even if our lives are shorter than we want them to be. I picture them looking at my situation and sounding very much like Napoleon Dynamite, when he looks at Pedro's bicycle and says, "LUCKY!!!!" I have something that they envy, and it's just "too bad/so sad" for them.

Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day, and while I'm not Irish, maybe I just have luck on my mind (ooh - I hope literally) because of what my friend said. I am lucky. I am able to participate in the big plan. I hope this plan needs me hanging around here for a long time so that my kids will have their mom. I hope this plan needs me to stay here and grow old with my husband. I hope and pray a lot. But regardless of what is in store for me, I realize that I am very lucky.

Everything is a neuro test

It's funny how any situation can put a different pair of "glasses" on, so that everything is seen in a new way. For example, right now, everything seems like a neuro test. If I go out to get the mail, and I bound (carefully) up the front steps leading to my house, I notice how coordinated my actions are, and I think: "Good - I passed that neuro test!"

The other day I was sorting socks in my closet, and I began enumerating the neurological functions that were required in order to complete that task: short-term memory, organizational ability, etc. Last night I sang at a women's group event at our church, and it was a female barbershop quartet version of "You'll Never Walk Alone", and I had the "lead" voice. I sang those tight harmonies and all those words from memory. Of course, it was because I couldn't find where I had put my copy of the music, so I had to take off a couple points for that!!! Today I was filling out my son's Scholastic Book order form, and I added up the totals in my head. Self-administered neuro tests - and all passed!

By the way, the words to that song I did last night are very relevant to me:

When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high
And don't be afraid of the dark;
At the end of the storm is a golden sky
And the sweet silver song of a lark.
Walk on through the wind, walk on through the rain,
Though your dreams be tossed and blown,
Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart,
And you'll never walk alone; you'll never walk alone.

Hey, hey - I just put that down from memory, so I guess I just passed another one!

Cancer has its privileges

I found a book called, Cancer Has its Privileges. I haven't read it yet, but the title often comes to mind as little "privileges" or benefits make themselves known to me.

This weekend was the beginning of the season of holidays for our son, who turned five yesterday. We had many family members come up for the weekend, and on Saturday we had a baseball-themed party for our son, who is a budding baseball star (and whose t-ball jersey from last year happened to be #5, so it was perfect to wear for his #5 birthday). As we made preparations for the event, going all out to preserve the baseball theme in our apparel, decorations, food, etc., a thought occurred to us. In keeping with some of the less fortunate MLB traditions, this birthday boy's mother happens to be on steroids! I'm usually really dedicated with his birthday celebrations, but I think this put me over the top! We had a good laugh about it. Cancer has its privileges.

On Sunday I helped the Primary children sing Happy Birthday to Jacob. Yesterday I sent cupcakes with him to preschool and to soccer practice. I later wondered if it was a bad idea to hand out cupcakes to soccer kids who are finishing up practice right before dinnertime, but the deed was already done. And I figured, well, at least people tend to be more forgiving of the "cancer lady"! Cancer has its privileges.

The four of us went from soccer practice to Jacob's favorite pizza & game place for dinner and a little family party. He ate a slice and played some games and won some prizes and opened the presents we gave him. When life becomes precious, little moments (like watching a five-year-old boy open the monster truck that his daddy gave him) are sweeter than ever. Cancer has its privileges.

As I said earlier, this is just the beginning of the season of holidays that we celebrate with Jacob. We celebrate his birthday, of course. Tomorrow we celebrate "homecoming day" - the day we brought him home. May 3 is Adoption Day, and June 9 is Temple Day. And then it starts all over again with our daughter, Emma, whose birthday launches her season of holidays on June 20. It's good stuff. Motherhood also has its privileges.

The Dread Pirate Roberts

We watched a little bit of The Princess Bride yesterday evening - one of those favorite classics from my college days that is rich in quotables. ("Inconceivable!") Many years ago, as newlyweds, we attended a Princess Bride party at the home of one of our high school buddies, where we each had to dress as a character from the movie. My husband and I went as R.O.U.S.'s (Rodents Of Unusual Size), with rat head hats made from construction paper and tails made out of rope, attached to our brown shirts and pants. It was fun.

Anyway, there's that part in the movie where Westley is captured by the Dread Pirate Roberts, who never takes prisoners alive. He is presumed dead for five years, but shows up later. He tells his tale of how he survived. He persuaded the pirate to keep him alive by sharing his story of love for Princess Buttercup. The pirate decides to try him out as a protege and potential heir to the "Dread Pirate Roberts" name, but every night he bids him good night, saying, "Sleep well - I'll most likely kill you in the morning." Westley manages to survive each day, and five years later returns to his princess as the new Dread Pirate Roberts.

There is another scene where he is imprisoned by an evil prince and tortured to death in a machine designed to "suck out life." His friends take his "mostly dead" body to Max the Miracle Worker (played hilariously by Billy Crystal) for a miracle. Max inflates Westley's body with a bellows and pushes on his chest, asking him what he has to live for. "Truuuuuue looooooove...." is the groan that comes out. The miracle pill that Max designs (and coats with chocolate to make it go down easier) ends up working, and Westley lives to claim his princess (his true love).

Sometimes I feel like I have the Dread Pirate Roberts inside me. "Sleep well...I'll most likely kill you in the morning..." he tells me. But hopefully I'll just survive each day, one day/one hurdle at a time, and look back on this five years from now as a memory. Hopefully by then that old pirate will be gone, and I will be in charge. After all, what do I have to live for? Truuuuuuuue looooooove! I am married to the great love of my life, and I have two children who take up whatever is left of my heart. I have true love. For - evvvvv - er love. Instead of Max, I have gone to the Real Miracle Worker, and hopefully this truuuuue loooooove (combined with faith) will help bring about a miracle for me. And maybe chocolate makes anything go down easier, so maybe we should have some of that on hand!

You have a terminal condition

One thing that makes my skin crawl is when I am told that the primary objective of the treatment for glioblastoma multiforme is to "prolong life as much as possible." Not "to eradicate the cancer once and for all." The message is that I have an incurable illness that WILL kill me, but the treatments will hopefully let me hang on a little longer. It seems almost (not quite - but almost) undignified, this struggle to try and postpone something that is regarded as inevitable.

But here's the deal: I was born with a terminal condition. We are all born with a terminal condition. It's called LIFE. Everyone who lives, dies. We all try to prolong life as much as possible, and that's not undignified. Life is precious. Life is valuable. Life is worth trying to protect. Life is worth our best efforts to savor and enjoy and respect. Someday it will be over, and something new will begin in our after-life experience.

I'll put on my Frank Capra hat, because I believe that we are born at a time that is essential to what happens in our lives. If I had been born even one year earlier or later, I probably wouldn't have had the same opportunities to meet and fall in love with my husband. There are a lot of things that would have been different. And as much as we wanted a child for years before we got one, I believe that the timing of our son's birth was an essential part of who he is, who he will interact with, and what he will do in his life.

And now I'll put on my Solomon hat (people think he wrote Ecclesiastes)or pretend I'm one of the Byrds, because just as there is a time to be born, there is a time to die ("turn, turn, turn..."). I believe that there may be an order and timing of this as well, which perhaps is just as essential to our ultimate destiny. I believe that I will be given the time I need to do whatever work is essential for me to do here, before I go. And I'll put on my Orson Wells hat (although I didn't gain THAT much weight on steroids!!!) and say that just as Paul Masson will "sell no wine before it's time," I am sure that God will "take no 'whin'-ing sick person before their time."

When I mentioned to the Messiah choir director that there is a risk of this being my last year to perform, he commented that this is true for any of us. He's right. Because we all have a terminal condition called life. Some of us get more quantity of life than others, and some of us get less. We can try and prolong it as much as possible, but it is often ultimately out of our hands. What we can control is the quality of our lives, each day that we live.

Now What

Today I sit here a little more tired than usual. I have tolerated my treatments SO very well, and for that I am really excited and grateful. But right now is a time of healing from yesterday's "boost", which was actually a stereotactic radiosurgical procedure. It's supposedly even more precise than gamma knife surgery. It was a little more intense than I expected, and while it was all very good, I am going through a recovery stage where I have to pamper myself more than usual (oh, darn).

Also, as the big ZAPS were going through my head, I figured I was probably turning into some kind of super-hero. Luckily there wasn't some kind of insect crawling through the radiation room, or I'd be Ant Woman, Roach Girl, or something like that. Maybe I get to choose my super powers. What would I choose?

1. Enhanced cancer-fighting ability, of course!
2. Enhanced calorie burning ability (especially since clog dancing is probably out for a while during my recovery, and girl scouts are out in full force with their cookies!)
3. Mrs. Multi-Task (able to bring home the bacon, fry it up in the pan, etc.)
4. Super Mom (my personal favorite - able to teach my son to read AND motivate him to stop sucking his thumb; throw the birthday party of a lifetime for him on Saturday, help my daughter start walking, and make sure they always know they are loved)
5. Blogger Girl (able to post faster and better)
6. Captain Clean-o (no clutter can withstand me; energy to keep things organized)
7. Good Humor Girl (able to laugh at anything that comes my way...oh, and I guess able to eat ice cream with that enhanced calorie burning ability)

...or anything that lets me wear cool stuff, especially if my cankles will finally fit into a cute boot.

Okay, so here's what's next...

I rest from treatment until April 5th. Meanwhile, I start tapering off the steroids (carefully this time, to avoid painful swelling and depression). On April 5th I have an MRI (and will beg for lots of prayers again), and I take the films to my neuro-oncologist, where she will read them and tell me how things are going. My radiation oncologist also wants to see the films, so I will visit him as well. If everything is okay, I start my maintenance regimen of chemotherapy. Five days a month of high dose Temodar, with weekly blood tests, monthly doctor visits, and an MRI scan every other month. At least while things remain status quo. If something new pops up, we decide how to treat it based on size, location, and clinical effect.

By the way, a word about my MRI last week. It did look "good", and I got some clarification about that. The "area of concern" that my neurosurgeon saw on my MRI in January (as he and the radiation oncologist were planning my treatment) looks exactly the same on this latest scan. Meaning, whatever it is did not progress. Hopefully whatever it is, is dead. Considering the fact that glioblastoma is aggressive enough to double in size every three weeks, the fact that the recent scan looks like the baseline scan (from six weeks ago) is good news. The doctor even commented that it may continue to show up in future scans but might simply be necrosis (dead tissue). I like the idea of a dead tumor. Let's hope. But last week was indeed an accurate and reassuring scan, just as I had prayed for (and many of you joined me in that prayer, and I thank you for it).

Thanksgiving Dinner

Sunday was a day of fasting, and while the subject of my fasting was obviously my continued petition for healing, I also made it a matter of gratitude.

Today is the last day of my six-week radiation regimen. The day of the "boost". I consider myself finished with Round One (aka, initial treatment regimen), Krista = 1, Cancer = 0. As my dad put it, hopefully I did this "Mike Tyson style", with a total KO punch. (Hey - my initials are "K.O." so why not?) But in any case, I'm coming out of the ring feeling pretty darn good, and I hope the cancer cells are dead and gone, or at least on their way there.

As we broke our fast last night at dinnertime, we had a turkey dinner. It was partly because I was cleaning out some freezer space and had pulled out a turkey earlier in the week. But it was kind of a fitting choice, since it was a Thanksgiving meal of sorts. We didn't do the stuffing/mashed potatoes/etc. like a traditional Thanksgiving feast - just some roasted vegetables and a tossed field salad and some fresh fruit and my husband's famous gravy. But it was still a symbol of gratitude.

I sit here at the end of Round One with more energy and hair than my husband (that's our little joke nowadays). I tolerated this treatment very easily - hopefully more than the cancer cells did.

Last night after dinner I went to Messiah choir practice. For the past few years I have participated in a local choir that performs Handel's Messiah on Easter Sunday. I have also been one of the soloists, and hope to do that again this year. It is one of the highlights of the Easter season for me, and the subject matter is even more precious to me now. As we sat in rehearsal last night, reviewing one of the more difficult choruses, I found myself weeping with gratitude that I could SING my guts out. I remembered the music. I had the pitches. I had the rhythms. This difficult piece was a piece of cake for me. I didn't lose that ability, despite having had cancer and cancer treatments in my right brain. It was something to be very grateful for.

The gratitude list goes on...

Live Strong

I guess it's because I have my radiation at a really great facility that features the Lance Armstrong Shaped Beam Surgery System. Maybe it's because my cousin sent me Lance's book. Maybe it's because our primary care doctor gave my husband a couple of LIVESTRONG wristbands as soon as he heard the news. And maybe it's because a friend of mine just sent me a link to the Lance Armstrong Foundation website, because the LAF was looking for links to blogs from cancer survivors.

I ended up going to the LAF website and doing two things: 1) I (of course) shopped the merchandise section of the site, so we have LIVESTRONG t-shirts, caps, & etc., coming our way; and 2) I shared "my story":
http://shareyourstory.livestrong.org/siteapps/personalpage/ShowPage.aspx?c=ijIVI2PFKoG&b=738859&sid=8fLGJNMsHiKQIYOAInG

Gonna live strong.

The Grandma in "Parenthood"

There's a movie called Parenthood, directed by Ron Howard and starring Steve Martin as part of an all-star cast. As a caution to those who have not seen it - it has some really raunchy stuff which is unfortunate, because there are also some profoundly positive messages in the storyline. I wish there were a way to keep the good parts and trash the rest, because it really pushes the PG-13 envelope. So I'm not necessarily recommending that you go see it. But anyway...to my point...

There is one scene where the grandmother is leaving the house, but she stops in the room where Steve Martin's character is talking to his wife (played by Mary Steenburgen). She makes a very sweet and wise statement about life being like a rollercoaster, and how she liked it (the ups and downs and the excitement) as opposed to the merry-go-round, which just goes around and around. As the grandmother exits the room and goes out to the car to wait for them, Mary Steenburgen comments on how brilliant she was. Steve Martin peeks out the window and says, "Oh, yeah? Well if she's so brilliant, why is she sitting in our neighbor's car?" It's a very funny moment.

Today I felt like the grandma in Parenthood. Sometimes I feel like I have moments of brilliance, and then I can't figure out where my shoes are. Or I can count backwards from 100 by sevens with no problem, but I have to think hard to remember whether I took my morning medication. It's so silly! I remind myself that it must be simple distraction and nothing to worry about. So far everything looks fine for now.

Oops - gotta go and take my evening medication before I forget!

The Most Important Thing

I am blessed to be surrounded by wonderful family members and friends who manage to uplift me with love, cheer, and great insights. One friend shared with me a very profound statement (and I can't remember if it was his own original thought or something he was quoting from someone else):

The most important thing
Is that the most important thing
Is the most important thing

I reflected on this while sitting in our temple last weekend. It is a place where I can ponder the majesty of the Creation and the plan for the ultimate destiny of man, which includes eternal life and exaltation (made possible by our Savior, Jesus Christ). And it occurred to me that THAT is the most important thing. My eternal life and exaltation. It means keeping the commandments and the covenants that I made with God, and having sufficient faith to take full advantage of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. It means loving and serving others, including those dear ones within my family whom I hope to associate with...FOR - EVVVVVV - ER.

Everything else is just a bunch of details.

It reminds me of my wedding. I had a GORGEOUS wedding and reception, thanks to the generosity of my parents. It was a fairy tale celebration of a quality befitting the acquisition of such a fine husband and the culmination of what is sure to be the GREAT LOVE STORY OF ALL TIME (in my very humble opinion, of course). Yet, even within this grand event there were some minor details that went awry. For example, the florist planned to preserve my beautiful bouquet under glass so that I could enjoy it after the wedding as a decoration in my home. I was so excited. But they messed it up so I didn't get to have that. The photographer forgot to do some of the poses we had asked for. The florist put carnations on the reception tables where I had specifically asked for roses. The band played a song that I asked them NOT to sing, and they forgot to do "our" song ("Hello" by Lionel Ritchie). In the days following my honeymoon, I remember these things being a big deal to me. Not enough to spoil the great event, but enough to cause some stress afterward as I thought those sentimental things were supposed to be 100% perfect. Of course, more than seventeen years later...

...the most important thing...
...is that the most important thing...
...is the most important thing.

What really matters is WHO I married, and under what authority we were married, so that our marriage could last through the eternities. And I guess the fact that more than seventeen years later we are still GA-GA in love with each other is also pretty darn important. The rest is just a bunch silly details that don't matter a hill of beans any more, and as I remember those silly details that went wrong, I look back on that earlier stress as just a sign of my immaturity at the time.

I figure in a thousand years, we'll all be dead. We may be sitting around in the afterlife, meeting people and asking: "How long did you live?" "What did you die of?" And people will answer: "100 years"..."16 years"..."40 years"..."68 years"..."35 years"..."86 years"...whatever..."Got run over by a train"..."Choked on a hot dog"..."Weird freaky aneurysm"..."Heart attack"..."Stroke"..."Cancer"...
"Construction accident"...whatever...

We'll ask, "Where did you live?" "Chicago"..."Texas"..."Long Island"...
"England"..."Japan"..."Africa"..."Montreal"..."Salt Lake City"...whatever...

And at the time, all that stuff will just be interesting details that we will ask to get to know each other better. They won't be as important as they seemed right at the very time they happened. What will really continue to be important is HOW each of us lived.

In a thousand years, I want to sit together with my family in the afterlife and reflect back on our lives as interesting but distant memories, just like I would sit today with my husband and reminisce about our wedding day. Maybe we'll laugh and cry together as we remember special times, happy times, and sad times. But the details will have diminished in their impact as we are busy loving each other and rejoicing in our reunion. At that time, a thousand years from now, the only thing that will REALLY matter to us is "the most important thing."

So that's what should really matter to me now.

Krista Oakes: "Cancer Survivor"

First of all, thanks to the many who have left comments or let me know by phone or email that your prayers would be with me as I did my MRI. I did go into that scan feeling very calm because I was being carried and sustained by those prayers. I was NOT told what the scans looked like yet (maybe I will know in the next day or so), but I feel okay and not at all nervous like I thought I would be.

Meanwhile, I learned something kind of cool: I am a "cancer survivor". I was approached about an upcoming American Cancer Society fundraiser in my area, where they are doing a Relay For Life. Part of the event includes a memorial for those who have lost their battle with cancer, and a tribute to "cancer survivors". I was asked to fill out information so they can recognize me as a cancer survivor. It shocked me, because I always thought the term referred to those who were cured. But the American Cancer Society person who talked to me explained that "You are a cancer survivor from the minute you are diagnosed." So basically once you are told you have cancer, and as long as you are not dead yet, you are a "cancer survivor". So, woo hoo - I am a cancer survivor of about two and a half months! Let's hope I stay one for a lot longer!

The Destiny's Child song, "Survivor" kept going through my head, so I had to take the lyrics and change them a little, so I can sing it to my cancer:

Now that you are in my life, I'm so much better
You thought that I'd be weak with ya, but I'm stronger
You thought that I'd be broke with ya, but I'm richer
You thought that I'd be sad with ya, but I laugh harder
You thought I wouldn't grow with ya, now I'm wiser
You thought that I'd be helpless with ya, but I'm smarter
You thought that I'd be stressed with ya, but I'm chillin'
You thought I wouldn't reach with ya, I'll reach a million.

I'm a survivor, I'm not gonna give up
I'm not gon' stop, I'm gonna work harder
I'm a survivor, I'm gonna make it
I will survive, Keep on survivin'

Thought I couldn't breathe with you, I'm inhalin'
You thought I couldn't see with you, perfect vision,
You thought I couldn't last with ya, but I'm lastin'
You thought that I would die with ya, but I'm livin'
Thought that I would fail with ya, but I'm on top
Though it would be over by now, but it won't stop,
You thought that I would self-destruct, but I'm still here,
Even in my years to come, I'm still gon' be here.

I'm wishin' you'll be gone,
Pray that I'll keep hanging on,
With much success, no stress, and lots of happiness,
(I'm gonna have that)
I'm gonna blast you with radiation,
(It's better than you )
I'm gonna poison you with medication,
(It's better than you)
I'm not gonna hate what you've done to me,
(I'm better than that)
I'm not gonna compromise my Christianity,
(I'm better than that)
I'm gonna blog about you on the Internet
And keep the faith, 'cause my momma taught me how to do that.
After all of the darkness and sadness
Still comes happiness,
If I surround myself with positive things
I'll gain prosperity.
I'm a survivor...(etc...)