Science Project

I know -- I'm a living science project. But today we were focused on another project: #20 on my bucket list, which was "help my son create a winning science fair project."

He won second place for his project to determine "What Makes a Better Bat? Wood vs. Metal". It served a practical purpose, as he has outgrown the old bat from his tee ball days, and we were wondering whether to go wood or aluminum. It was a fun project, and my son worked very hard and learned a whole bunch of stuff about conducting an experiment. So we already declared him a "winner" before the judging got started. The fact that he brought home a trophy and a ribbon, too, made it extra nice. And being there at the school assembly when he accepted his award was one of those moments I was grateful to be able to experience. (But there's still a lot more on my list, so I still need to stay alive!)

It's good to get him interested in the scientific process. Maybe he'll grow up to discover a cure for cancer.

Or maybe he'll be a professional baseball player, if science fair projects have any predictive value. My elementary school science project was on the anatomy of the brain. The coolest thing about it was the pickled dog brain that my dad found for me to use in my exhibit. That planted the seed for my fascination with the brain and how it works. I later studied psychology in college. It wasn't the most marketable choice of major, but it was really interesting, and now it is unfortunately quite relevant for me to have learned some things about that part of the body.

I'm glad my son's interest was centered around something fun, like baseball.

I've Got the Blues!

Actually, I've got the BLUE. Meaning, I passed my karate belt test tonight, and am now sporting a very fashionable, not-quite-"BYU blue"-but-still-makes-me-sing-the-BYU-fight-song blue belt! Sensei described it as entering the "midpoint" of my quest for black. It's a long, tough journey, but as with life, the journey is what really counts.

I spent much of the test trying to be quick and powerful and accurate. I spent a small portion of the test doing some sparring and getting pounded by my test mate, who was much younger but higher ranked and certainly a lot better at sparring. Luckily my platelet count is good, and thank goodness for my bobble-head helmet. I think we looked like Rock-em Sock-em Robots, but it was a good workout.

And then the rest of the test was spent just feeling so grateful and amazed that I was alive -- really alive. Not just maintaining a heartbeat or a brain wave. I was doing things I "shouldn't" be capable of doing, having been a mushbrain for more than two years. It was an amazing feeling, and I am once again grateful for the many good people who have not only prayed for my life, but for my quality of life.

The only thing that wasn't wonderful about tonight was the fact that this was my first belt test without my son. Our paths have diverged for the first time since we donned our white belts together. He was not invited to test -- not yet, anyway. He was disappointed by that, but not discouraged. He'll be ready soon enough, and maybe he'll start advancing faster than me at some point. (After all, he has boundless energy and all of his brain!) He was a good sport, helping me practice before my test, and eager to see my new belt. He's learning to enjoy the journey, too.

By the way, I racked (what's left of) my brain for an appropriate song to add to my blog soundtrack, using the word "blue". But so far everything I've come up with uses blue in the sad way, and this is a happy thing! So instead I have this very humbling song that I remember from the tournament scene in the Karate Kid movie:

Try to believe

Though the going gets rough

That you gotta hang tough to make it

History repeats itself

Try and you’ll succeed

Never doubt that you’re the one

And you can have your dreams!

Fight ‘til the end

Cause your life will depend

On the strength that you have inside you

Ah you gotta be proudstarin’ out in the cloud

When the odds in the game defy you

Try your best to win them all

And one day time will tell

When you’re the one that’s standing there

You’ll reach the final bell!

You’re the best -- around!

Nothing’s gonna ever keep you down!

...and TWENTY-FIVE!

I'm silver!

Today marks twenty-five months of living with the GBM piano dangling over my head (or in my head). I think we'll celebrate by digging out the quarter jar and spending it on something fun.

And then I'll set my sights on going for the gold!

FROG, DARN-IT!

Good news: MRI looked "good". My doctor is happy, and I am greatly relieved. I've heard a lot of bad news stories and it was a struggle to keep them from haunting me as I anticipated the news. But my doctor's nurse practitioner was merciful and started right off the bat with, "Your MRI looks good," before beginning the neuro test.

I don't know if it was the relief, or if it was the thousand other things going through (what's left of) my mind, but I forgot one of the three "short-term-memory words". I think that had only happened once before in the two dozen neuro exams that I have been through. Today's words were "tree", "popcorn", and "frog". I remembered the first two, and was shocked to find myself at a loss for the third. It was okay. I aced everything else.

But still -- after I was finished with everything, including my chemotherapy infusion, I stood at the checkout desk, where there was a little plastic frog sitting next to the receptionist's computer. I swear it was mocking me. And then my husband and I stopped at the store to buy a new humidifier (recommended to help the dry nose side effects of Avastin), and the first one I saw on the shelf was a big green one shaped like (you guessed it) a frog!

I didn't buy that one.

Frog frog frog frog frog.

Maybe I just don't like to think of things that remind me of the word, "croak".

Head Games

Yep, it's head games time again. Every eight weeks is "picture day", where I get an MRI shoot of my head. This time, however, is like last time -- there wasn't enough appointment space to do both the MRI and the doctor's visit (aka verdict) on the same day. So I get a nice 24+ hour period to sit and ponder the possibilities before I actually find out how the MRI looks on Thursday. Will it be another good news day, or will I be going in for an emergency craniotomy? Or worse? Or something in-between. It's kind of crazy.

As always, I approach this moment with a natural tendency to over-analyze everything, to try and guess how it might go. I have a sinus headache, which coincides with a whole bunch of allergy symptoms. (Headache = scary; allergy headache = normal.) So that might not mean anything. I had a karate lesson this evening and was reassured by how well my review of the material went. (Balance = check. Memory = check. Coordination = check.) But then I remembered that I was symptom-free when I had my last bad news scan. I wrote an email and noticed a typo. (Typo = bad; noticing it = good.) I just keep going back and forth, trying to guess how I'm doing, which is so silly, because after all this time (yeah -- ALL this time, which alone is a good thing) I should have no problem remembering that things are what they are, and it's just time to find out so we can deal with anything that tries to get in my way. (Or celebrate, if nothing's getting in my way.)

New to my blog soundtrack is a song that takes me back to high school in the 80's, when Foreigner reigned supreme:

I daydream for hours it seems

I keep thinkin of you, yeah, thinkin of you

These daydreams, what do they mean?

They keep haunting me, are they warning me?

Daylight turns into night

We try and find the answer but its nowhere in sight

Its always the same and you know who's to blame

You know what Im sayin', still we keep on playin'

Head games, thats all I get from you

Head games, and I cant take it anymore

Head games, dont wanna play the...Head games

(Okay, well actually, I CAN take it, and I WILL take it, and I'll play the head game and hopefully I'll win!)

Enjoy the suspense with me...and much thanks to those who help me float through these moments on prayer!

My Bucket List

There's a new movie coming out called The Bucket List, starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman. It's basically about two terminal cancer patients, who decide to
leave the hospital and do all the things on their "bucket list": a list of things they wanted to do before they kick the bucket and die.

From what I've seen so far, their list includes things like skydiving and race car driving. (Grab-life-with-gusto kind of stuff.) According to the synopsis in imdb.com, they do these things and "ultimately find the joy in life".

It looks like a cute movie, and I'm sure many people will like it. Making the most out of life is a good thing.

Personally, however, my bucket list is different. With sand pouring through the hourglass, I don't feel a desire to go skydiving or anything else that would make the sand move faster. (Although a skydiving accident is a guaranteed way to avoid dying from cancer!)

Here are things from my bucket list:
1. Write a book. (done)
2. Write another book. (I have ten in embryo, hoping I won't need another setback to kick me into gear.)
3. Teach my children everything that I can.
4. Write my life story.
5. Take my son to the Museum of Science and Industry. (done)
6. See my family and friends as much as possible.
7. Sing Messiah as many times as I can (four so far, and counting!)
8. Make something useful out of this experience.
9. Break all my bad habits, and turn all my weaknesses into strengths.
10. Do as much temple work as possible.
11. Organize all the family memorabilia and pictures, so their stories will be known.
12. Get my house in order, so I don't leave a mess behind.
13. Record my voice while it's still good.
14. Read and sing to my kids as much as possible.
15. Magnify my new calling as a Relief Society teacher.
16. Serve a church mission with my husband.
17. Make lasting (good) memories with my family and friends.
18. Make amends for any offenses (intentional or not).
19. Get my black belt in karate. (getting closer to blue)
20. Help my son create a winning science fair project.
21. Teach my daughter to sing.
22. Read the scriptures as many times as I can.
23. Dance with my husband again. (and again...and again...)
24. Tackle unfinished business (stuff like learning to play the piano, mastering algebra, going to graduate school, finally finishing an unabridged copy of Les Miserables).
25. Give someone hope. If I can live past my expiration date without going sour, anyone can.

Those are just the first 25 that came off the top of my head. I want more out of life than the rush of a daredevil adventure. I want things that I can take with me, and things that will continue after me.

And okay, I'll be honest...I want things that will take a while to finish, so that hopefully I'll have to stay here!

Hallelujah, Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year!

I know -- many two year olds don't blog. (Or if they do, it must not be very often.) However, even though I recently enjoyed celebrating my second "birthday" (the end of A.D. Two) I should blog like a quadragenarian on steroids.

Cancer in my right brain didn't stop me from singing Messiah again this Christmas, and neither did cold and flu season! (Hallelujah!) It was a wonderful experience, singing two back-to-back performances in a full house. There is always a thrill listening to the orchestra begin with the overture, because it's usually when I'm thinking to myself, "Wow -- I'm really still here, and I'm really going to sing this again!" The first choral piece is "Glory to God", and I use that as a last little warmup and check of my voice. Usually my first aria follows shortly thereafter: "O Thou, That Tellest Good Tidings to Zion". I sing it, thinking of the good tidings of the Savior's birth, and all that it means for us. And I am reminded of the good tidings that I have enjoyed during another year of miracles. My next aria was "He Shall Feed His Flock Like a Shepherd," and ever since I was diagnosed with cancer and began worrying about my two children I gained a new appreciation for the words:

He shall feed his flock like a shepherd, and he shall gather the lambs with his arm.

And carry them in his bosom, and gently lead those that are with young.

A soprano follows, singing:

Come unto him, all ye that labor

Come unto him, ye that are heavy laden, and he will give you rest.

Take his yoke upon you and learn of him

For he is meek and lowly of heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls.

(Amen. I've enjoyed that rest. I've also enjoyed being gently led through life along with my "young".)

Toward the end my husband and I sing a duet: "O Death, Where is Thy Sting?" I try not to make it sound like a challenge, but rather an acknowledgement that the Messiah takes the sting out of anything we face in mortality. There is a choral response that is often left out of performances, so I have only heard it in recordings:

But thanks be to God, who giveth us the victory through our Lord, Jesus Christ.

I know people who have lost loved ones, or who have suffered other tragic events close to Christmas time. My own cancer diagnosis came about two weeks before Christmas, and I wondered if that would taint the holiday for us. But I later realized that Christmas was a fitting backdrop for any life experience -- happy or sad. Because Christmas is a celebration of the birth of the One who gives us victory over sin and mortality. He is "ris'n with healing in his wings."

Christmas has been wonderful this year, not only because of the two prior Christmases that I thought might be my last, but also because I have been able to share it with so much family. All of my brothers came to visit with their families, and it was so fun to be together again. Our last time all together like this was in Manhattan during Thanksgiving 2006. It's nice to have family gathered around for non-funeral occasions! (I hope we have more!)

We'll soon be ushering in the new year. Each new day feels miraculous, and seeing another year roll around is even more exciting. I hope I see the ball in Times Square drop many more times, and I hope I get to kiss my husband each time it does.

Reflecting on the year that has passed, and on all of the years that preceded it, I think of the words from one of the songs in Michael McLean's The Forgotten Carols:

All I ever wanted, all I ever dreamed of,

Everything I hoped, and all the things I prayed for

Couldn't hold a candle to what I've been given;

I've been given what I need.

I've got half a mind to share this one...

(literally)

A couple in their nineties are both having problems remembering things. During a checkup, the doctor tells them that they are physically okay, but they might want to start writing things down to help them remember.

Later that night, while watching TV, the old man gets up from his chair. "Want anything while I'm in the kitchen?" he asks.

"Will you get me a bowl of ice cream?"

"Sure."

"Don't you think you should write it down so you can remember it?" she asks.

"No, I can remember it. "

"Well, I'd like some strawberries on top, too. Maybe you should write it down, so as not to forget it?"

He says, "I can remember that. You want a bowl of ice cream with strawberries."

"I'd also like whipped cream. I'm certain you'll forget that. Write it down," she says.

Irritated, he says, "I don't need to write it down -- I can remember it! Ice cream with strawberries and whipped cream! I got it, for goodness' sake!"

He toddles off to the kitchen. Twenty minutes later the old man returns from the kitchen and hands his wife a plate of bacon and eggs.

She stares at the plate for a moment and asks, "Where's my toast?"

(Much thanks to nurse Charlie for sharing this one with me right before my chemo infusion! Between the Avastin and the natural killer cell boost from the good laugh I had over this one, I think any last tumor cell crumbs don't stand a chance.)

Happy Birthday to Me

...or maybe Happy Birthday tu-mor...
...or maybe Happy Birthday -- TWO MORE!

It's 12/12. I've survived two years. Based on Lance Armstrong's view that his diagnosis date marked the day he "started living", I'm enjoying the second birthday of my new life. And I got an A+ on my neuro exam yesterday. Time to break out the hats and horns.

One more year, and I would reach "long-term survivor" status. Two more years (two more with the tumor) and I'd get to see my son baptized without waving from a cloud. I might even have my black belt by then. Three more years, and I'd be a complete freak of nature. (A happy one, however.) And who knows...maybe there will be a cure somewhere in there, or at least a treatment that lets me hang on until the cure is found. Until then I'm hanging onto my good medical team and many many prayers.

I just hope I'm not entering the "terrible two's"...

To "bee" or not to "bee"?

(I need to "bee" posting to my blog more often -- I think I set a new record for space between blogging...yikes!)

My husband's parents came to visit during the Thanksgiving holiday, which is one of our favorite holidays (even though every day becomes Thanksgiving Day when you have cancer and are still alive). While they were in town we took them to the Mary Kay building where my husband works, to see the Mary Kay Museum. Among the many fascinating artifacts are items that symbolize the bumble bee. Mary Kay Ash used the analogy of the bumble bee to reinforce her positive, "can-do" attitude. Aerodynamically, the bumble bee shouldn't be able to fly, but it does. On Friday night we took the kids to see The Bee Movie, where they mention the same thing.

Mary Kay Ash said that bumble bees fly because they don't know that it's not aerodynamically feasible. She's right -- they don't have the ability to doubt their possibilities, so they just do what they have to do. People aren't as lucky. Sometimes we only know enough to be dangerous, and it's too easy to let information work to discourage and defeat us. I've heard the question asked before: "What would you try if you knew you could not fail?" And my karate teacher has explained that a black belt (ranked person) is "just a white belt who didn't give up".

With cancer there are many things that can cause discouragement, from the initial diagnosis to days that don't feel so good, to days when setbacks occur. But I was taught by an enthusiastic cancer survivor (who trounced her odds) that it's important to avoid giving into discouragement, clinging instead to hope. Norman Cousins (who laughed himself into remission and became a best-selling author) would agree.

Bees aren't the only ones who (literally) fly in the face of conventional wisdom. I think there is a reason why the scriptures caution us against trusting in the "arm of flesh". Not that secular learning and knowledge aren't important, but sometimes we let our universe be confined to what we can see and touch and empirically demonstrate, and then we miss out on a real universe of possibilities.

A bee has a fat body and tiny wings, and based on available knowledge, it shouldn't fly. I have been diagnosed with a disease that claims most people within a year, so based on available knowledge I shouldn't be expected to be alive today (especially since I had tumor progression occur during the first year of treatment). But somehow I managed to "bee" alive today--with my book in print and a purple belt in karate to boot.

I have subjected my right brain to surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy. Based on available knowledge, my brain shouldn't be able to process music as well as it used to. But somehow I managed to "bee" singing today! I actually sight-read music better than before. And within a few weeks, if I can manage to fend off cold season, I am slated for my fourth Messiah solo performance since my cancer diagnosis and surgery. Previously I had never had this many opportunities in such a short period of time.

My story is not that unique. Statistics aside, I am meeting more walking miracles every day. Trust not in the arm of flesh.

The Apostle Paul struggled with a "thorn in the flesh", which was not removed despite repeated prayers for healing. Yet he gloried in his infirmity and testified, "I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me." Paul decided to "bee". And he's right. No matter what challenges or obstacles we face, we have the choice to either "bee" or "not bee", when it comes to realizing the possibilities before us, based on where we chose to put our trust.

Clear headed

Well, 2007 is the first year with all good MRI scans! (Hopefully the first of many!)

Everything looked exactly the same today as it did in September, which is a good thing. My neuro test was great, too. Apple, Fox, and Popcorn were the three words to remember, and I even had to correct the nurse practitioner, who was drawing a numeral six on my hand while my eyes were closed, but she was accidentally drawing it backwards.

And there was good news on top of good news -- I had lost four pounds, too.

Unless I develop any weird symptoms I won't have another scan for eight more weeks. I'm a third of the way toward going treatment-free, if things continue to go well.

Much thanks again for all the many prayers that made this possible and bearable!

Things to think about...

As I write this I am about 10 hours away from my appointment in the MRI tube, and about 12 hours away from hearing the verdict. Instead of over-analyzing every possible body signal and working up my anxiety, I decided to come up with a list of things to think about, to distract (what's left of) my mind:

• how to spell pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis
• how to use that word in a sentence for the "please write a sentence here" section of my patient neuro test form
• mental rehearsal of upcoming Messiah arias
• decide: what joke should I share in the chemo infusion room (the one that always comes to mind is: Q. "What is an insomniac dyslexic agnostic?" A. "Someone who stays up all night wondering if there is a Dog.")
• mental review of karate Pinions # 1, 2, and 3; defense maneuvers # 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, and 18; and kempos A, B, C, D, and E.
• brainstorm ideas for my "can't buy it" Christmas present for my husband (our annual tradition)
• brainstorm ideas for celebration activity if we get good news
• create mental picture of healthy glial cells holding up a sign during the MRI that says, "Really, guys -- it's all clear here!!!"
• construct mental list of words that seem to contradict their own meaning (like "phonetic", "abbreviated", and "monosyllabic")
• try to remember the list of the 2-letter words that are legal in Scrabble
• debate practice -- which was named "orange" first: the color, or the fruit? (pick one and defend)
• sing the alphabet backwards (my son and I like to do this for grins)
• decide: which of the dozen books I have in embryo form will actually become a manuscript
• ponder: why do bats have nipples under their armpits?
• happy picture slideshow: my son's grin with his two front teeth missing, my daughter in her new saddle shoes (like the ones I used to love wearing as a kid) and my husband's happy face when he comes home after driving around in Mustang Krista and says, "I love my car!!"

...and, of course--try to count all the prayers that will carry me through this process.

....and TWENTY-THREE!

Twenty-three months of living strong -- and long -- compared to what I was told to expect. Twenty-three months of disregarding statistics and learning to expect miracles.

(Speaking of miracles, my dad's surgery went very well, and we are once again grateful for all that works together for our good.)

On Saturday we went to Six Flags for my husband's annual company picnic. I looked wistfully at the rollercoasters that are now off-limits to me, and then I shook it off, realizing that a few minutes of screaming fun on the Titan or Mr. Freeze would hardly be worth risking a brain hemhorrage. (Life lesson: live in the moment, but don't let momentary thrills rob long-term goals.)

I also remembered that the Six Flags picnic in November 2005 was the day before I had my first known seizure. We don't know how long I had glioblastoma before becoming symptomatic, but we know I have been living with it for at least two years. "Living" being the key word.

The nurse called with my lab results on Friday. "You can eat raw fruits and veggies and run down the street with scissors" was the message. It's her funny way of letting me know that my white blood cells and platelets are still at good levels, and I'm tolerating my chemotherapy. (Hopefully any tumor cells are not so lucky.)

There were other reassuring signs of life this weekend. I got an email the from a friend, congratulating me for appearing in this fall's issue of BYU's alumni magazine. This weekend I also learned how to spell "pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis" (a kind of "black lung" disease, relating to the inhalation of fine silica dust found in volcanoes; and more importantly, it's the longest known word to appear in an English language dictionary and something my 26-year-old brother can spell easily). I noticed and corrected my own spelling of the word "isthmus" in my Ode to Thy Roid. (Blog reader neuro test: did you catch it when it was misspelled i-t-h-s-m-u-s?) My son and I reviewed the material from last week's karate lesson, and I remembered all that we learned about Pinion #3, the new form we need to master for blue belt level.

But I still had to search for my shoes as we were leaving for church yesterday. I remain the walking miracle with a question mark on my head. (Figuratively speaking, but also literally, as the surgical scar on my scalp is question mark-shaped.)

We'll soon have a better idea of how things are going. This Wednesday is picture day -- the first MRI after going on maintenance treatment, so I feel like I have one training wheel off. It's a nervous time, for sure. If things don't go well, this will be our third holiday season with "special perspective." But if this week's outcome is good, it may be my last scan until January, and I can look forward to finishing out 2007 with happier things on my mind.

Ode to "Thy Roid"

There's a new cancer on my mind (besides the one that's literally on my mind): my dad's thyroid cancer. Tomorrow my dad goes in for his thyroidectomy (yep - spelled it with half my brain tied behind my back), and so we are having a farewell party for his thyroid tonight. I'm in charge of bringing the cake and the Operation game.

In preparation for the festivities I also wrote an "Ode to Thy Roid", which I bounced off my mom (my unofficial editor) and she insisted that it belonged on my blog. It reads best if you use your best Shakespearian English accent:

ODE TO THY ROID
Thy roid --
That bow-tie shaped gland of thine --
The larger gland of the endocrine;
Is annoyed, thy roid –
Makes you hoarse when you whine.

It must go –
Should not loiter
And turn into a goiter.
(Or worse.) Take it out, for it’s ill –
It’s replaced with a pill.

It’s a pain in the neck,
But oh, what the heck –
With the slash of a knife, thy roid--
Thy bow-tied foe—
Must now go.

We weep not for thy roid,
With its lobes and its isthmus
And its cancerous growth –
Be it gone!
(Before Christmas!)

Thy roid – below thy pharynx,
And surrounding thy larynx --
We bid a hasty farewell to thy roid,
Who in its treachery
Has now become void!

(Ah, well, at least it's better than: "Glioblastoma, pack up and go home-a, before I go into a coma...")

Deep Purple

It's been a while since I added a song to my blog soundtrack, but I have a new one to add. It's been running through (what's left of) my mind tonight, as soon as my son and I emerged victorious from our belt tests. We have reached the purple belt rank, which means a lot of fun things:

1. We've jumped from beginner levels to an intermediate level, so it's a milestone to be proud of;
2. At purple rank we also begin wearing a black uniform, so I won't see the Sta-Puff Marshmallow Ninja in the mirror anymore!
3. It's the ultimate neuro test (memory, coordination, strength, and balance get challenged) and a marvel that I am doing this long after my statistical expiration date;
4. It was another fun mother/son bonding moment, achieving this goal together; and
5. It's a nod to my Donny Osmond fan club days, when I was ten years old and wore purple socks and had my bedroom decorated with purple flowers.

Put together purple, Donny Osmond, and my September MRI finding of NEDP (No Evidence of Disease Progression -- or "knee deep"), and it's no wonder that "Deep Purple" is singing in my head:


When the deep purple falls
Over sleepy garden walls
And the stars begin to twinkle in the sky
In the mist of a memory you wander back to me
Breathing my name with a sigh

In the still of the night once again I hold you tight
Though you're gone
Your love lives on when moonlight beams
And as long as my heart will beat
Sweet lovers we'll always meet
Here in my deep purple dreams

It's all relative

As I exited the neuro-oncology office last week I got a phone call from my dad. He had a test of his own: a biopsy on a thyroid nodule. His test didn't go as well as my neuro test; now he has a new reason to wear his yellow LIVESTRONG bracelet, which he often wore in support of me. He is officially a cancer survivor now, too.

Thyroid cancer (especially papillary carcinoma, which is his diagnosis) is very slow and very treatable. I couldn't help but feel a little jealous on my behalf, and also a little grateful on his behalf, that his diagnosis and prognosis are much less devastating than glioblastoma multiforme.

However, everything is relative. From my vantage point, it's an enviable situation in many ways. But from the vantage point of someone hearing "cancer" pronounced upon themselves for the first time, I don't think it matters where it falls on the spectrum of types and grades and stages and prognoses. There is still that feeling of violation, that a little saboteur has been working undetected inside your body. And cancer is something that happens to "someone else". It's hard to swallow (okay, a little thyroid pun there) the concept of "I have cancer."

Dad seems to be taking it in stride, and has even worked his sense of humor into the situation. Last night he was talking about his surgeon -- the big guy who is going to slit his throat. And we joke back about the whole thing being such a pain in the neck.

Dad has also seen the power of prayer on my behalf, and I'm hoping that he will experience it for himself.

(She really did pass her neuro test)

Of course, it's the easy one compared to the MRI that I will have November 14. Neuro tests are just a monthly review of balance, coordination, strength, memory, and concentration. (Kind of like a brain tumor variation of the Jedi trials, or sometimes I feel like I am taking a sobriety test on an episode of COPS.)

I got extra credit for my "Krista Passed Her Neuro Test" song, and for walking on my heels while wearing mules. I confessed having taken a spill on my bicycle the week before, but it doesn't appear to raise concerns that anything major was wrong with my balance and coordination. I'm sure I also got extra credit for not going into a coma when I noticed my account balance (insurance doesn't cover Avastin chemotherapy for brain tumors, and I've been taking it every two weeks for over a year). After getting my gold star I was rewarded with a double shot of Avastin (another $16,000 deeper in the hole, but hey -- I'd rather be digging that hole than laying in one six feet deep).

The fun thing is that (assuming my labwork stays good) my next Avastin infusion is scheduled on Halloween. I know that's a situation ripe for all manner of sick humor, so it will be fun to see what the nurses and other patients will be up to that morning. I'm planning to show up in my scarecrow ("If I only had a brain") costume.

Krista Passed Her Neuro Test

Okay, so my neuro test isn't until tomorrow morning, but in the spirit of positive thinking I came up with a song to get me through the routine of spelling "world" backward, counting backward by sevens, remembering three test words given at the beginning of the exam, and doing other stuff that you might see in a sobriety test on "COPS". If all goes well, I get treated to more maintenance chemotherapy, and then it's just four short weeks until nervous MRI day!

(to the tune of "Old Mac Donald")

Krista passed her neuro test;
D-L-R-O-W
Walked a straight line, touched her nose
Showed her eyes can follow you

With a one hundred,
Ninety-three,
Eighty-six, seventy-nine,
Seventy-two, sixty-five (...58,51,44,37,30,23,16,9,2)

With a tongue that's straight
And she wasn't late;
Remembered all three test words:
Monkey, tree, and avocado

Krista passed her neuro test;
I.V. chemo...go!

...and TWENTY-TWO!!!

Actually, it's been twenty-two months and two days since my skull was cracked open and I heard that awful word: malignant. Twenty-two months filled with scary stuff here and there, but saturated with miracles and wonders and lots of love.

The number 22 reminds me of when we started getting into our thirties, and I used to joke with my husband about my age, playfully insisting that I was only twenty-two. Well, using Lance Armstrong's viewpoint that his cancer diagnosis date was the day he "started living", I really am twenty-two again (at least in months).

We didn't make a big hoopla over that, because were having too much fun celebrating my husband's birthday this past week. He is not twenty-two. He is forty-one--an age I hope to see myself next year. Our other joke together relates to the nine-month difference between our ages. He maintains that we are virtually the same age, whereas I like to tease him about being much older.

Last year I bought him a 1967 Ford Mustang for his 40th birthday (and also because I could finally drive again, so we had a need for two cars again). We call it "Mustang Krista" because the car and I are both 1967 models. I wanted him to know that even though he was a 1966 model, it was close enough to show him that things his age were still cool and sexy.

That was the closest I ever came to conceding that we were the "same age". But I was quick to amend and explain that while he and the car might be the same age, the car was built earlier in the year than I was, so I still assert myself as being substantially younger. In fact, this year I teased my husband by drawing a timeline with two major periods: "B.C." = Before the Car was built (infinite period preceding and including Spring 1967); and "A.D." = After car was Done being built (Summer 1967 and infinite period thereafter). I pointed out that he was born in the B.C. era, which also included things like "history", "dinosaurs", "ice age", "the Creation", "Old Testament", and "women not voting". By stark contrast, I was born in the A.D. era, which included "space shuttle", "Sesame Street", "the future", "Internet", "science", and "satellite television". We were born in two completely different universes of time!

We had a good laugh, and then I hit him with a zinger: he must obviously be substantially older than I am, because women are often attracted to older men, and he was the ONLY man who attracts my attention and affection. (He had no good comeback for that one, so even with half my brain tied behind my back for twenty-two months I won that round!)

Whether only slightly so or significantly so, I'm still a little jealous of anyone who is older than I am. Clicking up another year on the odometer of life is something I hope to do myself again...and again...and hopefully many times again.

I should also mention that the State of Texas threw a fine celebration for us. (It was actually the State Fair, but we went to it on Saturday and pretended it was a birthday celebration for a 41-year-old cool and sexy guy, and his substantially younger wife who was born 40 years ago but started living 22 months ago). We even rode the 212-foot tall Texas Star (the tallest Ferris wheel in North America), and despite my prior crippling fear of heights, it was actually a fun ride. We piled into the same gondola together with our two kids, and while my husband kept his death grip on our daughter to keep her from bouncing around and falling out, my son held my hand "so I wouldn't get scared."

I wasn't scared. After all, I've faced scarier things in the past 22 months, and once again I had my family (loved ones much older and much younger) riding it out with me.

Everyone should try this

I have enjoyed two inspiring weekends centered around general conference messages by the leaders of our church. I was impressed by all of it, but an admonition from Julie B. Beck (who is the General President of our women's organization, the Relief Society) kept resurfacing in (what's left of) my mind. She said:

"We also have the opportunity to assist the Lord by providing relief for others, which is the greatest, fastest solution to loneliness and hopelessness and a sure way to obtain the companionship of the Spirit. All we need to do to start offering relief is get on our knees and ask, 'Who needs my help?'"

It reminded me of a quote by former church president Spencer W. Kimball, who said, "God does notice us, and he watches over us. But it is usually through another person that he meets our needs."

I remembered Sister Beck's admonition yesterday after my morning prayers, so it became a "p.s." kind of thing: "Who needs my help?" And within minutes of offering that addendum, the phone rang. It was someone who needed my help. Someone who has recently been diagnosed with the same cancer, and who was put in touch with me through a mutual friend. We just chatted for a while, but I remembered how much I appreciated talking with "experienced" people when I was in that time of life, and I hoped that our conversation was providing some relief.

Generous gratitude was expressed at the conclusion of our phone call. But of course, when I hung up the phone I felt happier myself, having found a new friend and another good use for earlier pains. I wondered if maybe I was the person who needed and received help that day. There was another addendum to my morning prayer -- one of gratitude for the counsel of inspired leaders, and for such a quick response to that simple question, "Who needs my help?".

Everyone should try this -- it works! Maybe the phone won't always ring right away. Maybe the "who" is someone under our own noses (in our families or at work or school) instead of a new person crossing our path. Maybe the help is small and simple enough to seem inconsequential in our view (although a lot of great things happen through the small and simple). I am sure that we will always find opportunities to meet the needs of others (and even help ourselves as a natural consequence) if we prayerfully seek those opportunities.