Good to the last drop

"Graduation" photo (from left): Nurse Elizabeth, ME with my hands on Nurse Charlie's shoulders and Prince Jared behind me, Dr. Karen Fink, and Nurse Practitioner Vanessa

My last drop of chemotherapy was delivered two weeks ago. This week's MRI looked great.

After two years of chemotherapy I have officially graduated from treatment and will now just be monitored. My veins get a break for a while. I don't have to worry about the chemotherapy causing stroke. I get to pull my daughter out of preschool and spend more time with her instead of constantly shuttling to office visits and labs. It's a great milestone.

I didn't bring a mortarboard cap (didn't want to presume before I heard the news) but we did take a group "graduation" photo at Dr. Fink's office. They congratulated me and very kindly DID NOT sing the "na na na na -- hey hey hey -- GOOD BYE" song. (I do get to come back -- just for monitoring.)

Today give a prayer of thanks. I called my neurologist, who prayed over the phone with me as we gave thanks to the One who has heard and answered many prayers on my behalf. I also have to thank all of you who have offered those prayers time and time again. And thanks to Dr. Fink, Vanessa, Charlie, Stephanie, Elizabeth, Ellen, Pam-the-MRI-Technician, all the people I'm forgetting to name, and the makers of Avastin and Carboplatin. And I'd go on, but the Oscar theme music would start playing and someone in a cocktail dress would take me by the arm and lead me away.

I STILL NEED PRAYERS!!! I'm sure the next MRI will be another nervous one, because it will be after my first "solo" flight. I'll probably be extra worried any time I forget where I put my keys, so it helps to feel that "floating on prayer" feeling.

As my doctor said when I began maintenance treatment six months ago, this tumor is "nicely put to sleep". Earlier today my kids were listening to Laurie Berkner sing "The Lion Sleeps Tonight," so in the back of (what's left of) my mind I keep hearing music:

In the jungle

My mind's own jungle

The tumor sleeps tonight

In the jungle

My mind's own jungle

The tumor sleeps tonight

(A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh, A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh, A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh...)

Near the good cells

The good gli-al cells

The tumor sleeps tonight

Near the good cells

The good gli-al cells

The tumor sleeps tonight

(A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh, A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh, A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh...)

Hush, my darling

Don't fear my darling

The tumor sleeps tonight

Hush, my darling

Don't fear my darling

The tumor sleeps tonight

(A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh, A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh, A-wimoweh, a-wimoweh...)

(ChEEE-ee-ee-ee-ee-MO-um-A-WAY!)

The Straight and Narrow

I am fortunate to have wonderful teachers in our ward at church. Our Sunday School teacher gave a great lesson today on the atonement of Jesus Christ, and how it overcomes both physical death and spiritual death (or sin).

I could not do the lesson justice by trying to recap it here, and there were too many good things to talk about in one blog post anyway (even with my ability to be long-winded). But a couple of minor things in the lesson were particularly timely for me, considering that I am only days away from a potential milestone that has been on (what's left of) my mind. My MRI is this week, and if it looks good I may graduate from treatment and just undergo monitoring.

One comment was made in the lesson about how we need not fear death, because it is part of the plan for returning from whence we came. I believe that to be true -- we all hope to go to heaven someday. We just don't want to be pulled away from our toys and our friends like the screaming toddler leaving his playgroup to go back home. But once we're safely home we realize that it's where we belong, so there is no need to fear.

Another comment was made about the straight and narrow path, which is a familiar term to many. Straight and narrow can appear on the surface to be restrictive and potentially difficult. But our teacher commented on the following passage in 2 Nephi 9:41: "O then, my beloved brethren, come unto the Lord, the Holy One. Remember that his paths are righteous. Behold, the way for man is NARROW, BUT IT LIETH IN A STRAIGHT COURSE before him, and the keeper of the gate is the Holy One of Israel; and he employeth no servant there; and there is none other way save it be by the gate; for he cannot be deceived, for the Lord God is his name." The teacher highlighted the point that the way is narrow -- but it lies in a straight course -- making it clear and possible to travel. Having driven the Alpine Loop in the mountains of Utah, I can appreciate the difference between something that is narrow and full of hairpin turns, and something that is narrow but straightly pointed in the direction we want to go. It's the safest and surest way to reach our destination.

And of course, the remaining portion of my mind wandered to the other straight and narrow path coming up this week for me: the MRI tube. It's definitely narrow (it would seem less narrow if I weren't such a cookie monster), and thank goodness it is straight. In fact, when I go in the tube they stick a little mirror in front of my face that is angled to show me the straight path out towards my feet (which is nicer to look at than the wall only an inch or so from my nose). I'm glad they don't have to snake me through a big tortuous pipe!

Life -- especially the right kind of life that takes us where we really want to go -- is possible for us. The way is narrow but straight, so we can make it. And my upcoming trip through the narrow MRI tube is also doable. I go straight in, pretend I'm having an elaborate spa treatment for about an hour, and come straight out. Then I have a suspensful moment (using the term "moment" very loosely, since my doctor's appointment isn't until the following day) while I wait to hear the results of the scan. That part seems less straight and narrow and more "long and winding road" (in pops Paul McCartney singing, "don't leave me waiting here"...). But it's still doable because of the straight and narrow way of life which is the plan laid out for me by a loving God. And it's also doable because my straight and narrow path of life is lined with many good people who keep me pointed forward and staying upright with their love, friendship, and many prayers.

My Funny Valentine

I know -- Valentine's Day was eleven days ago, and we did celebrate it on time although it's taken much longer to blog about it.

I decided to use what's left of my right brain to make special valentines for my family, using their special songs (you might have heard of them from my blog soundtrack). You can click on the links below to hear them in mp3 format. They were serious and a little sentimental, but if any of these sound funny, keep in mind that these were one-take wonders and far from perfect!

My son's song


My daughter's song


Prince Charming's song

...and...TWENTY-SIX!!!

Yep, it's the 12th of the month -- again!!!

The number twelve is on (what's left of) my mind today, because I'm now twenty-six months post-diagnosis, which is twelve months past the "optomistic" prognosis of fourteen months that I was told to expect.

If I were a bottle of milk this far past my expiration date I'd be pretty darn gross. Luckily, except for a touch of the flu I feel very much alive and not at all sour.

My Coin Sister

Cancer has its privileges.

I got an urgent message last month to call my aunt. "Krista, I need you!" was the tearful voice that answered the phone.

My aunt had just been diagnosed with colon cancer.

I remembered the kindness of others who had "been there" so that they could "be there" for me when the shock of the C-word hit my life. Back then I didn't know if I would survive to be in a position to help instead of being helped, and so I considered it a privilege to be needed by my aunt, and to be available to try and help.

Laughter helps. We call each other the "coin sisters" (I got heads, she got tails). And to make this picture even more perfect, we acknowledged that the person who links us together is her older brother -- my father -- who grew up being nicknamed "Flip." Interestingly, the Avastin chemotherapy that is working so well for me is used off-label for brain tumors, because it is approved for use in treating colon cancer. (I always knew I was covered from top to bottom.) So we potentially had that in common.

Clean living and prayer can't prevent every possible ailment (we all have to die from something at some point), but it paid off for my coin sister. She has gone through surgery and so far things look very favorable. The doctors believe they caught this in time before it spread. So hopefully long life will be another thing we share in common.

So why is there so much cancer touching the people in our lives? I've heard many theories, from cell phones to chemicals to the theorist's political agenda of the day. My personal theory is that we are running out of other things to die from, so our cells have more opportunity to mutate.

We put our babies to sleep on their backs, and we vaccinate them. Fisher Price's Little People toys aren't chokable-sized like they were when I was a kid. Schools have vigorous "peanut free" policies and "zero tolerance" against weapons or drugs (even if said weapon is a kindergartener's finger and the drug is a bag of lemon cough drops). We have better safety features in our cars. We have antibacterial soap and better food safety practices. We have medical advances that save more lives than ever. Workplace hazards are not like they were during the industrial revolution. We try to keep lead out of dishes and paint and pipes and toys. People don't go onto airplanes with more than 3 ounces of liquid or gel on their person. Stuff like that.

The average life expectancy is double what it was a century ago, which means that DNA gets to replicate more often than it used to. Each replication is a roll of the dice, and when it replicates incorrectly, that's cancer. And since everyone has a time to be born and a time to die, if we have eliminated infant mortalities and finger-gun attacks and lead poisoning from the population then something else has to call people home when it's their time. (I'm glad it's not spontaneous combustion.) But now as more people are surviving cancer, and when they finally eradicate it with a cure then we'll start to see something else emerge, like people Botoxing themselves into suspended animation in their extreme old age.

Until then, my coin sister and I share an opportunity to see each day of our lives as a gift. And between heads and tails and having half a mind and being the butt of jokes we have plenty of material for sharing some good, immune-boosting laughs.

Starting #6 of 6

Cycle # 6 of maintenance chemotherapy began this week. My labwork was good enough to proceed, and I aced my neuro tests again (no frog this time; just fox, pizza, and baseball, and proving that -- as always -- I am sober).

I showed up for my neuro test and treatment in my Book Signing Barbie suit, because prior to my appointment I had attended some meetings. The night before I had attended my karate class and talked with a friend about the upcoming Messiah concert (which by the way will no longer have any arias in it, so my Easter tradition of "cancer freak has half a mind to sing Messiah solos" appears to have ended for non-medical reasons). Reflecting on all these activities with a small grin, I realized that this was not what I envisioned two years ago. Back then I was unable to drive, I was in my initial round of chemotherapy and radiation, and living under the threat of a "maybe fourteen months" lifetime of deterioration. The life I enjoy today is much better. It's the life that many people have prayed for (and are still praying for), and I am very grateful for that.

Thus begins the sixth of six planned maintenance treatment cycles. In four weeks I have a turning point MRI. If this one is good, the plan is to graduate from "maintenance" to "monitoring." For as long as the tumor cells stay "asleep," I would be free from bi-weekly chemo infusions. Free from weekly labwork, where the phlebotomist and I go searching for a non-scarred vein. Free from daily Benadryl to help me cope with my allergy to Avastin. The only thing I'd miss would be the regular interaction with the chemo nurses, because their humor is just as therapeutic as the drugs they administer. In exchange, I may get to be more nervous about MRI scans, but I've been there and done that before. It's like Barbra Streisand dealing with her stage fright, perhaps. In time you get used to it and channel that energy into something that works. (And in my case, I float on everyone's prayers.)

If next month's scan ends up with bad news, my doctor still has other tricks up her sleeve. I've seen patients go from hearing "I'm sorry -- just put your life in order" to reminiscing about it long afterward. The Lord's plan is more potent than a mass of tiny cells with DNA gone bad. The power of prayer can still summon miracles and sustain me through whatever must be. So there is still room for hope.

Even if the monster awakens with a vengeance, AND if it's time to put down my pencil and turn in my life's test, then there is still room for hope. In his recent passing, President Hinckley shared his testimony of that hope in a poem that was put to music for his funeral:

What is this thing that men call death,

This quiet passing in the night?

'Tis not the end, but genesis

Of better worlds and greater light.

O God, touch Thou my aching heart

And calm my troubled, haunting fears.

Let hope and faith, transcendent, pure,

Give peace and strength beyond my tears.

There is no death, but only change,

With recompense for victory won

The gift of Him who loved all men

The Son of God, the Holy One.

(Yeah, I think Head Games could be easily bumped from my blog soundtrack to make room for this one!)

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.

My fight song

Yes, I have a cell phone, and yes, I have a brain tumor. My neurosurgeon said that the rate of newly diagnosed brain tumors does not correlate with the steep rise in cordless and wireless phone usage over the past two decades, so he didn't advise getting rid of my phone. (Which is good, because my family members would rather not have to wait for me to drive home before I can share MRI results.)

Over the weekend my husband helped me find a new ringtone for my cell phone, because the default one was pretty annoying. My phone is now rigged to pay Lionel Richie's "Hello" (our song) when my husband calls. (I know--awwww.)

When anyone else calls, it plays the BYU fight song, which takes me back to my college days, shivering in the stadium but having fun at the football games. The unfortunate thing about this ringtone, however, is that it only plays the BYU fight song as far as the upbeat leading to the chorus, which is an awful place to cut off the song (but at least that way I won't miss as many calls while I'm mentally shaking pom-poms).

There's nothing like having a song cut off at a good spot, to permanently set that song playing over and over in my head. So I figured, hey -- if it's going to play in my head all day, I may as well make up my own words for a personal "fight" song, to cheer on the healthy parts of my body:

KRISTA'S FIGHT SONG

Rise immune system, and hurl your challenge to the foe.
You will fight, day or night, rain or snow.
Loyal, strong, and true
Do what you must do.
While we sing, get set to spring.
Defeat the tumor, it's up to you.

OH -

(this is where the cell phone stops playing, but my mind keeps going...)

Rise and shout, the tumor's knocked out
We're on the the way to re-co-ver-y.
Rise and shout, our cheers will ring out
As we unfold a victr'y story.

On we go to vanquish the foe, so I can raise my son and daughter.
As we join in song, in praise of God, our faith is strong,
We'll raise our voices high in refrain,
And cheer what's healthy inside my brain!!!

G-L-I-A-L!
G-L-I-A-L!
G-L-I-A-L!

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay, healthy glial cells!!!!!!!!

The Danger Zone

What you are about to read is not a complaint about my recent good news!

On Friday night some friends joined us for "family friendly" karaoke night at a local restaurant. It was so nice to spend some time at the microphone, singing love songs despite having a big hole in my right brain (where music is generally processed). I reflected back on my three Messiah performances since my head was carved (and a fourth performance is planned for December 16), and felt very blessed.

I also found myself marveling on Saturday morning as I participated in a two-hour special karate lesson taught by Master Black, a seventh-degree black belt who was in town to celebrate our dojo's 25th birthday. I learned to fend off grappling, knife attacks, and all kinds of punches and kicks, and couldn't help but consider it symbolic of the way my brain and body have withstood the onslaughts of cancer and cancer treatments (so far, at least). I realized that I was literally "alive and kicking", and it was miraculous.

On Saturday evening my husband and I caught a few minutes of the "edited-for-television" broadcast of the movie, Saving Private Ryan. We hadn't seen it before, but my grandmother told me that my grandfather served in that same company portrayed in the movie, so I was happy to find a non-R-rated version. Even so, it was still intense and violent and frightening during the few moments that we saw, and I couldn't help but try to imagine how anyone (and thankfully how my grandfather) managed to survive such a nightmarish experience, storming the beaches on D-day. This is the same grandfather who later died of cancer, but he lived seven years after being given a six-month prognosis. More than once, he had to survive against the odds, and I guess I've been lucky to follow suit (so far).

It's been a good week. However, I also noticed this week that I face a new danger: the danger of good news.

I should repeat that this is not a complaint. I really like having good news! I feel like Ralphie in the movie, A Christmas Story, when his mom covers for him so that his dad won't punish him, and he says, "I slowly realized that I was not about to be destroyed!" That quote keeps going through what's left of my mind ever since the MRI results came out good.

I know that the battle isn't over (I still need the prayers, thank you thank you thank you!!!). And I know that there are no guarantees for anyone's longevity. But the "death may be imminent" pressure has subsided a little bit -- kind of like the piano hanging over my head getting a nice, new cable reinforcement. It's good in a lot of ways, but I realized that I need to be careful about this new danger.

When adversity strikes, it comes rich with opportunity. There is greater clarity in a once-complicated life, and there is greater appreciation for things that were taken for granted. Faith grows stronger, love grows deeper, and blessings are easier to find. Of course, we'd be much better off if we could seize these opportunities without waiting for adversity to leave them at our feet. And when we get a season of joy and relief, we'd be much better off if we could retain the valuable perspectives from times of hardship. Otherwise we drift into the danger zone, where we lose what we learned.

Just a few days ago I caught myself getting impatient over things that were very trivial and stupid--things that wouldn't be worthy of my notice even a week ago. I realized how easy it is to let the good times roll...into the danger zone.

Added to Ralphie's "not about to be destroyed" voice in my head is the voice of the prophet Alma: "Yea, he that truly humbleth himself, and repenteth of his sins, and endureth to the end, the same shall be blessed--yea, much more blessed than they who are compelled to be humble..." (Alma 32:15)

I'd rather not "be compelled". I'd rather figure out how to keep all the benefits of my cancer journey without having to forfeit this season of joy. I've had the chance to learn much about enduring difficult times; now my challenge is learning how to endure good times without becoming complacent.

(Hopefully I'll just have to keep getting good news, so that I can practice!)

Carb-Free

(Carboplatin, that is!)

MRI results were great! My doctor is very pleased, and she decided that I could stop taking Carboplatin. However, rather than going cold turkey with the chemotherapy altogether, she is leaving me on Avastin for six more months, and then if things stay good she will let that treatment go, too.

I'm naturally very relieved and grateful that things went this well, and I appreciate the prayers that not only helped bring about this result, but also helped me be calm and unafraid.

This opens up a new world for me in some ways. On the good side, I don't have to worry about my white blood cells crashing anymore (the Carboplatin did that). But I do have to keep monitoring my platelet levels and kidney function, and I have to be on guard for stroke (which has happened to patients). I'm also allergic to Avastin, so I'll still be taking a lot of Benadryl on treatment weeks.

My infusion and monitoring schedules will remain the same (labwork every week, Avastin infusion every two weeks, neuro test every four weeks, and MRI every eight weeks), but instead of alternating short and long infusions I will have the same 45-minute infusion each time.

The next MRI will be a nervous one, because it will be the first one following the switch to "maintenance". But, hey -- it's better than dealing with tumor progression and waiting to see whether it responds to treatment. And we have a game plan: if the next MRI has any funny business on it, they may just add Carboplatin or another drug back into my treatment.

Meanwhile, I get to celebrate that I'm not only alive longer than predicted, but my brain also looks better than it did a year ago.

Pivot Point

I remember more than nineteen years ago, being unable to sleep the night before my wedding. Part of the reason was that I spent that night in a hotel with my family, and my younger brothers stayed up late watching Beetlejuice on television in our room. But the main reason was anticipation, knowing that the next day's event would change my life in a big way.

Tonight may be another sleepless night. Insomnia is hardly a novelty for me, but once again there is that anticipation, knowing that things will soon change for me in a big way. At least with my wedding I already knew that life was changing in a good way. This time things could go either way. The next couple of days will be highly pivotal for me as I reach the end of my current treatment protocol.

I leave early tomorrow morning for yet another trip through the MRI tube. This is followed by a merciless wait until Tuesday morning, which is the earliest my doctor is available to read the MRI results and deliver the verdict. I will either be NEDP (no evidence of disease progression) for twelve consecutive treatment cycles, which would mean great things for me (including a reduction or possibly even a suspension of treatment). Or I could have a new battle on my hands. Either way, it will be significant.

Naturally, I can't help but look for clues that might tell me how my cranium might be doing. It's like I was many years ago, undergoing infertility treatments, and being obsessed with signs of pregnancy (as if there are any noticeable signs three hours after conception). Yesterday my husband caught me making faces in the mirror as I tried to confirm facial symmetry. I managed to teach my Relief Society lesson today in church, and I even sang the hymns from memory (both positive signs of neuro function), but I couldn't find the music I needed to direct choir practice, and I had the usual "where are my shoes?????????????" moment.

(I think my husband is going to put "She went to find her shoes" on my headstone. I have many proud Brain Tumor Savant moments of brilliance, but I can't leave the house without my ritual of stomping through it, looking for my shoes. I have a lovely shoe organizer in my huge and disastrously messy closet, but I still run around with two mismatched shoes, saying, "I know there's another pair just like this somewhere, ha ha!")

The truth is that I'm completely useless in giving myself clinical indications of how my head will look on the inside. I'm too much like my whole-brained, quadragenarian peers and fellow parents of young kids. We have our good days and then we have our bad days where we're looking for shoes so our kid Whatshisname can get to school on time. Plus I had no symptoms last year when the MRI picked up tumor progression. I'm just going to have to wait and be patient until I get the real news.

I kept thinking to myself today, "I'm either living or dying." And then I had to correct myself: I'm living AND dying, just like I was from the moment I was born. Just like we all are, regardless of MRI results or lab results or professional opinions. Life is a terminal condition, so all who have life are eventually dying. Meanwhile we are living, and what we do about that -- whether we just sustain a heartbeat or whether we really LIVE -- is a choice, and it is one of the things that we can still control, even when everything else in life seems so out of control.

This situation is out of my hands. Things are what they are, and the MRI will just reveal what already is. I believe that things are probably as they should be -- whatever that means in the Lord's good will and plan for me.

It still may be a sleepless night. It still may be a suspenseful and emotional couple of days. But I am armed with the knowledge of Who is in charge, and with this situation in His hands, everything will ultimately be okay--no matter what the path will look like for the next leg of the journey. And I know that, once again, I will feel the sustaining strength of many prayers on my behalf.

I just need to find and lay out my shoes before I try to go to sleep...

...and TWENTY ONE!

It's my birthday again! Twenty-one months since my cancer diagnosis, or as Lance Armstrong would say, since the day I started living again.

I'm far beyond the expected lifespan, and well over the hump toward becoming a long-term survivor (which in this case is defined as three years post-diagnosis).

I spent this morning finishing up an ISO recertification audit, and then my husband and I stopped briefly at our local family history center to process some family history records. Tonight my son and I have a karate lesson. Meanwhile, I think I'll celebrate with a nap. In-between all this, I'm washing my hands and slathering them with sanitizer lotion like an obsessive-compulsive. But it's not bad for having half my brain tied behind my back for 21 months!

Crash

It's so much more fun to give glowing reports of happy news, and I've been lucky to have lots to share. But let's face it - cancer sometimes has its bad news moments.

My blood cell counts have crashed. I don't know all the details, but I'm neutropenic (very low white cells - very vulnerable to infection) and the other stuff is "pretty low". I was in an audit all day and so the nurse relayed the message to my husband, who did his best to capture the salient points without knowing all the detailed questions I would normally ask.

It's almost like my body kept hearing me brag about how I'm at the end of a twelve-cycle treatment regimen, and said, "Wow - I've had THAT much chemotherapy?? I guess I should be sick by now!" I wouldn't be surprised at all if I suddenly woke up bald, if my body lets my hair in on the secret.

These lab results were from a blood draw on Friday. Since Friday I've eaten lots of raw fruits and veggies, and I've shaken many hands. I spent most of Friday night and Saturday morning in our filthy garage, getting ready for our neighborhood garage sale and getting lots of bruises (thanks to low platelets) and exposure to unimaginable germs. Who knows what I could possibly be incubating at this moment. Sleep deprivation and a busy/stressful week do not help, either.

(Quick -- tell me a joke, because laughter boosts the immune system!)

I'm hopeful that next week's MRI scan will be good, so that treatment won't be necessary. If that's the case, then I just need to be the bubble girl and avoid surviving glioblastoma by dying of a freak infection.

It's a prayer moment!

ch-ch-ch-ch-changes...

Today I was called, sustained, and set apart to be a teacher in our Relief Society organization (the women's organization in our church). I teach a thirty-minute lesson every third Sunday, starting this month.

I was thrilled to get this calling for many reasons, but especially because it requires me to be alive and functioning! They don't need me to be the choir director for the Second Coming -- at least not yet! (Those who have read my earliest posts know that my niece's theory was that if I died, maybe it was so I could be the choir director for the Second Coming!) I'm glad that my last calling wasn't my LAST calling, and that I can still serve a useful purpose here upon the earth.

I am looking forward to teaching the sisters in my ward. For one thing, I already know firsthand that they are a very charitable group of women, so it makes me feel less nervous as I prepare my first lesson. Also, it will be nice to spend more time giving back something to these women, who rendered so much service to me when I needed it.

This new opportunity is great but also somewhat bittersweet, as the plan is to eventually release me from my calling as the Primary music director after the children do their fall program. Singing with the Primary children is part of my music therapy. I have had many Maria Von Trapp moments working with them, and will miss them dearly. ("So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, good-bye...")

Change can be hard to adjust to, especially when basking in a comfort zone. It's hard to end a good chapter. The good news is that when we end a chapter, we start a new one, and it can be full of wonderful things. And even when we have to put our pencils down and end the whole story of our lives there is the post-life epilogue.

I'm glad that I will still get to see the Primary children sing, and maybe I'll get a chance to substitute on occasion for the new director. I still have my callings as the ward choir director and music chair, so I still get some good music therapy. (And we're starting to work on Christmas music already!) And I am really looking forward to this new teaching opportunity, because I came to appreciate long ago that the teacher is the one who learns the most.

Cleared for landing?

Lab results this week = good! ANC (absolute neutrophyl count) is on the low end of good, so I still need to be careful around germs, but everything was good enough to proceed with next week's chemotherapy infusion.

It might be my last one. At least I know it's the last one for this treatment protocol. I feel very fortunate to have gone twelve cycles - as planned - without having any problems that would delay or change treatment.

The end of this cycle will be pivotal, as we see how the MRI looks on September 18, and decide where to go from there.

Starting Cycle 12

Labwork this week = excellent! I remain the walking miracle. I aced the neuro test, too. (Memory words today were butterfly, apple, and baseball.)

I was cleared for my long chemo infusion today. This is the start of cycle 12, the last four weeks of the treatment protocol that I began last October, when tumor progression was noted. The treatment has been very successful (miracles all around). In two weeks I have a short chemo infusion, and at the end of this four week cycle I will have another MRI, which will be a turning point. It will either have bad news, which will cause us to re-evaluate our approach, or it will have good news (like it has each time since I started this new treatment). If the latter is the result, my oncologist and I will be discussing whether to go on a maintenance treatment regimen (involving less chemotherapy), or whether I can take a break altogether from treatments and just undergo monitoring. It would be the closest thing to the "r" word (remission) that is possible in this kind of cancer. It would be an awesome thing. There will be a huge call for prayers as we lead up to that pivotal moment!

...and Nineteen!

No, I haven't had a setback! I'm still celebrating 20 months of A.D. life and doing well (scored over 400 points in Scrabble against a whole-brained person). This "nineteen" refers to nineteen years of wedded bliss! It was an anniversary that I didn't think I'd be able to see when I was initially diagnosed, but people told me to ignore the statistics, and they were right. My mom said that if I hang in there for our twentieth wedding anniversary she wants to send us to Hawaii.

Our nineteenth wedding anniversary was on Monday, but in typical fashion we made it a long celebration. On Saturday Prince Jared spent the entire day cleaning our bedroom, which was really nice! I walked in and wondered if he had built a bigger room!

On Sunday we had an anniversary-themed dinner with my dad and stepmom. I decorated the dining room with my wedding gown and temple dress and pictures and flowers and stuff. We put a small television in the room and played our wedding video during the dinner. It's always so fun to see that happy young couple at a time when we figured we had just made it to Happily-Ever-After, and we had no idea what challenges we would face together. Luckily we've weathered all the storms of our life so far by clinging together. It's always nice to be married to your best friend.

We had a family night/double-date night with the kids Monday evening, and saw Hairspray at a dinner theater place. I thought one of the songs was especially appropriate for our anniversary state of mind:

You're Timeless To Me
(just some snippets of it, at least!)

You're like a stinky old cheese, babe
Just gettin' riper with age
You're like a fatal disease, babe
But there's no cure
So let this fever rage

Some folks can't stand it
Say time is a bandit
But i take the opposite view
Cause when i need a lift
Time brings a gift
Another day with you

A twist or a waltz
It's all the same schmaltz
With just a change in the scenery
You'll never be old hat
That's that!
You're timeless to me

You're like a rare vintage ripple
A vintage they'll never forget
So pour me a teeny virgin triple
And we can toast the fact we ain't dead yet!

I can't stop eating
Your hairline's receding
Soon there'll be nothing at all
So, you'll wear a wig
While i roast a pig
Hey! Pass that Geritol

You're like a broken down Chevy
All you need is a fresh coat of paint

And you got me goin' hot and heavy
You're fat and old, but baby, boring you ain't!

Some folks don't get it
But we never fret it
'Cause we know that time is our friend
It's plain to see
That you're stuck with me
Until the bitter end...

You'll always hit the spot
Big shot!
You're timeless to me

You'll always be du jour
Mon amour
You're timeless to me

You'll always be first string
Ring-a-ding-ding!
You're timeless to me

It's been a while since I added a song to my blog soundtrack, and I thought this one was pretty cute!

On Tuesday my dad and stepmom watched the kids, so we could go to the temple and out to dinner. At the temple we did proxy sealings, which is a nice way to relive our own marriage sealing in the Salt Lake Temple. The ceremony is almost similar, so we make it a tradition to go and do that every year. It's kind of like our own way of renewing our vows and being reminded of the blessings that are pronounced upon a couple who is sealed for time and all eternity. It's nice to really be "timeless" to each other.

After the temple we headed off to our anniversary dinner spot, which is Randy's Steakhouse in Frisco. We discovered this place ten years ago, and have gone there for our anniversary every year since. It is a very romantic setting in a restored historical home, with a piano bar and more dining rooms added on throughout the years. Randy himself cuts each steak before it is cooked, and then he strolls through the restaurant, making friends with the customers as they dine. He congratulated us heartily and treated us to lemon chiffon cake. We had our typical fabulous super-tender 8 oz filet, and we reminisced about the many changes that have taken place over the past ten years since we had our first dinner there.

Back then we had two beagles and no kids, we lived in the third of five homes we have had since moving to our town nearly twelve years ago, and we worked for different companies than we do now. My parents had just divorced, and we thought that was the worst thing that would ever happen to us. The extent of our infertility, miscarriage, and adoption adventures were yet unknown at that time. Cancer was something that only happened to other, older people, as far as we were concerned.

Life has turned out very differently than it looked back then. In some ways it was bad, in other ways it was good, but through both good and bad we have been blessed. John Lennon was right: "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

As it turned out, my parents' divorce caused us to reinforce and fortify our still-happy marriage. This prepared us for the onslaught of infertility, which usually attacks all the vital parts of a marriage. We emerged from heartbreaking experiences stronger instead of broken. We learned that our greatest blessings came in unexpected packages, and that thorny ways did lead to joyful ends.

That experience taught us to trust completely in the Lord, because his thoughts and ways are higher than our ways, and if we let him be in charge of the blessings and how they come about, they end up being a lot better than what we could come up with on our own. From a practical standpoint, it also taught us important medical information, so we were being prepared both spiritually and physically for our next adventure: cancer. Who knows what is next, but we know that whatever it is, we will be prepared.

Luckily many more surprises were fun. Stuff we never expected, but love, include:

- the house we live in today

- the huge expansion of the area between our house and Randy's Steakhouse, with loads of shopping and fun things to do

- adopting two kids, including one of a different race who fits right in

- spending time together on Capitol Hill, lobbying for adoption tax credits

- new karate belts

- resurrected clogging duets

- becoming a chief executive, then retired, and later self-employed

- becoming an author

- becoming part of the Mary Kay family

- Messiah duets

- teaching voice lessons

- reuniting with friends and family

- discovering a passion for genealogy work and learning cool stuff about my ancestry

- being alive long after my expiration date, and keeping my quality of life

and on and on and on!

It's been a good ten years since our first dinner at Randy's. It's been a good nearly quarter of a century since our first date. It's been a great nineteen-year "permanent date" since the day we were married. Very different than expected, but nevertheless very blessed, with much to look forward to.

...and TWENTY!!!

Yep, I'm at the 20-month mark today!

This was an important milestone for me (actually, each day that I am still drawing breath is an important milestone, but...) because I was told that most glioblastoma multiforme studies show a break point among the treatment groups at 20-24 months after diagnosis where the curve flattens out and there are very few or no further tumor recurrences or deaths. It doesn't mean that I am cured (still need prayers), but it is certainly an encouraging sign.

This "birthday" weekend was another reunion of sorts. We traveled down to The Woodlands, just north of Houston, where we lived for a few years before coming to the Dallas area. We stayed with my mom, and we attended church with her to see one of our friends' sons report on his two-year mission, which he served in Canada. I remember when he was a preschooler, and it was so fun to see him all grown up and doing so well. My friend had the typical and well-deserved "returned-missionary-mom" glow, and I couldn't help but hope that I would stick around to experience the moment when my son returns from his mission. That would be fifteen years from now, which seems like a long shot, but I remember when 20 months seemed like a long shot.

I also got to spend time with another friend, who came in from California for the same event. I saw her daughter, who recently graduated from college and is starting her master's degree program soon. I thought of my own daughter, who just turned two, and hoped that seeing these milestones among my friends' kids would end up being symbolic of what my own milestone today might portend. (If not, I'll just have to haunt my kids when they have special events!)

To celebrate this milestone I have added a feature on this blog site to help support some very relevant research that is being done to find a cure for my cancer. There are two specific funds that are worth supporting. One is Dr. Samuel Hassenbusch's fund at MD Anderson. Dr. Hassenbusch is a GBM survivor who has a vaccine treatment that is very promising. The other is Dr. Karen Fink's fund at Baylor Medical Center. Dr. Fink is my neuro-oncologist, and is very involved in research. In fact, the experimental protocol she is using on me has kept me alive and well in order to celebrate today's milestone. Please check out the links to the left for donation forms and instructions. Dr. Hassenbusch's form is pretty self-explanatory with mailing instructions; Dr. Fink's form doesn't have the mailing address printed on it, so scroll all the way down on the left of this page, past the archives list, to find out where to send it. They will send you tax receipts, and the donations go directly toward research that may very well be the answer to our prayers for my life. Any and all would be very much appreciated!

Orange is the new black?

Nah -- it's just another step closer to black! (In karate, at least!)

My son and I had our belt tests today, and are now sporting orange belts! It's not only fun for us to do this together, but it's the ultimate neuro test, challenging memory, balance, coordination, and strength. Like clog dancing, it's life-affirming and reassuring and good for body and mind. There was a time when it looked like I wouldn't see this day, let alone be of sound mind and body, so it's more than just a new belt and certificate to celebrate.

We have our sights on purple now, which is especially exciting for me because I stopped at the orange belt level twenty years ago. So this is new territory for me now that I am older and bigger with less of a brain. Plus at the purple belt level we switch our uniforms from white to a more flattering black (no more Sta-puff Marshmallow Ninja), which is the biggest motivator of all!

So let's see...in the last 30 days I managed to pass my MRI test, my neuro test, my blood tests, and my belt test. This is a good trend...hope it continues!

Good labs!

One step closer to reaching a good milestone! My labwork came back good this time, so I am cleared for my chemo infusion next week!

So far (knock wood) I have been able to follow the protocol we started last October with no interruptions in treatment. There have been some times when we came close to having to suspend treatment, but I always bounced back just in time. It's a prayer thing. As a friend of mine said about her husband's good news, "Miracle Accepted"!

Just a few more weeks (almost 7 to be exact), and if all goes well I might be able to transition from "recurrent tumor" to "successful treatment protocol; no evidence of disease progression; recommended for maintenance and/or monitoring."

Huzzah! (Thanks, and keep the prayers coming!)

In a weak moment I have written a book...

"In a weak moment I have written a book..." - Margaret Mitchell

This has become one of my favorite understatements.

I beat the odds and survived long enough to turn forty last week, and we celebrated with a family trip to Georgia. Being a superfan of Gone With the Wind I wanted to go to Atlanta to visit the land of Tara, and "The Dump" -- the apartment where Margaret Mitchell wrote the book. She was almost a quadragenarian when it was published. She didn't have a brain tumor, so she took ten years to write it while convalescing from an injury.

It was fascinating to learn more about the life of Margaret Mitchell, and the process of writing and publishing Gone With the Wind. Not only because it is my favorite novel, but also because I could relate to being in a weak moment of recuperation and writing a book. In fact, we also visited the Liahona Bookstore in Atlanta, where copies of my book were being sold, and I signed some copies and chatted with the management and staff to thank them for carrying it.

We also visited Jonesboro, to visit the Road To Tara Museum, and to dig up some of the "red earth of Tara", which gave Scarlett O'Hara her strength.

We stayed in Macon, Georgia, at the historic 1842 Inn, an antebellum home that avoided being destroyed by Sherman's troops during the Civil War. (It also avoided being destroyed by my two children, thank goodness!)

We chose Macon, because my brother Jim has just started a Moh's surgery fellowship there. It was nice to see Jim and thank him for being part of the reason I was able to have a 40th birthday. Without his insistence that I was having seizures, I would have been left to rely on the ER doctor's advice that my symptoms were probably just something weird that would go away by itself in six months (that advice would have killed me). Jim also let me cream him in a game of Scrabble.

We had more time on the road again as a family, more use of the spray bottle, and more whinnying when we saw a Ford Mustang driving down the road. The coolest surprise on the trip was my son's high interest in the movie, Gone With the Wind, and his insistence that we watch it together on the little portable DVD player.

Now that I am forty and still alive, the next question is my next book. I have entertained some ideas, but just like in my B.C. days my family and my work have taken most of my time, and the other stuff of life easily takes the rest of it. And I'm not on as many steroids, so I'm not up writing at 5:30 am like I was in my post-op days! I have to keep Ms. Mitchell's quote handy as a reminder that I should not wait for my next "weak moment" to write another book. And I shouldn't wait ten years. Even though things are looking as good as they can for me right now, I should keep the cancer glasses in place, to motivate me to do things while I still can.

After all...tomorrow IS another day, but we don't know what it will bring, except perhaps a string of yesterdays full of "oh, darn -- I should have________".

Q-U-A-D-R-A-G-E-N-A-R-I-A-N

quadragenarian: (n) a person between the ages of 40 and 49; not commonly found among GBM patients who were diagnosed in their thirties.

Today's MRI scan looked "beautiful", in sharp contrast to my roots that need serious touching up (Carlos has been booked solid). But hey -- at least I have hair! And the little gray straggles remind me that I will likely reach quadragenarian status on Wednesday (assuming I make it home safely in traffic)! We'll have an early celebration tonight.

Lab results

This was the first chemo cycle in a while that didn't have bad labs to keep me in suspense over my treatment schedule. Upon my return from our Utah trip I headed for the lab to see if I am healthy enough to get my chemotherapy on Monday (assuming the MRI keeps showing that the chemo is working). I went in on Wednesday and then nervously awaited the phone call on Thursday to get my results...and then when I didn't hear anything I figured no news might be good news.

On Friday I finally got the call. White blood cell count was great. Neutrophils were great. Platelets were great. Clinical chemistry panel was "perfect". Who'd have thunk I'd been shooting up cytotoxic chemicals for the past nine months?

My other family members have been dealing with colds, allergies, migraines, heart disease, stitches, and all kinds of stuff. Except for -- well, you know -- the catastrophic grade IV brain tumor (which didn't even show up on the last MRI), I'm the only one who feels healthy. After 19 months of cancer treatment, I still have more hair and energy than my husband!

...and NINETEEN!

I know...it's actually 19 months and one week!

(Since my diagnosis, not since my last blog post!)

I've been a tardy poster (again) because I've been a busy girl!

I spent my 19 month milestone at a wonderful family reunion in Utah. Our trip was a reunion in lots of fun ways.

First of all, there is nothing like bonding with my husband and kids on a 20-hour road trip from Texas to Utah. We saw beautiful scenery going through western Texas, into New Mexico, and through western Colorado and eastern Utah. We spent a little time on historic Route 66 and stayed overnight at the historic and kitchy El Rancho Hotel in Gallup, NM. We learned the value of a spray bottle of water for resolving sibling disputes in the back seat (much more amusing and nicer than yelling at the kids). We enjoyed seeing our son get so excited as we passed by beautiful rock formations and arches, and playing the game of whinnying anytime we spotted a Ford Mustang (my husband's favorite car). We were also pleasantly surprised at our daughter's decision to be potty trained on the trip. (That was easy!)

The official reunion was for my paternal side of the family. I hadn't been to one for a long time, and since they are only held every couple of years I certainly didn't want to miss this one. My paternal grandparents are deceased, but we were fortunate to be surrounded by their brothers and sisters, my dad's brothers and sisters, and cousins galore (and their kids). We had so much fun being among a huge crowd of people who loved each other and shared so many memories together. Some of us commented about how that must be what heaven will be like.

A side benefit was the opportunity for a mini-reunion with some of my husband's family. We stayed with his parents, and we were able to see his two sisters, who live with their families in Utah. One of his brothers came in from Michigan, and one came in from Nevada, so we had more opportunities to feel the love.

I had a brief lunch reunion and book signing with support group members while I was there, and before we knew it we were off again for the ride home. As always, these trips are never long enough, especially since I would have loved another gaggle reunion or a Cloggers West reunion or a myriad of other opportunities while we were in Utah.

Our trip home was delayed by another "trip" -- this time it was my son landing face first on the only part of his grandma's sofa that wasn't soft. I had to hold his hand and try to comfort him as the ER doctor put three stitches into his upper lip. He was hurting and terrified, but he was a brave little guy, and he was happy to go home with his glove "balloon" and a new teddy bear and truck (thanks to some kind folks who donated gifts for pediatric emergency patients).

The delay meant getting home safe and sound but very late, so it was nice to be snug in our own beds again. And we think the stitches have finally cured my son of his thumb-sucking habit. All is well.

My next adventure is a trip through the MRI tube this coming Monday. I am once again at another fateful nine-month point (more than nine months since my last recurrence was confirmed) and I am once again leaning on prayers and hoping for miracles. After all, I've made it this far!

Whew

Dad's surgery went well -- a very "boring" quadruple bypass, according to his surgeon. Not surprisingly, of course, because once again our family has been sustained by faith and prayer.

Plus...hey, it was a NO-BRAINER!!

The Wizard of Oz

It's funny how sometimes things fall together around a common theme. It's nice, because I'm always searching for themes for birthday parties and Halloween and stuff like that, usually many months before the event.

It looks like this year we should have a Wizard of Oz-themed Halloween. We loved the stage show, Wicked, which is a prequel to The Wizard of Oz. My son even likes to sing songs from it every now and then. A few weeks ago I found some red glittery shoes for my daughter on sale, along with a t-shirt ideal for my little-league star son: it had baseball graphics on it, with the slogan, "There's No Place Like Home." And we don't live in Kansas, but it's that time of year when we have exciting weather in Texas. So it's been on our minds.

Speaking of minds, I figured that I would be the scarecrow: "If I only had a brain" (at least a cancer-free one).

Our prayers have recently turned to my dad, who is having heart surgery this week. Unlike his daughter (the professional patient) my dad has never been hospitalized before, so it's a doozy of an adjustment. I'm hoping that he will feel the same strength and comfort that has carried me through my ordeals, which emanates from the faith and prayers of many.

Dad's situation is sobering, but since I have learned to instinctively extract something light out of heavy situations, it occurred to me that we now have a tin man for our ensemble: "If I only had a heart" (He has a real heart in the good sense, but anatomically speaking, he'd like a disease-free one).

We can't double up our parts, so we have to summon our own courage (which again, is fueled by faith and prayers). The part of the Cowardly Lion remains to be cast. Once in a while we torment my youngest brother, a very eligible bachelor of twenty-six, teasing him about how Brigham Young once declared that an unmarried man of that age was a "menace to society". The reality, of course, is that all good things will happen in their right time and way (as I learned during the long wait for my children). My brother is a good sport, so maybe he'll indulge us and be the guy in the lion costume wishing, "If I only had the nerve" (as well as the right woman in his universe).

The nice thing is that we don't need to traipse down a yellow brick road in search of a fake wizard. Instead, we walk by faith down the paths of life, knowing that Someone very real knows our needs and provides amply. We walk arm in arm with loving family and friends who are always there to support us and help us.