Spring Break -- from cancer, Take 2

It is that time of year when the annual Azalea Festival celebrates the beauty of Wilmington North Carolina’s gardens, historic homes, and its history. In April of 2015, I shared my first experience at the Azalea Festival’s Garden Party in my post Spring Break—from cancer found here. For me to walk the grassy landscape of Airlie Gardens and admire all the beautiful colors of spring for a second time was not expected since cancer is always on my radar, so I felt excitement to be there. If not for Greg’s employer being one of the many sponsors of this event and my current drug keeping my disease under control, I would not have been able to feel the exhilaration that comes from putting my fears in another part of my brain and simply enjoying the beautiful day. 

Greg and I April 9, 2016

Though the weather was on the chilly side--for me anyway--the visual enjoyment I found from the tamed landscape providing a living backdrop for the party was tremendous. Again, the colorful, lively people decorating the lawn proved more enjoyable than the flowers that line the pathways.

A party like this leaves me with thoughts of sipping mint juleps, pinky finger daintily floating alone away from the cup handle. But, a glance at the tables under tents filled with bottles of varying types of alcohol and bartenders ready for action to fill small plastic cups with your drink of choice takes away such thoughts of sophistication leaving my pinky finger to serve as the security force behind me not dropping my drink--still it was no college fraternity party.  

The liquor started flowing at 10 am and stopped at 3 pm. Drinks were not the only item served that people could indulge themselves. Plenty of pork barbecue, coleslaw, large French-fried shaped cornbread, and green beans were available for everyone—it is a Southern event after all.

The Summerall Guards

The Summerall Guards from the Citadel Military College of South Carolina did their precision drill routine as was done last year. You can read more about them here.

With such a variety of colorful clothing gracing the green carpeted event I felt like I was shopping for next year’s dress and getting to see each item on a live model. For whatever reason, dresses with pink held my gaze. Pink: you would think I would hate that color.



Dresses, jackets, hats and even men in shorts were part of the scene once again. The biggest change to the garden party this year came from a group of men who took dressing for the event seriously with an added flair for fun.

Men who take fashion to a new level!

I spent more time this year getting to know Greg’s co-workers and enjoyed the company of a wife of one of them. She is an identical twin, I am a mother of identical twins, and I have identical twin sisters so of course that topic had to enter our conversation.  We also chatted about the job her sister gets paid to do. She types/typed up the transcripts of the interviews—word for word—for the television reality show Kate Plus 8 and the former show The Duggars’ 19 Kids and Counting. I admit I have watched these shows and even have an affinity for Kate because she doesn’t seem fake. Dealing with 8 kids would make me crazy, can you imagine? Dealing with 19, well that is a different kind of crazy all together. Of course a lot of what is said does not make it past the final cut. She is sworn to secrecy which is unfortunate cause if I am being honest—which I am—I would be entertained by such secrets.

At around 3 pm, Greg and I said goodbye to the group of people from his work. I wish I could have said, “See you next year,” without thinking . . .

Well, if you read this blog with any regularity then you know what I was thinking.
   

Greg and I April 9, 2016 Airlie Garden Party

Hopefully, I will be there next year.

Metsiversary

Today marks the 3rd anniversary of my knowledge that my cancer had metastasized. It was a Monday, April Fools’ Day, 2013. The irony lingers.

On that day I was driving my youngest daughter to her gymnastics class. I answered the buzz of my phone, and the few words my oncologist spoke set a course for my life I hoped would never happen. I was sad and scared. At the time I had no idea I would also become disappointed. The person I depended on to guide me; the person I relied on to answer my questions or concerns did not have the courage, or perhaps the time, to give me all the facts. Instead, the task to tell me I was stage IV and terminal was pushed to someone else--a person I didn’t know.

This person continues to be my oncologist today. I can only imagine what she was thinking when she realized I didn’t know the details of my diagnosis. She had been chosen to do the dirty work. The image in my mind of her looking down at my new patient form, reading the words I had written stating why I was there to see her that day still remains. She looked up, and I learned my hope for stage III was not to be.  

I have thought a few times about contacting him—my old oncologist--to let him know how I am doing, but then I remember our relationship wasn’t what I thought it was. I felt deserted by him then and now. At the same time, though, I am glad he sent me away. If I had not been reassigned to a new doctor at a new facility far away from home, I might not have no evidence of disease like I do now. (I would like to say completely-gone-disease, but words like those are not used—well, only rarely, very seldom, most often not, okay, usually never—to describe people with stage IV breast cancer.) My former oncologist did say he wanted me to have access to the newest and best treatments. He might not have been as willing to listen to my suggestion of Cyber-Knife radiation to zap the nodule in my right lung the way my present oncologist did in October. Not that he couldn't have sent me to Chapel Hill or Greenville where Cyber-Knife treatments happen every day, but would he have? So, really, sending me away has worked well for me—and him.

The view from my front porch--wisteria blooms.

What I thought was unwanted, this move to a new oncologist and new facility, I now appreciate. It has taken awhile for me to trust and even to like the oncologist that told me the horrific news three years ago. But, like the wild wisteria that grows along the roadways that lead to my house, what seems unwanted can bring big surprises. Weeds can become beautiful if nurtured in just the right way.

I Don't Want To Regret

Audrey, Reese, Garrett, Morgan 2005--the year I was diagnosed stage 0.

Warning as of March 21: Below is a post I wrote a few days ago to express some emotions that I was feeling about the process of dying. Anyone who reads about cancer or disease in general understands what it does to a living being. It can be horrific.
A few people have said after reading this post that they are concerned about me, mentally. Please do not be. I was simply writing about feeling sad knowing my children will have to go through pain at the end of their lives. This is clearer to me now as I confront my own mortality. I love my children. They give my life meaning. If we all could "go gentle into that good night" (not what Dylan Thomas wrote--just the opposite) by dying in our sleep then the issue in this post would not have caused me to think about it. So with that said I hope this is not another issue in our society that people would rather sweep under the carpet or put their fingers in their ears and pretend these thoughts don't exist--maybe not for all, but surely I am not alone.
My life as a parent has always been to protect my children from pain. Unfortunately, I cannot protect them against the pain caused by dying. Until recently, I had not thought of birth as a terminal condition--but it is.
If you continue reading, please read with caution and know that I am fine and so is my family.


*******************************************************************************
 I Don't Want to Regret

I don’t want to regret giving life to my children, but lately my thoughts drift there.

They will die. Most likely there will be pain. Pain will come from leaving life’s pleasures or pain from the body dying, probably both.

How do I not feel sad about that? I don’t want to cause them pain.

I lost my mother to death before my children came into being. My father died 51 days before my first born daughters breathed for the first time. With my parents’ deaths fresh in memory as I became a parent, I thought about death--my children’s, Greg's and mine.

Back then death was to be avoided not something we had to go through--anytime soon at least. I was too busy living and loving life to give too much of my time to thinking about the end—the actual end--my children would experience eventually.

In every selfish wonderful minute I have spent with my children not once did I think I might one day regret bringing them into existence, but now . . .

I fear I will regret.

Not their life, not my or their enjoyment of it, but that their lives were started in the first place.

I don’t want to regret—
But if they never existed, they would never have to die.

Surprises and Sunshine

The last two weeks have been HUGE for me. The news of my latest scan at the beginning of the previous week gave me hope for many more tomorrows. I settled into the rest of that week and into this week with a slightly lessened eagerness to hurry up and finish my, before I die, to-do-list. After such news I never would have thought that more exciting news would come my way. 

But it did.

On Wednesday the 24th, I glanced at the traffic sources feeding into my blog. One website stuck out more than the others because I had not seen it before. It belonged to Healthline.com. I had not commented on any of their health-related articles so why their website was connected to mine was indeed a curiosity.    

I have crossed paths with Healthline.com before with my myriad of health-related questions. I have seen their “Best Breast Cancer Blog” award badges on others' blogs. And, not too long ago, a blogger I follow, Ann Silberman of But Doctor . . .  I Hate Pink, wrote a piece for them that again invited me to their website.

I clicked the referring website address. The words that met my eyes were: The Best Metastatic Breast Cancer Blogs of 2015. Huh, okay let me have a look at these. Still baffled, I glanced at the names of the bloggers included in the slideshow, many of whom are well-known in the breast cancer community. Then it happened. There I saw The Cancer Classroom. 

What? I mean . . . excuse me, but . . . WHAT?!!  

There was my creation. I probably went through a whole series of facial expressions and then eventually couldn’t see the words on my computer screen because of the fluid entering my eyes. Was it possible that somehow someone believed my blog was good enough to be included with these great bloggers?

No way . . . what is going on?

The daily views tracked by my blog have hit three digits on only a few occasions making it evident to me that not a great number of people know my blog exists. Comments about posts have come mostly from a few close friends. Sometimes family members call me on the phone and ask questions about my health making me wonder: Why aren’t you reading my blog? This is one of the reasons I publish my words. Considering all those facts, this recognition is a surprise; a surprise that is a compliment I never expected. These unusual few weeks of good news for me had to be shared on Facebook and my blog--how could it not? 

My email inbox soon held the congratulatory letter from Healthline’s Assistant Marketing Manager.  The letter explained that the Healthline editors had compiled the list of blogs based on “quality, frequency of updates and contribution to the community”. I happily embedded their badge into my site, and I hope you noticed it on the right when you first began reading this post. 

daffodils in my yard-little bits of sunshine for me

The beautiful weather that began over the weekend that I am still enjoying as I write today brings me the fantastic sensation I get every year when spring is near. I feel calm and content. The fact that I get to experience daffodils blooming in my yard and the sun warming my skin makes every single infusion I have had worth it. And now, instead of writing to organize my thoughts or writing so I won’t forget certain events in my life while still freshly captured in my mind plus providing updates for family, friends and followers, I get to experience what it feels like for others to find the words I pour into my computer as helpful and worthy of being read. My inclusion in a list like this feels good; actually, it feels great!

The Best Metastatic Breast Cancer Blogs list of 2015 SLIDESHOW HERE.

Thank you, Healthline.com!   

Just Happy

The days leading up to the contrast I drink and the circular machine my body is sent through leave me with anxieties that would cause my body to explode if that were possible. I hate it. But it must be done. I want to know.

Scan day on Monday came with a treacherous drive to Chapel Hill. Two cars were flipped outside of Raleigh, and several more were sitting on the side of the interstate after hitting an icy spot in just the right way. The journey was slow. I called to make sure the hospital was taking patients. They were. I was told not to worry if I was late.

The travel to the hospital was worrisome. Worrisome because of the freezing rain, but also because this scan seemed different to me than others. Of course I am always scared, but this one came with such high hopes. A radiologist in September believed radiation could get the 13 mm nodule in my right lung under control allowing me to stay on my current treatment, TDM-1. It makes me feel far less sick than my previous ones, so losing it is a big deal. Others that follow will physically alter my quality of life in a bad way.

Cyber-Knife radiation ended in mid-November. During that time I did not receive any other treatment so my cancer cells were free to do what they will with no TDM-1 to smack them back. Soon I would know how my tiny tumor responded to the radiation and how any other mutated cells settled in my tissues were behaving.

Walking down that long hall to the place that would reveal good news or bad, I felt that sensation again. The one that makes me think: is this how it feels to walk to a place of execution? That is extreme I know, but my mind goes there. 

At 2:00 pm, Greg and I were sitting waiting for my Physician’s Assistant to give us the news.

Will her words leave me shaking violently as I continue walking on this tight rope of life? Staying balanced is hard.

The quiet knock on the door came. Bracing myself with a deep breath, I looked in that direction.

The door opens and the tiny person I am so familiar with these days appears. She has a smile on her face. Not just a smile but a big, genuine, every muscle used kind of smile. Her smile was directed at me.

I waited before saying anything hoping what I was seeing was not my mind playing tricks on me.

“It is good news!” she said.

“Yes!” I screamed, arms raising above my head, hands soon cradling my face incredulously.

How could it be possible that I was getting such good news?

For a few minutes the three of us celebrated. We looked at the scanned pictures. My lungs were clear. My body was clear. 

Then she says, “This is a preliminary read from the radiologist.”

My endorphin levels began to drop.

"There is a 1-2mm hypodensity in your liver. I don’t want you to worry about it. It is something we will take a look at in three months”.

Not worry?  

Uh, sure, okay . . . I don’t think that is going to happen.

That is one of the hard parts of cancer. There is always something to worry about. Whether it is white blood cell counts, platelet counts, the liver or the kidneys failing, or crappy little hypodensities that may not be cancer, but are scary nevertheless.

With this news from the best scan I have had in almost three years showing the fantastic result of Cyber-Knife radiation and what it can do to cancer, it might be expected that I would walk out of that hospital with no other thought than this is one of my best days ever! Of course, it is a great day. But, great days never seem to have that feeling of long-term elation that I imagine. It might be similar to how an Olympic gold medalist or of someone who wins the Super Bowl possibly feels. The person works so hard to accomplish a goal, but once they get there it is not as they expected. The reason? There are other feelings accompanying great events. Happiness of course, but fear, sadness, more pressure to perform, and guilt are all part of that package.

For me, such news doesn’t block out those emotions. Fear is never gone. Like the fear of a crappy little 1-2mm hypodensity—that may be nothing at all, but still. Guilt remains present because so many people have not had scans like mine. Then there is this one: the gut-twisting confusing feeling that comes after advancing to the next round of this game of Russian roulette. This game is tiring. Good results simply mean that in three months I have to play the game again. The tremendous anxiety, the fear of a bad result must be played-out all over again. Can’t it all just go away?

Emotions that negate happiness are made real especially when your PA says to you, “We know cancer is there. We just can’t see it.”

All my hopes of being cured—if that were somehow possible, but I keep hoping—were washed away by those words.

So, while people might think such wonderful news as this should leave me with a permanent smile on my face, my brain can’t let go of the other emotions--the guilt, the sadness, the fear--that wrap around me as I go from one scan to the next.

I am happy. Please don’t think I am not. It plays a bigger role than the others right now. But, it would be such a different world for me if I could be just plain, unadulterated happy without all the other emotions seeping in to take away what really is . . .

ONE OF MY BEST DAYS EVER!

Memories of Friends

Once in a while thoughts of an old friend from various parts of my life will suddenly awaken in my mind. It happened a week ago. I am not always aware of what triggers such a memory, but when it does I reach for my computer.

Sharon Mills and Me--Sunbelt Tournament 1984

I met Sharon Mills in 1983. We became quick friends after becoming members of the UNC Charlotte’s men’s basketball cheerleading team. It was a fun year though not one of my best academically. I was more dedicated to my social life and cheerleading through which fond memories were made: the UNC-C exhibition game against Wake Forest University, the overnight trip to Jacksonville Florida for a game against their university’s team, hanging out with the basketball players--making Sharon and I feel small in the presence of such tall people (I am 5'2" and as you can see in the photo on the left, she was shorter.), performing at the opening of a cheerleading competition at Carowinds amusement park and getting the full experience of the park for free, and of course there were the many hours of practicing our routines.

I am on the end on right. Sharon is beside me.

Eventually we both left cheerleading behind and took a break from college. I moved back home with my parents; she found a job in Charlotte as an assistant manager for an apartment complex on North Sharon Amity Road. Not too many months later, I received a call from Sharon. She was looking for someone to share the expenses of her two-bedroom apartment. I quit my two jobs, bought my first car and headed to Charlotte leaving my childhood home for good. If not for Sharon, the people that have become a part of my life’s adult story would have been so different.

Sharon was patient with me as I began the transition from carefree young adult to a more responsible one. A transition I went through slowly causing me to fail miserably at being the best roommate ever. This was made clear to me on the day she very directly, and somehow tactfully, let me know I was neglecting some necessary cleaning. I vividly remember her placing a toilet brush in my hand, leading me to my bathroom, the one that our guests used too, and asking that I clean the toilet. I never thanked her for that.

We had good times together: creating green faced alien-beings wearing black trash bags for clothing on Halloween, driving places in her new convertible, socializing with friends, waiting on tables together at the Hungry Fisherman, and singing songs by the Eagles. We even ventured into dog ownership. She got a new puppy, and at the same time someone gave me a puppy. That was an exciting time until the day her sweet dog had a seizure. The puppy was taken to the vet but never made it back. Her precious puppy had been exposed to distemper before she brought the puppy home. My puppy on the other hand remained unaffected and became a chewing monster. Not exactly sure how our friendship survived that ordeal, but it did. 

Sharon eventually fell in love, and I went to live with some friends in the neighboring apartment complex. We saw less and less of each other as often happens when one friend falls in love and gets married--relationships change. That is what happened to ours.

In the early 90’s, I heard from Sharon. She was divorcing her husband telling me, “If I can work, take care of our son and handle everything else by myself then why am I married?” We spent some time together going to a few clubs, but it was short-lived because this time I was the one who had fallen in love.

After my twins were born in 1994, my husband and I moved away from Charlotte. Around 1998, maybe 1999, she found me and gave me a call. I caught up on her life—married again and had had another son--and she caught up on mine. At the time, she was moving to a property she owned in the Winston-Salem area. As our conversation came to a close, she gave me the number where she worked so I could call her sometime. The years passed too quickly. I never called her adding to my list of regrets.

As the internet began playing a bigger role in my life, I tried to find Sharon a few times over the years. For whatever reason, I couldn’t. I would google her married name, her maiden name, her husband’s name and found nothing until a week ago. I typed in her maiden name which was Mills and added a new word with it, the city name where she went to high school. Why these were the magic words I don’t know, but there she was, Sharon L. Hutchens. (Hutchens was her married name.) It was her for sure--went to UNC Charlotte, had two sisters, married to Bobby Hutchens and had two children. All the names and places matched. It was her obituary.

She was 45 years old. She died six years ago, and I was just learning about it. Damn.

What made the story worse for me was Sharon had died of breast cancer. She was diagnosed with breast cancer the same year I was, 2005. From what I can tell, she was metastatic that year. Whether she was ever diagnosed with early stage disease is still unknown to me. She died on Tuesday, December 22, 2009, one month after my recurrence and stage one diagnosis. For a week now, her death has caused me such sadness. Sadness that I didn’t pick up the phone and call her. Sadness I didn’t know she was dying. Sadness I wasn’t there to offer comfort somehow for a disease that often leaves a person feeling alone.

From there it was easy to get more information. Her husband had worked for Tony Stewart of NASCAR fame. Her youngest son was 11 at the time of her death and was involved in racing cars as he is today. Her oldest son was a freshman at North Carolina State University, now a graduate and living in Texas.

In 2006, a friend of Sharon’s, Michelle, created a group to raise money for Susan G. Komen’s NC Triad Race for the Cure. She and her friend were considering names to give the group eventually deciding on the Pit Lizards. For some background information, in case you are unaware of this term like I was, Pit Lizards is a term used for the young women who hang out near the racing pits vying for the attention of their particular flavor of NASCAR driver--akin to the groupies of the music world. Sharon and her friend thought it was a funny name so it stuck. You can find information about the group here. Sharon became an active participant and supporter of this event receiving the Susan G. Komen “Survivor of the Year Award” in 2009.

Because of the internet, I learn things about friends and acquaintances I would never have known. Some of it good and some of it bad. I learned of Sharon’s death adding to the bad, but I also learned some good. I found her boys on Twitter and Facebook. The pictures I saw of them were of their smiling faces--proof that life goes on and happiness comes again despite such profound sadness.

I have been grieving about Sharon’s death and it isn’t lessening. It will in time I know, but I keep thinking how impossible it seems that we both would come to the end our lives with a stage IV diagnosis of breast cancer. All week my mind has been traveling back in time, re-experiencing the experiences and emotions I had while she was in my life. Memories keep us tied together. I am grateful that Sharon is tied to mine.

You're Gonna Die Anyway

I want to live. Not forever, but at least as close to a normal life expectancy as possible. That happens to be something like 78 years for women in the USA where I live. I am a long way from that number.

Yeah, I am gonna die—who isn’t. But, having metastatic breast cancer changes the way I see myself and the way others see me. It can be a sad and often lonely place. People verbally and sometimes physically display concern; maybe because our society deems that the right thing to do; maybe they really care.

Since my diagnosis I feel like there is big sign over my head and it says “dead”. The sign makes me feel like I am a lost cause. I can try this drug or that drug, but nothing will save me. I was told too many times in the beginning of my stage IV disease that I was incurable. I heard my oncologist the first time. I heard her the last time and everything in the middle. Hope was/is something I didn't want to let go of so I kept digging, asking “why can't we do this or can we try that.” She must have assumed I didn’t understand my condition. I did and still do.

I know I am gonna die, but the "anyway" part is bothersome. I wish I could disconnect myself from the knowledge that no matter what treatment I get nothing will change the fact that I have a terminal condition. Searching for treatments that might offer help is a mind boggling and lonely endeavor especially when done by yourself. I do it to prepare for future treatments and to bring forth any missed details that my oncologist might have overlooked. My research actually became relevant in October and resulted in my cancer being radiated. It could happen again, so I continue searching. I know my doctor is following guidelines for the standard of practice for my disease and doesn't want to or is not allowed to deviate from a group formula of treatment. I understand there are procedures to follow, but I am an individual, dammit. I want to be treated as such. I want my doctor and her team to consider solutions that will best treat me. I shouldn't have to find them. I don't want any doctor to think I am going to die anyway so no need to put a whole lot of effort into keeping me alive. I won't make it to 78, but I am not going to sit in my house and let my life tick away without doing something. It is my life, and I care about it more than anyone. Maybe by some crazy miracle my radiation oncologist's words will become truth.

Even family members can send messages—unconsciously, I hope--that make me feel like that stupid "dead" sign on my head is telling my relatives, "She's going to die anyway," so we should plan for the future without her in it. This may seem ridiculous, but I couldn’t ease my mind of this possibility recently when one of my relatives picked numbers for the most recent Powerball Lottery with winnings of 1.5 billion dollars. I viewed the numbers after this person said to my daughter and me, “Look at the numbers I picked?” It didn’t take long for me to see the importance of each number. Each was selected for its match to the day of birth of each relative that person sees regularly, and one they do not. It also wasn’t long till I realized there was no number connected to me, the day I was born. Where was my 19? Every person was represented by one of the 6 numbers except me—we have two sets of twins and two others with the same birth day making it easy to include everyone. The Powerball number was actually a close repeat for one particular person. They already had a spot, so why couldn’t the Powerball number have been mine? Why was I left out? Is it because I am gonna die anyway? Is it because I am unlucky? I hope it was just an oversight by the person that chose the numbers. But, it did make me wonder. How could it not.

My son told me to quit worrying about what others thought. My daughter’s voice entered my mind reminding me to “go do you. Don’t worry about what others think.” That is hard for me to do. I make judgements and assumptions about people so why wouldn’t others do the same about me? There are obviously more important things for me to be bothered about, but it is too ingrained in my personality to not consider the motivations and thoughts of others. Perhaps I am simply overly sensitive about it because well . . . I have cancer, and I am going to die--anyway.

It is hard to feel like I matter when the science of breast cancer keeps smacking me in the face telling me a cure may be an impossibility. US Presidents have tried to soften the blow to cancer patients and future cancer patients experiencing the “you’re gonna die anyway” reality of advanced stage cancers. In 1971, President Nixon declared a War on Cancer. He made this statement in his 1970 State of the Union Address:

"I will also ask for an appropriation of an extra $100 million to launch an intensive campaign to find a cure for cancer, and I will ask later for whatever additional funds can effectively be used. The time has come in America when the same kind of concentrated effort that split the atom and took man to the moon should be turned toward conquering this dread disease. Let us make a total national commitment to achieve this goal."

President Nixon signed the National Cancer Act of 1971 in order to accelerate finding a cure through research to sort out the puzzle of cancer biology, to develop better treatments and to change the number of deaths associated with all cancers. You can find information about it here--War on Cancer .

Now President Obama and Vice President Joe Biden have announced a new “To the Moon Campaign” to fast-track cancer research. I hate to be the party pooper here, but will this turn out any differently than any other hype about finding a cure for cancer? I don’t think much will change. At least, if the President and Vice President are talking about it publicly, maybe the general public will increase their donations. As far as where our tax dollars will end up since we were not told the specifics of the research to be funded, I can only hope the people responsible for deciding where to allocate the money will not waste one valuable cent of it. The cancer cure hype will last until just after the election of our new president most likely. Then it will quietly fade. Going to the moon seems like it was a far easier task than curing cancer, but I continue to hope that it is possible despite the daunting process surrounding it.

I too want to affect change about metastatic breast cancer. I would like to do more, but there is this huge time-sucker called sleep that inhibits my ability to even get my personal to-do-list done. If it is not sleep then it is some other life event. So, for now, my little classroom in the blogosphere will be my quite voice to the world about my particular brand of cancer. Since not many people leave comments when they visit my blog, I will assume most come here for the same reasons I visit blogs: seeking answers, looking for hope. I will keep sharing what I learn and experience hoping that thoughts of “you’re gonna die anyway” will one day go away for all of us with cancer. Maybe someone without cancer in their life will read one of my posts and become inspired enough to spread the word that money and people are needed for truly impactful research. We in Cancerland already know the importance of it. Maybe then we will be viewed as individuals who simply want to enjoy living for a little longer instead of dead but still walking. Presidential pep-rallies are nice, but eventually everyone calms down.

If you are the person that was lucky enough to win the lottery last night and wondering where you might spend your winnings, consider thinking of me and other stage IV people: Mandi, Jen, Ann, Beth, Catherine, Kate, Jan, Lulu, Jill, Susan, Kiara, Kel, Leisha, and Sherri. There are more of us in the blogosphere that I either haven’t found or haven't had time to add them to the list of blogs I follow--yet another item on my to-do-list that I haven't been able to check off. A donation to research would be greatly appreciated. If you’re really feeling very generous, we all have some medical bills that if paid in full would help our families tremendously. Please keep in mind that patients now and patients in the future want to live in a world where people, including our oncologists, do not have thoughts that can be shaped into the words, “You’re gonna die anyway”. That same thought sits in my mind and throat too, every day, every second. It hurts. It is the truth, and it needs to change.