A Year Ago (Part 3) Give it up for Lymphoma!

This is my last "one-year" retrospective entry. These are things I wanted to write about a year ago, but the events were just too real to share. I tell this story now because perhaps others that have been diagnosed with a life threatening disease can take comfort in hearing my story....in knowing that we all share similar experiences and that we/you are not alone.

After receiving the shocking news that I had cancer, I had to wait to find out exactly what TYPE of cancer I had. The doctors could see that the tumor was cancer, but they couldn't tell us exactly the kind of cancer. Knowing the type of cancer is crucial. Not all cancers are the same. Some cancers have better survival rates than others. In my case, my life was in the balance as we waited to hear if I had liver cancer (very bad) or lymphoma (not as bad).

We waited 5 days for the definitive diagnosis from the lab. This is the story of those 5 long day in October 2008...

We spent the night of my biopsy in the Baylor Hospital Hotel in Dallas. The next day we drove back to Austin which is about a 3 hours drive. It was a quiet trip. David and I didn't say much. I was still recovering from the procedure and I still had the pain in my abs. I was hurting. I wasn't sure if the pain was coming from the biopsy or the tumor in my liver. Emotionally, I was numb. I simply did not have the energy to process the news that we had been given.

On the way home, we stopped in Waco at some random restaurant along I-35. We happened to pick a restaurant filled with older people. As I poked at my food, I started looking around and getting very angry.

Over there, I see an older couple. They look like grandparents. I feel myself starting to get angry. Why do they get to grow old? Why do they get to see their grandkids? It is just not fair. I want to grow old too. I want to get gray and feeble too. Why do those people get to be old and I don't.

Nothing seemed fair at this point. Everywhere I looked, all I could see was the injustice of not having what everyone seemed to have: a life expectancy longer that 3 months.

There is probably some academic article or even a self-help book out there that describes the stages one goes through when faced with a life threatening disease. I just bet the stages are something like shock, denial, anger, resignation. So I went through the "anger" stage sitting in that restaurant in Waco. We got back in the car and I moved on to (quiet) "resignation" stage.

We arrived in Austin and picked up Emma at my mom's house. At this point, the only people who knew were David's family. I had not told my mother yet. I wanted to tell her in person. In fact, the process of telling others was very, very painful. I dreaded telling anyone because the diagnosis became more real with each conversation. Some of my very best friends were the last to get the news. Oddly, there was an inverse relationship: the closer the person, the harder to share the news.

So, given that my mother is one of the closest people in my life, telling her the news was very, very hard. My mother and I speak both English and Spanish to each other. I even eke out a little French with her if we are trying to keep something away from Emma. If I stopped and thought about it, I could probably come up with our linguistic rules, that is, when we decide to speak English and when we decide to speak Spanish. In this case, I told my mother I had cancer in English. She responded in Spanish. I remember cradling her in my arms like my old child and listening to her sob in Spanish, "No puede ser. No puede ser." (It can't be. It can't be.)

What do you do while you are waiting to hear how long you get to live? Well, during those 5 days, David and I went to lunch a lot. We went to some new restaurants in East Austin. I remember really enjoying my food and staring at the color of the napkins. I love red, deep rich red. How I wish I could enjoy red just a little bit longer. I was struck by how normal everything seemed around me. It was all a bit surreal.

You also call on your friends, some of whom may be rebbetzins and rabbis to help you through these times. You reflect on your life and you let go of old hurts and forgive. You think about what your have done. What you haven't done. What you wish you could still do.

Finally on October 31, Halloween no less, we got a call from Baylor. As the nurse started talking, I just held my breath. I closed my eyes very, very tightly as she started to say the words. I was hoping, hoping, praying, and then hoping again. Then I heard her start to say the "L" of the the first syllable followed by the rest of the word. "Lymphoma. Yes, you have lymphoma!" she said.

I thank her profusely. I put the phone down and yelled, "IT"S LYMPHOMA!" I hugged my mom. I hugged David. David hugged me. My mom hugged David. We did a group hug. My mom and I were crying. Then I forgot about my pain and started dancing and clapping with my hands over my head and shaking my hips, doing what I decided was the "Happy Lymphoma Dance." I am sure it might seem odd to be rejoicing over the news of a lymphoma diagnosis, but at that moment my chances of having the opportunity to grow old were looking good.

This past week, now a year later, David and I both got bifocal glasses. I guess they call them progressives now. I can now read a map and small print on a menu without having to take my glasses off. I also got the results of my latest CT scan. I remain in remission. I have now passed the very important 1 year milestone.

What a blessing to grow old. However, the better gift is liking the idea of growing old.
__________


I took all the pictures in this entry a couple of days ago during a walk on Town Lake in Austin. The leaves and flowers are the deep, rich, red color that I love.

Cha-Cha-Cha

Looks like Barack and Sarah are performing an open break from a cross-body lead on a Cha-Cha. They both have very nice upper body form and foot positioning. Sarah shows good hand styling. I'd like to see more enthusiasm on Barack's face. Overall, good first try. I give them a 9.5.

A 6 year old's election

This is election day! We have all been waiting for this moment for a long time. Emma is in first grade, but that hasn't stopped her or friends from having an opinion. She recently told me that she didn't think McCain should win because "he likes warring." She paused then added, "Mama what is war?" She also told me that other kids in her class said that Sarah Palin "throws books on the ground." She told me that several of her friends dressed up as Sarah Palin for Halloween. I am glad that little girls now have the option of dressing up as a vice-presidential candidate.

A few days ago, Emma and I walked by the assistant principle at her school. After we passed him, Emma whispered in my ear that he was the "Sarah Palin of the school." The kids in Emma's school had a mock election. No surprise that Obama won the election in Emma's Central Austin public grade school.

Today, her school is a polling location. It was buzzing with activity this morning. Voters and poll workers were everywhere. Even a police officer stood watch. I asked if he was there to monitor the election. He said "No." He was just there "to give the school some love." Hmmm.

I call our neighborhood, Obamalandia. Just for research purposes, I recently drove up and down the streets of our neighborhood. Every other house has an Obama lawn sign. I saw only two lonely/brave McCain signs. McCain will win Texas, but Central Austin is as blue as it gets.



I voted last week in Austin's Chinatown. Austin's Chinatown is located in a Hispanic neighborhood in North Austin. Sure, it is really just a strip mall , but all stores in the mall are Asian owned restaurants, clothing stores, grocery stores, etc. Since we are allowed to vote in any early voting location in the Austin, I thought it would be appropriate for me to vote in a polling station where diversity is celebrated.














Emma told me she is an independent voter. She says she votes for the best person, not the party. (I wonder where she heard that?) While Emma is nonpartisan, she never passes up an opportunity to have photo ops with the candidates. Here is Emma with both Obama and McCain last summer at the airport...

A year ago (Part 2)

Please bear with me as I write a few more grey entries about this one-year anniversary of my diagnosis. I am in remission now and feeling great. Things are good, but I must take time to reflect on this milestone.

Now with a year of reflection under my belt, I see that the darkest, blackest moment of cancer survivorship is when one is first given the cancer diagnosis. In everything I have read and experienced, this dreadful moment gets seared on the cancer patient’s mind. The good thing is that the cancer story gets better after you are first given the news….at least if you are a survivor.

On October 26, 2007 at Baylor Hospital in Dallas, I had a liver biopsy on the big, dense mass that took up more than half of the space in my liver. At this point we were all tiptoeing around the word “cancer.” This is a charged word and no one wanted to say it.

I remember lying on the stretcher in the recovery wing of the hospital. I was starting to regain consciousness after the biopsy. I was aware that David was in the room with me. I was barely awake, but I could tell he was restless. I could hear him standing up, walking around, fiddling with my covers, moving the chair, and sitting down again. This is unusual. David usually just sits and reads quietly. Usually I only hear him turning pages.

With my eyes still closed, I sensed something was up. Even his breathing was different. I slowly opened my eyes and looked at him. He held my hand and said, “It’s cancer.” I closed my eyes again and turned away. I tried not to think.

This is what I wrote in my journal sometime in the middle of the night...


“The impossible, the unthinkable. The “it would never happen to me” just happened….Today a liver transplant specialist at Baylor Medical Center in Dallas told me that the pain in my abs (which I thought was the result of too many ab crunches :) is actually a malignant tumor. The tumor is 10 x 18 centimeters.

I am writing on the toilet in the hotel bathroom. It is the middle of the night. David is sleeping. We are staying the hotel located in the Baylor Medical Center.

I can’t believe it, yet I believe it. Perhaps I knew it?

I can’t help reviewing the past year, six months for clues. I go back over being sick at my stomach -- the nausea, the vomiting, the gagging. David wanted me to see a GI specialist. I remember the pain in my abs and the side. I go over and over all of this again-second guessing my previous behavior and thinking “if only.”

Then I attempt to think of the future, the ultimate deadline. I always work well under deadlines. I have so much I want to get done…all those projects that are so important to me. I basically have this driving need to get my things in order. Unlike everyone else in my family who has passed on, I don’t want to leave my droppings for others to clean up.

So, we need to start talking to oncologists. The plan is to attack with chemo. The good thing is that I am youngish (44) and relatively healthy. So they can make me very sick to kill the cancer. There is lots of room to work with. Great.

I, however, am a bit pessimistic. I believe the size of this thing will be hard to beat. It has gotten too much of a head start on me. Which leaves me with the unthinkable, the impossible, the ‘won’t ever happen to me’ possibility of an unexpectedly quick ultimate deadline.”

A year ago (Part 1)

Halloween will never be the same for me now. I was diagnosed with cancer a year ago on October 26. I am in remission now. This one-year milestone is very poignant. At Halloween a year ago I remember smiling and hugging Emma in her pink princess-fairly-ballerina costume thingy; I remember the light-how the gentle warm afternoon sun slowly gave way to the light from carved pumpkins, glow sticks, porch lights, candles, flashlights, and orange Halloween decorations. I remember laughing and talking with friends - it was like a party in motion as the adults slowly walked in groups on the street while the kids squealed and ran from house to house.


And I especially remember hearing the music of a neighborhood musician playing his fiddle on his porch. I remember stopping and listening to the fiddler as if this would be last time I would ever listen to music. I stopped and focused on the man, his fiddle, his porch, and his music. In the background, I could hear the laughter of the kids, the voices of adults. I could feel the warmth of the sun, and see the fall colors of the trees and I wished and prayed that I could have a lifetime of simple pleasures like this night again.


Last night I got to experience Halloween again...everything and everybody came back….the warm sun, the glow sticks, the shadows, the orange decorations, the kids, the party in motion, the “Did you say thank you?” advisories, the great friends, Emma’s pink fairy-ballerina-princess thingy. Even the fiddle man was there for me again. Last night, like I do now when things are especially good, I took a moment to acknowledge the gift of life.