Rise!

I don’t usually like two post two days in a row (I don’t want you to get too bored!); however, that’s the way the calendar falls. Happy Easter, everyone!

I suppose if you have to hear news like I heard earlier this week, Holy Week is a good time to hear it. The meaning behind this week is the reason I have not thought that much about death itself since my cancer diagnosis, because my faith tells me that it is death of the body only. Don’t get me wrong – I’m certainly not looking forward to leaving this early. I had hoped to enjoy another 20 years with  my children and grandchildren, sit by the lake, teach (well, maybe, not the full 20!), and perhaps get into a “little” more trouble. However, that was MY plan, and now I have to acknowledge that I am not the planner – God is.

What I HAVE feared is dying – quite a different thing from death. In addition to a worsening physical condition, I have a sense of urgency, from feeling guilty about never writing last year’s thank you notes to wanting to clean the closets, and there’s so much I want to say, the hardest of those being the “see you laters.” During my cancer journey, and especially during the last week, so many of you have commented on my courage and bravery, and I can’t thank you enough for such kind words and for that support; however, in reality, YOU are the ones holding ME up.

I am human and get sad. I do find comfort, though, that Jesus was human and sad, too. In the Garden of Gethsemane, he suffered thinking about his fate and prayed three times for God to “pass the cup” – to let him live. He also acknowledged that it be God’s will, not His. Because of His courage, bravery, and love, we have been blessed with the resurrection, which we celebrate today. We are ALL able to rise!

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Made it! No Regrets

Now that my condition has worsened, I don’t have much energy to write, so what strength I do have, I want to use here, because I still have a lot to say (so even though this post may sound like a swan song, it isn’t meant to be!).

In previous posts, you’ve heard me talk about the Reynolds Women – generations of strong, independent, faith-filled women – a group of which I am extremely proud to be a part. Three of them, in particular, helped shape who I am and the goals I would have for my life.

My Aunt Ruby was a female broadcast pioneer in the area in which I grew up. She helped me to solidify my choice of going to college to major in broadcast journalism and often delighted about the parallel our lives had taken.

My Aunt Sarah gifted me with a sense of quirkiness (she once dyed her hair green for St. Patrick’s Day) and, most of all, opened the world to me by introducing me to her love for travel. In fact, when she was much older and her husband had passed away, we decided to go to the British Isles together – quite the adventure! I don’t think that I included stubbornness – well, we like to call it “tenacity” – as another characteristic of the Reynolds Woman. Aunt Sarah was suffering from intense neck pain and wearing a TENS unit for pain management. Not surprisingly, that did not stop her from lying on her back and bending her head backwards so she could properly kiss the Blarney Stone. Yep! That’s a Reynolds Woman.

Then there’s my Aunt Peggy. When I was a teenager, she used to say to me her life goal was I.D.T.A. She explained that it stood for “I Did That Already.” Her goal in life was to be able to use that response to just about any topic that came up in a conversation. It became almost a secret code for us. I remember embroidering the initials once and putting it in a frame for her. Another time, I had it engraved on a necklace for her. All the while, I didn’t realize I was forming my own life philosophy: I didn’t want to get to the end of my life and have any regrets.

This is a philosophy that comes with many risks, mind you. However, I always felt it would be better to take the risk instead of sitting in a rocking chair one day wondering “what if?” I can’t imagine anything worse. Even if you fall on your face when taking the risk, you at least know how the situation turned out.

It is life mantra that has served me well, and, as I do near the end of my life (and not in a rocking chair!), I can honesty say, “I made it!” Of course, my life is not over yet, but I think I’m safe in saying that I’m at a point where I can declare that I have no regrets. To quote a lyric from one of my favorite songs, “I Lived,”:

“I owned every second that this world could give
I saw so many places
The things that I did
Yeah, with every broken bone
I swear I lived.”

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Welcome 2017!

In 2015, I wrote a post about new beginnings, specifically not waiting until the new year (or a Monday or the first of the month) to make changes in our lives. I still believe that – every morning when we wake up brings us a new opportunity to change ourselves for the better. There is a feeling that comes with the calendar changing to a new year, however, that makes one feel a bit different.

For me, it’s like being reborn (I guess that’s why the new year is represented by a baby!). Jan. 1 brings a feeling of cleanliness, shaking off the impurities that have accumulated during the previous 365 days. It brings excitement about the unknown, like the feeling you get when you anticipate a gift, and, most of all, it brings hope – hope that our wishes for ourselves and others will come true.

I have enjoyed a feeling of contentment during this holiday season. That was not necessarily the case in the last two years. Although I enjoyed Christmas, it was rather bittersweet. As I trimmed and untrimmed the tree, I would look long and hard at each ornament, thinking it might very well be the last time I would see it. This year was different, however, probably because I had passed my “expiration date” and all was still well. I enjoyed every minute of time with family and friends, and as the clock struck midnight on Dec. 31, I was truly happy and full of anticipation of what 2017 would bring. I was free of the tethers that had bound me since my doctors had told me I was terminal.

I realize that my roller coaster ride of fighting cancer will continue in the new year, but 2017 will also bring many gifts — some of which I’m already aware of, like being able to continue teaching full-time, and others that have not been unwrapped yet. Heck, 2017 itself is a true gift!

I hope you, too, will begin the new year feeling excited and hopeful – looking forward to the blessings of 2017 and letting go of anything that happened in 2016 that did not meet your expectations. That’s the beautiful gift a new year brings — renewed hope.

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No Expiration Date

It may not be evident from reading my posts, since they’re usually written about cancer, but I actually don’t think about my disease very much. I go about my daily routine without any thoughts about my health. There are those times, however, when I’m likely to think about it more. November is one of those times, for it marks the anniversary of when I found out I had cancer.

Those initial days three years ago come flooding back, and I once again relive the anxiety, the doctors’ visits, the tests, the biopsy, the diagnosis, the fear. I’ve written in previous posts that, although this is uncomfortable, self-reflection is necessary for each of us because it is important to remember where we’ve been in order to see how far we’ve come. This November, a new feeling is being added to the list – that of victory – and that is the real topic of this entry.

When I was first diagnosed, I told my doctors I didn’t want to hear statistics, like survival rates, and I decided that I wouldn’t ask any questions to which I really didn’t want to hear the answer. This wasn’t denial, mind you. I just didn’t want a self-fulfilling prophecy lurking in the deep corners of my mind. And then I asked a question.

When I was told I was terminal in March 2015, I asked how much time I had. I felt it was a practical question – knowing how much time I had to get my affairs in order. The answer was that the average length of survival for someone in my condition was 18-20 months. Right there and then, I put an expiration date on myself. Even though I didn’t think about it often, it was there, looming like the countdown clocks that read “32 days till Christmas.” Well, guess what? It’s 20 months later and I don’t feel like I’m going anywhere any time soon. In fact, I feel a sense of freedom, of achievement, of happiness by reaching this page on the calendar. I feel like I’ve beaten some odds. I’ve torn off that expiration label, and a new one will not take its place.

It’s made me ponder how often we must go through life listening to things people tell us (or even the things we say to ourselves) and then end up letting those things define who we are. I’m making a choice at this point to get rid of any “best by [insert date]” labels in my life, especially one that suggests how much time I may have on this Earth. Only the Great Physician knows that. I will no longer feel shackled by an approaching date on the calendar, even if those shackles are not always foremost in my thoughts. Perhaps November will be a time of self-reflection for you as well – a time for you to get rid of any labels you have and approach the holidays fetter-free.

As this Thanksgiving draws near, I give thanks for those of you who read and comment on this blog; my family and friends; my hands-on caregivers; and, the distant caregivers who give support through their thoughts, love, and prayers. I am so grateful for all my blessings. Here’s to a Happy Thanksgiving – and one without labels.

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Mea Culpa

Or perhaps I should have titled this “She’s Baacccckkk.” In either case, after a prolonged hiatus, I’m hoping to start writing again, thanks to the urging of family and friends. This first post of 2016 will be a bit different, however – more of an update than one of my thoughts brought to life on paper – and I apologize upfront for the length of the post. I am covering 10 months, after all!

During the early days of summer, I was at a family function at which I was greeted by a lot of relieved-looking faces. I was surprised to learn how many people had been worried about me because of my absence from the blog and Facebook. I’m so sorry to have caused such concern, and I’m going to do my best from letting that happen again.

When the new year started, I was strongly feeling the effects of chemo, which made me tired all the time, among other things. Still, I went back to school to teach full-time. I was able to do it, but not much of anything else. As a result, writing – whether it was on a blog, Facebook, or communicating in general — went by the wayside.

So, here’s the latest (which means rewinding a bit):

At the time of my last post, I had just started a clinical trial at Roswell Park Cancer Institute that combined an approved chemo drug with an experimental one. The purpose of the trial was to see if the experimental drug would increase the efficacy of the approved one. In my case, it worked – for a while. After two months, my tumors had shrunk, overall, by about 25 percent. One of the biggest tumors was shrunk in half. However, by that time, the drugs were starting to take their toll on my body. Welcome, 2016.

The next five months would be a roller coaster ride (see the About Me page if you want details). My body was so battered by the end of May that I was sadly taken off the clinical trial, which I was convinced had given me an extra seven months of life. My body was in such bad shape that my oncologist said I had to stop all treatment for at least two months – not something a Type A cancer warrior wants to hear! I made the best of it, however, and the best was great!

As my body healed and I became stronger, I was able to have a WONDERFUL summer! I finished a long-held dream to drive all of Route 66, nearly 2,500 miles through eight states – a dream I started making come true 12 years ago. I got to visit with family and friends near and far as I “road tripped” to Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, Kansas, the Carolinas, Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania. I sat on my patio to watch the sun set over the lake, hung out with friends at the beach, watched scary movies with my sister, and enjoyed quiet moments at her cabin in the West Virginia mountains. Last weekend, I attended my 40^th high school reunion.

Now I’m back to work – in more ways than one. I am once again teaching full time and, as a write this, I’m in the hospital receiving a new chemo treatment. It’s probably no surprise that since I was not undergoing any treatment during the summer, the cancer progressed. Several tumors are now at 2cm, a “line in the sand” if you will. When they get bigger than that, symptoms can start. I have experienced some already, but they have been short-lived. Our goal now is to stabilize the tumors so they don’t get bigger and to stave off new ones. I am on the waiting list of a couple clinical trials focused on immunotherapy, which the oncologist says is my best option right now, but they have yet to open and I’m at the stage where we can’t wait any longer to do something, so I’ve started a new chemo drug that was approved by the FDA less than a year ago for my specific type of cancer and has had some success in Europe. I’ll return to the hospital to get it for 24 hours at a time every three weeks.

In the meantime, please keep praying for this drug’s success and for a clinical trial to open soon and, while you do that, I’ll be writing.

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An Open Letter of Thanksgiving

I have so much to give thanks for this holiday. While it’s true November is a time of sad anniversaries for me, it is also an opportunity to openly thank the people who are lifting me up in so many different ways.

There are those who are providing “hands-on” care: an ex-husband who takes me to my medical appointments every week; a dear friend who drives nine hours just to spend 24 hours hanging out with me; the neighbors who will do anything for me on a moment’s notice; and, my faculty colleagues who stop in to see how I’m doing and bring me food.

There are many others who aren’t here in person, because they don’t live close by. Yet their role in assisting me is equally important: my sister and cousins, the strength and love of whom I feel with me every day; the people I grew up with in my hometown of Martinsburg, West Virginia, who are constantly keeping me in prayer; other friends, family, professional colleagues, and alumni who send me notes of support, books, and little surprises that make me smile on a regular basis.

There are even strangers who have gone out of their way to help me, such as the folks at Delta. I hate to fly. I mean, I REALLY hate to fly. It’s to a phobia level. My general rule of thumb is to drive if I can get to where I need to be in the time allotted; however, sometimes I don’t have that luxury of time. Such was the case when I needed to get to Denver for my nephew’s wedding. I bit the bullet and purchased my airline ticket; however, my phobia didn’t turn out to be the main problem. I realized as soon as I got to the airport that, physically, this was going to be a challenge.

Thank you to the woman at the check-in (whose name I believe was Cathy) who zeroed in on this right away and offered me wheelchair assistance for the first flight, my connecting flight and my destination. Thank you to the sky caps who whizzed me through terminals, up and down elevators, and in and out of shuttles. Thank you to the flight attendants who checked on my comfort. Thank you, Delta – you love to fly and it shows!

Finally an especially big thank you to those of you who read this blog. Nothing has made me so fulfilled in the last 20 months than sharing my thoughts with you. If I have touched even one person, I consider that a blessing. When a tragedy strikes, whether it’s a life-threatening illness or something else, you almost always ask “Why?” From the beginning of this blog, I felt like I was supposed to go through cancer in order to write, share, and hopefully lift up others. Every visitor, every comment, every follower, every “like” on Facebook links to posts means more to me than I can say and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

The list of people I owe thank you notes to is lengthy and dates have long passed (my mother would not approve!). I’m sorry for not being better at minding my etiquette during this second battle with cancer, which has zapped me a bit more than the first. However, please know that I am grateful for all your gestures, big and small, and give thanks for having you in my life.

I’m a Weeble

I don’t remember the last time I got really good news from my oncologist. Just when I think things are going well, BOOM, something gets in the way. So far, the only progress that has been made regarding my health has been made by the tumors, which continue to get bigger and have gotten more aggressive recently. Almost every time I have gone to the doctor in the last few months, a bomb has dropped and my spirits drop with it. There have been times when I thought I would never regain my positive outlook on life, or even stop crying for that matter.

In August, I was taken off chemo after just barely starting because it was doing too much damage to my liver and bone marrow. The news was devastating to me – how was I supposed to fight cancer without any treatment? I felt like a soldier without a gun. I usually try to be stoic in the doctor’s office; however, this time, the news was a little more than I could handle. I crumbled – and, once again, I thought there was no way I would be able to crawl out of the depths of my disappointment. But I did. I’ve discovered I’m a Weeble.

People of a certain age remember these egg-shaped character toys that featured the tagline, “Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down.” There have surely been times during the last two years that I have been parallel to the floor, but somehow I keep returning to an upright position. I’m not sure why this is. It most likely was the way I was raised. My father had a wonderful, positive outlook on life; he expressed his faith through his actions every day.

In a post last year, I talked about denial, optimism, and faith – a combination that I believe are characteristics of Weebles, at least they are for this Weeble. Denial comes in handy when I look in the mirror and don’t see a sick person, and I’m as active as I ever was. A stranger would never know what’s going on inside my body. In fact, I refuse to identify myself as being sick and have banned the word from my friends’ vocabulary, as well. Don’t get me wrong – I am not pretending that I don’t have terminal cancer; however, it doesn’t need to be my main focus in life.

I think that denial helps me be optimistic. I have found that once I absorb the bad news from the doctor’s office, I can pick out a nugget of news that is positive, making the bad news fade into the distance of denial. Yes, I had to have a lung resection, but two of the tumors taken out were the biggest ones at the time. Yes, I have a lot of tumors, but there aren’t any new ones. Yes, the tumors have gotten bigger, but now I’m eligible for a clinical trial. I can hang my hat on those nuggets and be optimistic again, hoping for the best.

Then, of course, there is faith. Once shattered when I found out the cancer has returned, my faith is stronger than ever. For the first time, I intimately understand something my father always said: “I don’t worry because I’ve turned all my troubles over to the Lord. If I’m still worrying, I haven’t truly turned them over.” I don’t know if I’ve quite done that; however, I do know that I have a calmness that I haven’t experienced for a long time.

I hope the Weeble in me continues to do its job – just wobbling, but not falling down.

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Eclipse of the Spirit

There was a hit song in the early ‘80s called “Total Eclipse of the Heart” (I sense a lot of you are smiling and nodding right now!). Last night, as I was watching the lunar eclipse, I thought of that song. Not only did I think about how our heart can be eclipsed, but I also thought how often we have an eclipse of the spirit. Lunar eclipses can be rather fleeting. Eclipses of the spirit, however, can be more lasting – if we let them — because, unfortunately, they are not caused by the rotation of a planet.

At various points in our lives, our moon will shine brighter than any star.  Other times, shadows will encroach upon the brightness. But sometimes, those shadows engulf all light, extinguishing even the smallest glow around the edges. Only we can determine how long our personal eclipse will last – and that may be difficult.

How do we try to find light when we are in a dark place? One way is to remember that lunar eclipse last night. If you looked up at the sky at a particular time, you may have seen a spectacular full moon. If you looked up at another time, all you may have seen is darkness. That’s the same way we tend to experience the snapshots of our life – all we can grasp is what we see at that moment. We can’t always see the trajectory of the planet rotating – moving us beyond the eclipse.

NASA says the total eclipse lasted only a little over an hour. In other words, it passed — rather quickly — and the moon eventually shone brightly once again. We just need to hold on and have faith – faith that whatever is causing our eclipse will pass as well.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it” – John 1:5

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It’s All about Choices

“It’s all about choices.” That’s a phrase that a dear friend and I use at least once a week. Indeed, each of us is the sum of the choices we have made throughout our life — each decision leading us down a path that we are customizing just for us.

We make dozens of choices on a daily basis – whether to hit the snooze button one more time, what to wear, whether to go through the drive-thru instead of making dinner, to name just a few. For the most part, these aren’t going to drastically alter our life. However, there are many other decisions that will: where to work, who to marry, where to live, whether to have children. Then there are the choices you can make when it seems that you don’t really have a choice at all and that’s what I want to talk about in this post.

As a professor of public relations, one of the things I teach is crisis management. This term is actually a misnomer, because you can’t really manage a crisis; you can only manage your response to it. Life is no different. You can’t always control what happens to you; however, you CAN control how you react, and it’s those reactions that will not only determine the direction of your life, but also may reveal the person you are deep inside. The Dalai Lama said, “When we meet real tragedy in life, we can react in two ways: either by losing hope and falling into self-destructive habits, or by using the challenge to find our inner strength.”

There’s no doubt that life knocks us down at times. Sometimes it takes longer than others to get back up. But get back up we must. As I mentioned in my last post, I have started to regain my old optimism after allowing myself to indulge in a month of self-pity. While that latter attitude might be well-deserved, it won’t enrich my life. Life is what we make of it – how we react to it. I’ve never had much patience for people who complain about a situation they can control (such as hating a job, yet not looking for a new one). I realize it’s harder when it’s a situation that you can’t control. However, perhaps it’s in those situations that our choices are most important. A lifelong friend just sent me a plaque that reads “You never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.” Very true. You have to play the hand you’re dealt and, hopefully, you can do that with courage and grace – a bit of humor won’t hurt either!

I expect to have to make some important choices in the next few months. As a brief follow-up to my last post, I went to Memorial Sloan Kettering in New York City last week for a second opinion and was told that I had been getting excellent care in Buffalo. The doctor also said that the treatment I had received and that has been proposed is the same she would’ve recommended. That’s comforting and reassuring. She did tell me about several upcoming clinical trials (in Buffalo and New York City) for which I might be eligible, thus the decisions coming my way. I hope I will make the right one; in the meantime, I know I’ve made the right choice in how to react to the things I can’t change.

“In the long run, we shape our lives, and we shape ourselves. The process never ends until we die. And the choices we make are ultimately our own responsibility.” — Eleanor Roosevelt

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Peek-a-Boo!

Yes, this IS the old Ann, poking my head up above ground cautiously like a groundhog on Feb. 2. I don’t see my shadow, so I’m predicting pleasant weather ahead. I’m happy to say that my optimism and faith are almost back to where they were before I got my recent diagnosis. In a recent post, I talked about wanting to find my sparkle again — my spark. I’m not sure about the sparkle – you’d have to ask others about that. However, I can say the spark is back. And that’s important. Emmet Fox, a New Thought leader, once said, “A small spark can start a great fire.” We know that to be true (just ask Smokey the Bear!), so I’m not going to underestimate that little light.

I’ve had so many people prop me up during the last month while I tried to restore the optimism and faith I had before my last doctor’s visit. Many of them have told me stories of people they know who have defied the odds, and they have insisted that I have it in me to be another one of those success stories. Such encouragement has made a huge difference. I’m focusing less on the things I might miss down the road if the doctor’s prognosis is correct and more on all I have in front of me right now. A dear friend of mine has always said that it’s OK to attend a pity party, as long as you don’t stay for dessert (shout-out to YO!). Well, I had not only been staying for dessert, but also staying so long that the hosts were looking at their watches. I’m back to enjoying appetizers only.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I don’t want this precious time when I’m feeling well to be squandered. I’ve been trying to spend my time constructively . . . enjoying time with friends; planning the next road trip; advising my students for next semester; participating in the Relay for Life on my campus; and, of course, writing. I’ve been practical, too. Although I love and respect my current oncology team, I’ve been persuaded to seek a second opinion and, logically, that is sound advice. It is not as easy as it seems, though. There have been obstacles, such as the rarity of my cancer and the scarcity of the experts who treat it, as well as insurance restrictions. Emails and phone calls to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore and Dana-Farber in Boston went unanswered. A trip to Cancer Treatment Centers of America’s facility in Philadelphia looked promising until my HMO insurance said “no.”

Frustrated by the doors closing at every turn and feeling adrift at sea in a tiny boat being overtaken by raging storms, my sister took a walk to clear her mind and calm her spirit. During her stroll, she said she became assured that everything would be OK and, that day, everything did, indeed, turn around. She relayed this in the last post, “Walking on Water.” In her post, my sister said, “Then almost as if by magic, the boat landed immediately at the place to where they were going.” Who knew it would be the Big Apple?! What seemed to be an insurmountable quest to find someone, someplace, to look at my case has finally been successful, in no small part, we believe, to the prayers many of you have been lifting up on my behalf.

After her walk that Tuesday, my sister reached out to the chief of sarcoma oncology at Memorial Sloan Kettering in New York City, the world’s oldest and largest private cancer center. He responded immediately to say his staff would review my case. The next morning, his assistant forwarded me information on what to do next. Sloan Kettering’s Patient Access Services started a medical record for me and told me exactly what files they needed from my current oncologist (and there were a lot!). Then I was switched to the insurance representative who gave me detailed information on how to appeal to my insurance company for “out-of-network” treatment. By Wednesday afternoon, I had done everything I had been told. My physician faxed the appeal to the insurance company Thursday morning, and it was approved a few hours later. At 4 p.m., approximately 48 hours after my sister returned from her walk, Sloan Kettering called me to say that they had received all my files and gave me an appointment. As I write this, I’m on the train to New York City. If anything is a miracle, it’s when two doctors’ offices, two large cancer centers, and an insurance company work together and achieve this outcome in two days!

I’m sorry this post has been especially lengthy. However, as you can see, much has happened in a short time, and I want you to know the difference you’re making by continuing to lift me up in prayer.

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Queen of De-Nial

Just call me Cleopatra. While I’m regaining my footing after receiving the recent news of my cancer returning, I’ve decided to hang out with one of my old friends – denial. I’ve always been pretty good at not focusing on negative things because I am, by nature, an optimist. However, I have wondered if sometimes my optimism wasn’t really denial in disguise. In a post last year, I pondered the point at which positive thinking turns into denial. I also wondered if denial is a bad thing if it keeps your attitude positive, or, in my current case, helps my positive attitude return.

Now that I’ve gotten past the awful chore of telling family, friends, and coworkers about my cancer recurrence, the shock I’ve been experiencing the past three weeks is starting to subside, and I’ve decided that denial sounds pretty good to me. Added to this is the fact that I haven’t really been myself since my father died; I have felt like a big piece of me is missing – like I lost my sparkle. That light got even dimmer when I got the news about the cancer. Hell, it pretty much went out. But two weekends ago when my sister was visiting, I found myself laughing a little more and crying a little less. It felt good.

The time between now and the start of chemo may very well be the best I ever feel, and I don’t want to spend that time dwelling on what’s to come. Physically, I feel great, so it’s becoming easier for me to just pretend that life is normal, and, quite frankly, I think that’s OK. There will be lots of time for reality checks in the coming months. My last post was based on the movie “It’s a Wonderful Life,” and I’ll borrow from that classic film again. At one point, Clarence turns to George Bailey and says, “You see, George, you’ve had a wonderful life. Don’t you see what a mistake it would be to throw it away?” Amen, Clarence!

Embracing denial doesn’t mean I plan to avoid talking about what’s happened or pursuing some steps that I need to take, such as looking into getting a second opinion. And I still get sad, often. My mind cannot automatically turn off thoughts of what is to come. However, I  don’t want this yucky situation to be the axis on which my life spins right now. I’m also aware that denial is not just an old friend, but also the first stage of grief, so perhaps going from shock to denial is just a natural progression.

In any case, I want to be able find my spark again; maybe if I get some fresh air, take a deep breath, and allow some oxygen in, it will ignite. As for the cancer, for now I’ll evoke another famous film character, Scarlett O’Hara: “I can’t think about that right now. If I do, I’ll go crazy. I’ll think about that tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day.”

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Hi, God. It’s Me, Ann.

Are you there? Hello? Hellooooo? Of course, I really do know He’s around — somewhere; however, my faith has been shaken to the core the past week. As a result, this post is especially difficult to write. Since I started this blog a year ago, I’ve shared many views on life as I journeyed through a nine-month battle with cancer. I have written a lot about faith, optimism, affirmative prayer, living for today and not worrying about the future, and counting one’s blessings. Just last month, I wrote about looking for the silver lining when life knocks you down – using God’s study guide of faith to pass life’s exams.  However, right now, this “glass half full” gal is seeing the glass half empty.

You see, last week I was told that my cancer has returned and spread to both lungs – an “incurable” condition, according to the doctor. Translation: I’m terminal. The doctor says the average life expectancy for someone in my condition is 18 months. Bummer. I imagine I know what you’re feeling right now as you read these words, especially if you know me. Stunned . . . shocked . . . sick. That’s how I felt. I didn’t expect that news either, and I deeply apologize to the many of you who are finding out about my condition this way. Telling people has been extremely difficult. After the recent losses of my father and brother, I feel like I’ve been kicked while I’m down. How much is one person supposed to take? I feel deflated and defeated.

I truly – deep, deep down truly – thought I had beaten cancer. I thought I was going to be a beacon, the shining success story that could inspire others who might face the type of rare, aggressive cancer I had – correction, have. I didn’t want that for egotistical reasons, but rather so that something good might come of a bad situation. I thought that was the purpose behind my first battle – that God was giving me the gift of words to start this blog and provide encouragement to others, people who were not just experiencing cancer, but also any difficult situation.

The first time I found out I had cancer, I thought, “Why not me? What makes me so special that something that horrible couldn’t happen?” This time, however, I am indulging in the classic “Why me?” question. I thought I had done everything right last time. I maintained my faith – in fact, it got stronger – and I shared it with others. I tried to face my challenge with poise and optimism. So I feel slightly abandoned by God right now. Yes, I know, saying that may be perceived as blasphemous by some. I rather feel like Pinto, Tom Hulce’s character in the classic movie “Animal House,” when his date for the toga party passes out in his bedroom and an angel appears on one shoulder and a devil on the other, resulting in a tug of war to decide what he should do next. My mini angel and devil certainly aren’t uttering the dialogue they had with Pinto, but they’re there nonetheless – arguing acceptance and anger, patience and indignation, faith and doubt.

I’ve always felt like I had a personal relationship with God. My prayers have often taken the form of a conversation. And just like you experience a range of emotions with a close friend, including frustration, so have I expressed, and am expressing, that emotion with Him as well. I’m not going to feel too bad about that, either, for even Jesus, in the Garden of Gethsemane, asked God to let death pass Him by and later cried out on the Cross, “My God, why have you forsaken me?”

I can’t begin to fathom why this is happening. As I have said in other posts, I don’t believe God causes bad things. I’m disappointed He didn’t step in to stop this from occurring, though. Once I adjust to this news, I will, hopefully, be like Job, who accepted numerous sorrows without losing faith. Right now, however, I’m more like David, when he entered the cave – afraid and lamenting.

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525,600 Minutes

One year ago today, I had an MRI that would forever change my life, and on this Veteran’s Day, I find myself being a veteran of sorts, certainly not to the extent of our military who sacrifice so much, but rather the survivor of a personal battle. I really don’t think too much about my cancer anymore; however, my thoughts have been preoccupied with it lately. The emotions of those first days have come hurtling back and I can feel them like it was yesterday.

I remember sitting in shock while my doctor gave me the MRI results, which included phrases such as “suspicious mass” and “soft tissue sarcoma.” I eventually was able to form two questions: Would I lose my leg, and would I die?  She looked at me and her silence spoke volumes; I knew the situation wasn’t good, so we just prayed. In the next two weeks, I moved like a zombie as I attended numerous doctor appointments, underwent medical test after test, and spent a lot of time on the New York State Thruway. The first few days and weeks of receiving a life-threatening diagnosis are filled with great turmoil and I learned what I believe are several important lessons for those who find themselves in a similar situation (so pardon the lengthy post):

You are your only advocate. I saved my life. Yes, of course, my wonderful medical team gets 99% of the credit; however, I was the one who got the ball rolling. When my primary physician felt the swelling in my leg was nothing to worry about and we could just monitor it for a month, I refused to wait and was insistent on getting an MRI right away. It still took 10 days to get it approved and scheduled, but, when it finally happened, that’s what revealed my tumor. I was also insistent, at the urging of my sister, on seeing the specialists at Roswell Park Cancer Institute sooner rather than later. All in all, I think my pushiness saved about seven weeks of time. As advanced as my cancer was, I strongly believe that time made a difference and saved my life.

Don’t make hasty decisions. When you hear you probably have cancer, all you want is to have that awful mass out of your body as soon as possible. This isn’t always the right move, however. Yes, time is of the essence, as I mentioned above; however, get the facts before making any quick decisions. When I was diagnosed, I was desperate to get a biopsy right away so I would know what I was dealing with. My primary physician offered to connect me with a general surgeon who could do one the next day, before my meeting with the specialists at Roswell. Because I had taken the time to gather some facts, I knew that the biopsy needed to be done by someone experienced in soft tissue sarcoma or I would risk having the cancer quickly spread through my body. As hard as it was to wait, I knew it was the right thing to do. In the subsequent months, I heard a lot of horror stories of people with my type of cancer who made hasty moves. Roswell’s new ad campaign, “Just One Day,” captures this perfectly.

Try not to jump to conclusions. I realize that this is easier said than done. When you’re told you might have cancer, the worst scenarios possible start filling every corner of your brain. A year later, I can happily say that none of them came to fruition: I didn’t lose my leg, I was able to continue working, I didn’t lose my home because I couldn’t pay bills, I was able to see my grandson turn 2 years old.

I have also learned some important lessons about life in the past year:

Treasure each day. That’s all any of us really have, cancer or not. As I talked about in an early post, if we are spending too much time regretting the past or worrying about the future, we are missing the beautiful “now” moments that are weaving the tapestry of today.

I’m not Superwoman. I had to learn acceptance and patience when I found there were some obstacles my body just wouldn’t let me overcome no matter how persistent and eager I was. Those are two characteristics with which I had to get acquainted and it was a difficult meeting.

You most likely underestimate the impact you have on the world. I will never forget the outpouring of love and support I received from people far and near when word of my diagnosis spread. Not a day went by that I didn’t receive a card in the mail, a supportive phone call, or a nice email. When my students put together a notebook of individual letters telling me how I had inspired them, I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I was awestruck – I still am.  I have come face-to-face with the knowledge that what each of us does on a daily basis affects others more than we realize. That’s a powerful gift and one of which we should be mindful.

What God leads us to, God leads us through. I can’t take credit for that saying and, unfortunately, don’t remember where I read it. I certainly don’t consider getting cancer a blessing; however, I do believe the life lessons I learned in the past year have been a blessing. My cancer was not God’s fault. As long as I had to face it, however, I strongly believe that He set forth a plan for me and led me to certain stops along this journey, such as starting this blog, and gave me the strength to get through. I have come out on the other side a better person for it.

“These trials will show that your faith is genuine. It is being tested as fire tests and purifies gold–though your faith is far more precious than mere gold” — 1 Peter 1:7

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Type A, Meet Roses

The last week, I’ve been struck by how beautiful it has been to drive home surrounded by the bright gold, burnt orange, and dark red colors of fall. It has made me pause to think that it’s been too long since I took the time to look around me and enjoy what I see. Case in point: It’s been nearly two months since I started writing this new post. At that time, I was sitting on my patio enjoying the still warm temperatures of summer and watching a sunset that seemed to go on forever. I wrote down the description for fear of forgetting the image: “The sky was, at first, full of light blue and pink swirls, like cotton candy you would buy at a carnival. Then it became brushed with coral and lavender before hitting the horizon and turning burnt orange and deep purple.” The topic of that post was going to be how my illness had made me “stop to smell the roses.”  Well, apparently not quite.

With my school semester in full swing, my Type A personality has taken over and I now realize that I will have to make a conscious effort to slow down and savor the things I learned to enjoy during my recovery. To help me with that, I’m writing this at the beach, watching the whitecaps dance along the water and the waves crashing upon the shore.

Being in a car – whether it’s driving through a tunnel of fall colors or parked at the pier – holds you captive in some ways. There is no television, Internet, or tasks staring at you to take you away from what you’re looking at and collecting your thoughts. It’s much like my recovery held my captive. I was limited in what I could do and where I could go; all I had was time — time I used for pondering the purpose of life and appreciating its beauty, and that was a true gift. The time I took for reflection taught me a lot – about me, about life, about my place in the world. It’s much harder to do that when your life returns to normal (or at least, in my case, the “new” normal). Reflection is just as important now as it was then, however, so in the midst of hectic daily routines, I realize it is important to pause and appreciate the blessings of life and be thankful for them. My cancer journey that began almost a year ago seems so far away now; it’s easy for me not to think about it. However, I don’t want to not think about it. I don’t want to forget the things I learned in the past year and I certainly don’t want to take them for granted. Hopefully, now that I’ve committed these thoughts to paper, I will commit them to practice.

(A fitting ending: As I was getting ready to leave the beach after writing this, I realized I had left my headlights on the entire time, draining my battery. Now I have to stay here for another 90 minutes waiting on AAA with nothing to do but appreciate my surroundings. God works in mysterious ways!)

The Forest

You may have heard the cliché, “Can’t see the forest for the trees” – a way to express that focusing on details (the trees) can keep you from seeing the bigger picture (the forest).  I’ve told many people that I got through my cancer journey by taking one step at a time.  If I had looked at everything I would have to go through – the radiation, the surgery, the chemo, the recovery – I would have been overwhelmed.  So I focused on the trees.

Now, it’s time to look at that forest.  No matter what kind of journey you are taking and where it has led you (or is leading you), I think it’s important to take some time to reflect on that journey and see how far you’ve come.  To look at my forest, I’m taking a different approach to this post and using pictures to tell the story.

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Click on the first photo to start the photo album; advance by clicking on arrow at far right of each photo.  

November 2013: Still in shock, I celebrated my father’s 101st birthday with my sister just three days after receiving my diagnosis. I would start radiation nine days later, driving more than a hundred miles for each treatment. There would be 25.

December 2013: The whole family was together at Christmas; I was halfway through my five weeks of radiation by this time.

January 2014: Now finished with radiation, I took a quick trip home to see my father in West Virginia. It would be the last time I’d be able to travel for a while.

February 2014: Two days before surgery, I celebrated the successful completion of a class project with students.

February 2014: My surgery lasted about six hours and almost one whole quadricep was removed with the tumor. I was able to sit in a chair on day three and enjoy flowers my students sent me.

February 2014: After a week in the hospital, I returned home with lots of help from family and friends, as well as a visiting nurse.

March 2014: Within a couple days, I could move from room to room with the help of a walker.

March 2014: Three weeks later, I was able to take a few steps on my own. I still had stiches and surgical drains, which were starting to drive me crazy!

March 2014: I had to undergo an outpatient procedure to have a MediPort put in through which chemotherapy would be administered. This was the most painful week I had on the journey. I kept telling myself, “This too shall pass.”

April 2014: I would go in the hospital on a Monday for chemo and be discharged the following Friday. The day after my first round, I went to the salon to get my head shaved. I couldn’t control cancer entering my body, but I could control my impending hair loss.

April 2014: A couple days later, I went to school. It quickly became apparent that I didn’t have the strength to continue in the classroom. My white blood cell count was too low and I had pneumonia, which postponed my next chemo treatment. I felt betrayed by my body.

May 2014: By Mother’s Day, I was halfway through chemo. My white blood cells were recovering, but the red blood cells were taking a hit. I would have to start blood transfusions.

June 2014: When I was feeling up to it, I tried to maintain a normal life. The week before my fourth chemo treatment I was able to go out for lunch, although I tired very easily.

June 2014: I was able to attend an awards ceremony, but chemo was taking its toll. The day before I had to get a platelet transfusion and the day after I had to get yet another blood transfusion. Chemo would be delayed again.

July 2014: With the required four chemo treatments completed, I had to decide whether to go for an optional fifth. I decided the risks were starting to outweigh the benefits. Three weeks after my last chemo treatment, I was able to get out a little more.

July 2014: A month after finishing chemo, I ventured out for my first long drive — back home to West Virginia.

July 2014: With my strength slowly coming back, I made up for lost time and traveled to see my grandson . . .

. . . . and daughter . . .

. . . and stepdaughter and her husband.

August 2014: Although more tests had to be run, I took myself on a Victory Tour to Cape Cod and Maine to celebrate the end of treatment.

September 2014: Three weeks ago today, I was told I was cancer-free, 282 days after the MRI that revealed the tumor. I CAN see the forest for the trees.

Optimism, Denial, or Faith?

Ever since I was diagnosed with cancer, people have commented on my “positive attitude.”  Actually, people told me this a lot even before the cancer.  It’s true that I (almost) always try to look at the bright side of things; I strive to find that silver lining to each dark cloud, so I approached cancer like I would anything else in life.  It has made me wonder, however, what positive attitude really is.  I believed my cancer was gone before the tests said so and I believe it won’t return – is that optimism, denial, or faith?

I admit to being a Pollyana.  If you’re not familiar with her, she is the star of a self-titled children’s book about a little girl who always found something good in every circumstance.  Through the years, the name has been given to those who are optimistic, and sometimes it’s used in a negative sense to describe someone who refuses to accept negative situations for what they are, which leads me to denial.  At what point does positive thinking turn into denial, and is denial a bad thing if it keeps your attitude positive?  Whew!  Quite a conundrum!  Then, of course, there is faith – believing in what cannot be seen, letting go and letting God.

I’m definitely am optimist.  I believe people are raised in environments that will determine whether they are an optimist or pessimist.  I was raised in a family that was told to “roll with the punches” and I choose to look at the world in a positive light.  I also believe optimism is something that can be learned if people are open to the possibility.  Recently on Facebook, I’ve seen a “7 Day Positivity Challenge” popping up on my friends’ timelines.  I think that’s wonderful!  I don’t like being around negative people because, quite frankly, they are depressing, which can rub off on those around them.  Just recently, someone told me I shouldn’t consider myself cancer-free because the cancer will always come back, even 20 years later, and will return with a vengeance.  How disconcerting!  I don’t want to hear that, even if there may be scientific evidence to support the claim.  This is a perfect example of cognitive dissonance – hearing something that disagrees with what you believe.  It can literally cause physical stress, and I certainly don’t need that.  Doubt can bring you down.

I do sometimes wonder if my optimism borders on denial.  More often than not during the last 10 months, I did not focus on having cancer, even when looking at a bald head or a big scar.   I’m not sure if that’s denial or simply choosing not to think about negative things.  I do know that I have a strong faith, which has helped me not to worry because I knew God had a plan even if I didn’t know what it was.  I have always trusted that the parachute would open.

So, are optimism, denial, and faith three separate things, or do they intertwine somehow?  They seem like they should be different.  The definitions I came up with are that denial is refusing to acknowledge a negative situation; positive thinking is acknowledging the situation, but focusing on the positive and hoping for the best; and, faith is acknowledging the situation and knowing the best will happen.  That said, I can see myself across the entire spectrum, so maybe they’re not distinctive after all.  Perhaps it doesn’t matter how I categorize it as long as I keep doing it.

“… there is something about everything that you can be glad about, if you keep hunting long enough to find it” — Eleanor H. Porter, “Pollyana”

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My Name is Ann, and I’m a Cancer Survivor

In this corner, stage III Soft Tissue Sarcoma, an advanced form of a rare and aggressive cancer found in the thigh.  In the opposite corner, the Westfield Wrangler, known for her tenacity, perseverance and positive attitude.

“Howard, this boxing match is a tough one.  Sarcoma has a strong track record of taking down its opponents.  We’ve already seen some dirty fighting in the ring.”

“I can’t disagree, Don.  Sarcoma has delivered quite a few blows, but the Westfield Wrangler keeps picking herself up.  The Wrangler may be inexperienced in fighting this type of opponent, but I think she’s getting the edge.  I’m just telling it like it is.”

“After nine rounds, the Wrangler seems to be gaining momentum, Howard.  Oh, look at that!  It seems she has Sarcoma on the ropes!”

“Down goes Sarcoma.  Down goes Sarcoma.  Down goes Sarcoma!  Ladies and gentleman, the Wrangler has won the bout!”

I, the Wrangler, am happy to announce that, yesterday, I earned the title of – cancer survivor.  A nine-month fight has come to an end.  A CT scan showed “no evidence of disease” – my treatment has been successful and I’ve been declared cancer-free.  I felt like Rocky when I got the news.  I started fist pumping, and happy tears welled up from somewhere deep inside – they’ve probably been in there since the battle began.

I may have been in the ring by myself, but I was never alone.  I owe so much to friends, family, colleagues and even strangers who have supported me in so many different ways.  I can’t express how much that support has meant to me.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart!  Now I start living life by the quarter, with doctor visits and bloodwork scheduled every three months.  Sarcoma is a “front-loaded” cancer so I will be monitored closely, especially for the next two years.  In addition to the quarterly doctor’s visits, I’ll have CT scans twice a year.  I don’t know what the future might hold – Sarcoma may very well want to get back into the ring for a rematch someday.  For now, however, I’m gonna fly – “flying high now, gonna fly, fly, fly!”

Turn, Turn, Turn

Transitions can be long or short, big or small, simple or complex. They can also be sudden or expected.  I’ve gone through a few transitions since my cancer diagnosis, all of which caught me off guard.

The first was when I finished my radiation treatments.  During my last treatment, tears started rolling down my cheeks and I couldn’t figure out why.  I had been so excited that I no longer had to travel the 100-mile daily trip to the hospital.  When I asked my doctor about it, she said it was completely normal.  Coming to the hospital each day for 25 days had become my routine and now it was ending.  I’m sure that fear of what was next played a big part, too.  I sailed through radiation – that was the “easy” part of my treatment plan.  Now I had to face a six-hour surgery and five weeks of recovery, not knowing what my leg would look like or how it would function afterwards.

The next transition was when I came home from surgery.  Another hurdle had been jumped, but the race wasn’t over.  Now that surgery was out of the way, I had to face the hardest part of my treatment – chemotherapy.  The latest transition came when I ended chemotherapy.  In my last post, I talked about having to make a decision about whether to pursue a fifth treatment; I decided not to.  Ending chemo was a difficult transition because it was completely against my nature not to fight as hard as I could; however, my head won this battle over my heart.  The benefits of continuing just didn’t outweigh the risks.  In addition to being a hard decision to accept, once again, fear of the unknown crept its way into my mind.  After eight months of treatments, all of a sudden I didn’t have to be to any kind of medical appointment for a couple weeks.  What would come next?

Fortunately, the uneasiness I felt from all of these transitions lasted only a few days.  Transitions, in their many shapes and sizes, may not be easy; however, your mental approach to them can play a role in how smoothly they go.  For example, my father recently decided to sell the contents of the home he had been in for nearly 65 years.  That’s a big transition.  Yet, when he sat down outside to watch the auction begin last week, he looked around at all the items that filled an entire driveway, backyard, and front lawn and simply said, “Look at all this junk!”  He has always thought positively about every situation and this thinking helped him make the transition and move forward.

I love road trips, so I’ve often thought of life as a road map.  It is not a direct route from beginning to end.  There are interstates on which you can travel full speed and back roads that require you to slow down in order to take the twists and turns.  Then there are the detours.  Just recently, I was traveling through Chicago and had to make two detours – not planned, but there all the same.  Those detours – those transitions – are all part of the path we’re on.  We don’t always understand why we hit them; perhaps it’s to protect us – in Chicago, for example, a bridge was out – or maybe there is construction ahead that will eventually make our life better.  That’s why it’s important to continue to move forward when we experience a transition.  God designed us that way.  Our feet face forward, not backward.  Our eyes are on our face, not on the back of our heads.  Isiah 43: 18-19 proclaims: “Forget the former things;   do not dwell on the past.  See, I am doing a new thing!  Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?  I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.”  Indeed, transitions can bring wonderful new opportunities for us.  We’ll miss them if we’re looking at life in the rearview mirror as we’re driving down the road that is our life.

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to purpose under the heaven” — Ecclesiateses 3:17

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What Does Courage Mean?

I’ve been involved in some important decision making this past week – whether to continue chemotherapy.  I wish my doctor would just tell me what to do; he has been noncommittal, however.  He has simply laid out the advantages and disadvantages of either choice.  I’ve turned to a lot of places looking for guidance.  I’ve looked at the bracelet I wear every day given to me by a dear childhood friend inscribed with the words “Be brave.”  I turned to my daily devotional and the scripture read, “Be strong and of good courage.”  I’ve read some of my own words, like “The Mustard Seed” post.  The decision has been a roller coaster ride that has had me question what bravery and courage really are.

I have finished my original treatment plan of four chemo rounds.  With this regimen of chemo, patients can have a maximum of six treatments.  Of course, being the overachiever that I am, I’ve been intending on getting six ever since I started.  It’s clear to me now that a sixth will not happen because of how chemo is affecting my blood.  However, my doctor is willing to give me a fifth, at a reduced dosage, if I want it.  The advantage of one more treatment is more protection against a recurrence of my cancer.  The downside is that it will further hurt my blood, possibly even requiring hospitalization this time, and increase my risks for cancers of the blood and bone marrow down the road.  As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, my life philosophy has been to not regret not doing something.  I also make an effort at focusing on today, rather than the “what ifs” of the future.  So what’s a girl to do?

As I always do when I can’t figure something out, I go to my sister to seek her advice, which, in my eyes, is always wise.  We ended up talking about courage and bravery, and what these things really mean.  In previous posts, I’ve talked about how perseverance is part of our nature – it’s something with which we are familiar – so it’s not surprising that I would lean toward continuing chemotherapy.  However, is perseverance the same as being courageous?  My sister posed the idea that maybe courage is actually acting in ways that are not as familiar and not in our comfort zone.  Ending chemo is a lot scarier for me than continuing it.

Mark Twain said that “Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear.”  John Wayne’s take on it was that “Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway.”  The Wizard of Oz told the Cowardly Lion: “You, my friend, are a victim of disorganized thinking.  You are under the unfortunate impression that just because you run away you have no courage; you’re confusing courage with wisdom.”  Perhaps courage is making the choice that scares you, or turning away from something you prefer to do because wisdom is leading you in that direction.

I don’t know the answer.  I do know, however, that I was hoping by writing this post I would organize my random thoughts on paper and thus come to a decision — and I think I have.

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The Gifts of Strangers

I’ve thought a lot about strangers this week and how they touch our lives.  The last chemo treatment (my fourth) brought my blood counts to new lows, so three days ago I sat in a chair at the hospital and had a platelet transfusion.  Yesterday, I was back at the hospital receiving two units of blood.  Both times, I pondered how, if not for the generosity of complete strangers, I would not be able to receive these transfusions that are vital for my health. People had made the time to give of themselves, literally, not knowing who they might help along the way.  Today’s transfusion was the third blood transfusion I’ve received during chemo, so a lot of strangers are helping me out!

Those giving their blood and platelets aren’t the only strangers who have supported me during the past seven months.  During the winter, I received a cozy quilt and two beautiful prayer shawls, all handmade by strangers in an effort to surround me with warmth and remind me that I am being lifted up in thoughts and prayers.  I’ve received cards from friends of friends who don’t know me but wanted to send along encouraging words.  Fresh fruits and vegetables have been left at my door by neighbors who I don’t really know.

Then there are the countless people at Roswell Park Cancer Institute who I don’t know but certainly don’t treat me like a stranger during my hospital stays for chemo: the clown who visited and told me corny jokes, the volunteer who made me origami art, the nice young man who cleaned my room, the musicians who played in the lobby, the patient advocate, and many more.

I know many of you reading this are yourselves strangers to those you are helping who may never know who you are.  If you’ve donated blood or are assisting “behind-the-scenes” in any way, please know that you are making a huge difference in the lives of others.  On behalf of all of us receiving the gifts of strangers, thank you.

Update (6/28):  After reading this post, a friend commented to me that she had registered on a bone marrow transplant website and actually was matched with someone who needed bone marrow.  Please visit BeTheMatch.org for more information.  And, while we’re at it, you can find a blood drive near you at  the American Red Cross website.

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