Feeling Grateful

The Thanksgiving holiday brings the spirit of gratitude and thankfulness more fully into focus. I realize should never forget to be thankful for my many blessings but sometimes life just seems to get so busy that I need a reminder to keep that "attitude of gratitude" in the forefront.

Tonight was a sharp reminder of all I have to be thankful for...

I just got home from welcoming 29 homeless people to our church.

Our church is the sheltering church this week. I volunteered to go to our church each evening to greet our guests, welcome them to a warm place to stay, and serve them food.

We provide our guests with tangible physical comforts like an air mattress, blankets, lots of food, winter clothes, hats and scarves, and a warm place to sleep. We also provide them with some non-tangible things like hope, comfort, companionship, and safety for the night. 

Our guests tonight are both male and female, some old, many young. Some are solemn and quiet while others return our smiles and readily engage in conversation with us.

They are back and brown and white. They are from all walks of life. One was a farmer, another a builder. One has quite a bit of education while others have little. Some are physically ill while others suffer from mental illnesses. Some were born here and others just recently arrived.

All of them are doing what they can to survive and that is why I was fortunate enough to serve them this evening.

In this season of thankfulness, I am feeling quite lucky. I have a roof over my head, plenty to eat, amazing kids and grandkids, and a multitude of awesome friends.

That is why I am feeling especially grateful, thankful, and blessed this evening.
 

How People Cope With Cancer

Everyone has a different way of coping with a cancer diagnosis.

 

Shortly after my diagnosis, I had told an acquaintance who was in the field of counseling that I was going to start a blog. She looked and me, shook her head, and said, "Verna, Verna, Verna, what are you doing?"

 

I will never forget that moment nor the words she said. It shook me to the core. Self doubt set in hard!

 

 I thought that writing a blog would be a good thing for me to do. A blog would clarify my thinking. A blog would share my news...good and bad...with family and friends. A blog would help me cope. A blog would inform others and spare me from retelling my story over and over. A blog could educate others that may be going through what I was going through.

 

I almost let her comment deter my belief that writing would be a good thing for me. After all, she was a counselor. She knows "stuff" I don't know.

 

But I didn't back down. I trusted my "gut" instinct and started my blog with the belief that it would be a positive move, a good thing for me!

 

And it has been!

 

 

 

A few weeks ago, I ran across an article I wish I would have had after my counselor acquaintance and I had that conversation. The article was written by a breast cancer survivor who happens to be a writer. It gives an excellent argument for handling a cancer diagnosis in the way that's best FOR YOU!   

      I have included the article below:

 

 

Is There a 'Right Way' to React to Cancer?      By Heather Millar

When I was going through treatment, there was a woman that I used to always see in the infusion ward. We had the same oncologist and we were going through the same scalp cooling clinical trial, in an effort to save our hair through chemo. We were always seated in the same treatment bay. So, from my point of view, we had lots in common.

Being outgoing to a fault, I tried to chat with her. Every infusion. And every time we sat together having poison dripped into our veins, she shut me down. Didn’t want to talk. Seemed angry and unfriendly. So by the last couple infusions, I learned to just smile and nod.

I assumed that she must just be a grumpy person, but she always had a different friend sitting with her. So someone must have liked her…

Then, about four months after our chemo ended, I ran into this woman as I was getting a post-radiation checkup. She smiled broadly and extended her hand. “How are you doing?” she asked in the cheeriest of tones. “Aren’t you glad THAT’s over?”

Her hair looked fantastic; she looked fantastic. Her personality almost seemed to bubble over. She was a completely different person now that treatment was almost finished.

That got me to thinking about how everyone has their own particular way of dealing with the terror and uncertainty that cancer brings into our lives.

Being a journalist, and being gregarious, I turned my cancer into a “story.” Turning my illness into a project kept it at arm’s length. Certainly, if I could explain what was happening to me, I could beat it. I probably asked so many questions that I really annoyed my medical team. I even interviewed the radiologist as she was sticking needles into my left breast to guide the surgeon during my first operation. I wrote about everything that happened. I talked to everyone, endlessly.

Looking back, I now realize that I was just trying desperately to stay in control. I don’t regret what I did but I now realize it was a coping mechanism.

In contrast, I think the lady who sat next to me in the infusion ward responded differently. She turned in on herself. In the face of the scariest thing that may have ever happened to her, she threw up walls. She took care of herself. She didn’t pay much attention to others. She did what she needed to do, even if it made her seem unfriendly. That, too, was a coping mechanism.

The mother of one of my family’s dearest friends is now dying of lung cancer. She’s in her late ‘80s, and the cancer has spread to her brain and her bones. Her response is simply to deny what’s happening to her. Her daughter, our dear friend, says denial has been her mother’s coping mechanism forever.

So when we go to visit this charming old lady in her assisted living facility and she talks about how she’s going to move to Idaho because there’s a doctor there who has a magic bullet that will make her well, we just nod seriously. There’s no point in trying to set her straight. She’s just trying to cope.

For the woman who set up the young survivors group that I joined, I think her response to cancer was to organize. She’s now built a non-profit that runs support groups, pools information, and organizes retreats, parties and other get-togethers for breast cancer patients and breast cancer survivors. She’s a corporate attorney, and I think she channeled her professional skills to create something that’s helped hundreds of women. I also think her activism is a coping mechanism.

There’s no one “right” way to respond to cancer. And, I think, when we’re in the moment, we cancer patients really don’t have much control over how we respond.

Each style of response has its pros and cons. My charm offensive helped me feel that I wasn’t isolated, wasn’t helpless. Yet I wonder if I avoided fully feeling some things. The lady who pulled up the drawbridge and turned in on herself probably protected herself emotionally. But she also missed connections with people who wanted to help. The mother of our friend keeps herself in a haze of delusional hope, but I wonder if it will also get in the way of saying her goodbyes to friends and family. The founder of my young survivors group has helped hundreds of women. But by now, she must be 10 years post diagnosis. I think it must be exhausting to keep cancer at the center of your life for that long.

If you’re the friend or family member of a cancer patient, try to accept whatever response your loved one has. They’re just trying to get through treatment. It may seem that your loved one has lost their mind, or changed personality. It may make you feel confused. Just remember they’re in the fight of their lives right now, and they just need understanding and huge helping of forbearance.

If you’re a cancer patient, remember that however you respond to your cancer, your way is okay. We’re all just trying to cope.

Heather Millar is an award-winning freelance writer and author. In her blog My Left Breast, she details her treatment for breast cancer as well as the science, history, and ethics of the disease.

 

 



What A Difference A Year Makes!

I can hardly believe that a year ago today, September 30, 2014, I was still struggling to rebuild my blood weeks after chemo was done. I was also trying to build up strength. I had just had my fourth radiation treatment that morning. 

 

This September 30th, I am feeling almost fully recovered. My strength and stamina are very near back to normal! I have been thanking God all summer and fall for the wonderful times that we have been blessed to share with family and friends at the lake. It has been at the lake that I have done a lot of my physical and mental healing.

 

I have been so fortunate to spend time at the lake, not only on weekends as we have done in the past, but also days during the week. Most of the weekdays, Arland is at the lake with me but on some days he has to be in Fargo for meetings.

A few days ago, Arland had to be in Fargo so I spent a leisurely day reading, walking and enjoying the beauty of the lake...my flowers, the water, the clouds floating across the bright blue sky.

As evening approached, I sat in a chair on our dock watching the glorious sunset and thought about these past 18 months.

I looked out over the lake and watched as the breeze made gentle ripples across the water. As I gazed over the lake, a fish jumped out of the water near me, making a little "blip" sound as it reentered the water.

As I sat there thinking, I realized during those moments of serenity, solitude, and reflection that cancer was like that little fish. Just like that small fish made a little "blip" of ripples in the large lake, so too had cancer made a little "blip" of ripples in my life. Eventually, the ripples the little fish had made on the water smoothed out. In due time, my cancer "blip" will smooth out too.

My "blip" has started to smooth over. Now my prayers are for that little cancer "blip" to be the only I will ever have to encounter.

 

 

 

The Tug

It's happened twice this past week. I've run into someone and they'll say, "How are you doing? I haven't been to your website lately."

 

Sadly, I think to myself, "Neither have I!"

 

Life has been going smoothly since my last checkup with Dr. Terstriep, about a month ago. Arland and I have been at the lake every weekend and several week days this summer. The week day stays give us more time to "get things done" so we can enjoy our family and friends when they are at the lake on the weekends...and we've had lots of people at the lake this summer. It's been fun! We feel summer is passing us by very quickly though and there are still a lot of people we'd like to have spend time with us at the lake.
  

Each year, as August rolls around, I feel a tug to go in to school to start getting things ready for the upcoming school year. This year is no different. I began to feel that tug, that pull to be doing "school things" a few weeks ago.

 

Since I no longer need to get a classroom ready, I justify my need by taking our grandsons, Brody and Logan, out for a day of school shopping. It's a perfect way to spend one-on-one time with each of them separately doing something that we both enjoy. Of course, there is always ice cream and other treats involved for both of them.

A grandmas gotta do what a grandmas gotta do!!!

Brody, age 8, enjoys his "Scoops" ice cream.

 

 

Logan, who is 5, decided the bubble gum ice cream was the yummiest!!

 

 

 

Life is good...

 

Maybe that's why I haven't been to my website lately.

 

 

 

And All Was Well

 

As the title says, all was well!!!

After my last post, I thought I would let you know that I am breathing easier. My doctor appointment with my oncologist, Dr. Terstriep, went just fine! She found nothing new and for that I am grateful!

 

Arland and I decided to head for the lake for a few days after my
appointment. This is what we saw as we enjoyed the lake Monday evening. What a glorious sunset!!!

 

 

And "All is calm and well!"



The Storm

 

Thoughts are rumbling through my brain mirroring the

thunderstorm outside.

 

My thoughts are reflective of the weather. Half my thoughts are preoccupied by dark, stormy thunderheads while the other half smiles in the gloriously brilliant sunshine.

 

My heart quickens every time I think about tomorrow. This will be my first appointment with my oncologist since my treatment ended nine weeks ago. The big question rumbles and looms...

 

 

What if she finds something new?

 

 

This is just a routine visit. All will be well.
 

Then I remember that this all started 16 months ago with

"just a routine visit" during which I fully expected that "all would be well".

 

My cloudy, tumbling side booms with doubt.

 

My bright, sunshiny side whispers that all WILL be well.

 

The dazzling blue sky that is now peeking out from behind the thunderclouds tells me to be calm. Breath deeply. Be calm. The storm will pass and all will be well...

 

And calm!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life After Breast Cancer

Life after breast cancer...

 

What will my life be like after breast cancer treatment?

What will it look like?

How do I live it? 

What's next?

 

 

These questions have been bouncing around in my brain for a little over a month. That's about how long it has been since my last infusion.

 

Contemplation, thoughts, and prayers have led me to the only answer that will work for me. My life will be just like it was before...with a few exceptions.

 

The first exception is a fuller, deeper appreciation of my awesome family. Family has always been most important but cancer magnified that for me. My family stood (or often sat!!!) by my side and loved me through the tough times. It wasn't always easy for them and I owe them much gratitude.

 

A close second exception is a greater, more profound appreciation of my friends. I knew I had great friends before, but this past year has proven that I have the best, most thoughtful friends in the whole wide world!!! The cards (some sent weekly by two lovely ladies!), texts, emails, food, gifts, fruit bouquets, flowers, phone calls, pink shirts at a reunion, visits, and prayers were appreciated so very much. My friends "loved me through it" too. It all helped me heal.

 

Another exception is that I am trying to live with more mindfulness, being "in the moment", and appreciating things more fully...appreciating EVERYTHING life brings more fully. Being more aware and paying attention to the present takes practice. I am working on that.

 

A fourth exception that I now have is a much better appreciation and understanding of the struggle people who have ongoing health issues deal with on a daily basis. Breast cancer treatments slowed me down for a while but now I can move on, leaving my medical issues to linger in my memory (and a few scars on my body) instead of living them every day.

 

An exception that I have added since breast cancer is a greater admiration and gratitude for the doctors, nurses, technicians and all others who dedicate their lives to helping people get well. Theirs is a special mission in life.

 

 

So, what will my life be like now?
My life will be just like it was before...with a few exceptions. 

 

 

 



Changing After The Storm

          

 

 

Change is so hard for me. I wish I were one of those people who easily and readily seek out and embrace change. But that's just not me! Change is what is making my journey challenging right now. There are just so many changes after the storm.

 

Don't get me wrong...I'm not complaining. I'm just temporarily uncomfortable with all that has changed in the last few weeks.

 

First, my treatments have concluded. Yes, it was a cause for joy but it was also a cause for uneasiness. When I was being treated, I felt like I was actively fighting...doing something to help get rid of the cancer. Now, it almost feels like I'm not fighting anymore. I need to readjust that train of thought!

 

Next, my port was taken out. I appreciated my port and was not very excited to see it go. It served me well during the past 12 months. I don't know if it is superstitious (am I tempting fate for cancer to return?) or if it was just a "security blanket" (it's there if I ever need it again), but it was sad getting it removed. However, I trust my oncologist, Dr. Terstriep, to know when the port should come out.

 

Then, it was having the last check-up with my doctor. I won't see her for another three months. That's the longest span between doctor visits since I began this venture.

 

Lastly, my hair has changed...and BOY HAS IT CHANGED!!! I have grown tired of always wearing my wig or a hat so today was the day. I got my hair cut!

Here is the new me...

 

 

 

Now, it's up to me to make the leap beyond "cancer patient".

 

 



Oh, Happy Day!

     Great news from my mammogram I had done last Friday! No signs of cancer showed up in my mammogram!!! Whew! It's nice to be out from under that dark, threatening cloud!

 

Now, I am officially listed as NED..."No Evidence of Disease". That's the new term for what used to be called "in remission".

 

It has been one year, one week, and one day since I had my lumpectomy and half my thyroid removed. It's nice to be moving beyond all of that. So, this is the plan for now...

 

 

Memories

    
 

Today was a tough day. I had a mammogram.

It was the first one since those devastating words, "You have breast cancer" were spoken at the last one.

All the memories of my last mammogram, when I found out I had breast cancer, flooded over me like a dark, swirling force. That was the day my world changed.

 

Even though this mammogram was at a different hospital, the flashbacks were hard and heavy...

 

The events of the last 13 months played over in my mind...

The first and second mammogram...The nurses saying, "Don't worry, second mammograms happen all the time. Everything will probably turn out just fine.".

 

The radiologist pointing out areas in the films of an "abnormality", then later the doctor saying that it is definitely cancer.

 

Getting continuous phone calls from the doctors as I tried to teach my little ones, each call bearing more bad news.

 

The absolute raw fear I felt as I met with my oncologist, surgeon, and radiology oncologist for the first time, waiting for the "course of action" plan.

 

Trying to make the choice between a lumpectomy or a mastectomy with the information the doctors had given me and with what I had read online.

 

 Trying to be brave on surgery day.

 

Being upgraded (or maybe I should say downgraded) from Stage 1 to Stage 2, after surgery because they found cancer in a lymph node.

 

Trying to be brave the day they put in my port.
 

 

The six grueling months of chemo, steroids, Neulasta shots, mouth sores, lost toenails, diarrhea, ER visits, low blood counts, no appetite nor energy, and meds and more meds.

Having to shave my head after chemo began.

 

The 33 radiation sessions (which I probably shouldn't even list because for me it was truly a cakewalk compared to chemo).

All these memories bombarded my brain. I felt like I had no control over the continuous replay in my brain.

And so now I wait...

I have an appointment with Dr. Bouton, my surgeon, on Wednesday to find out what this latest mammogram has revealed. I'm sure everything will be fine but after you have cancer, you always have a little nagging voice in the back of your brain that whispers unwanted thoughts.


I did have two events today that helped me not think about the "what ifs". This morning, I spent time at school helping Brody's (our grandson) class make their Mother's Day gifts. There's nothing like 23 first graders to take your mind off things! Thanks, Jodi (Mrs. Helander, to the first graders!) for helping me get through the morning.

This evening, Arland had his Exchange Club's "Fun Night". I helped take tickets at the door so I got to see and visit with lots of teachers, friends, and many acquaintances. That also helped keep my mind busy. So many kind people asked how I was doing and expressed their continued thoughts and prayers, which I genuinely appreciate.

In between the two events, there were some tears shed because of the stress of the day. I don't cry often but it was hard to contain the overabundance of emotions today. It's a day every breast cancer survivor has to face and just get through!

So until Wednesday comes, I'll just have to wait and have faith......


 

The Celebration

      It started out quietly enough. One little chime on my phone let me know that someone had sent me a text. Because I was just about done with my last Herceptin infusion, I ignored it, thinking that when the nurses were done I would check it.

 

     Then it happened again. Now I really wondered who needed me so badly since I never gets texts THAT close together! And then it chimed again!!! REALLY!?!  The IV infusion line was being unhooked from my port so I thought the texts would just have to wait.

    

     And then another chime and another and ANOTHER! GOOD GRIEF!!! What is going on???

 

     And then it hit me. It was over and my celebration had begun!

 

 

 

My day started off like most other infusion days. Arrive at the RMCC at 7:20am, get weighed and have my port accessed at 7:40, blood draw at 7:45, wait for blood test results and Dr. Terstriep's appointment at 9:00 and then begin my Herceptin infusion at 10:00.

At 10:00, a familiar face suddenly walked into my infusion room. Katie, our youngest daughter, came to spend time with me! She said that since she had sat through all my chemo infusion days with me, she certainly wasn't going to miss my last infusion! I very much appreciated that because I know how VERY hard it is to miss school...especially if you're the TEACHER!!!

 

 

We chatted away as the IV fluid flushed my port and the Herceptin was ordered. You can't really see it but the IV is hooked up in this picture. Scarves are so nice at covering things! :-)

Soon I heard another familiar voice. Wow! This was getting good! Kristi, our oldest daughter, also took time to come see me during this last monumental infusion!!!

 

Ooops! I forgot to hide the IV line in this picture.

It was fun to have her and Katie there to help pass the time. By now, the Herceptin had arrived and was being added to the IV.

 

I should have recognized a pattern here but I didn't! Sure enough! Here come more visitors!!! 

 

 

This littlest visitor was extra special! Bob, our son, wasn't flying that day so he brought Olivia, our sweet granddaughter, to see me! That was very special to be able to show her off to the nurses I've come to know so well. All three of our children have been so kind, thoughtful, and wonderful during this venture.

 

 

I thought my surprises were over but then my last visitor, Arland, appeared with the most gorgeous bouquet of a dozen deep pink roses! I think they were the prettiest roses I have ever gotten from him! I will include a picture of them in another post.

 

After 334 days of cancer treatments, I was closing the "active treatment" (surgery, chemo, radiation, and Herceptin infusions) chapter of my life! It felt great!

 

And that's when the chimes began...

 

So many wonderful friends began texting their kind wishes to me. I was overwhelmed at the support I was receiving! I felt surrounded by love, warmth, good wishes, happy thoughts, and sweet comments that were being sent at just the right time to help end that chapter.

I found out later that Kristi had put it on Facebook that Wednesday was my last treatment and since I'm not a "Facebooker", it was a totally wonderful surprise to receive all those texts!

Thank you, dear friends, for everything...all the texts, calls, meals, visits, cards, love, and support. I wish I could convey to you how much it has meant to me since I began this journey 13 months ago. Thank you!

  

We decided to celebrate by going out for lunch at Toscana on Broadway. We had a scrumptious, relaxing meal there...and the chiming continued!

 

 

L to R - Kristi, Katie, Arland, me, Olivia, Bob

 

 

The celebration on Wednesday marked the day that my active cancer treatments had officially been declared...
DONE!

 

 

Chemo Curls

 

 

Is it vanity? Insecurity? Loss of self-esteem?      Being unintentionally bald has been the ultimate bad hair experience for me, although I did try my best to camouflage my Mr. Clean 'do with hats and wigs. Passing as my healthy, normal self was crucial for me. I didn't want to deal with pitying looks and staring strangers at the grocery store. I didn't want people to see me as "sick". It's a tell-tale sign of a cancer patient: the bald head covered up by a turban, scarf, or a baseball cap. But the bare head, especially on a woman in our society, proclaims the silent message, "She has cancer." You can hide cancer, but you can't easily hide hair loss. Hair loss is associated with cancer. It is the one outward sign that distinguishes you as a cancer patient. For many women diagnosed with cancer, losing their hair is one of their biggest fears, and often one of the most upsetting parts of this illness. But cancer forces you to get used to a new normal where image is secondary. That's not to say that my vanity has gone out the window. If I didn't look in the mirror too often, it wasn't too bad. What it does say is that I am glad to have my health! Hair was always been something I had taken for granted, grumbled about, and fussed over. However, since I am female, I had never thought about being bald. Hair loss is a loss of self-identity and self-esteem. I knew it would grow back, but loosing one's hair is traumatic. No matter how many cute hats, scarves, or wigs you wear, when you look in the mirror at night, it's a constant reminder of one's mortality. Losing your hair puts you on an emotional roller coaster. First, you have the emotionally painful experience of waiting for and wondering when your hair will fall out. And then it does. About the time the hair on your head starts growing again after chemo is over, then your eyebrows and eyelashes fall out. Losing your eyelashes and eyebrows, the defining part of your face, really makes you look sick to other people. Losing them was hard because I felt like I looked like I was sickly and dying when in reality I was fighting so hard to stay alive. It was hard to look at myself in the mirror because I didn't look like me anymore. After my head was shaved, I swore I'd never again complain about a bad hair day. People seemed to like my wig and those who didn't know I had cancer would say, "I love what you've done with your hair!"  "Thanks", I'd tell them. "I'm trying something a little different." I didn't tell them that the "something different" was attaching my hair to my shiny white scalp with double-stick tape! By December and January, my new sprouts were itching to make their debut. Mainly, they were itching! Getting my fingers under my wig to scratch my prickly head became an issue so I switched to wearing a cute winter hat. Since then, I have managed to grow about an inch of hair. As a friend joked, pounding the mirror and yelling, "Come back! Come back!" must have worked!  The major problem now is that my hair looks like a rabbits' fur. Not a nice brown rabbit but a WINTER rabbit...eye-blinding white in color...or should I say, in lack of color!!! It even feels like rabbit fur. And it is CURLY!!!!! My old hair was as straight as uncooked spaghetti! This new stuff is soft and looks perpetually tousled. Yes, losing my hair was difficult and upsetting but it is a small and temporary price to pay for a chance to regain my health. Being a survivor meant my hair had to go. Being alive and surviving breast cancer outweighs the rabbit fur look I'm learning to deal with. I look at being bald as part of my treatment plan; and if treatment allows me to be a survivor, then how dare I complain! The most important thing I have learned through this journey is that my body is not me. This shell can be altered by surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation but what's really me doesn't change. I know people around me love me with or without hair for who and what I am, and not for how I look. I know from this venture that every day is a blessing. You can sit and ask why or you can get busy living! I focus on the more important things like one's faith in God and the love of family and friends. I have become a lot less fussy about life's little disappointments since this venture began over 12 months ago. As I concentrate on this new stage of life, cancer and the fear it brings must begin to feel like an old chapter in life. This is what life is after all, a succession of chapters: some good, some bad, some extraordinary, and some painful. Maybe I should have named this posting, "Chemo Curls: How Cancer and My New Hair Helped Me Grow." Because, like my hair, I've grown some too.

 

Happy Anniversary

     "Happy Anniversary!" is usually followed by lots of smiles, cheers, and well wishes. Not today...not for me. Today is the one year anniversary of the beginning of the scariest year of my life. A year ago today, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I had officially joined a club I had NEVER wanted to belong to.

     I will never forget standing in the small mammogram room and hearing the doctor say, "You have Ductal Carcinoma in Situ."

 

Carcinoma... that word bounced around in my head.

 

CARCINOMA...CANCER.  

 

How could that be? I didn't even have a lump!

 

My head was swimming and my stomach was churning as I realized I had just become the 1 out of 8. (One out of every eight women will get breast cancer.)

     Within days of finding out I had breast cancer, I found myself in a flurry of medical activity involving biopsies, ports, surgeons, oncologists, nurse navigators, pathologists, radiation oncologists, chemo classes, PA's and nurse practitioners. I also found out my cancer wasn't just DCIS. It was much worse.

 

 Cancer had just turned my life up-side down.

     I have always believe that knowledge equals power so I began reading voraciously to find out as much as I could about the specific kind of breast cancer I had. Armed with that knowledge, and feeling comfortable with the doctors I had chosen at Roger Maris Cancer Center, I began this year-long venture to be cured.

     Becoming a breast cancer survivor is bound to teach you a few life lessons.  I have learned so much! Some things I could have done without (nausea, diarrhea, ER visits, mouth sores, severe muscle aches, and the "hairless Chihuahua" look!!!) but others have been true blessings.

 

I have learned that so many people care about me and my family. All of us, Arland, Kristi, Bob, Katie, their spouses, and I have been supported by well wishes and prayers by so many. My friends (both teacher friends and non-teachers) have been amazing. They have sent a multitude of cards, given much needed hugs, sent flowers, emailed, delivered food during chemo, texted, called just to chat and stopped by our house to visit. This tremendous support has helped me heal, physically and emotionally. It also has helped Arland and our kids cope.

     I have also learned that most of the time, fear is worse than the cause... fear of the unknown, fear of the treatments, fear of "what if it comes back", fear of the pain. Cancer brings with it soooo many fears.

     And now, one year later, I believe I am doing vey well! I am back to doing most everything I was doing a year ago before cancer invaded my life. Stamina and getting all my blood counts back up to normal are areas that are still lacking. Slowly but surely, I WILL get there!!!

 

It's an amazing feeling to be a survivor!

     I have shared my story very publically and allowed everyone to fight the fight along side me. Cancer was an awful thing but I look at it as a speed bump: It may have forced me to slow down but it didn't ever cause me to loose hope! Now, I am excited to get back to living. It's almost spring, treatments are nearly over, I am in a good place, and I am happy to be here.  

     I am so proud of and grateful to my family and friends. Just saying "Thank you" is simply not enough. I'm not sure what I can do or say to feel like it would be enough. Until I figure that out, I will simply say, "THANK YOU for being a true friend!!!"