Grey's Gram

February 28.
I met Greyson’s Grandma, Jo, at his house last week.  Jo is Grey’s maternal grandmother, as in, she is Dana’s Mom.

Jo was not just at their home on the north side of Fort Wayne for the Cantaloupe video shoot; she was there because that is their new “normal.”  When she introduced herself to me I thought, man this entire family is so young.  The woman is hip, beautiful, and full of energy.  Good thing since she drives roughly 35 miles one way daily to watch Grey, Aubrey, and Lainey while Dana and Nate are at work.

No… Jo was not yet retired and yes, she used to have a job when Greyson was diagnosed with leukemia.  As a mother, she instinctively knew there was no way her daughter could work full-time, take care of a home, a husband, and Grey’s two younger sisters while she coped and cared for Grey.  So, she did what any mom in a position of being able to help would do:  she stepped up and stepped in.

We talked in that OSU-inspired basement about her former employment, her husband and his job, their trek to Fort Wayne every day, and how their lives have changed since finding out their grandson has cancer.  I enjoyed listening to her, all the while never once missing a beat as Grey and Aubrey would interrupt with a “Hey Gramma, can you help me?”  “Hey Gramma, where is my new train?”  “Hey Gramma, I need more batteries, please.” 

Ah, Grey and those batteries; those hidden little triple AAA buggers which keep his trains going ‘round and ‘round that crazy track.  I listened carefully to Jo’s words, as they were clearly the glue that kept the day held tightly together.  It’s not that anyone else there was frazzled or that Jo did everything – that wasn’t the case at all.  Rather, her tone, her demeanor and the way she handled all that was happening around her set the stage for everyone else.  Including me.

Without her calm, I would have been super emotional and unable to hold back the tears which I could feel welling up behind my eyes.  For when I looked at Jo, I saw my Mom. 

My mother stopped her entire life the moment she found out I was sick.  Her focus was one-fold:  she was going to do everything in her power to make sure I had a chance.  In the middle of it, I didn’t appreciate her selflessness to the magnitude which it deserved.  Not even close.  It is one of the many times I wish I could go back in time and change my behavior and my words.

Fourteen years later though, another Mom has helped me once again.  Thank you, Jo, for bringing clarity to my older eyes.  You helped me see and remember that when cancer invades a family, it takes that entire family to come together and do whatever it takes to win the battle.  It is a long process.  It affects not only the patient’s life, but the lives of the caregiver’s as well.  Emotions run high, energy runs low, and life goes on even when sometimes we wish it would just wait.

This morning I am thankful for motherly glue.

58 days.

 

Processing

February 27.
We didn’t drive home.  After I picked Liv up from the Montessori School on Friday, December 11, 1998, we drove south on SR 49 towards Valpo.  That town was quaint.  Lots of cool stores and one really, really good Italian joint called Tony’s Place.  Not that I was hungry or expected Dr. Melfi to appear out of nowhere with any magical answers.

In fact we didn’t stop in Valparaiso at all, not even at the University which I always loved walking through on crisp afternoons.  I had no idea where I was going.  Not in the car, not later that day, not for the rest of my life.  The rest of my life…

Suddenly, I wasn’t exactly sure how to frame that picture.  Would I make it to 30?  That was like “it” for me; the age by which I was going to have everything checked off my cleverly named To-Do-By-Thirty List.  The one I wrote in pink ink, probably around age fifteen.  Whatever.

So we just drove.  And sang.  And drove some more.  I finally pulled into the driveway of our apartment, turned off the ignition, and realized there was no getting out of the car.  I couldn’t move.  Shock, maybe, I don’t know.  It was nothing quantifiable in that moment; that moment in which I was stuck feeling nothing – feeling everything.  It was too much.  My brain was so overwhelmed that it just shut down, and the rest of my body followed suit without any ability of thought or control of the matter.

Numb, I remained in that driver’s seat staring at Olivia in the rear-view mirror.  Her little feet were kicking and she was wriggling her hands, smiling at me with an incomplete set of teeth flanked by drool.  I smiled right back and in that moment, everything became perfectly still.

In some weird, indescribable way, it was completely peaceful.  I loved her; she loved me.  I may have had cancer, but I was still her Mom.  Take away my schedule, my hair, my modesty, my dreams, but do NOT take away my baby.  That I will not allow, and THAT is gonna get me out of this car.  Right now.

It is so hard to believe that one word can cause such twisted and immediate emotion.  That one word can change the course of a day, a season, an entire life.  (It’s also hard for me to believe that sweet little smiling toddler is now sixteen and disgusted by my presence instead of digging it, but that’s another post altogether…)

I read a quote yesterday which said, “It’s not the mistakes that break us, it’s the dreams we left untouched that keep us broken.”  Cancer messes with our dreams.  It doesn’t, and can’t, fix our mistakes – only we can do that by not repeating them.  But the messing with our dreams part?  The messing with our life part?  I think WE can fix those things.

Thank you for continuing to read these posts.  Thank you for continuing to donate.  And THANK YOU for continuing to believe we are in this together, because we very much are – right here, right now.

59 days!

 

 

 

Winning

February 26.
“Good checkup today.  Numbers still low, but I can start walking and eating some fruits again.  Might be able to run within a month!  I finally feel like I’m winning!  Bye cancer!”

That is the exact text I received yesterday morning at 11:12am from a friend in the running group.  Runners are an odd bunch.  At least that’s what we are told from non-runners.  Hey, to each his own recreational activities. 

Here is what I can tell you unequivocally from those of us who choose running as a form of competitive catharsis: there is a bond among us which can never be broken.  It’s like a lifetime membership.  Sure, just like with any relationships we form in life, we will have those with whom we connect more so than others.  And so it was with Brad.  We didn’t talk much, as we ran (literally) in different circles.  We’d utter the occasional “hey, how’s it going?” to one another, but that was about it.

I clearly remember the first time I met him – well, met the back of his head because he was pretty far ahead of me and my running partner as we were completing Yasso 800’s around the Jorgensen YMCA.  Really, all I knew about Brad was that he was a fellow runner and therefore must be at least somewhat cool.  After all, we had something in common.

Never once did I stop to think we would someday have cancer in common.  That’s just it – none of us stop to think about it.  Certainly none of us who are “in picture perfect health”…certainly not runners.  We eat GU, drink protein shakes and were born in Kenya.   How could we possibly ever get cancer?  How could our parents possibly ever get cancer? Our neighbor or co-worker?  Our best friend?  Our son, our daughter, our children?

There is no picture.  There is no rhyme or reason sometimes.  Cancer does not discriminate.  It just comes at you when you least expect it, kinda like mile 18 and those stupid @$$ hills.

I went to see Brad at the hospital when he was there for 8 days having chemo to rid his body of Hairy Cell Leukemia, an unusual cancer of the blood which affects B cells (type of white blood cells).  I brought him a cherry slushy, as I remembered how much I craved those suckers after the chemo ran through me. I listened to him talk about his counts, his energy levels, his food intake, his mindset, and nodded in remembrance.

As hard as memory lane is sometimes, I am of the opinion we should all travel back there occasionally in the name of making the journey for others a little easier.  Otherwise, that difficult terrain we each face at certain points in our lives would be totally wasted training.

Up yours hills, and up yours cancer.  We’re going to beat you both.

Keep winning, Brad!  Your fellow lifetime members are running and rooting for you in the meantime.

60 Days to go. 

 

 

 

Providence

February 25.
Late afternoon tomorrow, Indiana News Center is meeting Greyson, Dana, and me at Lucky Harley-Davidson (LHD) to shoot a commercial for “the ride.”  LHD is fantastic.  The people who work there are truly astounding and continue to leave me speechless (which I think was secretly an underlying goal of theirs after I spoke at a Chapter Meeting earlier in the month...).

LHD’s first ride of the season is happening on Saturday, March 16^th.  Greyson will be there, as all proceeds from this ride are coming back to the campaign in his honor.  In fact the General Manager, Scott Wyman (Scotty to his fellow compadres), told Jen Alia as we were leaving the Chapter Meeting that they will proudly be supporting LLS henceforth.  Meaning, every year after these remaining nine weeks conclude, Lucky Harley-Davidson will be donating money for cancer research to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.  How cool is that?  

Let me tell you (quickly, promise) how this all came about.  In January, on a dreary Friday afternoon, I was lunching with Jen, Stacy, and Angela at Bandido’s.  No margaritas.  Angela had the brilliant idea that we should inquire with LHD since they are a tight-knit loving and philanthropic community.  I hadn’t slept well the night before so I’m rolling that day with some hot mess hair and my black leather jacket (office day, don’t judge).  So of course it should be me that goes in after lunch.  Angela selfishly loves when her ideas also turn into entertainment at my expense.

Prior to that day, I knew exactly 2.5 Harley riders.  I walked in armed with my story, my fliers, and my request.  Joshua was behind the main counter – super sweet and possibly super scared for a brief moment as soon as he realized I wasn’t taking no for an answer – and after listening to my plea, said “Um, you probably should speak to our GM.”  Side note:  Hey Joshua, that buck you passed I am totally taking.

Good plan, I thought. As I’m waiting for this stranger of a GM to come out and talk with me, I’m checking out the merchandise and hear another strange voice from behind say, “Beth?  Beth Schrader is that YOU?!”  Now this could go a lot of ways.  2.5 riders, may I remind you.  I turn around, this guy clearly knows me, but I cannot place him.  He’s decked out, head to toe, in gear with a huge and warm smile on his face, waiting for some semblance of reciprocity from yours truly. 

Yes, yes it IS me…but help me, I can’t quite remember you!

Duh, darlin’.  Steve Cobb!

Steve is one of my customers from forever ago so I hadn’t seen him in at least 5 years.  Everything is well in their software world, so there was no reason we should have seen each other…

Until that day.  In the Lucky Harley-Davidson shop.  And the rest as they say, is history.

Here’s to trying to make some in 61 Days.

Sweet 16

February 23.
“So what am I supposed to do?  How do I get rid of cancer?” 

I asked these questions of Laura when she called me with the news, however she’d already uttered the word, so the rest of the conversation was an echo.  She might as well have not even continued talking because nothing was registering.

“We need to determine what kind it is.  You’re going to need to have a bone marrow biopsy as soon as possible.”

She also might as well have been talking in Japanese because I had no idea the cancer lingo.  Prior to that, I had always thought biopsies were for tumors.  The only lump I had was the one in my throat every time I tried to say something in return.

I didn’t care about any of it in that moment.  I left and immediately drove to Liv’s Montessori school.

When I arrived, nothing was said.  The teachers there knew me well enough to know that something was wrong but they shouldn’t ask.  They should just let me walk like a zombie back to the brightly-painted toddler room where Liv played every day.

The drive from our apartment to the Chesterton Montessori School was approximately 8 minutes.  I used those minutes to dry my tears, collect my thoughts, and gather every ounce of strength I could muster in order to pick up my child and hold her, yet not frighten her with my own fear.  Yep, I was going to do this.  I had to do this.

And I almost did.  Before I turned the last corner and made the walk down the hallway where teeny-tiny little winter coats and matching snow boots lined the walls, I sucked in a deep breath.  But as soon as I made eye contact with Liv’s teacher my composure started to shake.   It was then that my 22 month old turned around and ran towards me - and then that I totally lost it.

She was all I thought about the moment I heard the word.  Who was going to be her mother?  I AM HER MOTHER!  Will she get this?  Is it hereditary?  Why do I have to leave her?  No.  No, no, no.  Make it stop!  Somebody tell me what to do, who to say sorry to for any past wrongdoings I have done.  Is this why I’m sick?  Is it punishment for something?  Liv.  She needs a mother.  I AM HER MOTHER.

Mercifully, this mother got to hug her sixteen-year-old today.  What a sweet day it was.

62 Days to the party.

 

BriefFRIDAY - 2/22/13

Today marks the end of the official first full week of the campaign.  In honor of this, I’ve decided that the end of every week will be dubbed “BriefFRIDAY.”  Not only will the content be brief (whatever that looks like), but it will provide a weekly update and a status update on the campaign as a whole.

So here goes.  The week was extremely productive (Read: it flew by, I have no idea where it went, copious amounts of coffee was consumed, but a lot got done).  We secured the venue for our last fundraiser and finalized all the details.  Custom auction items were completed.  Additional auction items were secured.  Pictures were taken, videos were shot, and interviews were conducted.  And as usual, emails were sent, phone calls were made, and shameless “Hey, did you happen to check on?” or “Think you’ll be able to donate?” questions were asked.

Finally, my jury is still out on whether or not to disclose the current team total on our way to $100,000.  None of the six teams has any idea how much the others’ have raised.  It’s all very secretive and our campaign manager, Jen, has such a poker face I often wonder if we should just have a Texas hold’em tourney here in Fort Wayne and call it good.  She could clear more than the campaign goal all on her own with that face.

Between the six teams I can tell you we’ve collectively raised…$14,560 in our first week. 

This money will make a difference.  It’s not just a number on paper or a screen.  It matters.  THANK YOU to all of you who have donated thus far.  You have been incredibly generous and I appreciate it greatly!  There’d be no way to do this without your support.

Next update in a week.  For now let’s just say I’m feeling very Smokey and the Bandit-ish - We’ve got a long way to go and a short time to get there...

63 Days.

 

 

All Aboard!

February 20.
“Come play trains with me!”  That is what Greyson insisted yesterday as he held my hand and led me to the basement of the Snyder home.  I arrived at 9am for a video shoot which a company out of Indy, Cantaloupe, graciously agreed to do for us as part of this campaign when Angela asked.  They are the same folks who handle the IOS marketing videos.  Cool people.  Big hearts.

So I carefully made the descent behind Grey.  Not only did I see OSU galore down there (Go Bucks!), I saw more trains than Jesse James has ever seen.  Tracks led around an entire wall, over bridges and through canyons, with NAMED train cars carrying nothing other than their respective internal individual batteries.  Duracell would be proud of that getup.  Around and around those things went, making noises as they chugged and crashed, chugged and crashed.

All as Greyson educated his studious audience. 

He was simultaneously laughing and barking orders.  “No!  That one doesn’t go there!”  Ok, dude.  I only have a daughter and she never played with trains although I would have much preferred that over Teletubbies.  Talk about freaky giant alien-like English-accented overstuffed loons that scared the crap out of parents.  Me included.  Yikes.

Anyway, I didn’t really know what I was doing with the train situation.  But I did know what I was doing when we left there and went to Lutheran.

Cantaloupe shot a video of a “day in the life” for Greyson.  His days not only include playing with trains, but once a month they include a trip to the Hospital for treatment to rid his little body of leukemia.  As Dana and I discussed today after we saw a much “sicker” looking child being wheeled out of the Doctor’s office, sometimes it’s hard to remember that Grey is sick.  Sometimes it takes a nurse named Shelley injecting chemotherapy into his port to remind onlookers that he has cancer.

I watched as Grey actively participated in a mock check-up, and educated us once again about the right way to do things.  Dr. O’Brien and his nurses are amazing.  They have their own language – with each other as well as their patients – and it was inspiring to see.  Dr. O’Brien (an OSU Grad, I might add) explained that some of his research included a 2-year stint whereby “day and night,” he researched the implications certain drugs have on one cell which is triggered, goes haywire, and turns into leukemia.  ONE CELL. 

2 years, day and night, looking at something which most of us never even consider let alone understand, is how this Doctor used and continues to use his gift.  That guy not only saved me from having to step it up in Science class, he and other researchers like him saved me period.  Just like they are saving Grey.

While Greyson may not know the technical behind-the-port terms of what is happening with his body, he certainly understands the love and care he is receiving in the midst of a bump in the tracks.

Time to get on board.  We have 64 Days to go.

This Was Not on My To-Do List

It was August, 1997.  My daughter, Liv, had been born just 6 months earlier.  My husband came home one day and told me he wanted to accept a job promotion.  So we moved from Columbus, OH to Chesterton, IN - away from my best friend, our collective friends, and my entire family.  With a new baby, a new job, and a new life which I did not know how to handle, I found my 24-year-old self in the middle of a total whirlwind.  I thought the whirlwind was coming to a conclusion when Liv’s Dad moved back to Ohio and she and I stayed in Chesterton (see “dirt” – previous post).  But I was wrong; it was just beginning.  It was then that I was diagnosed with leukemia.

I figured the unexplainable weight loss and constant exhaustion were simply attributable to stress from the obvious situation.  After taking Liv to her day-care that morning, I returned to my home office to begin the work week.  The phone rang.  On the other end was my former Doctor neighbor who still lived in the family-friendly neighborhood we enjoyed for a short while; Liv and I were now in an apartment across town.

“Beth, it’s Laura.”

“Hey, how are you?”

“Can you come back in here this morning?”  Her voice was not normal.  It was softer and unsteady. 

“No, I’m busy and it won’t change anything if I get in the car.  Just tell me.”

“Your white blood count is 88,000.”

“So?”

“So that’s 10 times higher than normal.  Something is really wrong.”

“Like?”

“Like your body is fighting a life-threatening infection, but that can’t be it since you’re able to function. Or, or it is…”

“It’s what?”                                   

“Cancer.”

65 Days.

 

Prevalance

February 19.

You know how when you’re thinking of buying a new car and have a few models in mind, you start to constantly see them on the roads everywhere?  Yeah.  That’s exactly what has been happening so far with this campaign.

I mentioned this already in an earlier post, but even though I knew how prevalent cancer is – I didn’t really know.  Yesterday, in the middle of a Manic Monday (are The Bangles still together?), I received an email from someone with whom I’ve worked the last 17 years.  Didn’t think a thing of it as the email hit my inbox, as I figured he was responding to one of the zillion emails I inundate him with daily.  Until I read it and it said this:

This crusade the two of you embarked on has suddenly become very personal. We just found out last night that Yvonne’s sister Heidi (38, mother of 4) has been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. While the doctors say her prognosis is good she obviously has a long, tough road ahead. Thank you both very much for your efforts.

Aaron

I let out a deep sigh and responded with what I could.  The “both” Aaron is referring to is myself and Angela, our VP of Professional Services at work.  We have a high tenure at IOS, and as such, are like family.  Cancer invades our families.  It invades our homes.  It invades strangers. 

Speaking of strangers, I ran a marathon Sunday morning and cried twice.  Once when I finished, and once, at mile 22 when I read this HUGE sign, held high above the others:  “HELLO total stranger, today I am proud of you.”

Even though I couldn’t breathe, I smiled and said to her, “I love your sign!”

And then it hit me as it did again yesterday:  we are NOT strangers.  We are in this walk (or run) of life together.  We are in this fight against cancer together.

Together is the key - together we can make a difference for the greater good.  Seriously.  I believe it with every ounce of my being.

These blog posts are intended to bring about blood cancer awareness, hopefully inspire, and yes – hopefully also move you to donate to this collective cause.  Please consider it this week.  We have 9 left to go.

Thanks, everyone.

 

 

Shades of Grey

February 18.  The goal of MWOTY is not only to raise funding for LLS in the quest to find a cure for blood and other types of cancer, it is also done on behalf of a Boy of the Year and a Girl of the Year.

The women candidates campaign on behalf of the Boy of the Year and vice versa.  Here’s how I met Greyson Snyder:

Initially, I “met” him during a phone conversation with Jen Alia, Campaign Manager, while our roles were reversed as she was selling me asking me to campaign this year.  In passing (because it was a quick call), she said “The BOTY is 3 years old and has A.L.L.” 

Ugh.  When we are faced with decisions in our lives of any kind, especially those which resonate so deeply within us for very personal reasons, hearing information like that stirs conflicting emotions.  On the one hand, I was paralyzed with intolerable emotions.  Fear almost.  Could I do this, go back there, see and meet and get to know a CHILD with leukemia?  I’d avoided these feelings for so long I wasn’t sure.  Selfish, I know – but sometimes when we truly cannot deal with emotions which have a magnitude beyond our comprehension, we flee.  It’s just easier.

Yet on the other hand, I was simultaneously mad and driven to do something.  NO WAY should we still be hearing these kinds of stories.

And man am I thankful for those conflicting emotions.  Otherwise, I would not have met Greyson (Grey) and his family.  Grey is 3 ½ years old and has two YOUNGER sisters, Aubrey & Lainsley.  His parents, Nate and Dana, are the nicest most unassuming couple you’ll ever meet.  A young family, they are in the midst of a situation which they, I’m sure, are struggling to face every day.  Three young children, one of whom has cancer, two full-time jobs, you know…the “American” dream, less the cancer part. 

I love this family.  I’m thankful that we’ve entered each other’s lives in a way which (hopefully) touches the other at just the right time, for just the right reasons.  I know they’ve done that for me.

Grey and his parents were at the kick-off last week.  He went to “the party,” and was one of the stars.  He was running and playing and smiling and high-fiving just as any three year old should be. 

67 Days until the next party, Grey.   Until then, we are working hard for the cause.  Fight on little dude.

Be The Match

February 15.  Leukemia is the general term used to describe a number of malignant diseases where the blood-forming organs produce increased numbers of leucocytes.  Those (hard to pronounce) cells are colorless and are found in the blood and lymphatic systems, which are important in fighting disease. In very broad terms, leukemia is classified according to how fast it progresses and the type of cells affected.  Chronic leukemia progresses more slowly than Acute leukemia.  While there are about a dozen or so different sub-types, the four possible permutations and main types of leukemia are:

1.      Acute Myelogenous Leukemia (AML)

2.      Chronic Myelogenous Leukemia (CML)

3.      Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia (ALL)

4.      Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia (CLL)

I had CML.  Greyson has ALL.  You will learn all about Grey, this year’s Boy of the Year, very soon.

The only course of treatment for CML back in 1998 was a) do nothing and maybe live 5 more years or b) have a Bone Marrow Transplant with the caveat that not many people get through those well, if at all.  I immediately asked what Option c) was.

There wasn’t a third option.  My only sibling, Sarah, was tested to see if she was a match and could be my Bone Marrow donor.  She and I held hands as we walked back to the room at IU Med Center where her blood was drawn for testing.  She hates getting her blood drawn and was paler than a baby’s butt after they got done taking multiple vials.  Our parents were in the waiting room.  I can only imagine what was going through their minds, watching us from behind as we made that unknown trek.

A few (long) weeks went by before we learned the outcome of the testing:  3 out of 6.  Sarah was only a half-match and therefore could not be my donor as my body would reject her marrow.  I clearly remember both receiving that phone call and placing the ensuing one to my family.  It was if they had “failed” somehow.  That call in and of itself felt like I had already lost the battle; like the hope which we had all mustered up from the time my sister’s blood was taken to the time the phone rang had immediately disappeared, replaced by doom.

The emotional roller coaster families facing cancer go through is indescribable; yet I know most of you readers explicitly understand this.  Most of you have either gone through it yourselves, or have witnessed it via extended friends or networks.    

My patient care advocate explained that the next step was to search “the registry.”  I was only familiar with one type of registry at that point in my life (anyone want this crystal swan thing?) and now apparently there was some potential stranger in some database who could help save my life.

Thankfully, "apparently" turned into a reality. Thank you, Beth Robison, for being on the registry. 

http://marrow.org/Home.aspx

68 Days.  Keep racing.

The Kick-Off Party

I’m sure you’ve seen by now, but the official Man and Woman of the Year (MWOTY) kick-off gathering was Wednesday evening at Parkview Field.  The other two women candidates and their teams were in attendance, along with the three MOTY candidates and their respective teams. 

 

I’ve always been a sucker for camaraderie.  Being a part of a team is one of my favorite places to be.  From softball to basketball to track and cross-country, I was always a part of a team growing up.  Perhaps that is another reason I feel so blessed and thankful right now to be a part of a team which is dedicated to working non-stop over the course of these next ten weeks in the race to help fund a cure.

After being approached to run for WOTY and subsequently agreeing after heavy contemplation about all it would entail, I was asked the following question:  “So, who are you going to have on your team?”  I hadn’t given it a second thought since I figured I’d just do it all myself.  I know, save your comments – but in that admission is the first step to solving any kind of problem, I quickly admitted NO WAY can I do this alone.  Not if the goal of $100k is going to be reached.  Not if we’re going to make a difference in an impactful way.  Not if every possible network is going to be exhausted during this race.  I was going to need some serious help.  Cancer takes an army to defeat.   

To say that the outpouring of assistance and participation thus far has been amazing would be a gross understatement. Honestly, even I have no words.  I am going to find them for a future posts though, because the way in which people come together for the greater good is the best feeling in the world and the ultimate definition of camaraderie.

Thank you to my team for EVERYTHING.  Thank you for putting up with me and my endless questions.  Thank you for offering to help with things even before I ask.  Thank you for going outside of your comfort zones.  (What?  22 hours at O’s on St. Patty’s Day won’t be “comfortable?”)

 

Ok, now that I type this I’m realizing something:  This exactly parallels what cancer patients and their support teams go through.  Endless questions.  Help given before it is requested.  Comfort zones tested and surpassed. 

I’m pretty proud of all this camaraderie.  Soldier on, friends.  We’re in this thing together – no matter what side of the diagnosis we are on.

69 days until the party. 

http://www.beth4lls.com

 

 

Why Am I Doing This?

Happy Valentine’s Day to all you lovers out there. You know what I love? Talking. I seriously asked my Mom once what she thought my “spiritual gift” was because I had no idea. She responded as if it was the most moronic question I could have possibly asked.

While no one is surprised I like to talk, it is surprising to most people when they first find out I had cancer. I take that as good news. That news means there are those of us out there living normal lives (zip it friends who have dirt on me), who have gone through treatments and are now cancer-free.

Let me tell you something that surprised me. As you know, yesterday was the kick-off for this 10 week effort. I sent out several hundred emails to customers and contacts asking for help. And in the span of the first two hours, I cannot tell you how many emails came back with stories. Shared stories detailing personal cancer journeys and the associated struggles, triumphs, and for some, the defeats. I normally don’t cry often, but yesterday morning I couldn’t stop. The overwhelming feeling of “I knew this disease was far reaching but I didn’t really know…” came over me as the emails continued to fill my inbox.

• Thanks Beth, my mother passed away from leukemia 5 years ago, so this is close to my heart. I have made a donation.
• Thanks for the e-mail. I had an uncle that I never got a chance to meet because he died many years ago at the age of 4 from Leukemia.
• Your email is very touching because what you don’t know is about 1 year ago, my mother was diagnosed with AML Leukemia while her and my dad were in Florida for the winter. While we have been through a lot with my mom having leukemia in the spring, going into remission and then it coming back in the fall in the form of a rare skin leukemia.

Here’s something else I thought I knew – that I was prepared for this campaign. Yes, I’m going to do everything I can to bring in as much possible money so the researchers can figure out how to beat this thing. They have to. We have to. Cancer needs to go away like, now. But I was completely ill-prepared for the emotional part. My emotions have been on overload since yesterday morning. The emotions have both taken me back and centered me to the here and now. This part, I can’t really explain sufficiently. Just thankful.

So why am I doing this? So eventually, none of us will have to receive emails like these ever again. Thank you for sharing; thank you for helping.

70 Days to go. The race is on.
http://www.beth4lls.com

The Cancer Curing Kick-Off

So here it is. 10 weeks from now, there will be a black tie gala here in Fort Wayne to celebrate the efforts of 6 individuals who are raising crazy amounts of money to benefit The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society (LLS). This campaign ("race" henceforth) is called the Man & Woman of the Year. I am one of those women. And, I am a leukemia survivor.

Here is where you'll learn my story. A story which some of you may already know; others may not. A story which is so near and dear to me yet one which I've not revealed to the magnitude which I'm committed to revealing now. No, this isn't some People-Us Weekly-George Clooney-like attempt to bring publicity to a movie. This is real life. Names will not be changed (sorry, some of you).

This is real life with real people, including our local Boy and Girl of the Year - Greyson Snyder & Kellcey Nichols - two brave kids who have been diagnosed with blood cancer. You will learn about them, their battles, their triumphs, their families, and how WE are going to help. Every dollar I raise in this whirlwind of a 10-week race counts as one vote. The candidate with the most votes is named the Man and Woman of the Year at the gala on April 26th.

I want that night to be a party. A party to celebrate life and all its ups and downs. A party to celebrate what a city like Fort Wayne can do when it comes together and works hard. A party to celebrate, thank, and honor patients, survivors, families, and friends because guess what? Cancer doesn't discriminate. It doesn't just affect the person who had to hear the words, "it's cancer" or the parents who had to tell their 3 1/2 year-old little boy "you're sick, buddy." It affects everyone we know. This disease is far reaching. But here's where we step in and say - reach this, cancer. You're going down.

So before the work begins and that final party starts, here's my one and only sales pitch (What? Those of you who know me find that ironic? C'mon.)

I ask that you join me in supporting LLS by making a tax-deductible donation to my fundraising campaign. All contributions will help fund LLS programs, including research, patient services, advocacy, public and professional education, and community services.

Thanks to LLS’s research funding over the years, blood cancer survival rates continue to climb. The ONLY choice I had when I was diagnosed 14+ years ago was a Bone Marrow Transplant (more on that part of the story later). Today, that's not the case and it's strictly due to money being raised for R&D. Not only are LLS supported therapies now used to treat patients with rare forms of stomach and skin cancers, they're even being tested in clinical trials for patients with a range of cancers including lung, brain, breast, pancreatic and prostate. In addition, many LLS funded drugs are being tested for patients with non-cancerous diseases such as diabetes, rheumatoid arthritis and multiple sclerosis.

LLS is leading the way in cancer research. LLS doesn't mess around. And neither do we. My goal you ask? $100,000. I'm gonna need some help, people. Help me help others like Grey. Like my running buddy, Brad (more on him later). Like people you know.
For more information about LLS, please visit www.lls.org.

Sales pitch over. Game on. The race is starting. Check this blog (or http://www.beth4lls.com) daily for updates on the campaign, the fundraising events, the pictures, and all the stories. I am committed to writing to you every day. Commit to reading, learning, and yeah...donating.

71 Days until the party. Let's go.

Monday Morning Madness

Now I'm thinking about Muse; I love their song Madness.

(Digressing even before I get to the topic de jour, wonder if that's a first...ah, never mind.)

Just walked in the door from a fast and snowy 6 miles.  We pushed.  And then pushed some more.  The guys I ran with this morning are faster than I've ever been.  Which is good for someone on a mission to qualify for Boston in just 13 short days.  So I didn't even mind when one of them screamed, "This is what you came for, baby!  Pick it up!  This is mile 25!"

Any other day I would have thought of ways to get back to our cars first and let the air out of his tires.  But today - today I was thankful for the effort.  And the snow.  And the friendships which push me to be better.

Hello, Birdie.

I hate birds.  Well, with one exception:  Hummingbirds.  Those little suckers fascinate me. 

So it should have come as no surprise to me at all that I did not immediately jump on the Twitter bandwagon.  When that little Tweety Bird hit the air waves, I seriously thought it was Looney.  Mel Blanc had to be at least a little pissed, taking a roll around his newly dug home.  I can hear him now - I'm a tweet wittow biwd in a diwded gwave...

Ok, that's just craziness.  But much to my chagrin, twitter is not.  It's new and interesting and fun to me.  I couldn't possibly enjoy learning about it any more than I have this past week.  And on some level, I maybe even want to know every last thing about it.  Haven't quite decided yet.  As they say, the jury is still out.  In serious deliberation, mind you, but undecided nonetheless.

While I've learned some important etiquette such as it's polite to thank someone for a RT (retweet, losers) and DM's are fun - the most important piece of background twitter information told to me by an expert in the field is that it originated with the intent of being similar to text messaging.  Now I'm not sure if that is exactly true or he - inexplicably and almost immediately- figured out how my brain works and gave me a meaningful correlation to hush up my line of rapid fire questioning.  In either case, I got it.  It's kind of like texting.

Texting...that is a whole 'nother thing I could go on about.  I have no idea how many texts I send and receive on a daily basis.  65?  70?  Who knows.  It may even be well over 100.  I communicate all day long.  This week, however, I'm quite certain it has exceeded whatever constitutes my standard number. 

Which leaves me feeling a bit hypocritical.  I'm constantly ordering Liv to put that $!*@ phone down and STOP TEXTING.  Please, for the love of all things holy, would you stop acting like a teenager?!

(That wasn't directed at her.)

Yo.

This is what I start most texts, emails, or greetings with when I chat with one of my very best friends.  Truth be told, I have no idea why we're still friends, in that he scolds me on a regular basis.  Today when I divulged a little nugget to him it was, "Oh god."

He's from the South.  A little Southern bell.  Polite, those people.  All except this one.

The other scold today came in the form of this question:  "Are you ever gonna write again?"  So I sent him a link to another blog which will commence on February 13th and have daily entries through April 26th.  He read it.  I got no response until I inquired.

Yeah, I read it.

Good concept?

That is "public" Beth.  I miss the side you show on your personal blog.

You just miss ME.

I do miss you!

It's almost 10:00, dude.  I'm boxing at 4:30 tomorrow morning.  The race is in 18 days.  Liv is upstairs in my bathroom (renovated hers for her B-day) jamming to One Direction.  I got nothin' and I need some sleep.  I know you'll understand because not only do you miss me, you love me!  I promise to write more on this blog and also come visit soon.

Damn, you're high maintenance.  Friggin' southerner.

Dorian Gray: Part 2

“When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one's self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.”   
                                                                                  --Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

I wrote about Lance Armstrong back in August when the "shocking" revelation hit the airwaves like he had just pedaled over a cliff bigger than the fiscal one.  Back in August, I was much more tolerant of that revelation than I am now.  Back in August, I still kind of liked and admired the guy and felt only slightly, not fully, bamboozled. 

Today, five months later, I no longer like or admire him and in fact am on the verge of wishing I would have never laid eyes on the man.  Never worn his yellow bracelet.  Never secretly wished I could emulate him.  And certainly, unequivocally, never put him up on a pedestal which he did not deserve to be hoisted upon.

You see, Lance suckered us big time.  He lured us in and then spat us out the moment he no longer needed us to fawn and drool and ooh and aah over him and his accomplishments.  His accolades.  His smart, rich, and sexy.  The moment he was done impressing us with his fiction, he left us high and dry.

Was Oprah really surprised that "Lance did not come clean in a manner she expected?"  I know I'm a faster marathoner than the woman (thank god), but I truly didn't think I was smarter.  (Fine, I may have thought it but my bank account proves otherwise.)  She said she studied for that interview like it was a college exam, reading everything she could get her hands on and compiling a list of 112 questions to ask His Highness, but they didn't much matter.  And to that I say two things:  one, it confirms O did not attend college because no one is sober long enough to study that much and secondly, what a waste.

What a waste of her time on a man who did not deserve her intrigue.  What a waste of American athlete's time everywhere - thinking here is an individual on the up and up, who is totally above board, who we should all befriend and bend over backwards to love and cherish.  We should have genuine concern for him, his family, his life, his interests, his needs, his experiences.

You know what Oscar Wilde said about experience?  He said "Experience is merely the name men give to their mistakes."

Screw you, Lance.  You are and were and will forever more be a phony. 

The romance is over. 

Yet, I would be remiss if I did not thank you for being such a disheartening experience.  Truly.
Because just as one of your many ex-girlfriends once sang:  You're My Favorite Mistake.


 

Beth's Top Ten List of Reasons Why Pneumonia Can Help You Realize Previous Unknowns

One of my best buddies told me, after sending him the below list, that boredom has full onset.  Not necessarily.  I am working by tail off from home.  I just like lists.  And, I like a little empathy when I have pneumonia.

10.  Being the one in the Dr.’s waiting room receiving the dirty looks instead of giving them is way more refreshing than the collective airflow.

9.  Shallow sighing at people is not nearly as fun as full sighing at people.

8.  The dog doesn’t sleep all day nor have a bladder the size of Texas?

7.  Skipping 2 high-mileage weeks 41 days before the marathon won’t be a problem at all.  Fresh legs. 

6.  The number of ways in which to wear nasty unwashed hair in a pony-tail is virtually endless.

5.  Edy’s may be “slow churned,” but when your throat and lungs are on fire, it most certainly does not have to be consumed in that manner.

4.  Wearing sunglasses inside your own home to avoid the light makes you feel like a Kardashian.  And no matter how bad one may look at that given moment, they'll still be smarter.

3.  Saying “Why yes, more soup, a gallon of milk, the mail, and gas in my car if you don’t mind” has a certain ring to it.  My standard guilt has also been temporarily sidelined.

2.  Who knew Erica Kane is finally off the air?

1.  Running 7 miles with pneumonia is nothing if not helpful come race day.  (Oops.  Pre-diagnosis).

 

 

 

 

New Year = New Everyone?

 

I've never understood it, frankly.  And this "new" year was even on a Tuesday.  It's not like our new year began the week afresh.  So why in the world was I reduced to reading everyone's "New Year's Resolutions" on Facebook like I was going to have to add brand new friends by the end of the News Feed?  People, please.  We are people.  We don't change.  At least not much and certainly not in the span of Monday-Wednesday.

When I walked out of the hospital after being in there for 35 days after intense chemo and other modesty-stripping procedures, people continuously asked me if I was "changed."  Do you stop and smell the roses now?  Do you give thanks for everything around you each and every moment?  Does butter taste creamier than ever?  I was 25.  My secretions had been measured to 1/4 of a fluid ounce every day for over a month.  I had been poked, prodded, plucked, and all other medically necessary Harlequin-like things by total strangers.  NO, I was not instantly changed.  Sure I was glad to be the hell out of there, but I was still me.  What I was lighter from in missing hair, I more than made up for in heavy guilt from the constant inquisitions of whether or not I was a new and improved me. 

(Note to naive 25-year-old me:  YES.  Cancer-free was enough.)

So call me jaded (again), but I find the whole New Year's Resolution thing revolting.  People are people.  Some are well-intentioned, some are not.  Some vacillate between the two on a regular basis.  No matter - not for me to decide.  I've gotten burned by trying to convince myself I know someone one too many times to render myself an expert. 

But what I do know with absolute certainty is that God puts people in our paths at exactly the right time.  For example, last week in tradition fashion, we met at Chels' house in Columbus.  And by "we" I mean the four of us:  Beth, Beck, Chels, and me.  Friends for over 35 years.  There's no bullshit, there's no pretense, there's no hiding a thing.  It all comes to the forefront whether you want it to or not.  The wine helps a little too, but honestly, we were completely sober the entire time which outsiders would not have believed given the increase in decibel levels over the course of the evening.

The boyfriends we'd rather never remember, the flings we wish we could, the Oh My God you screwed him...really? conversations (full disclosure:  I was the one asking that question, not answering) - it was all very refreshing.  Trips down memory lane can do that to you in a matter of minutes.  More importantly, they can alleviate the here and now, which as you may have guessed by now my astute readers, won't cause any backlash from yours truly in this season of life.

After spending genuinely accepting and loving time with them, I finally made the connection between my self-conscious struggle in being satisfied (i.e. stop setting higher and higher goals) and my equivalently self-conscious struggle in being well...in this season of life.  My friend Beth literally just got married for the first time 3 years ago.  She was the most experienced dater among us.  Without going into too much detail about her, let's just say it is rare when she speaks up and even rarer to hear her say anything negative about anyone.  Out of no where she turned to me and said, "Stop liking the wrong ones.  You've always liked the wrong ones.  The ones who treat you like crap, the ones who are emotionally unavailable.  Me too.  But trust me, there are better ones out there.  And for god's sake will you SLOW DOWN?  It just delays everything." 

I teared up and sipped another gulp of my wine.

I'm sure my desire to achieve constant goals has something to do with pleasing someone / earning their love, attention, and respect as a child or lovestruck moron teenager.  At least that's what $110 bucks an hour would insist upon repeating like some kind of marathon mantra.

I'm sure my desire to achieve constant goals has something to do with pleasing someone / earning their love, attention, and respect as a child or lovestruck moron teenager.

I'm sure my desire to achieve constant goals has something to do with pleasing someone / earning their love, attention, and respect as a child or lovestruck moron teenager.

Please.  Who am I kidding and why am I throwing money around like I should have something entitled "Writ" after each session? 

We are all just people.  And we are all gonna be just fine.

Happy 2013.  Including all four of its seasons.

Planting the Seeds for Online Dating

You knew better, right?  There is no way I will ever sign up on an online dating site. 

I know many people who've found their true love their soul mate, their counterpart, their everything on a dating site.  Yada yada yada whatever.  They are happy beyond measure -swearing that paying whatever membership fee, writing a (very factual, I'm sure) bio, throwing up a photoshopped picture of themselves in some lip-puckering sultry pose, and hitting 'submit' has given them more daily pleasure than anything they could have ever imagined.  Have these people never eaten dark chocolate?

The whole online dating phenomenon does not help one iota with my jaded.  Someone was just telling me that "at our age, it's more about finding someone that is 'compatible' and has similar interests in life rather than true love."  Hogwash and humbug, I say.  Or at least I hold to in an effort to have the happily ever after which has eluded me for forty solid years. 

But thankfully in the meantime, I have not lost my sense of humor.  Not only are there the usual suspects in the way of online dating sites, but now apparently there is one called:  FarmersOnly.com.  I saw it on a commercial as a "woman" was "driving" a John Deere through a field as she happened upon some toned and tanned sweaty farmer planting something totally unrecognizable to us city folk.  And as crazy good luck would have it, he even had a towel on him to wipe his brow. 

The only thing which I did recognize in all of this was my utter contempt for one more marketing ploy aimed at suckers.  Along with verification beyond a doubt that when I move in a few years, it will not be to a farm. 

East Coast New-England style house with a big ass French Rooster Country Kitchen?  Twist my arm.  Just not too hard since I may have to plant a garden or something if they're low on lobster.

PITA

Write Drunk; Edit Sober   --Hemingway

Thank you, Ernest.  Although I promise I am not drunk or even drink right now, as I've been on the proverbial wagon since last month.  Exactly one month ago today, in fact.  It's never wise to consume beer that is darker than Mich Ultra in a fashion which rivals how you wished Tom Hanks would have eaten at his special reunion party once he got off that godforsaken island.

Now that we have that all cleared up, let's move on to the topic de jour:  I had an 80 minute massage at Woodhouse earlier.  To say it was long overdue is an arrant understatement.  After dumping my things into a locker, I changed into the plush, commodious robe and those hard plastic slipper things which don't do a thing for your feet after a long run.  To the hallway I went, making nice with the way too bubbly employee who insisted upon walking me the six steps around the corner to the Quiet Room. 

The Quiet Room is quite possibly my favorite room in Fort Wayne.  No, I'm not embellishing for effect.  That room makes me happy and instantly reposed while simultaneously reminding me what cozy feels like.

When I drift off to dream, that room is exactly the kind of place my mind wanders.  From the floor to ceiling stone fireplace, to the candles aligning the massive wood mantle, I sunk deep into the oversized leather couch and all its welcoming pillows - hot cinnamon tea in hand.  As I gazed into the fire, the thoughts which swirled in my head at warp speed were all over the place; yet, I was completely and utterly relaxed.  I'm like James Taylor.  I can only get to a point of total calmness if I'm in front of a fire or if it's raining.  Someday I am going to go to Aspen or Zermatt and just reminisce for days in front of a gigantic stone fireplace wearing the coziest sweater and drinking spiked hot cocoa.

Half-asleep, I heard a deep voice mumble, "Beth?"  No way could this be the guy who'd be working on me for the next 80 minutes.  My hard plastic slippers went shuffling down the hallway behind a man who was clearly either Lou Ferrigno or his younger twin brother.  And by incredible hulk-ish I mean I was pretty sure the room we were about to enter contained one massage table, some birds chirping through speakers and certain death.

About-to-break-me-in-half asks if there are any special areas of interest, areas which are troublesome or causing me pain.  Reluctantly, I tell him I am a runner so my legs are always a wreck.  He nods, and assures me he understands as he is also a runner.  If I wasn't so scared for my life I would have laughed in his face, the one attached directly to his bulging shoulders.  Instead I silently followed the directions I know by heart:  hang up the robe, kick off the torture shoes and crawl under the sheet face up.  He'll be in to kill me in a second.

It started out fine.  Enjoyable, in fact.  I like when they don't talk and I especially like the head rubbing.  Anthony (I think) commenced there and was on a roll when all of a sudden, I stopped breathing.

"Too much pressure?"

"Nope.  I'm good."

"You seem pretty tough."

Great.  I love when people tell me that, especially people who don't know me.  While that may be true once in a while, it most certainly is not true all the time and it definitely wasn't true as he went for the arm/elbow combination down my legs.  That IT band is tricky.

"I can work on your hips later if you'd like."

Apparently my silence was taken as an affirmative.  I had noticed Anthony's multiple tattoos only seconds after meeting him.  Roughly half-way through our session, he divulged that he was in the Navy.  Not only was this unrestricted line officer busting my back, he decided to point out our unfortunate similarity.

Don't go there.  Please don't go there - either literally or verbally, I thought.

"Yes, I foolishly got it about twelve years ago.  Honestly, I forget it's there so I also keep forgetting I need to get it removed."

Once someone asked me if it said, "Leon."  Funniest friend I've ever had.  Have.  Had.  Anywho...I gotta get this thing removed. 

To the hips he went, and by hips I mean glutes.  It hurt so much there was only one thing for me to do as he was poking and prodding and bruising:  put myself back in front of that fireplace, in my own little Quiet Room.

My body's aching and my time is at hand
And I won't make it any other way
Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again

I will not be seeing Anthony again.  Or hopefully anyone named Leon.

Paying the Price

"Yep, that's true."

It is not a stretch to say I have been told on more than one occasion that I'm hard to argue with.  Since a preposition just ended that sentence, I'm not so sure that is actually true.  However, I will cop to unyielding and never forgetting one word someone with whom I'm "arguing" has either just said or has said in the past.  Anamnesis, if you will.  Sure, as necessary, I may gently remind them of their current or former statements and point out how they may be in complete contradiction to what they are screaming about in that exact moment.  Color me helpful.

Hard to argue with?  Nah.  Should have been a lawyer?  Yes.  (Although, I'd swim through an ocean of puke before I'd ever consider becoming one right now.)

Admitting you are wrong is a hard thing to do; admitting someone else is right is even harder.  Yet, admission to someone that they have you and your situation pegged is excruciatingly arduous.  Especially when you never wanted to end up in that situation in the first place. 

Being rendered defenseless against rhetorical questions about yourself is no picnic.  Definitely absent is any immediate image of a young and carefree girl with hair billowing in the wind as she holds hands with her soul mate while skipping across a field of overgrown corn on their way back to the checkered tablecloth where he uses his best manners and hand feeds her cheese in between sips of world-class white wine.

(Run on sentence.  Easy to argue with.)

Today granted me not only clarity but the opportunity to go through one more excruciatingly arduous situation vis a vis that type of admission.  Thankfully, mercifully, it was with the one individual whose motives I have never, nor will ever, question.  And I question everything.

As forever true and dear friend always tells me:  If you want something badly enough, you make it happen.  Everything else is just an excuse. 

I hate excuses.

Crazily Foolishly Rational

Today I was reminded that I loathe not only the French, but the Greek as well.  Maybe not the people of these origins, but the language.  Life.  It's one big oxymoron. 

I have two more Soprano's episodes to watch before I return the set to my Dad.  I'm still somewhat embarrassed to be taking life lessons from Tony Soprano, but, certainly not above it.  You simply can neither discount an Italian heritage nor ridiculous feelings which come to the surface under extreme duress, copious amounts of alcohol, or counseling sessions.  Dr. Melfi was trying to help Tony see why he's attracted to certain types of women.  Easy peasy.  He pays her enough in cash earned from his Waste Management profession that seemingly, it should be a breeze. 

But alas, things which should be typically never are.  Things which should be vary greatly from reality.  This I know all too well; just like I know that hearing Dr. Melfi say, "L'amour Fou" on a show which could not possibly be any more Italian is almost as asylum-funny as what I was taught in church this morning:

"Philosophy" is a combination of two words: "phileo" - to love; and "sophia" - "wisdom."

And this, my friends, is where I would end with a smiley face if I used them.