Come Together

April 16.

What happened in Boston yesterday was horrific.  In the middle of the work day, my phone started lighting up with texts and emails asking if I was ok.  It wasn’t until the third or fourth message that I began to understand why that line of questioning was taking place.  And then I saw it with my own disbelieving eyes.

Those runners were participating in THE race – the one they’ve all dreamt about, longed for, worked harder than their bodies and minds thought possible day in and day out for weeks on end.  They tirelessly fought and fought to get there; they ate right, exercised constantly, studied the course and prepared to master its Heartbreak Hill at mile 18.  They visualized with their counterparts, their training buddies, the ones whom they love and trust and know.  They toed the line numerous times before in the quest to qualify, only to question whether they were good enough, strong enough, resilient enough to ever get there – to succeed, to make it.  And they never gave up.

As I watched the news coverage of those relentless fighters who were there, in their home stretch, at mile 26, at the end of their race, the end of their training, the end of their journey – smiling and taking in the cheering crowd that was encouraging them to finish strong as they too, reveled in their extraordinary accomplishment right alongside them - everything they had hoped and dreamed and prepared for was blown away.

Why?  How can this be happening?  Make it stop.  Please.  Make it stop.

One of the best feelings in life was instead replaced with immediate fear, confusion, and hurt.  Someone or several someones, hurt our friends.  They assaulted them and each of us when we least expected it, when we weren’t looking, when we didn’t deserve it.  During one of the most monumental moments in those people’s lives, we were all sucker-punched.

People were attacked and died in Boston yesterday. 

People were attacked and died on 9/11. 

People are being attacked and dying every day from cancer. 

Just as those runners were training and preparing and planning for THE race, so too are others participating in the race of life.  They train and prepare and plan first words, lemonade stands, games of catch, dates, marriage, vacations,  and children – when immediate fear, confusion, and uncertainty shows up and stops them in their tracks.

Get out of our house, terrorists, and get out of our homes, cancer.  

We will stand for your innocence-robbing no more.  We are united as Americans and we are united as a human race.  We stand proud, strong, and resilient.  We will keep running.  We will keep living.

And we will NEVER give up.

For those in Boston yesterday, and for those everywhere battling cancer - Do something.  Get mad.  Make a difference.

10 Days.

 

Super G

April 15.

I signed up for the “Flight to Fight” 10k a couple months ago.  The race was Saturday morning.  It was the first time I’d participated in it, as every year when it takes place I’m usually in some kind of marathon training.  But not this year.  This year I got to experience it firsthand.

The race is named Flight to Fight because it takes place at the Fort Wayne airport.  Literally, 4 of the 6.2 miles is on the runway.  That’s the Flight part.  The Fight part is this:  it’s for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society – and a chance for participants and spectators to fight back on behalf of all blood cancers.

After signing up, I thought man, perfect timing given the campaign…AND the weather should be super nice in mid-April.  Yeah, not so much.  When I awoke Saturday morning, I opened the front door and immediately closed it while rolling my eyes.  I was tempted to go right back to bed.  Instead I thought about how many others would be out there, braving the conditions for someone they love who is battling or has battled cancer.  I got dressed.

After traipsing through the mud to pick up my race packet, I went back to the car and turned it on so some heat could blow through the vents and onto my wet feet and face.  Honestly, I was in no mental mood to run.  I resolved simply to finish the thing and bolt home.  20 minutes before the start, I locked the doors and ran a mile warm-up – as the sleet pelted me and other runners in the face.  And that mile was one of the most satisfying feelings ever.  More and more people continued to line the streets of the Industrial Park, all with smiles and determination on their faces.  I smiled back and chattered some “Good Mornings” to everyone, all the while thinking about why each and every one of us was out there.  This is what it’s about.  Coming together for the greater good, to show support, being in this fight together… 

When I turned into the last parking lot on my way back to the start, I said one last “Morning” and stopped in my tracks as I realized it was Grey’s Grandma and Grandpa!  They were wearing dark gray T-shirts with “Team Grey” on the back and a big “G” in Superman-style on the front.  Jo and I hugged and she pointed me in the direction of the rest of the troops.  Everyone in Greyson’s family was there, all sporting SuperG T-shirts!  I had no idea they were going, but I was incredibly glad to see them.  I high-fived Grey and finished the warm-up.

Nothing like a 4-year-old Boy of the Year and his family to get you moving.  Seeing those T-shirts line the runway was something, as was watching all the other people’s teams out there supporting their person – the one who couldn’t yet run but was being lifted up by family and friends.  Teamwork is cancer’s kryptonite.

Runners, walkers, crawlers, strollers…we were all out there together battling not only the Indiana in April conditions, but the much bigger war. 

One step at a time, one mile at a time, one cure at a time.  It’s all possible.

11 Days.

 

BriefFRIDAY - 4/12/13

This week has been rather quiet on the campaign trail.  Work is another story -  it’s always a zoo after being out on vacation.

Tuesday was the Culver’s fundraiser.  The weather was beautiful and the place was busy all day long.  I’m looking forward to finding out the final donation amount; it was really nice of them (running friend Tony and his family) to take part and gift 10% of the day’s sales to LLS.  Given the fact that Tony has had to put up with me on many runs over the last couple years, you’d think he’d keep on running.  The other way. 

Jen sent out the newsletter to us today.  Allow me to share it with you in conclusion to today’s BriefFRIDAY:

Good morning!

Auction items and Grand Finale Presentation Forms were due last week.  Are all of your items turned in?

Total Funds Raised to Date :: $137,109.15 

Grand Finale Responsibilities | What to expect!

·        Please arrive at Ceruti’s Diamond Room at 6:00 p.m. for candidate pictures before the guests arrive.

·        Please be prepared with an acceptance speech. We will be asking the winners to say a few words.

·        Candidates are encouraged to dress in black tie, while the attire for all other Grand Finale Gala attendees is black tie optional.

 

Campaign Deadlines | Stay on track!

·        Wednesday, April 10 :: ADS NO LONGER AVAILABLE!

We have reached our print deadline for the program book and will no longer accept ad purchases, and ads will no longer be a part of sponsorship recognition. 

·        Friday, April 12  :: Guest List Deadline – DUE TOMORROW!

Please turn in the names of guests for tables earned.  If you have any questions about the amount of seats you have earned or have been purchased on your behalf, please contact me.  Team members can make purchases at www.mwoy.org/ftw, then click on ‘Meet the Candidates’.  Select your candidate then click on ‘Attend the Gala’ on the right of their page.

·        Friday, April 24 :: Donation Collection Deadline
All monies raised by each candidate, including sponsorship and matching gift commitments, must be received by LLS no later than 3 p.m. on May 10. Cash, checks and credit cards will be accepted the night of the Grand Finale through ballot boxes and donation texts.  

·       Friday, April 26 :: Grand Finale Gala – winners announced!

6:30-10 p.m. (6:00 p.m. start time for candidates)

Ceruti’s Diamond Room at Summit Park 

As always, please let me know if you need anything at all and have a wonderful weekend!  J

(Go Braves!)

Jennifer Alia | Campaign Manager

Man & Woman of the Year
The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society | Northeast Branch | Indiana Chapter

P.O. Box 80365, Fort Wayne, IN 46898
Direct & Fax 260.432.5953 | Toll Free 877.422.8389

 

More on the Transplant

April 11.

The first night in the hospital was the hardest, and the only one of the remaining which I’d spend alone.  My Mom stayed with me as much as she could Mondays through Wednesdays while also watching Liv much of the time.  Thursdays afternoons through Monday mornings the other aforementioned was with me.  Not many visitors were allowed – especially Liv – as my immune system was nil, rendering me defenseless against any germs.

I was given massive doses of meds from the moment I walked into my room; therefore, night one was interesting.  Whatever the legal name for “speed” is – it went through my port first.  The result you ask?  My “normal” moving and speaking cadence times infinite crazy proportions.  If I made it out of the transplant ward, surely I’d be checked right back into another one…

Sleep was out of the question.  So, I moved.  A lot.  Laps and laps I’d log around the nurse’s station until I got on my own dizzy nerves.  There was one squeaky waiting room-like chair, mid-hallway.  I plunked down on its cold vinyl keeping my pole company in the wee hours. 

Life.

Twenty-five years went flashing through my mind at warp speed, thanks in part to the medications, the rest attributable to the gravity of the situation.  There was so much unfinished business, so many people to offer up apologies, give thanks, hug one last time, kiss another first time.  Things popped in an out of my mind as I sat there, the medicine pumping through my central port.  It was both frustrating and liberating.  My brain would not slow down; I had no focus yet I could remember things with laser-like precision. And I was really, really cold.

“Beth, do you want these?” Robin asked. 

“How’d you know?” I answered.

Robin was my absolute favorite nurse.  She was short, soft and round with mid-length dark hair and a happy speckled face.  Her hands were gentle every time she had to perform procedures which were not all that pleasant.  The warm smile on her face coupled with her famous line of “Ok, just be tough girlfriend!” more than made up for any discomfort.

The first eighteen of thirty-five days were spent preparing my body for the large quantities of forthcoming chemo which would totally wipe out my entire immune system.  Gone would be my red blood cells, white blood cells, and platelets.  Once those were taken down to zero, my donor’s marrow would be infused into the exact same central port all of the nasty stuff had been traveling through.

Many nights I would hear my neighbor, Bill, in the room two doors down.  It would always start out as a faint achy kind of moan, but would eventually morph into loud shouts of excruciating pain as he begged, “Help me!  Help me!  Help me!”

Bill was older and his body simply gave out under the toll.  We all knew it the moment the silence became eerie.  Robin walked by my room with a blanket in her hand, just as she had given me on that night I could not get warm.

Somehow she also knew to bring my journal.  After concluding that first night’s trip down memory lane, I began to write.  It hasn’t been opened – until now.  Here’s what night one’s entry said:

I’m not even tired.  I miss my family, my friends, and my life.  But this is going to be ok.  There are others in here and everywhere else that are going through way worse and for whom it sucks infinitely more.  If for some reason though this ends up not going ok, please let everyone that has ever meant something to me and I to them remember only the good times.  For there were lots.  Whatever it is I’m supposed to learn from this, I hope I do someday.  I’m trying to know, trying to understand, and trying my hardest to make it through.  Liv needs me.  Gotta get home to her.  She can’t grow up without me.

P.S.  They really ought to make this place homier cause it’s hard enough to be here and these lights for sure are not helping us speed patients.  I wonder if I started shouting REDRUM if they’d get it.

Yeah.  I don’t know either. 

What I do know is this:  As I sat there in that chair, and walked those hallways, and lay in that bed, and heard Bill scream for the last time, I had no idea if I’d be here fourteen years later.

But I am.  And I am doing all I can do – in this one here and now.  How many times have we each had no idea where our lives were taking us…until we finally did.

The time is here.  It’s now.  And it matters.

15 Days

 

Fragility

April 10.

As I was checking emails after vacation, I saw one from Jen with updates on the campaign and another line which read: 

Please keep Greyson in your thoughts & prayers this week, he’s been under the weather and has had to make daily visits to the clinic for IV antibiotics and blood counts.  I’ll keep you posted or feel free to send his mom Dana an email if you’d like. 

Just that little blurb made my stomach sink for a quick second.  Many things about this campaign are happy, upbeat, crazy, fun, etc…but, there are times like this when we are instantly reminded just how fragile this little guy still is.  And just how fragile everyone going through cancer still is. 

Another email read: 

Hi. I want to thank you for your donation to the PMP fundraiser and for running the 5K. Tracy tells me you qualified for Boston. Congratulations! I see also from your note that you are a cancer survivor and that gives me hope for my running future. From where I am right now it feels like I will never be able to run again but I won't give up trying once my recovery is complete. As of now just a walk around the block wears me out. Hearing from people like you who have beat their cancer and returned to their active lives is so encouraging.
Good luck in Boston and thanks again for your support. 

This woman is in the midst of so much right now yet, she has the time to send thanks and keep her head up in the middle of what I’m certain is pretty grueling. 

There’s not much more to add here other than I ask that you would please say a quick prayer for both Greyson and Sue and any/all others you know who are battling this ugly disease.  We are trying to better their circumstances and those of many, many more.

One day we will win.  It’s coming.  Mark their words. 

(P.S.  Per Dana, Grey is doing better than last week!) 

16 Days to go.

Living Life

April 9.

Spending 9 unplugged days with Liv was not only much needed, it was everything I had hoped it would be.  Well, sans the teenage boys everywhere with their heads on a 24/7 swivel.  Oy vey.

I was thankful she had the opportunity to visit places she’s never seen, meet people she’s never known, and witness the world from a totally different perspective – her mother included.  Give me some sun, and outdoor café with amazing Cuban food, foreign beer, and a little live guitar music and my kid might actually admit I’m not so bad.  We shared lots of laughs, lots of experiences, and created lots of memories.

So there, leukemia. 

Yet even while all that vacationing was going on, it wasn’t long forgotten.  I sat outside one day and just took it all in – the entire campaign, the people involved, the people fighting this disease now and before – I soaked up every last stinking emotion until the sunscreen burned my eyes. 

Prior to that, about an hour after we embarked the cruise ship in fact, the mandatory “Here’s what you do in case of a Titanic-like incident or if pirates climb aboard” meeting took place in the designated areas.  A nice Canadian family sat down next to Liv and me at the dining room table where we were pretending to pay attention to the instructions.  Small talk ensued, but really we were just all waiting to hear the horn blast and race to the pool. 

It wasn’t until the very last day when we would see them again for a much more in-depth conversation.  We spoke to John, Susan, and Morgan for well over an hour inside the never-ending Marketplace Cafeteria as we watched the clouds through the floor to ceiling windows next to our table.  Suzie is SUPER FULL OF LIFE!  A total spitfire, that one.  They run a few B&B’s in Alberta and know all about things which I can barely pronounce.  Super cool people.

Turns out, she and her family are right smack dab in the middle of dealing with lymphoma – her Mom has it.  We talked at length about that, shared more stories, teared up at times, and laughed a lot in between. 

Additionally, they told us of a young man in their church congregation who lost his battle with leukemia at the age of 24 – after it had recurred for the fourth time in ten years.  You know what he did in between those recurrences?  Graduated from high school, fell in love, got married, and oh…rode his bike across Canada to raise awareness about blood cancers and collect money for R&D so he could help other people avoid the same fate he met shortly thereafter.

What a cruise indeed.

Thank you, John, Susan, and Morgan for passing along so much inspiration in such a small window of time.  And thank you, life, for giving us experiences which we cannot deny and will never forget.  It’s amazing what we can all choose to do in the very short amount of time we are each given.  Even on vacation.

17 Days.

Famalia, Famiglia, Familie

April 8.

So, the longest drive of my life…(including the 3 hour drive home last night from the Columbus airport after being gone 9 days)…when I arrived at University Hospitals to check myself in for an undetermined period of time, it was surreal to say the least.  Yet, a very real feeling of competitive survival came over me the moment the automatic doors opened complete with a light breeze I would not again feel for over a month.  I had switched myself into game mode without even realizing it.  In fact, I could even hear (don’t judge) ACDC’s You Shook Me All Night Long playing remotely in my brain’s background, as that was the exact song we’d run out to before every home B-ball game.  The only difference was I could not allow my thoughts to wonder What if we lose?

Before I was admitted to my room on the transplant ward, I had to stop at the Concierge (Blood Draw Station).  Up and until that point in all the pre-admittance testing, it had only been blood drawn through a vein, but now apparently artery blood was required.  If you’ve never had the pleasure, it’s something like Whac-A-Mole.  With my right arm face up on the table, some stranger watched with her naked eye for my blood to pump in between the blues of my veins and then – whack! – She went in for the kill.  After her third mulligan I though it prudent to ask whether or not she’d ever don’t this before.  Dirty look received from my non-rhetorical question, but shockingly on the next attempt she nailed it.

Off I went to meet with the “Pharm-D” – otherwise known as the jerk face who administered all the meds for every patient in the hospital.  Right.  You’d think I’d make friends with the guy.  However, “jerk face” is mild compared to what I wanted to call him during our introductory meeting.  He was explaining all the forthcoming things I had to look forward to:  loss of appetite, puking, constant metal taste in my mouth, darkened skin around every sweat gland, the obvious loss of hair…ok.  Fine.  Good. Bring it if that’s what it takes to beat cancer.  But it was his next statement which forever rendered him with his new moniker:  The steroids will cause you to gain weight as well as lots of facial hair, kind of like your husband’s goatee, AND YOUR DAUGHTER won’t even recognize you.

Big mistake.

In no particular order:

i.)                Yes, I had a husband then.  He was great during my entire sickness.  Anything else I’m taking the fifth or read my personal blog. 

ii.)               JERK FACE.  (The Pharm-D, people…please.) 

iii.)              I told him just because “everyone has to take steroids during a transplant” that I wasn’t everyone and I’d let him know if I’d be taking them or not.  Never had to.  Good guys up 1.

I was fine listening to each and every “bad” thing that was potentially going to happen to me in the way of a side effect:  but, you mess with my daughter and consequently you’ve messed with the wrong mother.

I believe this to be a pretty universal reaction, not necessarily cancer-related.  But what I will also say is this:  it reminds me how much more difficult it can be for the family members, friends, and caregivers of cancer patients to watch their loved ones be attacked by another kind of jerk face.  They can yell, cry, and spew wrath and expletives like I did – but cancer won’t talk back; it cannot be goaded.  It just keeps on coming – until it messes with the wrong mothers (and fathers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors…).

We are a universally connected family.  And I look forward to the day when none of our relatives ever have cancer again.

18 Days. 

Yikes!  The 26^th will be here before we know it.

 

Brief(Good)FRIDAY - 3/29/13

I saw Dana this week and she’s almost over her cold.  The good news is Grey did not get sick and he’s doing well overall right now.  Thanks for your continued prayers for that little guy.  I know he and his family appreciate them, even though I bet they may not be able to say so this morning since their voices might also be gone….Go Bucks!  Woohoo!!

Our Buckeyes are now in the Elite 8 on their way to the Final Four.  Hey, good segue.  The number 6 is in the middle and the 6 of us have raised….

$107,824.15!

As a team, I’m rooting for us to get to that $175,000 mark and show Indy and other cities what a place like Fort Wayne is made of!    Today will be my last post until Monday, April 8^th.   I’m taking this Spring Break week off to hang with Liv, rest and recharge so I can come back and finish the campaign with everything I’ve got.  This is a once in a lifetime opportunity and I recognize that.  While I will always be actively involved in LLS, there’s only a “first” once, and all the specialness which accompanies it.  The feeling can never be replicated.  So in the words of Eminem (cut me some slack, it’s almost vacation time!)…you only get once shot do not miss your chance to blow, this opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo.

Please don’t miss your chance to help make a tremendous difference in the lives of others.  We all have to give up something, just like the ultimate thing was given up for us…on this day.

Happy Good Friday.

28 Days.  Next time we talk, there will be only 18 remaining…

 

 

Daily Thanks

March 28.

You ever hear any newlyweds respond to the standard question with, “Oh, we’ll probably have kids after I get my Master’s degree, after we buy our first house, and after our American Kennel Club litter of puppies is trained not to pee in our perfect French Colonial kitchen?”  Right.  Me neither.  But I have heard people try to justify their decision as to when their very detailed life plans would come to fruition, including the ideal time to have their bumper-sticker-brag-worthy kids.

Haha.  Good one.

I am absolutely and extraordinarily thankful that God blessed me with Liv before my transplant; the chemo rendered me unable to have more children afterwards.  Timing on our own is never right.  Our plans may seem entirely well and good when we brilliantly formulate them, but chances are somewhere along the line in the execution we jack them all up. 

Yesterday morning I was at the gym working out with my trainer and the regulars were there.  We were not only sparring with the gloves on, our March Madness was in full swing as well.  (I hit Michigan fans harder.)  When I asked where Gene was, everyone got instantly silent.  “His wife died,” Evan said.  “Cancer.”

Gene is in his late 60’s.  He has 5 children, although one, a twin, died two years ago at the age of 21.  She was on her way home from college for Thanksgiving.  We were all incredibly sad when learning the news about Gene’s wife; yet, it somehow became even more unbearable after learning about his daughter’s premature death.  The vicarious grief became unfair, unwarranted. 

It reminded me of my uncle.  The one who had taken care of my grandmother for years until she finally passed in February 2011.  While it was sad when she left us, I’m sure he felt a little sense of relief as he could “get his life back” and fully retire with my aunt in Arizona…as was their plan.  Except in October 2011 he was diagnosed with liver cancer. He was gone 4 months later, in February 2012.

Life doesn’t go according to plan; and it doesn’t stop.  Ever.  We may have just gotten through something, be going through something, or be perfectly fine when cancer shows up for an unexpected visit.  It’s not part of anything we had written down on our grandiose Bucket Lists. 

There is no perfect time for anything.  Therefore, we must choose to live fully every day, be thankful for what we have, as well as for the things we don’t.  Today I’m giving thanks for being cancer-free, for the people in my life, for learning from my mistakes (mostly), and for all of you who have gone through your own hardships – cancer possibly/probably included.

In case I haven’t said this lately, this campaign has been overwhelmingly humbling, fulfilling, and unbelievably emotional.  I’ve grown close to Greyson and his family and pray for them daily.  When I was in the midst of leukemia, fundraising for 10 solid weeks fourteen years later for LLS certainly wasn’t part of my plan. 

I am SO glad plans change.

Less than a month!  29 days.

Turn This Thing Around

March 27.

Tell Me…What Are you Waiting For…Turn This Thing Around – Van Halen, ‘92

As I’m typing this entry, I am also texting with my buddy Brad.  He’s a bit down after his most recent appointment.  The waiting is not easy.  It’s slow going and frustrating for him right now as his counts have not yet returned to normal.  He’s a runner and runners have goals.  Runners have plans.  Runners have numbers to crunch.

Speaking of, did you know that there are more than 232,000 people in the U.S. living with leukemia?  That’s as many people as there are in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.  Baton Rouge, Louisiana.  Almost as many as the 255,824 people living here in Fort Wayne.  That’s how many people have leukemia right now.  And this year?  Another 44,000 cases -  3.3 times more people than are at the Kid Rock concert right now at the Coliseum.

If you think about it, each of us only has a “right now,” right now.  Our time on this earth is very short.  Yet we are all here for a very specific reason.  I was yipping the other day about how I think I was born in the wrong century – that I’d have been better off in the days of the Pony Express instead of all this technology.  But then I realized each of us is placed within this beautifully intertwined story of life at exactly the right time. That, and I would not have rocked a bonnet well and corsets were for suckers.

The people we have, had, or will have in our lives are in them for a reason.  Sometimes we know and recognize it, sometimes not.  But eventually we will all look back and ask questions such as did I try my best?  Did I use what I was given?  Did I love well?  Did I make a difference in the life of another?

For our sake, I not only hope we can answer yes, but I hope we can mean it.  Because there are at least 255,824 + 44,000 people right now counting on it.

30 Days to go.

Anything is Possible

March 26.
I went to Cleveland met with Dr. Lazarus at University Hospitals (UH) to discuss the prospect of having my BMT there.  He was a short little Jewish man, with a grey-white beard and zero tolerance for humor.  Whatever, I thought.  I didn’t need a friend; I needed a miracle and someone who knew how to administer one.  Any potential for friendship or an appreciation of my off-color jokes or his awful ties would have to wait.

Yes, he’d accept me as his patient.  If a suitable donor was found for an allogeneic transplant (cells from someone else, not my own), Dr. Lazarus would handle the course of treatment from start to finish.  The National Marrow Donor Program (NMDP) was contacted and 6 potential matches were found.  To say that was lucky is an understatement. It almost never happens.  Even rarer, I would later find out the donor Dr. Lazarus chose out of those six had gone through this once before for a woman who lives in Las Vegas.  I tease her to this day that she has really good stuff.  (Her name is Beth, too.  More on meeting her later.)

I was admitted to the hospital on April 14^th, 1999.  The day before, we drove a little over an hour from my parent’s house in Canton to UH for my central port to be surgically installed. Falling asleep on the cold steel table, counting back from ten, I clearly remember thinking, here we go.  There’s no turning back now.  Please let this work.  When the intern ripped open my gown to start the procedure, I was still awake, so I mumbled that he could leave his money on the table for me.  Those people were gonna learn to love my humor or kick me out, one or the other.

I woke up feeling like someone had socked me in the left shoulder.  Three prongs stuck out of my chest kind of like those cool giant floor reading lights you see everywhere nowadays, and they would serve as my lifeline for the next four months.  I left the hospital that day, went back to my parent’s house and watched the clock while trying to find something meaningful to say.

But there weren’t any words.  I don’t find myself at a loss for them usually, unless I really need to convey something like it’s the last time I might ever have the chance.  Then I either say nothing or say way too much and royally screw it up.  Maybe if they would have named me Malcolm…  In that instance I just said, “See you when I get back” as I walked out their door into the unknown.

It was one of the longest and scariest car rides I’ve ever taken.  But it’s ok not to know sometimes, because knowing smothers possibility. I walked into that hospital feeling like I used to when I walked onto the basketball court for the big game.  My stomach had butterflies, my confidence was buried underneath the nerves, but this thing was getting done.    

No way we lose today.  It’s not possible.

Thank you for continuing to contribute so that others can win their own fights as well.  We are providing hope and possibilities to so many people.

31 Days!

 

Choosing

March 25.

Change is hard.  Not changing is sometimes harder.  And being held to standards which others (even well-intended) expect of you based on experiences they’ve not experienced themselves is impossible…

One of the first questions I was asked immediately after being released from the hospital threw me for a loop.  It was as if I was taking a test and leaving a question blank, and we all know how well that works for a Type-A personality. 

So, are you changed?  Are you like, stopping to smell the roses and all super close to God now? 

What what?  I had no idea how to answer if I was “a new person!”  Was I supposed to be?  Did one of the copious amounts of chemo contain an alter-ego, a better me, a different me?  I didn’t feel like someone else.  I might have looked like a totally different person on the outside, but my insides were still (mostly) intact.  My past was unchanged; my memories and friendships and loves and lessons and hopes and dreams were all still the same.  Cancer may have been my worst adversary to date, but no way did it have enough power to unlock my treasure chest containing those precious items.

I hadn’t stopped to think about how I felt.  I just wanted to go to the Post Office again.  Pick up dry-cleaning.  Fall asleep next to a human being I was connected to instead of a beeping machine.  I wanted to be normal again.

But is there ever such a thing as normal in life?  I mean, really.  If you guys know where they sell that let me know, would you?  Not that I’d buy it, mind you, but it would be fun to find out what constitutes such a subjective idea that most of us strive to attain.  

Here’s what I did learn many years later (not in the hospital parking lot):  it is exactly in that striving when we miss the things which are right in front of us.  The people who are there, the ones who are glaringly not, the chance to be changed.  

Cancer takes normalcy out of life in the blink of an eye.  But we can still choose to see.  We can still choose to believe. Because on the other side of cancer is a new person just waiting to blossom into exactly what (that God I’m much closer to now) wants them to become. 

I can’t wait to see what Greyson and Kellcey become when they grow up.  Please help us give them and so many others that chance.  We all have choices to make, and many of them in this journey are not that easy.  This one is.

32 Days.

 

 

BriefFRIDAY - 3/22/13

This week marked the half-way point of the entire campaign.  Jen warned us it would come quickly; what an understatement.

 I am happy to report that I’m fully recovered from Sunday.  And it only took me 5 days.  Nice.

Tonight is our last fundraiser for the month at Peter Franklin Jewelers on Dupont Rd.  I’m pretty excited for it, as there will be friends in attendance whom I haven’t seen in forever.  We are long overdue for some laughs.  Pretty sure all I’ll have to do is recount one or two stories from O’s and they will look at me with their usual, “You cannot make this stuff up” faces to which I will respond with, “You guys aren’t new, are you?”

Liv will be helping this evening along with Stacy’s daughter, Sydney.  Hmm.  Two teenage girls in a jewelry store.  Call me quick, but it’s possible part of my personal donation to the campaign might happen tonight.

As a reminder, the Fort Wayne goal between the six of us is $175,000.  To date, we have raised…

$76,860!

So…we march on in this quest to get money into the researcher’s hands so they in turn can Get.Rid.Of.Cancer. 

Woo-hoo!  I like that goal the best.

Thank you again to all of you for continuing to read this blog, for your support, and for your very generous donations to date.   We ARE making a difference together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CML

March 21.

Tall, thin Dr. Mary finally called with the biopsy results.  Ironically, I was in the exact same chair in my home office where I had been when Dr. Laura called speaking in that soft, broken voice with news that would forever alter my life.  Chronic Myelogenous Leukemia.  By the time I heard these three little words, I had already accepted the fact that I had cancer.  This time though, I knew the call was coming.  I could sense it in my bruised bones.

There are many circumstances in life which present themselves that you kind of already know are coming.  Yet, when they finally arrive and someone finally utters the words you either long to hear or long to avoid - it somehow hurts even worse.  The blow is not softened, the pain is not lessened.  And it is exactly this way because the confirmation causes action to be required; usually it’s one that scares us.

Knowing the call was coming also did not immediately make “accepted” synonymous with “I got this,” or “this will all be ok,” or even “whatever.”  In that moment, I was in shock with angry on deck.  My initial acceptance was reluctant, but I accepted it nonetheless because it was reality and I had no choice.  Oddly, I also experienced an instant relief.  I could feel the tension in my neck and back dissipate. All that fear was breaking up, and the burden of the unknown was no longer resting on my shoulders. 

The only course of action back then with any chance of avoiding death and providing a solution was a Bone Marrow Transplant.  The odds did not seem great and the process itself reminded me how sorry I was for not paying attention in any Science class whatsoever.  However on the bright side, I didn’t have to think much about what to do going-forward.  There was only one choice, and I accepted it.  I was in.  Let’s do it, I told Mary and everyone else who awaited alongside me in the abyss for an answer.

Chronic leukemia, I learned, was the “good” kind of leukemia to have…if you had to pick.  That’s always a top ten favorite thing to hear come out of someone’s mouth.  I know they meant well, but I was not well.  My sarcasm, sense of humor, and patience tends to be non-existent when I’m sick, as is the case with most cancer patients.  It’s kind of like saying Well…if you’re going to be a Cleveland fan, the Indians are playing tonight and no other channel is working on TV anyway, so maybe they’ll finally win.

The first thing to do in conjunction with all the pre-testing that goes on to ensure your body might even have a potential shot at handling a BMT is to figure out where you will have your transplant.  My parents, sister, and I drove to IU Medical Center in Indy.  Very nice people, very nice facility.  I remember taking the tour, trying to take in all the information, trying to be ok.   Except I couldn’t and I wasn’t.  Nothing was registering, but I kept my head held high and kept on trying.  Once in a while, I would understand exactly what was being said and I’d choke back tears.  I did not want my parents, especially my Mom, to see me cry. 

It’s hard enough watching your kids go through any of life’s regular pain.  Couple that with knowing your child might die and there is absolutely nothing you as their parent - the one who protects them, cooks for them, hugs them, loves them unconditionally - can do to make it go away, and it’s too much to take.  So crying was not on my agenda.  And I made it through the entire day UNTIL…until I walked into the kind of isolation room where I would be undergoing this potential life-saving procedure.  It was then that it started to sink in and become as real as any of this fiction had been.  I would not see my child, the one whom I protected, hugged, and loved more than I’ve ever loved another human being for at least a month, and maybe never again.

We left Indianapolis and I was silent.  The only thing I knew I could control was my loyalty.  Let’s go to Cleveland instead.  Shock is on base; Anger is up to bat; Game-on.

As I write this, I can’t help but continue to think of Greyson.  I was a child and a Mom all at once as I went through these stages of grief.  We are all children of someone.  We all have family and/or friends who feel completely and utterly helpless when their loved one is diagnosed with cancer.   And I know how Nate and Dana and the rest of their family – along with so, so many others – are feeling right now.

I need you to please feel this way now, too.  This stuff is real, and it is here and it is NOW.  We only have one month to make a difference. 

We don’t have to accept cancer and loss anymore if we play as a team.

36 Days.

 

There Are No Strangers

March 20.
I decided against a post outlining the O’s fundraiser.  I’m pretty sure within all the “I agree” checkboxes  was some language about not disclosing any events which even remotely rivaled High Street in Columbus, Ohio, circa 1991.  That, and a guy who looks exactly like Russell Brand is still out there somewhere swearing on his fake English accent that I am his Katy Perry. 

Back to Lucky’s.  I had no idea how to fundraise initially.  Sure, I ask organizations for money all the time as part of my “real” job, but that’s different.  I ask only after an entire sales process is exhausted and most of the time it takes way longer than 10 weeks.  So when Angela brilliantly suggested I walk in off the streets to a Harley-Davidson dealership, it sounded reasonable enough to me.  I mean, what could possibly go wrong?

Turns out nothing.  And do you want to know why?  It was meant to be.  Right place, right time, right everything.  From a long-time customer of mine who just “happened” to be there at the same time to the fact that Scott just “happens” to be a fellow OSU alum who was thrilled to learn that Greyson is also a huge Buckeye fan …it was not my doing.

This whole campaign is way bigger than me, or any of us for that matter.  I know, I know, don’t talk about politics or religion at work and FOR SURE don’t do it on a blog!  What are you thinking?!  (Donate now please, before you read on and may change your mind.  Thanks.)

(Ok, seriously.  I’m asking today.)  It took me a lot of years and a lot of hardships to realize we are not in control of much of anything in this life.  Yes, we have free will to make choices.  Yes, each one of those choices has consequences – both good and bad.  But when God wants something to happen for His plan, it’s gonna happen, whether we want it to or not.  (And no, you eye-rollers…there is no “un-donate” button.  Gheese.)

Anyway, this has been in the back of my mind since day one and it was further solidified on Saturday.   Harley-Davidson’s 110^th year anniversary is this year.  As part of the fundraiser on Saturday, tickets were sold for two commemorative leather jackets, and I was given the honor of drawing the winners.  The huge container was filled to the brim with little red tickets.  I swirled them around and around even though Scott already had, and pulled out the first name:  I don’t remember.  It was a woman’s name!  She was not present in the dealership, but you didn’t need to be to win.  Scott called her faster than you could say Publisher’s Clearinghouse to tell her the good news.

The next winner would be for the man’s jacket.  And as luck would have it, I drew a man’s name:  Harold.  He was standing immediately on the other side of the counter and looked, I decided, either shocked, embarrassed, or scared.  He had a small and gentle smile on his face, and a woman I figured to be his wife sort of hugged him and started crying a little, while a guy to Harold’s right gave him a congratulatory slug in the shoulder.  Aw…that’s nice, I thought.  A guy who clearly has never won a thing in his life.

Turns out his life is expected to be cut short 3-6 months from now.  Harold has terminal brain and lung cancer.  He’s early 30’s with twin 3 year-old daughters. 

Pulling that ticket out of hundreds was not my doing.  But I did know what I had to do after learning why it meant so much to Harold to hear his name announced.  I went over and made small talk with him, using the jacket as an opening, until he opened up.  We shared our feelings and fears about a cancer diagnosis.  We shared parenting stories.  We shared hope.  We shared life.

Two total strangers that just “happened” to meet.

Please pray for Harold. 

37 Days.

The Ride

March 18.
Seriously, I am too old for that kind of weekend. 

Because the recovery from things I saw at O’s which cannot ever be un-seen isn’t fully over, let me instead tell you about Saturday’s ride at Lucky’s.  I arrived at the dealership around 9:45am and the staff was putting the final touches on everything inside.  Soup sampling tables, head shaving stations, corn hole for the kids, and Irish music could be found in various areas throughout the building.  Joshua unlocked the door, I walked in, smiles and hugs were exchanged, and the day was underway.

People began to arrive around 10:30.  The majority of the crowd, including Greyson and his family, began rolling in around 11:15.  Grey’s Aunt Kara and his two super cute about-his-age cousins came as well.  I was happy to meet more of the family, and it was really cool watching the kids run around and play together.  There was some serious (all in good fun) cousin-rivalry going on at the corn hole station; Grey has an arm on him!  Along with his newfound love of motorcycles, he might just end up a baseball player.

By noon, we were all pretty much ready to ride!  The weather, while chilly, held up nicely.  Everyone lined up and the grandstand was filled with waves and cameras.  A group from Decatur rode up just for this event and specifically, so Grey and his Dad could ride along in one of their side cars.  To see Greyson wearing his little helmet coupled with the HUGE smile on his face the entire time was, as the saying goes, priceless. 

By now you know that one of my favorite feelings in life is that of camaraderie.  I was lucky enough to ride with Charles/Chuck/”whatever you want to call me is fine”; he’s the road captain and one of the nicest, coolest, most genuine people I’ve ever met.  Oh yeah.  He’s alright on the front of a bike, too.  You want to make him or anyone else there laugh out loud?  Ask ‘em if they want to switch places and ride on the back of their own bike. 

I have my motorcycle endorsement and used to ride frequently.  It’s one of the most freeing feelings out there.  Saturday, the feeling was so overwhelmingly freeing, my eyes weren’t just glassy from the wind and chill.  As I sat on the back of this bike with someone I’ve not known long at all in control, I felt like I had known him and everyone around me forever.  I replayed the events of my sickness in my head; where I’ve been, how I got there, where I am now.  Every time Charles rode over a bump on those back country roads, I’d tear up a little more as it somehow connected me to every bump in my past which led me to that ride, that day, for another person who is in the midst of his own little journey right this very minute. 

At every stop light, I would glance over to my right and look at Scott – in his pink (breast cancer) helmet to boot – and realize just how similar we ALL are.  He had the most peaceful and complete smile on his face as he was surrounded by his camaraderie, doing something he absolutely loves, for absolutely the right reasons. 

And when I would crank my neck a little further to my right… I’d see Greyson back there in the middle of a long line of brotherhood, realizing and praying that this will all be his past someday.  We may all come from different walks of life, have different interests, different upbringings, religious beliefs, tax brackets, favorite foods, colors, or cartoon characters but one thing will never change:

We are in this thing together.

39 Days.