Sunday, October 31, 2010

Dialing back the fright

Seems appropriate that as things get scarier out there for Halloween, my bod's beginning to return to a less frightful state. Hair is beginning to grow back, lumps are shrinking, and as I get a bit more sleep each night, my face looks less and less haggard.

Over the past week I've had a cold with a wicked cough, and because my GP suspected a bladder infection when I went to visit her last week (despite having no real symptoms other than leukocytes in my pee), I've been on some wicked antibiotics. I'd been putting off the GP visit because I didn't want to discover I had some other dreaded disease while I was battling the c-dawg, but I'm a big girl, I am, so I finally went. Everything seemed otherwise fine (unless I get some bad lab results back), so off I go to remain simply cancer girl and nothing else for a spell.

I've also spent the past week trying to convince Stella that the cold has nothing to do with the cancer, but she's not buying it. She's been talking about it a lot lately.


"When it's Christmas time, you won't have your cold anymore because your cancer will be gone." This is a remnant from when we thought I might have surgery by Christmas.

"I wish you didn't get cancer. Because I didn't want that to happen to you."

But mostly the talk is good. Both girls are cheering on my hair and rubbing my peach fuzz when we kick back in bed to read books at night. It all feels like it's going in a positive direction unless I have that stupid opening line swirling in my brain that goes, "After a brave two-year battle, she finally succumbed..." I can usually beat that one back, but it's that part of me that doesn't want to be caught off guard by the thing that dare not speak its name that revisits it occasionally. Scary stuff indeed.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Assembling the troops

If you had asked me five years ago to see a naturopath I would have scoffed a little. I haven't grown up with the hugest of faith in doctors in general, so pair that with a reluctance to get too touchy-feely about myself and my health with anyone other than... well, myself, and you have a pretty cynical chick when it comes to alterno-practices.

Fast-forward to me as a card-carrying cancer girl and my story has changed a bit. I feel like going through the Cancer Agency at 38 must feel a lot like going through the Cancer Agency at 78. In other words, the care is standardized and specific to the cancer not the person. Which is fine for the part of me that's focused on just getting rid of the arseholes in my breast. Slash, burn, poison, kill. Good stuff.

But to be 38 and not ask how did I get it and how can I make sure I don't get it again would make me some kind of zombie. And the standard "we're not really sure" answer is not really good enough.

So I read, ask questions, chat with other survivors and try to figure out what fits me. If I didn't get such a sick feeling from labeling myself a vegetarian or a vegan or a juicer or an insert-your-rules-laden-name-here, I might be closer to adopting something that works, but joining a group and following their program doesn't cut it either. I waver, I dabble, I talk it up and pick it apart. But nothing feels right yet.

So I'm taking another ride in the "it's all about me" plane and stopping next at a naturopath's door. I know absolutely zero about them, other than they follow a whole body and natural approach to health/healing. And spending 90 minutes in a consultation with a health practitioner seems obscene, but wtf. If not now, then when? I might as well assemble all the soldiers I can for this battle, no?

And while I blather on about this crap, my dear mother, who has difficulty eating eggs with too-yellow yolks and in general trying new-fangled foods is leaping into the juicing thing and even ordered two Breville Compacts for me and her today. Possible to love her more? Didn't think so until today.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Beta-carrot goddess

The biggest thing the c-dawg took away from me on June 22 was my feeling of control over my own body. It was not enough to be not overweight, not post-menopausal, not sedentary, not eating a processed food-rich diet, not living next to a chemical waste dump and not getting drunk every night. Once the docs assure you there were no targets on your back for this thing, they're also quick to tell you there was nothing you could have done and now that you have it, there's nothing but simple exercise, good diet and sleep to help get you through it.

Bullocks.

And not bullocks because they're wrong, but bullocks because it all leads to making a girl feel pretty useless and it's not the whole story. I did all that before, doc, and now I've got two tumours in my breast. If we all have cancer cells in our body, how can we do a few things to let them know they're not welcome to procreate?

I'm pretty convinced that making an effort to eat mostly plants is one of the keys. And my little juicer is helping me explore the wonderful world of raw. Here's two juicing recipes I've been grooving on so far. If you have extra, store it in a mason jar. Be sure to fill right to the top before screwing the lid on tight (prevents oxidization) - keeps for 12 hours in the fridge.

Beta-Carrot Goddess Juice
* deliciously pink and sweet and great for first thing in the morning (makes two 8 oz glasses so I drink the other in the pm)

2 apples (skin on)
1/2 beet (peeled)
2 small carrots (skin on if organic)
1 small parsnip (skin on if organic)
1/4 lemon (skin on)

Green Machine Juice
* so green it'll make you weep, but the pineapple makes it utterly drinkable (makes one big glass)

1/3 pineapple (skin on)
1 small chunk of broccoli stem
large handful of spinach
handful of watercress (leaf and stem)
handful of kale (leaf and stem)
1/4 medium zucchini (skin on)
1/4 cucumber (skin on)
1/4 lime (skin on)

If you actually attempt to juice, let me know! So happy to hear about you, NC, and your green morning smoothie. Love that I have a twin out there, girl.

Friday, October 22, 2010

Another uneasy decision

I saw my radiation onc today, Dr. K, for another consultation. He recommended that although surgery was a viable next step, radiation was recommended. It's all up to me, of course, but the decision is never about certainties or hard evidence.

The type of cancer I have looks and acts like inflammatory breast cancer (best not to Google image that one) in that it presented itself as a superficial change (redness, swelling, heat) before a distinct lump appeared (or two in my case) and it was super-fast growing. Technically it's not inflammatory, but they pushed ahead with chemo first as if it was. And in typical bad-ass inflammatory style, they're now saying radiation would be best to shrink the arses down to nothing before cutting the offending breast off.

My surgeon, Dr. R, says she'd be happy if I decided on surgery next, but is also fine with radiation. It's not black & white. And again, it's up to me. But of course she'd say that - a surgeon would never admit they aren't ready to cut.

In all, the docs are happy about the shrinkage, but not dancing in the streets. They want both tatas to look exactly alike or very similar before they break out the bubbly.

So around three weeks after my final chemo in late November I will begin five weeks of daily radiation - about 30-40 minutes each day. My skin will be destroyed, which will make surgery and eventual reconstruction a bit more rough (and rough-looking for you modelling agents out there), but from what it sounds like, that's the biggest drawback to having radiation before surgery. If so, I can take that.

And if I'm going to be all pro and con about it all, I'd rather be recovering from radiation treatments at Christmas than laid up and boobless, unable to lift my kids. Oh, the things I do for you, cancer. Heart you!

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Juice douche

Fair warning now, people. I may become a juicing douchebag.

Hells, I know that the opportunity of time has steered me down the path of juicing fruits and veggies to starve the cancer cells and create some clean fishwater in my bod. I know if I were working full-time I would likely still be floundering with how to make myself feel better, more energetic, more excited about la vie while still having small people in the house to limit my movement. I know this, dudes. So I will take advantage of riding the cancer train while I can.

I've been juicing for a week or so with an old Braun. It's not bad, but you still have to cut things up to get them down the shoot and blasted into your glass. Yesterday a Caddy Bay neighbour dropped off his $600 Kempo, with magnets in the juice catcher and a billion fiddly parts to clean. It's lauded by the vegans of the world, but mother fuck it's annoying. If I had to use that baby all the time I'd go back to eating carpaccio for breakfast.

So now I'm looking for a juicer to call my own. After days of research, I'm zeroing in on the Breville or the Juiceman Pro, but at $300 and $180 respectively (and the Juiceman is bloody hard to find in Canada), I feel the preemptive pain in my bank account. Add to that the need for a new blender for smoothies (mine has difficulty chopping a banana) and this whole dealio is adding up quickly.

Breville
Juiceman Pro

Where it all started was about a year ago when I had this idea that I was going to break out and start my own juice fasting company. I had become enamoured with Blueprint in NY. I'm a sucker for cool products and I liked the way the ladies at Blueprint had made a name for themselves in a rather niche market. Problem was, I'm not a nutritionist, a dietician, a cook or an entrepreneur and Victoria has 350,000 people instead of 19,000,000. Plus I'm a lazy bastard who likes the idea more than the application.

Anywho, since then, I've been obsessed with juice fasting companies and the handful of them that have popped into the spotlight in the States over the past several months. And then here I am. Cancer girl, reading a shitload about the benefits of juicing, not just to trample the Standard American/Canadian Diet, but to smoke out the c-cells once they've taken residence... and well, it all adds up to a current obsession with the liquid gold.

I'm a baby in this thing (not a zygote, tho), and am learning more about combining, storing, and the like, and the obsession is only growing. So if you have a lead on a fab juicer, let me know and I'll hop on my cancer train to seek it out. But don't tell me about your fab juice company idea or I'll kick your sorry arse.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Sans kids

Four months après cancer diagnosis and I still haven't gotten used to being my strange hybrid version of a stay-at-home mom. Frances is still in daycare from 8 to 4:30 and Stella is in school from 9 to 3 and then in after-school care from 3 to 4:30. The arrangement works out for rest days, appointments and just generally getting shit done, but I've also had to keep the spots (and keep paying for them), despite being at almost half my salary, so when I do go back to work, I'm not left childcare-less.

It's like being a lady who lunches without the lady or the lunch part and there's a truckload of guilt that goes along with it all. I still find myself explaining it to the mothers of Caddy Bay, who have already established their bonds with the other stay-at-homes. In the end, I'm glad my kids have some extra socializing time so that perhaps they'll end up more normal than their mom.

I get along okay in this world most of the time and wonders of all wonders, manage to have friends and not say stupid shit most of the time. Any strangeness I feel with the planet is 99% me and just an adult extension of never feeling quite the right fit amongst humans. I need only to look at any picture from my 20s, wearing some blasted pleather shorts jumpsuit amongst the jeans and sweatshirt friends of that time to remember that I've had challenges, and fuck it, I wanted people to know! 

I continue to marvel at how Pete, who's messed up in a much more charming way than me, manages to have these deep conversations with people he barely knows, opening up his heart, revealing secrets, and generally being this strange creature who is comfortable in his skin and yet would rather kick back by himself. And then me, who acts like she'd rather be alone, but actually loves being around people. It's stupid, and it's meant that my attempts at trying to explain away my cancer & me situation usually end up being about quips or untruths rather than anything authentic. But that ain't likely to change soon.

So I meet with friends, family, shop for groceries, clean my house, walk my dog, rest, read, juice and get an extra 90 minutes in the afternoon to get dinner ready while the kids are hanging with their friends. So bad?

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Get outta my house

So the juicing thing. Yeah. I'm trying to make my body inhospitable to cancer cells, and one thing most intel doesn't go on to say beyond the holy trinity of diet/exercise/environment is that shifting your body's pH and eating more alkaline foods can not only keep cancer at bay but can kill the sucker dog cells dead.

The obvious alkaline helpers include your garden variety fruits and leafy greens as well as some nuts and spices. The acid dogs include the usual soda/booze/most dairy/most meat/most grains - the fun stuff. But trying to cram all the right leafy greens and fruits into a single body that's been hell-bent on producing cancer cells instead of killing them is not an easy task. Especially when the sense of taste has been blown off one's tongue. Hence the juicer. For the past couple of years I've been reading up on this jazz, and every once in awhile, the juicer has come out of the basement to entertain us for a spell. Hopefully this time it's here to stay.

The typical cocktail includes cuke, celery, some kind of leaf (lettuce, beet top, kale) and something to sweeten, like pear or apple. It's not fantastic to drink but it's okay. Getting it all bought, stored, chopped, juiced and cleaned is a pain in the arse, but really, is that my complaint? And it takes me beyond worrying about the twinges in my breast (bad cells dividing?), the high WBC count in my last blood test (bad cells dividing?) and whatever fucked up universe might await me (bad cells dividing?) and into the sphere of control.

And in typical Cadboro Bay fashion, I made contact with the parents of one of Stella's school friends and they want to lend me their super-duper mega-expensive juicer that channels the enzymes and such. "Designed for cancer girls, darling!" Rockin' good times.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Riding the 'roids

Yesterday's session was only four hours instead of six, so after the torturous frozen gloves came off, Pete and I took off to stock up on veggies to juice for the next few days (oh yeah, I'm juicin' now, baby).

Cancer weekends without the girls are strange. I feel like I'm simultaneously getting a break and being punished somehow for being sick. So to deal, today I got rid of all but a small handful of baby/toddler clothes. At least eight bags went to charity, and I feel oh so grown up. No more babies for me - oh no - the slight inkling is now all but gone. It's been building up, but mostly it was floating the idea lately that I may end up removing my ovaries at some point in the near future to further reduce my chances of the big c travelling down below to another estrogen hotbed.

Maybe it was the huge glass of cuke/romaine/celery/pear juice I had just previous, or the super steroids I'm still on to keep down any inflammation, but bagging those sucker dog clothes up didn't make me the least bit teary-eyed. I prefer to get my juices flowing from the stuff that's right in front of me - like the fact that Stella draws me with a scarf now, with rockin' earrings and my awesome Madonna concert tee:

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Effing statistics

I had my pre-chemo onc appointment yesterday and finally got the cajones to ask the statistic question.

You see, I've been deliberately avoiding the google, the scientific reads, the delving into the numbers of it all because I just didn't want to go there. But I asked Dr. A a seemingly safe question about having a bi-lateral versus single mastectomy and whether having a risk factor of a new cancer cropping up in the right being in the single digits really had any credence when I'm already in a fairly rare category.

She then told me, in so many soft-spoken words, that it's the cancer I have that I need to worry about, not the cancer I could get sometime in the next 60 years. There's still a possibility there could be cancer cells traveling through my bloodstream, waiting to take up residence elsewhere in my bod. So I asked.

"What are the chances of recurrence?"

"The chances of death from the cancer you have within the next 10 years is 30%. The chances of recurrence of this cancer within the next 10 years is slightly higher than that."

Oh.

You see, I did read something about that particular stat, early on in my post-diagnosis days, but like I said, I've been avoiding stats, so had pushed them out of my lizard brain.

So what her words sounded like to me were, "get off your high horse about living to 100, bitch, it's the next 10 years you can't fuck around with."

And lovely Pete had to go and hug me after the doc left the room, even after I asked him not to be nice to me.

"I'm being nice to me," he assured me.

I'll admit it. I wallowed in this news yesterday afternoon and evening. I saw my girls at 16 and 13, motherless. I saw every trip and flight of fancy I've been mulling around in my head completely useless. I saw any shred of worry I've ever had about Pete being 10 years older than me and possibly kicking it first entirely needless. It was me who would be propped up in a sun chair, a blanket over my withered legs, without ever reaching 50.

It felt like all the positivity and fight I've been cultivating over the past four months was sucked out of me. But I'll get over it. See, that 70% is a big number. And despite already feeling on the wrong side of numbers lately, this is one I'll court like the harlot I am. I'll get there. I just need to keep figuring out how I'll do it.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Taking off the meat dress

I've been reading a shitload of books, articles, and blogs about cancer over the past four months and one thing they all have in common is the recommendation that meat not play a part of the c-blasting diet. Here's the gist of the arguments against:
  • meat eaters (especially red meat) have a higher probability of getting colon or prostate cancer, but there may be other aspects of a heavy-meat eater's diet, like mucho fat or lack of fibre, that's to blame
  • meat uses up the two critical enzymes trypsin and chymotrypsin, which allow the immune system to kill cancer cells (vegetable proteins do not use up those enzymes)
  • meat causes the accumulation of fecal matter in the colon, which hinders your body's ability to absorb as many nutrients as possible
  • and if you're eating regular old supermarket meat, it contains hormones or nitrates/nitrites, which have been linked to every imaginable type of cancer
So the story isn't great, especially when you look at regions of the world that consume little or no meat. The cancer rates drop dramatically. There's some argument that grass-fed beef is acceptable, and hormone-free meat in general is okay occasionally, but most of those in the know don't seem to need a lot of prodding to suggest that all nutrients could and often should be gained from a meat-free diet.

So slowly but steadily, I have been eliminating the fleshy goodness from my daily bread. Really, why be the one to prove anyone right?

It's been both difficult and easy. Easy to stop buying it, but difficult to erase it from my cooking vocab. My secret Santa husband still sneaks a pork hock or two into the freezer when I'm not looking, but mostly, we've gone through the stuff around the house and are transitioning to meat-reduced or meat-free meals.

Does this mean I'll never have a piece of bacon or veal chop again. Hells no. But four out of five dentists can't be wrong.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Countdown to number six

My sixth chemo round seems to be sneaking up a bit more quickly than I expected. My tongue, which was burnt, then dry, then sore, has now completely healed. My feet, which felt like raw meat, now only feel a bit tender when I get up in the morning. No more hot flashes. And chocolate tastes good again. So let's start it all again on Friday, shall we?

The only other strange thing I've noticed over the past couple of days is a few twinges of pain in my breast. Can't be a good thing, but not sure how much I need to worry about that. I pushed myself over the weekend a bit - taking two big walks with some decent inclines - and last night I felt crushed and depressed. I thought it was a cold coming on, but today I felt fine again. In general, I feel like I'm in a strange state right now.

I read an article that a cancer cousin sent me the other day about how post-treatment was a bitch. The roller coaster of mistrusting your body and trying to figure out what the new normal should be makes many a survivor feel pretty crazy, and without the good excuse of having cancer. In other words, the world moves on from your disease and you can't. It definitely gave me pause. I had no idea how I would react to the diagnosis and treatment and now I have no idea how I'll react to life post-cancer.

I do know that these last days before the next round are all the same. I go into a bit of a frenzy of forced self-discovery. What am I afraid of? Let's explore it! What food am I craving? Let's eat it! What have I always been meaning to clean/sort/fix/write/organize? Let's fucking do it all, man!! Nesting on overdrive.

But I'm not dreading Friday. I know I'm not allergic to the latest cocktail. I know I likely won't get any nausea. I know I can deal with the stabbing pains and puffiness and general geriatric feelings for two weeks before it's all better again. I'm getting used to this gig.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Continuing my ride on the grateful train

Not a day goes by that I don't thank the goddess of friendship for bestowing on me such beautiful gals as my pals. The loveliness keeps coming every day, in gestures of kindness and uber-amazingness.

TL is my lovely cousin and massage enabler, sending me off for a rub and chakra session last Wednesday and indirectly getting me to take the ever-loving scarf off to get my bald in on the action. Makes me want to kick you like a donkey like the good ol' days, T.


Miss Susan blew me away on Friday with her unbelievable generosity and shedding of hair. Her son's entire school came to see the hairdressing extravaganza and just before the shaving began, her beautiful boy put up his hand and said, "if you're shaving your head, I wanna shave mine, too." Not a dry eye, people. Not a dry eye. I've been in a happy fog since then, still finding it surreal that there's a lady love like this in my life.

Saturday I met with H, who I haven't seen in forever. From the very beginning we got along like a house on fire, which is a rare thing for me indeed, and we've been friends for 12 years now. She's divinely funny, sharp, beautiful, strong and a big softie. Our lives became disconnected, like so many of my friendships over the past several years, but here she was today, only recently finding out about my little friend cancer, and cramming for our meeting today by reading my blog. Sitting and talking for more than two hours would have been ice cream enough, but the girl put together a basket of my favourite things, which she could have only known by picking them out from my rambling posts. Unbelievably thoughtful.

So pumpkin pie today, hells yeah, but my friends are the whipped cream dollop of gratefulness in my life.

Friday, October 8, 2010

Hair today

My friend Susan will shave her head today to support me, the Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation and, I'd like to think, ultimately to say fuck you to the c-dawg for so often taking more away than it gives.

I've mostly gotten used to being sans hair, but I don't walk around outside, save from a few impromptu door answering occasions, without scarf or wig. I'm not over the vanity of it all and don't know if I'll ever embrace the baldness enough to go grocery shopping on full display. I get enough looks of pity with the scarf and don't have the same energy I did at 18 when I traipsed around in hot pants and bustiers, daring people to look at me (sorry 'bout all that, Dad).

I've been thinking about regrowth lately, now that I'm just over six weeks away from my final chemo treatment (if all goes well, it'll be November 26, y'all). I'm actually looking forward to rockin' a short cut for awhile, a la my style icon Kate Lanphear:


And then maybe red, a la Joan:

Either way, I know I'll never look at my locks the same precious way again. 

I feel simultaneously guilty and all warm and glowy about Susan's grand gesture today, but mostly I feel supremely lucky to have a girl like her in my life.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Good boob, bad boob

This morning when I dropped Stella off at school I saw one of my chemo nurses. She's this cute, kind, youngish, thickly-accented Portuguese woman, and I felt this big weight lift off of me as I chatted with her about my side effects. She knows about me! She cares about this shit!

When we parted, I got choked up - likely another brill byproduct of my hormonal shifts, but it felt like more than that. I realized again that I'm on the back nine of my chemo game and closer to either radiation or surgery next. Both stress me out for completely different reasons. The idea of going with radiation and delaying surgery even longer makes me feel like I'll be switching from using a chainsaw to using a switchblade to cut down my cancer tree. The idea of going with surgery next sends waves of panic through my brain as I continue to struggle with the decision to cut off both or just one.

I've developed a nasty case of favouritism when it comes to my breasts. I can barely look at, let alone touch the diseased one and yet speak often and lovingly to my disease-free one. If I get the left removed and implanted (the likely choice), then at the very least, the right will need to be reduced so I don't look freakish, so it'll be some form of surgery whether I like it or not. And by the time I get the surgery, whether it's in December, January or February, I won't have my genetic testing results back so won't know if I have the breast cancer gene and thus will not have all the info I need. And even if my chances of getting cancer in the right breast are in the single digits, why take the chance when, on the surface and at my age, my chances of developing cancer in the left were supposedly in the single digits, too?

It seems ridiculous to base my decision on how I want to feel when I wake up from the surgery. Nobody feels good after waking up from a big cutting session. Whether I have one or both boobies when I come to seems irrelevant when what I really want to know is, how can I make sure this fucker never comes back? Then I get all superstitious and such and think, here I am worrying about one vs. two when right this very minute, the cancer could be rebelling against the chemo and spreading to my brain. That'll teach me.

Like I said - I'm stressed. And no closer to knowing what to do.

Monday, October 4, 2010

Girly girls

Been pondering beauty in general and a couple of babes have reminded me lately that my mind is everywhere at once about this stuff. And I'm kind of okay with that.

On Friday I opened a package from my babelicious friend Karen. She sent me the sweetest trove of cosmetic goodies from the beauty mecca that is Sephora, with the most thoughtful note attached. Beyond reminding me what a lovely person she is, inside & out, I got a most needed nudge of "good god, Carissa, you're still a girl and should play a little more with making up your mug." I adore products, I adore Sephora, I adore looking pretty. But with the eyebrows disappearing, the eyelashes not growing back when they fall out and the skin generally looking not up to scratch, I've begun to ignore myself a little, relying on the yoga pants equivalent of lazy makeup sessions in the morning.

No more, KD. I've been laying on the scrumptious gels, liquids and polishes since Friday and will no longer leave the house with a see-through face. Thank you, gorgeous girl.

Then there's my equally babelicious friend Susan. She has been raking in the donations on her path to this Friday, when my homegirl will shave her locks for the love of a friend and the loathing of cancer. Susan is a hairdresser, so getting all bald and stuff is like an architect burning down his showhome. And yet, I know the selfless, unbelievably thoughtful and rama lama ding dong friend that is Miss Susan, and she likely never thought of how this whole plan might affect her business. I'm tickled she's doing this, and I'm hoping to take a swipe on Friday, but man, this girl has months of awkward grow-back to deal with, without the handy excuse of cancer to explain away any beauty question marks.

On any given day I feel puffy, bald, pale, shrunken, or just plain beige. There are a billion things to say about the pressure to look great, even when you're blasting away the cancer cells, but I'm seriously stoked about getting a bald sister on Friday and plan to look dead cute when I go to the head shaving extravaganza.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Thank you for letting me be myself

Having cancer is a little like getting to go to your own funeral - in a totally good way. You get to see, hear, and experience the soft underbelly of this gigantic and unexpected lovefest for none other than you. And man, it feels good and strange and you feel completely unworthy of it all. At least I do.



Today was the Run for the Cure and there was a team Carissa in Vancouver and one in Victoria and it all felt a little surreal. I mean, I feel it every day - I do. Rarely a 24-hour period goes by that I don't speak to, visit with or read an email from people I like and respect and sometimes even barely know. And to say it makes a difference in my outlook is completely underselling it. That I feel an obligation to beat this cancer dealio so I don't let everyone down is a good feeling to feel. I know that so many women feel alone while they're going through cancer, and loneliness is not a great immune booster.

Total honesty here, though. I haven't always been a good friend to everyone who deserves what that word should mean. I've been distant, closed up, busy, withdrawn, ambivalent, fickle and cranky, sometimes all in one day. And mostly since my kids cropped up from wherever babies come from. I haven't always adjusted well to my time being not of my own and rather than figure out how to fit friendships into the equation, I've shut down many a times and rolled into a ball. I've chosen to tune out for my free hour at night, or spend it with my oft-ignored man instead of calling, emailing or making plans with the friends I haven't connected with in weeks. If we're talking deathbeds and funerals here, it's a big regret of mine and I'm sorry to the friends I've hurt with this nonsense.

And still I get the love delivered to me in a brown paper package tied up with strings. I get slapped with the cancer stick and it's these friends who reemerge to make me think about this life and what it means to really be supported through the bottom of the bottom.

And it feels unbelievably good.

So for all of you who ran, walked or donated in my name today - thank you ever so much. You're like these beautiful honey bees working hard to concoct the magic stuff that makes me thrive. You remind cynical me about the pure romanticism of good-old fashioned friendship and it makes me wipe away big fat tears.

I am touched to know you. I am stronger with you on my side. And I will never ever forget your kindness.

Pete
Stella
Frances
Mom
Dad
Aunt Jen
Tasha
Dave
Finn
Ezri
Susan
Rob
Jacob
Luke
Shay
Amber
Faith
Lillian
Charlie
Cindie
Eluned (where were you, girl?!)
Janice
Christy
Patrick
Sharon
Michelle
Nicholas
Leslie
Nicholas
Ron
Nicola

You rock my world.